“I’ll be damned,” Philly whispered. “If that’s not a dead Jap, then I’m the president of the United States.”
Nobody was going to call Philly the president anytime soon, because there was no doubt that this was a dead enemy soldier. They approached the body cautiously, wary of tricks.
“Watch out for booby traps,” Lieutenant Steele warned. “Whatever you do, don’t touch the son of a bitch.”
“You got it, Honcho.”
The Japanese soldier had been shot in the back, with a pool of blood mixing with the dirt of the road. Flies buzzed in and out of the pool, which gave the appearance of only recently coagulating. The enemy soldier had not been dead for long.
There was always a strange “otherness” to dead Japanese. It was rare to catch an actual glimpse of the enemy, even a dead one. He looked small and compact. There was no weapon in sight.
“What the hell was he up to?” Philly wondered.
“Nothing good, I’d expect,” Deke replied.
Lieutenant Steele inspected the area surrounding the dead soldier carefully for any trip wires, then leaned over the corpse and poked at the body with the muzzle of his shotgun. The man’s hand opened, and a small object fell into the dirt. It appeared to be a small stone carving.
“What the hell is that?” Steele asked, bending down to take a closer look.
Yoshio spoke up. “I believe that it is a lucky stone for a warrior. It is called a maneki-neko.”
“Are you kidding me?” Philly asked. “A good-luck charm? It sure as hell didn’t do him much good.”
“No, I don’t suppose that it did,” Steele agreed. “The only luck this poor bastard had was that it looks as if he died quickly.”
Deke was busy scanning the nearby forest, the road ahead, and a few isolated treetops, his eyes focused as far out as he could see. He was looking for any flicker of movement.
“What I want to know is, Does he have any friends?”
His question was answered in the next instant, when a rifle shot cracked. They all heard the round zing overhead, barely missing them.
They all scattered off the road. Deke threw himself into some thorny weeds at the road’s edge. Instantly he slid the Springfield to his shoulder and put his eye to the scope.
“Anybody see where that came from?” he shouted.
“Hell no!”
Another shot cracked. This time Philly fired off a couple of rounds.
“Do you see the bastard?”
“No, but I’m giving him something to think about!”
Deke had the sneaking suspicion that the enemy sniper had been using his dead comrade’s body as bait, waiting for some curious GIs to happen upon it. The dead soldier was being used as a booby trap of sorts.
Silently he cursed their own stupidity. Like a bunch of idiots, they had walked right into the sniper’s trap.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Deke scanned the forest for some clue as to where the enemy sniper was hiding.
But he wasn’t quick enough. Meanwhile, there was another sharp crack as the sniper tried to pick them off. The bullet whined uncomfortably close, snipping off the tip of a nearby bush. The sprig of greenery spun away and slapped Deke in the face.
Each shot will get closer, Deke thought grimly, and meanwhile they were pinned down.
“All right, we’ll have to go around him if we can,” Steele spoke quietly. “The son of a bitch has got the road covered, so we’ll have to slip off into the trees before he sends us all to hell. Deke, you stay here and cover us. Better yet, shoot that bastard if you can. We don’t have time for this.”
It was yet another proof of the effectiveness of a sniper. A single enemy sniper could pin down an entire company, let alone a patrol. It was a defensive tactic that the Japanese had put to good use throughout the Pacific islands. Snipers remained a better defensive weapon than an offensive one, which usually meant that American tactics favored anti-sniper countermeasures — Patrol Easy itself being a case in point.
Everyone gave Steele a quick word of assent before rushing to gather up their gear. They prepared to scurry away from their current position.
The jungle seemed darker now as evening slowly descended on them. Each second felt like an eternity as they carefully made their way through the thick undergrowth, silently praying for no one to stumble or make any sudden noise that would betray their position and offer the sniper a target. Worse yet, there was no telling if the enemy sniper had friends. Japanese troops might be trying to flank them. At any moment, from any direction, they might run into enemy soldiers.
They advanced until they came upon a small clearing that looked as if it was a bedding place for a family of wild pigs. It certainly smelled like it, rank and musky. They quickly settled into their cover in what little shelter was provided by nearby foliage while simultaneously setting up some basic defenses against potential assaults from enemies who might be moving through the surrounding trees. Their efforts were hindered by the fact that nobody could see more than a few yards into the gloom of the forest.
All in all, it wasn’t the best position to be in, but it was better than being exposed to sniper fire on the road.
“Stay put,” Steele ordered. “I’m going to check on Deke.”
Deke was keeping watch over where he thought the shots had come from, hoping for some hint of the sniper’s location.
The best possibility for the sniper’s hiding place was a clump of trees near a bend in the road. The higher trees would offer an excellent vantage point. He studied the tree canopy through the scope and, sure enough, spotted the silhouette of a man among the branches.
His target was just beyond the range of an easy shot. This helped explain why the enemy sniper hadn’t managed to hit any of them. Maybe the Japanese wasn’t a crack shot. If his sniper’s lair had been set up a little closer, events may have had a different outcome.
But the distances involved were no problem for Deke.
Got you now, Deke thought.
He lined up the crosshairs on the enemy soldier’s silhouette.
Before he could fire, another shot split the tropical air like an angry hornet. Dirt flew up just inches from Deke’s face, but he ignored it, focused on the target.
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.