Savage Sniper

Crawling up beside Deke, the lieutenant crooked a finger at the tree that Deke was watching through his scope.

Steele had also spotted the sniper.

“Deke, do you see him?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” Deke replied, and squeezed the trigger.

The gun kicked into his shoulder none too gently. The recoil of the Springfield was impressive, considering that the rifle delivered a wallop. Even at one hundred yards, each bullet still packed more than two thousand foot-pounds of energy.

Deke’s round hit with a solid whunk. Even at this distance, he could almost feel the breath getting knocked out of the Japanese.

The figure in the tree slumped but did not fall. It was a common practice for Japanese snipers to tie themselves into the tree branches. While it gave them stability, it also meant that there was no quick escape from the tree. To Deke, that just seemed like a one-way ticket to hell.

Nobody shot back.

“I think you got the son of a bitch,” Philly said.

“Yeah,” Deke replied.

He worked the bolt, feeding a fresh round into the chamber, the spent brass spinning away. Maybe someone would find it years from now and wonder about it.

They picked themselves out of the mud and dirt and weeds, brushing themselves off in the process. Nobody felt sheepish about it. When somebody was shooting at you, the deeper that you pressed into the dirt, the better your chances were of staying alive.

“I think he was using his dead buddy here like a staked goat, trying to lure us in,” Deke announced. “He knew we’d stop to take a look.”

“I don’t think you’d be wrong about that,” Steele said. “The question is, Did he shoot his buddy for that purpose, or was the man already dead?”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Deke said. As usual, Honcho was one step ahead of him. “Then again, you had to admit that would be kind of messed up to use someone on his own side for bait.”

Steele looked pointedly at Philly. “Maybe it was somebody who talked too much. Kind of got on his nerves. Glad to get rid of him.”

“Geez, Honcho.” Philly snorted indignantly. “Don’t go getting any ideas.”

It was all familiar banter, and it felt good slipping into their old roles. They all felt a sense of relief that the sniper had been eliminated. Might as well enjoy a few wisecracks while they still could.

They moved on. The shadows stretched longer as the sun dropped lower in the sky. The decreasing heat was welcome, but not the thought of the coming darkness itself. The enemy always seemed to have an advantage at night and even preferred operating under cover of darkness.

“We have to get off this trail and make camp before nightfall,” Steele said. “The last thing we need is to go wandering right into a Japanese patrol once it gets dark.”

At the same time, they were trying to squeeze every bit of daylight out of the air. Every foot they covered would be one less step to take in the morning.

Steele’s fears about running into an enemy patrol soon seemed justified. The lieutenant froze and raised his shotgun. There was no need for orders. Everyone knew what Steele’s reaction meant.

Trouble.

Up ahead, the branches of the trees stirred, moving in a way that was out of proportion to the snatches of breeze that reached down among the trees.

Deke squinted into the shadows, trying to make out what he had seen. After a moment, he saw it again — movement among the trees — something or someone moving with enough force that it shook the branches.

“It’s got to be an enemy patrol!” Philly whispered loudly. “Everyone get down!”

Steele motioned for him to be quiet. For the next several seconds, they all held their breath to see what was next.

Deke listened intently, but there was no sound. He leveled his rifle at the greenery and waited, finger on the trigger, as the branches slowly parted.

Each one of their muzzles was pointed at that patch of brush, ready to open fire.

“Come on out, you bastards,” Philly muttered, rifle at the ready.

The branches parted like the curtains of a stage being opened to reveal the next act.

But the man who stepped onto the trail was not Japanese. First, he was too tall and broad. Second, he wore a simple dark-brown cassock, to which a few leaves and twigs clung.

“Hello, my friends,” said Father Francisco, stepping into the jungle road. “God bless.”

“I’ll be damned,” Steele said, then added, “No offense, Father.”

“None taken. Those rifles of yours are a welcome sight, believe me.” He smiled. “However, I would prefer that they not be pointed at me.”

“Sorry, Padre.” Steele lowered his weapon, and the rest of the patrol followed suit.