Pacific Sniper

They made bargains with God: “If you let me live, I promise I’ll . . .” Pledges were made to abstain from everything from booze to cards. Charitable acts were planned. Deke reckoned it was a waste of time. He knew from personal experience that God didn’t listen, no matter how much you begged and pleaded.

It was no consolation that they were experiencing the same doubts and fears that Roman legionaries had felt gazing on a horde of barbarians, or that Confederate soldiers had experienced when looking across the field toward the Union lines on Cemetery Ridge that hot day at Gettysburg. Some of Deke’s people had been there, wearing gray, their blood soon to be spilled on the Pennsylvania soil. He supposed that there would be more than a little blood spilled on this day as well. He just hoped to hell that it wasn’t his blood.

After the long months of training together, they were finally going into action.

It all seemed unreal. The darkness only added to the sense of disorientation. Beside Deke, someone retched. Many men were seasick. The navy had fed them well, steak and eggs, all they could eat, and that was what was coming up now. The shame of it was that they knew it would be the last decent meal they’d be getting for a while. Knowing what was coming, Deke had eaten sparingly.

The smell of vomit and nervous sweat mixed in with the strong salty air. Beneath those smells, Deke detected an undercurrent of rotting vegetation as the breeze blew toward them. That smell was the island of Guam, where they were certain that hell awaited.

It was supposed to be summer, but it sure didn’t feel like it here on the water. The tropical breeze had turned cool last night, chilling the damp men in the boat and adding to their misery.

A dog lay stretched out near Deke’s feet. Her name was Whoa Nelly, and she was a military dog rather than a mascot, although the men couldn’t help but spoil her rotten. She had been brought along to help sniff out Japs and warn of infiltrators. The dog whimpered, sick as the men. Deke reached down and patted the dog’s head. “Hang in there, ol’ girl.”

Sergeant Hawley came past again, squeezing his way through the jam-packed men. He didn’t see the dog at his feet and tripped, stumbling against the tightly packed soldiers nearby.

“Dammit!” he turned back and kicked at the dog, making her yelp. “Get that dog out of the way!”

Nobody liked to see Hawley kick the dog, but they knew better than to say anything. The dog’s handler, Private Egan, squatted and managed to interpose himself between the dog and Hawley’s boots. Cursing, the sergeant moved on.

Deke glanced around at the other soldiers, who all looked about as miserable as the dog. He looked over at Corporal Conlon, who slumped beneath the gunwales of the Higgins boat, looking just as worried as everybody else. So much for all his big talk. Conlon held a sniper rifle, a 1903A Springfield with a telescopic sight. Conlon was a good shot, and he never let anybody forget it.

By all rights, the rifle should have been Deke’s. Conlon was good, but everybody knew that Deacon Cole was the best shot in the company, if not the whole division. He’d had the highest range score of anyone. No surprise there—Deke had grown up with a rifle in his hands.

However, accuracy with a rifle was not the only requirement for being the unit’s designated sniper, which was a position of trust and a reward for good soldiering—something that Deke was never going to qualify for. A sniper, paired with a scout, often operated independently. The fact was that Deke couldn’t seem to get along with the sergeant, who was a city boy and made no secret of what he thought of “crackers and hayseeds” like Deke.

Deke’s attitude toward the officers wasn’t much better. It was the way that he always waited a half beat before adding “sir” or was slow to salute. He always had one boot toeing the line of insubordination. It was no wonder that their platoon leader, Lieutenant Thibault, did not hold Deke in high regard. Blame it on Deke’s innate sense of equality and his mountain upbringing; he didn’t like the idea of one man being held above another. The army didn’t agree. These shortcomings had put him out of the running for any special assignments. In the eyes of the command structure, he was going to make good cannon fodder.

Deke stood on a munitions crate and looked over the side, out at the ocean, and immediately wished that he hadn’t. All that he could see was the endless dark chop of the Pacific, with a few shadows nearby of other landing craft. The motors were all running at low speed to avoid making too much noise or kicking up a wake that would show white against the dark sea.

It was no secret that the Japanese Navy was prowling these waters, looking for a chance to blow them all to hell before they got anywhere near the island. From above, Jap planes sought to do the same. So far, they had dodged both. But how long could their luck hold?