While Botkin fired up the radio for the nightly position fix, Jock and Jillian were deep in discussion. He had decided to divulge the nature of his mission and to ask for her help in pinpointing the Japanese headquarters. In the dim shadows cast by the red flashlight, Jock could see the distress etched into her face.
“Can you stop them from bombing the cities?” she asked, her words more a plea than a question.
“If it makes it any better,” Jock replied, “their bombing hasn’t been very effective.”
“No, Jock…that doesn’t help a bit.”
“If we’re successful, the bombing will stop…and the Japs should be gone.”
“But I need to keep the blacks safe,” she said. “This isn’t their war…they don’t deserve to be caught in the middle. Promise you’ll tell me what’s going to happen so I can keep them at a safe distance?”
“You have my word, Jillian.”
She considered his answer for a moment. Then she crawled into the borrowed bedroll laid out for her next to Doc’s and closed her eyes. “I’ll draw you some maps in the morning, when I can see what I’m bloody doing.” Against Patchett’s wishes, Jock let her keep her rifle at her side. But it had been the first sergeant’s idea to bunk her next to Doc Green, telling Jock, “Doc can look after his little Aussie hellcat so I don’t have to.”
As Jock started to move away, Jillian’s voice called to him in the darkness. “Jock, I’ll take you at your word…but don’t cross me on this. Please.”
In the darkness, she couldn’t see his smile as he replied, “That’s funny…I was just going to ask you the same thing.”
“Then we understand each other,” she said.
As Jock plotted the azimuth vectors Botkin had handed him, Melvin Patchett whispered, “I still don’t trust her, Captain. Don’t you be thinking with your pecker, now. If we let her go, she could run straight to those Japs she’s so chummy with.”
“Duly noted, Top, but if she’s on the level, she can save us a whole lot of trouble. And I’m pretty damned sure she’s on the level. If she’s not…we’re really not much worse off, are we? We’ve still got this big ol’ peninsula to hide our peckers in.”
Patchett didn’t look convinced, but there was no doubting his sincerity as he replied, “As you wish, sir.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Jock Miles snapped awake to a variety of sounds. The first was the drone of many aircraft engines revving up in the distance. The second was the alarmed whinnying of Jillian’s horse. The third was the sound of men brawling.
In the pre-dawn glow, Jock could just make out Guess and Russo going at it again. They were standing, each with a two-handed grip on the same entrenching tool, trying to wrest it from the other. If one of them succeeded, he would no doubt try to beat his opponent senseless with it. As Jock raced closer, he noticed they were smeared with some dark, gooey substance. Jillian had the reins of her frightened horse firmly in hand, leading the creature away from the fighting men.
At the sight of their commander, the two troopers stopped fighting and snapped to attention as the entrenching tool fell to the ground. From the look of their fatigues, they must have rolled through a pile of horse excrement. Without waiting to be asked, Nicky Russo stated his grievance. “This dumbass cracker made that horse take a shit right in my hole.”
“Did not,” Guess replied. “A horse gonna shit where he wants. If you don’t like it, Yankee, here’s the fucking shovel.” He kicked the entrenching tool into Russo’s shins.
Jock could hear the irritated words Jillian was mumbling: “And this is the army that’s going to save us?” He could only assume she said it to the horse.
Russo didn’t retaliate; he didn’t move from attention at all, despite the painful blow to his shins. But his voice took on a menace Jock had never heard from him before when he said, “I’m going to kill this fucking redneck…maybe all you fucking rednecks…if it’s the last thing I do.”
Melvin Patchett’s icy voice spoke softly from somewhere behind Jock: “I’d think real careful about what the next words out of your mouth are going to be, son.” Patchett laid a hand on Jock’s shoulder. “I’ll get these two touch-holes straightened out and cleaned up, Captain. You’ve got more important things to do.”
Jock and Jillian settled into those more important things. While delightedly wolfing down a K ration breakfast, she asked, “Are things always this cocked up in your army?”
