It had been like this all morning. As the sun rose, the air grew muggy. The convoy moving from Palompon to the American outpost near Valencia crept at a snail’s pace along the winding road that ran beside a narrow, rain-swollen jungle river no more than twenty-five feet wide. If the river had a name, Deke couldn’t remember it and didn’t much care. The river cut through the countryside for many miles before eventually flowing into the sea near Palompon, which until recently had been a Japanese supply port. The port was now in American hands, and supplies were being brought inland.
Normally the river was more like a stream, rocky and shallow enough that soldiers could easily wade across. Deke had seen it in this stage, and it reminded him of the upper reaches of the Clinch River, which he was familiar with back home.
But recent rains had transformed the river into a raging torrent in places. They had even seen the drowned carcass of a cow float past in the swift brown water. The terrain on both sides of the river was rugged and hilly, covered in dense forest. The meandering road was the only practical way to cross this territory. The enemy knew this all too well.
They had lost at least a half dozen men so far to enemy snipers. The frustrated GIs had started hosing down the jungle with the machine gun mounted on one of two M8 armored cars spaced between the trucks like chunks of meat between the vegetables on a shish kebab skewer. The M4 Sherman tank at the head of the convoy used its own .30 caliber Browning machine gun to discourage the Japanese. But the bursts of machine-gun fire did little more than eat up ammo without having much effect on the enemy. The Japanese just kept their heads down, then picked off another target once the suppressing fire stopped.
Even Lieutenant Steele was started to show signs that the random Japanese attacks were getting to him. Just a minute ago, he had turned and fired several rounds from his 12-gauge combat shotgun into the underbrush, pumping out the hulls that went spinning away into the mud. The military hulls were made of brass because the typical waxed paper shotgun shells that were familiar to hunters swelled in the humidity and jammed the gun.
“What are you shooting at, Honcho?” Philly asked.
“Thought I saw something in those bushes,” the lieutenant muttered. He shoved fresh shells into his shotgun.
He preferred to be called Honcho by his men because being addressed by his rank or as “sir” was a surefire way to be targeted by the enemy. Considering that the word came from a Japanese term for a squad leader, the joke was on the enemy.
The tall, taciturn lieutenant had lost an eye on Guadalcanal and now wore an eye patch that Deke had crafted for him out of scrap leather. Honcho’s hair was touched with gray and his men figured that he had pulled some strings not only to avoid being sent home after losing an eye but also to remain a mere first lieutenant. Being a captain meant more headaches. He was more than content to command their squad of scouts and snipers.
Shotgun at the ready, Honcho moved off to check on the rest of the convoy.
“Dammit, we’re sitting ducks out here,” Philly grumbled. He walked a few paces behind Deke, his own rifle at the ready. They both knew that Deke was the better shot, but that didn’t stop Philly from needling him about his marksmanship from time to time. Because Philly was Philly, and Deke’s closest buddy in the army, maybe even in the world, Deke put up with it. “How can we fight the bastards if we can’t even see ’em, huh? This is a suicide mission.”
“I’ve got news for you, city boy. Life is a suicide mission,” Deke said. “Keep your head down and your eyes open.”
They were maintaining their “dime” — keeping a distance about ten feet apart to lessen the chances that a burst of fire from the jungle would take them both out. Deke heard the crack of a rifle. Another GI sprawled unmoving in the mud at the side of the road.
“Sniper!” someone shouted, and once again the GIs scrambled off the road like ants, taking shelter in ditches or under the trucks. They weren’t quick enough. Another shot rang out, and another man went down, wounded. A medic crawled over to help him.
Deke hid behind a truck tire and swung his rifle in the direction from where his keen hearing told him the shots had originated, but all he saw through the sniper scope was a wall of green, so dense that it looked as if a bullet wouldn’t pierce the veil. He couldn’t see anything to shoot at.
He felt a shiver along his spine, wondering again if he was in the enemy’s sights at this very moment. That imaginary target itched on his back.
“Did you see where that shot came from?” Philly wanted to know. “I swear, this convoy is nothing but target practice for the Japanese.”
“These snipers are crafty,” said Yoshio as he studied the brush that hid the enemy. “We need to outsmart them.”
