“An old friend tracked us down last night,” he announced. “It turns out that he wants to pay us a visit.”
He then stepped aside as a figure emerged from a doorway. He was a broad-shouldered man wearing the simple brown frock of a priest.
“Father Francisco!” Deke said in surprise, genuinely pleased at the sight of the priest who had fought alongside them on Leyte. He had been a parish priest in Palo, outspoken against the Japanese, until the enemy had forced him to flee for his life into the hills, where he had become a guerrilla leader. They had made his acquaintance not long after they’d hit the beach near Palo.
“It is good to see you, Deacon Cole,” said the priest, who shook hands all around, calling each man by name. “It is good to see all of you, my old friends.”
“We can always use the help, Padre,” Deke said.
“Oh, it is not just me,” the priest said. “I alone would not be of much use to you. I have brought along some help.”
He then beckoned to several figures who had remained in the shadows of the house. Half a dozen Filipinos emerged, wearing the informal uniforms of guerrilla fighters, which consisted of olive drab shirts, shorts, no shoes, and straw hats. It was an outfit that made sense in the tropical heat. They carried small packs on their backs and wore either bolo knives or pistols on their hips — sometimes both. All six carried rifles slung over their shoulders. Though it was hard to define, they had a different air about them compared to Danilo, who was a man of the forests and mountains. To Deke’s eyes, Danilo somehow looked out of place here in the city. He was a man who blended best with deep-green jungles and lush stands of grass.
Due to the similarity of the guerrillas’ dress and gear, it took the GIs a moment to realize that two of the guerrilla fighters were women, a fact that caused the soldiers to exchange glances that involved raised eyebrows and looks of disbelief. In the countryside, the guerrilla fighters had nearly all been men, but here in the city, apparently women had also joined the fight.
Being a female guerrilla held special dangers. If captured, Filipino men would be killed outright by the Japanese, or if they were lucky, sent to a POW camp. Filipina fighters faced a far worse fate if captured — grimmer even than a quick death. Chances were good that they would be forced into service as so-called comfort women in brothels for Japanese soldiers. It was hard to imagine a worse form of hell. For these female warriors, the stakes were high.
“All of the fighters I have brought you are excellent shots, much like you,” Father Francisco said. “However, they have had no real training as snipers. All of them also speak English, which will help with their training.”
“That’s where we come in,” the lieutenant told his men. “We are going to give them a crash course in sniper warfare. The idea is that they will know enough to start shooting Japs without getting killed right away. Remember that when you started, you didn’t know a damn thing. But first, let’s see how well they can shoot.”
The courtyard of the abandoned house was too small for what the lieutenant had in mind, so they moved a short distance to an open area that had once been a parking lot, now choked with weeds. At one end of the lot was the massive wall of a barn-like wooden garage. A bit of paint still clung to the wood, but it was mostly weathered and bare after being neglected during the occupation. Business apparently had not thrived under the Japanese.
“That’s perfect for you, Philly,” Deke said, nodding at the broad wall they faced. “It’s hard to miss the broad side of a barn.”
“Aw, stuff it, Corn Pone.”
Using a piece of chalk, the lieutenant walked down and drew six circles on the wooden wall. He paused, then added faces — a grim line for the mouths, a single dot for a nose, and two slanted slits for eyes. Although it was a crude caricature, the last feature was intended to make the faces unmistakably Japanese. The Filipinos were certainly grinning at the sight.
“All right, let’s see how you can shoot,” Honcho said. His welcoming manner turned gruff as he gave orders. “Spread out. Sitting position first. When you hear your number, shoot the target. Deke, you call the numbers. Mix it up, will you? The Japs wouldn’t give you a chance to do things nice and orderly, and neither will we.”
Deke stood behind the line of guerrillas. A couple had seemed mystified by the sitting position, including one of the women. He got her set up, elbows on knees, bone to bone, the rifle locked in place. He put his hands on her shoulders and adjusted her position slightly, getting her to lean into the rifle more.
“That is Juana,” said Father Francisco, who stood nearby. There was a proud tone in his voice. “She is an excellent shot. So is Hector, the last man down.”
Deke grunted. Despite what the priest said, he had yet to see them shoot and wanted to see for himself. “If you say so, Padre.”
