Pacific Sniper

Deke moved on, swapping his helmet for the wide-brimmed hat. The soldier had been right—it was the perfect hat for the tropical sun.

Not far from the wounded men awaiting transport, he passed rows of bodies stretched out on the sand. Some of the bodies lay covered by blankets or scraps of canvas or even palm fronds, perhaps by their buddies, to give them some dignity and privacy in death. But most of the bodies were exposed, faces turned up as if the men might be napping.

Several soldiers in a graves registration detail were doing their best to identify the dead, working their way down the row. Definitely an unpleasant task. A bulldozer worked nearby, digging a long trench that would be the resting place for the dead. It was a grim fact that bodies had to be dealt with quickly in the tropical heat.

Even more distressing to Deke was the sight of a half dozen dead dogs, lined up in the sand. They, too, were awaiting burial. They were all Doberman pinschers, brought ashore to sniff out the enemy and give warning of infiltrators at night. The humans, more or less, had a choice about fighting—or a fighting chance, at least. The dogs didn’t know any better and had been put in harm’s way, which Deke found immeasurably sad. He’d always been fond of dogs.

Nobody had bothered with the Japanese dead. Then again, there didn’t seem to be nearly as many of them as there were dead Americans, Deke thought bitterly.

The Japanese were using a tactic that they had used effectively on other islands. Rather than trying to stop the Americans on the beach, which would have been impossible given the overwhelming firepower of the naval guns, they had left only a token force to “greet” the GIs and marines at the beach. The bulk of the enemy force had been withdrawn deeper into the island. One of the enemy objectives was to defend the Orote airfield on the flatter, more open part of the island. Considering that the American forces had not even pushed that far inland, a large part of the fight still awaited them.

But those were not the only defenses. The northern reaches of Guam rose in steep hills covered in jungle. If they were pushed off the Orote Peninsula, this was where the Japanese forces would make their last stand.

It would be a hell of a thing digging them out of there.

None of that concerned Deke now. He just had to find headquarters.

That turned out to be easy enough. A tarp had been strung up as protection against the tropical sun, the only such structure on the beach. Beneath it, clerks with typewriters were already busy typing up the casualty reports and inventorying supplies. Above the clack of the typewriters, the distant sound of gunfire could still be heard.

“You there,” said a lieutenant who spotted Deke right away. “Are you any good with that rifle, or was somebody just trying to get rid of you because you’re a pain in the ass?”

“Sir?” Deke didn’t understand how the officer had known why he was there, having been able to single him out from the soldiers coming and going.

“Don’t look so surprised, soldier,” the lieutenant said. He seemed to be sizing Deke up. In turn, Deke was struck by the fact that the man looked too old to be a lieutenant. When the man took off his helmet to swipe at his sweaty brow, Deke could see that the man’s hair was shot through with gray. Even more noticeable than his graying hair was the fact that one of the officer’s eyes was bandaged. “Anyhow, you look like you could be a mean son of a bitch, so that’s something.”

Somebody shouted, “Lieutenant!” and the officer’s attention was momentarily diverted.

Curious now, Deke took the opportunity to look more closely at the officer. The man was tall and lean, well over six feet, with a weathered, outdoorsy face. The man’s right eye was bandaged—but it didn’t look like a recent wound.

Then the lieutenant’s attention returned to Deke, and he seemed to notice Deke’s scars for the first time. His good eye narrowed as he took them in. “What’s your name, son?”

“Cole, sir.”

“All right, Cole. Go stand with the others over there. If you’re lucky, there might even be some rusty water left in that drum. It smells bad, and you could maybe use it to run a generator, but it’s all we’ve got. Make sure you fill your canteen. I’ll be over in a minute.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Easy on the sir stuff. If any Japs are listening, that means I’m as good as dead.”

The lieutenant turned away, and Deke walked over to join the group that the lieutenant had pointed at. A handful of men stood near a drum that was indeed filled with rusty water. It also smelled like diesel oil. Deke wrinkled his nose.

“It’s not spring water, that’s for sure,” said one of the men. “As a matter of fact, it’s mostly rust with a splash of oil, but it hasn’t killed us yet.”