Jock’s smile was bittersweet; he’d asked himself that same question many times before. Trying his best to sound flippant, he replied, “Actually, this is a pretty good start to the day.”
She began to draw diagrams of the Japanese facilities around Weipa in Jock’s notebook. “You say you want to bomb their headquarters,” she said while sketching a rough layout of Airfield One. “It’s on this airfield somewhere, I’m sure, but Colonel Najima, the regimental commander, is never there at night. He spends his nights here,”—she turned back to the diagram of the Weipa Mission and pointed to a big rectangle—“at the knocking shop.”
Seeing the confused look on his face, she elaborated. “Knocking shop. Brothel. Whorehouse. The Japs bring in their own prostitutes. They call them comfort women.”
“Hmm, that’s interesting,” Jock said. “Are there a lot of troops in the Weipa Mission?”
“Not really. There’s a small guard detail at the whorehouse…maybe a dozen men…plus a fair mob of eager lads having their naughty around the clock.”
“It sure sounds like there’s a lot of nightlife in Weipa,” Jock said. “Don’t the Japs black the place out at night?”
Jillian shook her head. “There’s no need. Weipa’s not exactly a big, bright city, Jock. There aren’t many lights there in the first place. The only electricity is at my icehouse, from my own generator. Everything else is oil lanterns.”
She took Jock’s map and drew a line running south from Weipa. She pointed to the line’s southern end. “With Airfield One up and running, the colonel spends most days here, supervising the construction of Airfield Two. Once that’s done, I’m sure he’ll move south again to wherever they decide to build Airfield Three, probably halfway to Mitchell River. Now this line represents the road they’ve built to link the airfields. We call it Yellow Vermin Road.”
“Very appropriate name. How many men are at Airfield One?” Jock asked.
“Not sure…a few hundred, maybe?”
Melvin Patchett approached and took a seat on the ground with them. There was enough light now to see his eye was still a vivid purple. “Good morning, Grandpa,” Jillian said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “How’s the shiner?”
“I’ve had much worse, young lady.”
“Ooo, now it’s young lady,” she said with delight. “Yesterday, it was just girlie.”
Jock almost burst out laughing but caught himself just in time. Quickly changing the subject, he asked, “Have you seen their radio station? You know…their wireless? I’m not talking small tactical sets—”
“Like the ones on your kiddie wagons?” she asked.
“Right. Not like those. I mean a big, high-powered wireless.”
“Of course I’ve seen it,” she replied. “Everyone has. It’s on a truck. Some nights they park it right in the middle of the Mission and string up that big wire aerial of theirs.”
“How do you know there’s just one truck?” Patchett asked.
“The vehicle numbers are painted on, First Sergeant, and they’re always the same.” Despite her sarcastic tone, she nodded respectfully as she spoke his rank.
“Hmm. I guess that makes sense,” Patchett said. “The headquarters stays put. Only the transmitter moves. Good way to confuse our Air Force.”
“It’s worked for them so far,” Jock said.
Jillian went back to work marking the map. “Let me give you some landmarks so we can meet and exchange information. I don’t expect you’ll want to be strolling into Weipa to talk with me.” After putting a name o
n every river and creek, she said, “Be careful around water from here to the shore. The crocs you’ll run into are deadly. Shoot them in the head if they’re coming for you. That’s your only chance.”
Jock asked, “You mean salt water crocs?”
“Exactly. The worst kind. I’ve had to shoot a few in my time. We suspect they’re what got my dad. Don’t play around with the snakes, either. They’ll kill you, too. It just takes a little longer.”
“Yeah,” Jock said, “Doc briefed us on the wonders of nature around here.”
“But look at the bright side…the fishing’s wonderful! Maybe we can figure out a way to get you blokes a seafood dinner?”
Jock looked into the K ration package he was eating with little enthusiasm and said, “That would be really great.”