He noticed that the four men held relatively new-looking Springfield rifles with iron sights, no telescopes. He assumed that it was the resourceful padre who had managed to obtain the rifles. Even with iron sights, there was no finer sniper rifle. The two women were armed with Arisaka rifles. These were somewhat smaller than the Springfields and fit the women better. They also fired a smaller cartridge with less kick. That said, they were no less deadly and had some advantages over US weapons. The Arisaka rifle was a quieter shooter with a smaller muzzle flash that made it harder to detect when fired from a hiding place in the ruined city. In the hands of Japanese snipers, the Arisaka rifles had killed far too many Americans. Now the tables were turned and the Arisaka was being used against them.
That thought alone made Deke happy.
“Call ’em out, Deke,” Honcho ordered. It was the lieutenant’s habit to use a telescope rather than binoculars, which were pointless for a one-eyed man. He raised the telescope to better see where the bullets struck.
“Three,” Deke said, matching the lieutenant’s gruff tone.
The guerrilla’s rifle cracked, but Deke’s sharp eyes needed no help to see that the bullet had punched a hole outside the target circle. Inwardly, he groaned. Would the rest of these Filipinos do any better?
“Four! Five!” he shouted in quick succession.
Number four hit the target, a hole appearing in the lower part of the circle. The woman named Juana was in position five. Her rifle cracked, and the bullet struck right between the target’s slanting eyes.
Her glance swung toward Deke, giving him a defiant look. He liked her spirit, but one lucky shot did not a sniper make.
They went through a few more rounds, with Deke calling out their numbers, varying the rhythm. Juana kept hitting the target consistently, and the others mostly did.
“All right, let’s switch to prone,” Honcho said.
When it came to the prone position, Juana knew just what to do. Her marksmanship was even better now, all her shots occupying a space about the size of a buttered biscuit.
When she looked up again with that defiant expression, Deke gave her a nod. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a faint smile play across her lips.
After the shooting test, which seemed to satisfy Lieutenant Steele, he gathered the guerrillas for a lecture in the basics of sniper warfare. The GIs had been curious to watch the shooting action, but they had heard this lecture before. They drifted away to smoke cigarettes, except for Deke and Yoshio. Deke had stayed because Honcho asked him to interject now and then. Yoshio stuck around because he couldn’t help learning something.
They took a break for chow, then did some more shooting in the afternoon. Then Honcho declared that their impromptu training course was over.
“You’re all graduated, as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “Starting tomorrow, feel free to get yourselves killed or, better yet, stay alive for a while and make yourselves useful by killing a few Japs.”
They all went back to the house, with Patrol Easy staying in the expansive rooms and the guerrillas camping in the courtyard. A watch schedule was set, just in case the Japanese decided to get frisky.
Juana set about cleaning her rifle. Deke drifted over and watched, telling himself that he was curious about the Arisaka. Maybe he had been — at first. He was also impressed by the deft and efficient way that Juana cleaned her weapon. But as Juana deftly went through the steps of cleaning and oiling the weapon, Deke found that his eyes were more focused on her than the Japanese rifle.
She was no statuesque pinup beauty, being shorter and rounder, but she was soft in all the right places. Her hair was dark brown, not quite black, more like the hue of light coffee than midnight ink. Her eyes were a liquid brown like mountain stone after a rain.
Deke was embarrassed when she looked up and caught him studying her. She gave him a frank look in return, her eyes lingering on the scars down one side of his face and neck, the result of the angry, raking claws and teeth of the wounded black bear he had encountered as a boy. Her eyes widened as if alarmed, a reaction that Deke knew all too well. He wasn’t pretty to look at. He turned and walked away.
Philly was waiting for him on the other side of the courtyard, a knowing grin on his face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were interested in that girl.”
“I was seeing if she needed help, is all.”
“You know what, Corn Pone? I hate to break it to you, but you’re the one who needs help. I think it’s clear that you’ve got it bad for that girl.”
Deke felt his face reddening, a rare sensation for him. “Like I said, I was just seeing how she was doing with her shooting.”
“She’s a good shot, all right. I’d say she shot you right through the heart.”