Pacific Sniper

“Now how did I get stuck with you misfits? You might be wondering, so I’ll tell you. I’m Lieutenant Steele. Before the war I was a trapshooting pro at a country club, teaching rich people how to shoot clay pigeons.” The lieutenant paused, letting that sink in. Some of the men smirked at the mention of a country club. Trapshooting had been a popular sport all through the 1920s and 1930s, but you needed money to waste shells on clay targets. Growing up, Deke had only enough shells to shoot game for food. “I was also a pretty good shot with a rifle, which came in handy when I was sent to Guadalcanal, where I learned all about the damage that a Jap sniper could do. I also learned how to fight back, rifle to rifle. Just before we kicked the Japs off Guadalcanal for good, I caught a bullet in the face.”

Beside him, Deke saw Philly wince. Even Deke couldn’t help but stare at the bandage covering Lieutenant Steele’s right eye. The wound still appeared to be weeping, the bandage discolored by a yellowish stain that nobody wanted to think much about. The scars on Deke’s face ran deep, but at least he’d kept both eyes.

Lieutenant Steele continued, “Our job is to do what we can to deal with the snipers so that they don’t bog down the advance like they did on Guadal. We’ll either be in advance of the other units, or we’ll stick around to deal with any Jap snipers that get left to the rear. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

The lieutenant frowned. “All right, first rule of the game. Nobody calls me lieutenant, or sir. That’s a surefire way to get an officer killed. The Japs have been trained to listen for those words and target the officers. The Japs don’t play fair. Come to think of it, neither did we, back in the Revolutionary War—the sharpshooters always targeted the redcoat officers first. And whatever you do, for God’s sake, don’t salute anybody.”

Philly said, “Then what do we call you?”

“Don’t call me anything, if you don’t have to. Otherwise, call me Honcho. I’ve heard that it’s actually a Jap word, which should confuse the hell out of ’em.”

“You got it, Honcho.” Philly seemed pleased with the notion that he was under orders not to salute anybody.

“Now sound off and tell me who you are. I’ll take nicknames if you’ve got ’em.”

Philly was first in line. “Private Lange, sir.”

“What did I just say about that?”

“Sorry, s—” He caught himself before addressing the officer as “sir” again. “I go by Philly, which is where I’m from.”

“Philly it is, then. Can you shoot, Philly, or are you better at shooting off your mouth?”

“Sure, I can shoot. I’m a crack shot.”

Deke raised his eyebrows. That was not what Philly had told him. Had he sold himself short to Deke, or was he just trying to make himself look good to the officer? It just went to show that you couldn’t trust city slickers.

“We’ll see about that. Now how about you?” the lieutenant asked, looking at the next man.

Deke went last. “Deacon Cole. I reckon I go by Deke to most.”

“I reckon you do. With a name like Deacon, you must be a religious man.”

“I was this morning, waiting to hit the beach.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a good prayer, I’ll give you that. But can you shoot?”

Deke shrugged. “Some.”

“Let’s find out. We’re going to see if anyone here can actually shoot, or if you’re just a bunch of deadwood that somebody was trying to get rid of. All right, then. Deke, we’ll start with you.” The lieutenant pointed toward a coconut tree at the edge of the beach, where a single coconut still clung. Somehow it had survived the naval bombardment earlier. “Let’s see if you can hit that.”

Deke raised his rifle. The open sights blotted out the coconut, which was just a speck at this distance. He didn’t feel at all shaky anymore. The rest on the beach and even the few gulps of the horrible water had done him a world of good.

Holding the rifle steady, Deke let out a breath, breathed in another, and held it, then slowly began to squeeze the trigger.

“Anytime now,” Philly muttered. “You’re lucky that coconut isn’t shooting back.”

“Shut up, Philly,” the lieutenant said. “I suppose that is kind of hard to hit. You can take a knee, if you need to, or even—”

Deke fired, the rifle punching into his shoulder.

High up in the tree, the coconut shattered.

The lieutenant stared at the distant tree, hands on his hips. “Huh. I guess that answers the question about whether you can shoot. Now let’s see how the rest of you do,” the lieutenant said. For a target, the lieutenant pointed out coconuts that had been thrown by the shelling far out onto the beach. Contrasted against the sand, they made good targets. “Philly, you go first.”

Philly approached the firing line with all the swagger of Babe Ruth stepping up to the plate. He made a show of rolling his shoulders, then tested the wind direction by wetting his finger and holding it up—never mind that the sea breeze was clearly blowing directly at him. On the beach, the Pacific wind never seemed to stop blowing.

“Quit screwing around,” the lieutenant said, exasperated.