The hum of aircraft engines at Airfield One turned into a rasping growl as Jap planes took off for the day’s sorties. Jillian scowled and flicked a V sign in the direction of the airfield. “Bloody bastards,” she mumbled, and then went back to marking the map. “These are the red cliffs, a few miles east of the Mission,” she said. “If you ever need high ground, that’s all there is around here. And these are the middens…”
“What are they?”
“Mounds of shellfish remains. The ancient blacks piled up what was left of the shellfish they ate for centuries. Now, over here is an abandoned black settlement…or what the termites left of it. Meet me there tonight, before dark. About seventeen hundred hours, okay? It’ll be a safe place for your blokes to camp out.”
“Okay,” Jock said. “By the way, do you have any topographic maps of this area?”
“No…but I’ve got nautical charts from here to the Solomons. A cabinet full.”
Trying to rein in his rising hopes, he asked, “How far inland do they cover?”
“A couple of miles.”
“So Airfield One and Two’s locations would be on the charts?”
“Sure.”
Jock delivered the big question: “How up to date are these charts?”
“As up to date as they can be,” she replied. “I just got new ones a few months ago.”
“Good. Bring them tonight.”
Dawn had broken. Jillian took the notebook again, opened it to the Weipa Mission diagram, and pointed to a spot on its edge. “This is my house, the only Victorian for a hundred miles…but promise me you won’t mark the location…”
“In case this notebook happens to fall into Jap hands?” Jock asked.
She nodded, grateful that he understood her concern so instinctively.
“Look, Jock…I’ve got to get home. I’m already late. I’ve got to captain one of my boats again today.”
“Hey, before you go…can I ask you one more thing, Jillian?”
“Sure.”
“The Wagner piece you were humming yesterday…”
“Oh, bloody hell…you mean when I was naked?”
“Yeah. That one. Wagner’s my favorite composer. Are you a fan, too?”
“When he suits my mood,” she replied. “But I’m always partial to Liszt.”
“Ahh, so you’re a romantic, Jillian?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Romantic as all bloody hell.”
From where Melvin Patchett sat, it certainly looked like they were flirting.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Her horse seemed genuinely delighted to finally be out of the bush and back home in its paddock. Jillian was no less thrilled as she walked through the back door of her house. Setting the rifle in a corner of the kitchen, she flung the rucksack onto the table and pulled off her boots. It would feel so wonderful to have a quick sponge bath and put on clean clothes, at least for a short while. In no time, she’d be back on the boat and mucked up all over again.
Her blouse was already in a crumpled ball on the kitchen floor as she passed into the drawing room, momentarily sightless as she pulled the undershirt over her head. The sound of an unsteady yet belligerent voice stopped her cold in her tracks: “Where the hell have those tits been all night, Miss Jilly?” She didn’t need her eyes to know it was Bob Sato’s voice. She quickly pulled the undershirt down over her torso.
He was seated on the couch, quite drunk. An open saké bottle lay on its side on the floor before him, quite empty. He had gotten into her liquor cabinet, too. Open bottles of whiskey and dark rum sat on the table beside the couch. With the amount of liquor he had apparently consumed, Jillian was amazed this easily inebriated little man was still conscious. He rose from the couch and began to stagger toward her.
Bloody hell! He can stand up, too.
“I asked you a question, Miss Jilly.”
“You can shove your bloody question right up your arse. Get the hell out of my house.”
He kept coming. “Finding comfort in another man’s bed? A black man’s bed?”
“Get the fuck out of here, Bob!”
She turned to hurry back to the kitchen—and her rifle—but he was on her with surprising speed. He grabbed her hips and tried to pull her back to him in a clumsy caress, but she spun and cracked him firmly across the jaw with a flying elbow. He staggered, released his grip on her, but didn’t go down. She ran to the kitchen, her socks sliding across the hardwood floor until she crashed headlong into the corner where the rifle stood. But the relief of having the weapon in her hands faded in an instant.
If I shoot him, they’ll know I did it. I might as well shoot myself, too.
