Savage Sniper

Looking around at his fellow POWs, he weighed their options yet again. He knew that this was their only chance. If he failed, they might all be killed. Faraday knew that his own life would certainly be forfeit, made an example of by that no-good colonel Yamagata. Maybe the commandant would tell him to make a run for it and then put an arrow through him, just like he’d done to Lucky.

But if he didn’t try something, it would just be a more prolonged death, unless, as Deke had feared, the Japanese decided that no prisoners would ever be returned.

Faraday felt the weight of the decision that he needed to make weighing heavily on his shoulders. Should he gamble with all their lives or play it safe?

A smile came to his lips at that thought. No man who climbed aboard a bomber had ever played it safe. No man who picked up a rifle and fought for his country had ever played it safe. These were those same men. They were just tired and weak, but they deserved better.

He motioned Cooper and Venezia toward him.

“Listen up,” he said. “We’re doing this. We’re getting out of this camp tonight — or we die trying.”

“You can count on us,” Cooper said. “In fact, I think I know how we can get started.”

Faraday raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Is that so?”

“I told you before that I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. Let me show you what I mean.”

Cooper led them to the back wall of the barracks and nudged a board with the battered toe of his combat boot.

Cooper explained that before Faraday’s arrival in the camp, unknown to the Japanese, an enterprising prisoner had loosened two boards in the side of the barracks. The opening was just wide enough for a thin man to squeeze through.

Faraday was amazed. He’d heard Cooper mention this escape route, but seeing was believing. “Has anybody ever tried getting out before?”

“Where would they go? To the USO dance?”

“Well, we’ve got somewhere to go tonight.”

* * *

Colonel Yamagata sat at his desk, his uniform shirt unbuttoned in a nod to the heat and the fact that it was now dark out, past the official part of his day. He sat drinking sake, his Samurai archer’s bow in the corner.

As a matter of fact, he was on his second rice wine, and he was beginning to feel the pleasant, mellowing effects of the strong liquor. He took a puff on his cigarette, the pungent tobacco smoke mingling with the lingering aroma of the modest meal he had just eaten, which had consisted of steamed rice with a little canned fish.

Recently he had been forced to reduce rations for his command, as their supplies were cut off due to the American invasion. Even after the evening meal, he still felt a little hungry. He’d also had to limit himself to four cigarettes a day.

He raised his glass and said to the empty room, “Kanpai!” Bottoms up!

Fortunately, he had enough sake to last for months. It was the one commodity that never seemed to be in short supply across the army, perhaps because of its ability to provide liquid courage as needed against overwhelming odds. Some even joked that the army ran on bullets, bombs, and booze.

His desk appeared neat and tidy. The only object seemingly out of place was a single arrow sitting on the surface of the desk. From time to time Yamagata stroked the edge of the razor-like tip with his thumb, admiring the sharpness of the arrowhead.

He knew from experience just how deadly an arrow could be and longed for the chance to sink the tip into yet another target of flesh and bone. Only another archer would understand how that felt so satisfying on a primal level.

Yamagata shook off that thought for now. He was sure that he would have another chance to use his bow and arrow on more than a straw target soon enough. He leaned back in his chair until it creaked and sipped more rice wine. He had a good reason to be drinking more than usual lately.

Five days ago, he had received more bad news in a letter from home. Official news was largely censored, of course, but a trickle of information still managed to leak out. Unlike the phony government news that crowed about fake victories, the truth behind letters from home that somehow escaped the censors could not be denied.

His brother had written to say that American planes had dropped more bombs on Tokyo, setting off a firestorm in the ancient city of mostly wooden structures, killing thousands. Yamagata’s elderly parents and a sister who lived with them had been among the victims, not to mention old friends and childhood neighbors. His brother was a schoolteacher, nimble with words, and his descriptions of the blackened corpses among the ruins had been disturbingly vivid.

He had grieved in his way, getting drunk on sake, ultimately comforted by the thought that his loved ones and old acquaintances had died for the glory of the Emperor.