Pacific Sniper

It became clear that the strategy of the wounded Japs was to let the Americans come close before blowing themselves up.

They watched as a US medic ran to a Japanese soldier who lay on the ground, calling for help.

“Here I am, buddy,” the medic said, kneeling beside the enemy soldier to stanch his wounds. “Just take it easy. The war is over for you.”

No sooner had the medic leaned over him, however, than the Japanese soldier suddenly shouted maniacally and raised a fist that held a grenade. From a safe distance, Deke and the rest of the squad watched in horror as the grenade exploded, killing both the Japanese soldier and the American medic.

“That sneaky son of a bitch!”

The carnage of the attack had been bad enough, but the killing in its aftermath seemed more like an act of revenge—or murder. Unfortunately, it was not an isolated case. It was as if the Japanese had been trained to use every dirty trick in the book.

Once again, it was hard for the Americans to grasp the mindset of an enemy that seemed eager to destroy themselves rather than surrender, no matter how badly wounded they were. It also felt like an affront, as if the Americans weren’t good enough to surrender to. Considering that the majority of the young American men had been raised as churchgoers or had been taught that the Golden Rule mattered above all else, they were ready, willing, and able to help the enemy wounded. The Japanese attitude was a mystery.

“Crazy bastards,” Philly said, amazed and angered by the sight of the wounded Japs trying to take out a few more GIs. “I wouldn’t get too close to any of them.”

“You know what to do,” Steele agreed.

Instead of trying to help the wounded Japanese, they began shooting them from a safe distance.

Yoshio had been trying to reason with the wounded, encouraging them to surrender. The Japanese shouted back at him, clearly angry. Some tried to shoot at him, but they were too weak to get a grip on their weapons.

“What are they saying?” Deke wondered.

“They are calling me a traitor and a liar,” Yoshio said, clearly frustrated. “All that I want to do is help them.”

Deke took out his pistol and handed it to the Nisei interpreter. “You know what? I reckon this might be the best way you can help them.”

Crossing back the way that they had come, they reached the initial line of foxholes. Bodies and abandoned equipment lay strewn everywhere. They kept their eyes open for wounded men, but in this part of the battlefield, there seemed to be only the dead.

Cautiously, Deke approached the pile of boulders where the Japanese sniper had been hidden. He half expected to find the sniper’s body among the rocks, but all he saw were empty shell casings. A lot of them. It reminded him a little of the husks of dead insects under an old spiderweb in the Cole family’s barn back home—at least, before the bankers had come along and stolen the farm away. You didn’t see the spider at all until he darted out and claimed another victim, adding to the pile of dead insects and growing fatter as summer went on.

He reached down and picked up one of the cartridges. It was much smaller than one of his own rounds. He even sniffed at it, trying to detect some difference between the Japanese gunpowder and his own. He couldn’t smell any. Hard to believe that the Jap sniper’s fingers had handled this cartridge. He looked more closely and could see a single, oily fingerprint on the brass.

He thought about how the Jap sniper had stood up and challenged him.

He heard Yoshio come up behind him.

Thinking out loud, Deke said, “The way that he stood up like that was . . .” Deke sought for a word, but his vocabulary failed him. He wasn’t a man used to expressing himself verbally. He settled for, “Right strange.”

Yoshio nodded, understanding what Deke meant. “Welcome to the samurai mentality. My family had stories about the samurai that they brought over with them from Japan. I would say that the samurai were feared rather than revered. They could be quite harsh and cruel to their own people.”

“Samurai, huh?” Deke shook his head. “I guess he’s the Samurai Sniper.”

“That is who we are up against. Men like that sniper consider themselves to be like ancient samurai warriors. They follow the Bushido, which is the warrior code.”

“You make him sound like something special. He’s just another Jap sniper.”

“If you say so,” Yoshio said. “I just hope we don’t run into him again.”

Deke looked toward the line of jungle. If the Samurai Sniper had managed to survive, he was somewhere deep in the jungle by now. For Deke, not knowing what had happened to the Jap sniper made it feel like unfinished business.

“We’ll see,” Deke said.

Chapter Fourteen