She needed to get out of the house. The back door was closest; Sato was somewhere between her and the front door. She tried to move, but what she saw on the table froze her in her tracks: spilled from her rucksack, in plain view, was a K ration box.
When she looked up again, Sato was standing in the archway of the kitchen entrance, leaning against its structure to steady himself. His eyes fell on the thin cardboard box, too, its black lettering bold enough to be read even by a drunken man 10 feet away: US ARMY FIELD RATION K. It took no time at all for the meaning of the little box’s presence to sink into his drunken head. Once it did, the jealous anger he felt was stoked to murderous rage. He pulled out the Nambu pistol concealed beneath his jacket and stepped forward, blocking her path to either door.
With his free hand, he picked up the K ration box, waving it unsteadily before him like some scolding pendulum. At first he said nothing; the fierce look on his face was already speaking every hateful, corrosive word one human being could hurl at another. But after a few moments, his feelings of lust, betrayal, and rage finally coalesced and spat forth their acidic brew:
“So the Americans feed you as well as fuck you?”
He took an unsteady step into the kitchen, then another. He tried pointing the Nambu in her direction, but his movements were so shaky and uncoordinated the pistol was just as much a danger to himself as to her.
Her dilemma—I can’t shoot him! They’ll know it was me!—was solved in a rush of revelation: a hunting rifle can have more than one dangerous end. The stock, too, can be a powerful weapon when the rifle is swung by the barrel like a club. That stock met Sato’s bewildered face with terrifying force before he could take another step.
He backpedaled out of the kitchen into the drawing room, the motion of his legs more like those of a crazed marionette than a man. His balance became more precarious with each faltering step. Jillian watched in what seemed like slow motion as his heels finally lost their purchase and he toppled over. Halfway down, the back of his head struck the edge of the piano’s keyboard cheek with the sound of a melon being cleaved by an ax. His lifeless body crumpled and hit the floor with a dull thud, like a sack of potatoes being dropped.
At first, she had no recollection of rolling his body onto a blanket and dragging it out the back door, down the steps, and into the fodder bin. When her cognition returned, she was on her knees, wiping the last of Bob Sato’s blood from the floor beneath the piano. She froze in horror as the whole sordid scene replayed in her head, right up to the mighty swing of the rifle. She rem
embered nothing after that. But by the look of the crimson-tinged rags and water in the bucket, someone had surely been mortally wounded in this house.
But where the bloody hell is that little bastard?
Then it all began to come back, little pieces at a time, in no specific order. As if by intuition, she retraced her steps to the fodder bin. Using the pitchfork, she gingerly lifted the pile of feed—and saw the face of Bob Sato. That same look of bewilderment that greeted the rifle stock’s blow was still there, but his eyes had taken on the lifeless quality of a fish too long out of water. She lifted the pile a bit more and found his Nambu pistol resting on his chest. Right where she must have put it. There was no point poking the body with the pitchfork. Bob Sato was dead. She had killed him.
And I’ve got to get this body out of here before his little mates come looking for him.
Back inside the house, as she gathered the K ration packages, the rags, and the bucket, the grandfather clock chimed 7:30. Shit! We should have been out on the water by now. The clothes she wore, still grimy from yesterday’s adventures, now displayed the same incriminating blood stains as the cleaning rags. She’d need to burn them all before showing her face at the Mission.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The never-ending clash between Nicky Russo and J.T. Guess wasn’t the only personnel problem facing Jock Miles that morning. Doc Green had some bad news: Bogater Boudreau had awoken weak and listless. The wound on his shoulder had festered. Doc Green administered a knockout dose of antibiotics, but Boudreau was unfit for duty. His strength was sapped.
“This is what can happen to wounds in the tropics,” Doc said. “He’ll need to take it easy for at least a couple of days and stay on antibiotics.”
Jock barely managed to keep the frustration those words triggered at bay. “Easy?” he said with a sarcastic snicker. “Nothing’s going to be easy from here on in.”
Long Walk To The Sun (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 1) Page 20
