Savage Sniper

“You know what’s funny? I’m actually asleep right now,” Deke said. “It just looks like I’m listening to you.”

“Very funny, Corn Pone.”

“Keep it up.”

The banter helped keep them awake. Deke’s legs dragged wearily with each step, but his eyes never stopped moving, flitting from one spot to the next. To give in to fatigue made you vulnerable to attack.

Some of the others had slung their weapons now that they were back in the city, but he kept his rifle in his hands, just in case.

Despite the dangers, commerce was returning rapidly to Ormoc. It was a reminder of the population’s resilience. After all, the city had survived more than its share of raids and pirate attacks over the centuries.

Over the police department hung a makeshift sign in English: “The Chief of Police of Ormoc wishes all People to know that the Police Station is not a Morgue. Cadavers are not to be deposited here.”

Someone had hung a smaller sign beneath that one, setting the going rate for washing the GIs’ clothes:

Pantalones, 25 centavos

Shirts, 15 centavos

Socks, 5 centavos

Violators will be punished

Philly saw the sign and shook his head. “I don’t know, fellas. Anyone brave enough to wash my socks deserves hazardous-duty pay. Hey, somebody give me a nickel, and I’ll see if I can get my socks washed.”

They all laughed at that. “I reckon when the time comes, we’ll just hold a funeral for your socks and bury them,” Deke said.

“With full honors, I hope.”

“Of course.”

Shops had sprung up, selling a colorful variety of fruits and vegetables to the other hardy civilians who had returned. Not all the civilians had money, though. Swarms of children had appeared like mayflies after a rain, begging candy off the soldiers. A few of the children looked so painfully thin that the GIs didn’t think twice about giving them all their chocolate bars or even full cans of rations.

Even adults weren’t shy about begging for cigarettes.

Fruits and vegetables weren’t the only goods on display. A few working girls in bright skirts lingered on the corners, trying to entice the GIs. Just a week ago, it was likely that these same girls had been providing their services to the Japanese.

Philly saw them and groaned. “Just give me five minutes, boys. That’s all I’d need. I swear to God—”

“Hell, I’d only need three minutes,” Radio said. “I haven’t had any lovin’ since Hawaii. How about you, Deke? You want a piece of that?”

Deke grunted. “Hell, who wouldn’t?”

The response had sounded a little forced, even to Deke’s own ears. Rodeo hadn’t seemed to notice, but Philly gave him a look.

The truth was that Deke had precious little experience with women — the kind you paid or otherwise. He had steered clear of them as a general rule because he had feared that the scars on his face left by the bear would scare them off. Even the ones who said it didn’t matter — he had caught them studying the angry red furrows with a mixture of fascination and horror when they thought he wasn’t looking.

An MP unit arrived to shoo the girls away, resulting in disappointed jeers from the passing soldiers.

But every now and then shots rang out.

The enemy just didn’t know when to quit. A few remained hidden within the city, but they weren’t about to surrender and allow themselves to be taken prisoner. Most would rather die fighting.

“It seems so futile,” Yoshio lamented. They had long since grown used to Yoshio tossing out words that a normal guy wouldn’t use. They chalked it up to the fact that he was always reading a book whatever chance he could get — even if it was the same book, over and over again. “One man against so many.”

“The Japanese are stubborn bastards — you have to give them that,” Philly said.

“Such a waste.”

“Don’t go getting a soft spot for your dead cousin there,” Philly advised, jerking his chin at the body of an enemy soldier in the street. The motion caused his helmet to bobble loosely. “If that Nip was still breathing, he’d be more than happy to stick a bayonet between your ribs, given half a chance.”

They were passing the corpse of the lone saboteur who, under cover of darkness, had apparently lobbed several grenades at a group of supply trucks parked for the night before making another run to the beachhead.

The dead Japanese had short legs but a long torso and what appeared to be powerful shoulders. His face was dark and contorted in death, lips curled in what might have been a snarl or a final hateful shout.

“That’s the ugliest Nip I’ve seen yet,” Philly remarked with a whistle.

“That’s saying something, all right.”

“I sure am glad that I didn’t run into him. Looks like he was a mean son of a bitch.”