Savage Sniper

“That settles it, then,” Major Flanders said. “I can’t thank you men enough.”

“You can thank us when we bring those POWs home,” Steele said.

Now that they had all agreed to go on the mission, the major revealed a few more details. As much as possible, they were to avoid any Japanese forces that they might encounter in the jungle terrain, although they were welcome to relay any information about the strength and whereabouts of the enemy back to headquarters, using their radio or one of the Filipino guerrillas as a runner.

“I wouldn’t normally say this, but avoid taking any prisoners. They’ll only slow you down. This is a rescue mission, not a combat mission,” he pointed out. “As much as possible, avoid engaging the enemy. There might be plenty of fighting to do, anyhow, once you get to that POW camp.”

He thanked them again for all that they had done thus far — and wished them luck as they went off into the unknown dangers of the Filipino jungle once more. In fact, the major seemed genuinely moved. He shook their hands, one by one.

“Do whatever it takes,” he said. “And bring our boys home.”

Lieutenant Steele looked around at them with satisfaction, as if he hadn’t expected anything less. There was also a glint in his eye that seemed to indicate that he was as affected by the major’s description of the mission as much as any of the men. “It’s decided, then. Let’s saddle up. We’ll be traveling light, so leave the tea service at home.”

“Dammit,” Philly muttered. “I just got that new teapot and everything.”

“If you’re going to carry anything extra, bring ammo,” Steele said. “From the sounds of things, we’re going to need it. One more thing, Major. How soon do we leave?”

“I hate to say it, but this is one of those situations where each day counts. The Japanese are getting desperate enough to do something stupid.”

The major hadn’t come right out and said it, but no interpretation was needed. The POWs might not have much time.

Steele grinned again, the eye that wasn’t covered by the patch glittering intensely in the dim gloom inside the tent, bright as a lighthouse on a stormy night. “In other words, sooner is always better than later,” he said. “We can resupply and head out before dark.”

Major Flanders nodded. He knew better than to wish them good luck. Some soldiers had a superstition that wishing someone good luck was sure to bring the opposite result. “Give ’em hell,” he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rex Faraday woke up in a sweat, tossing and turning on the hard boards of his bunk in the POW barracks. In his dream, he’d been on the plane again, a bomber that the crew had dubbed Blind Date. In the disorienting dark, it took him a few moments to get his bearings.

It’s all right, he soothed himself. You’re on the ground.

He still had nightmares about the plane going down. They had taken fire during a long-range bombing run to the shores of Japan.

“We’re hit!” cried the pilot, a laconic Oklahoman named Tommy “Okie” Clarkson who was a couple of years older than Faraday.

“Dammit, must have been that last burst of flak,” Faraday said. “How bad?”

“We’re still in the air, aren’t we?” Okie replied through gritted teeth.

The pilot’s calm reassured Faraday. The age difference made Okie feel like an older brother not only to Faraday but to the rest of the crew.

They were all young enough that a difference of a few years in their ages mattered. After all, the average age of the aircrew was twenty-two. Back home, they would barely have been trusted with the keys to the family car, yet here they were, operating a bomber carrying nearly eight thousand pounds of ordnance.

The plane shuddered once, twice, the controls lurching as if gravity itself was making a grab for them.

“Give me a damage report,” Faraday said over the intercom while the pilot struggled with the controls.

“We’ve got a hole back here the size of a beer keg,” said the rear gunner. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what hit us. How the hell are we still in the air?”

“Hey, this is the good ol’ Blind Date we’re talking about,” Faraday replied. “We’re lucky. Everybody OK?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

In the seat next to Faraday, the pilot remained calm. “Steady, steady,” he said, as if soothing a spooked horse back in Oklahoma instead of a damaged bomber. “You still have three engines, gal. Bring us on home. You can do it.”

At first, the coaxing seemed to work. The Japanese shrapnel might have knocked out an engine, but it was true that they could remain airborne as long as they did not have additional problems.

They had been fortunate in that while the Japanese shell had knocked out an engine, the white-hot flak had not started any fires or severed any fuel lines. He had witnessed more than one plane explode into a fireball over Tokyo, the crew never having a chance to bail out.