Stoically, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto watched as barges deposited the last of Colonel Najima’s devastated regiment on the shore at Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. The men he saw were frightened, exhausted, and, for at least the foreseeable future, worthless as soldiers. What had been promised as easy occupation duty on Cape York for them had turned, instead, into a costly nightmare.
General Hitoshi Imamura, the commander of the Japanese Army on New Guinea, stood beside Yamamoto and tallied the crippling toll. “Approximately one thousand men…a third of the regiment’s strength…is lost,” the general said.
For the last week, Yamamoto had been watching the numbers, too. One particular detail, though, struck him as very odd. “The officers,” Yamamoto said. “Is it true not one officer of this regiment survived?”
General Imamura replied, “Unless there are some on these last barges…and considering the disgraceful rabble we’re seeing, it certainly doesn’t look like there are…then, yes, Admiral, none of the regiment’s officers survived.”
Yamamoto looked grim as he said, “Let us pray this is a most unique aberration. We cannot hope to prevail against the Americans with such a casualty rate.”
Imamura felt no need to reply. He knew that fact all too well.
“I should never have allowed this,” Yamamoto said. “We should have used this regiment to bolster our sparse forces in the Solomons…on Guadalcanal, especially. Any fool can see that is where the Americans will try to strike back, at the farthest, most vulnerable tip of our conquests.”
Admiral Yamamoto had seen enough. Beginning the short walk back to his staff car, he added, “It was all so easy when they couldn’t fight back.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
They hadn't expected the attack—at least not from that direction. It was a shame; their defensive positions were meticulously crafted and impenetrable—as long as the attack came from the front. The defenders had simply gotten used to the routine. The enemy would arrive in dependable waves—just like clockwork—to be mowed down by their machine guns, with their inexhaustible supply of ammunition.
The defenders thought it was all getting a bit boring until the corporal-in-charge found Tom Hadley’s submachine gun pressed against the small of his back. The corporal looked to his left and then to his right. All along his defensive wall, his squad had dropped their weapons and had their hands in the air, taken prisoner by the attackers.
“Bang,” Tom Hadley said. “You’re dead.”
“Wait a minute,” the corporal-in-charge said, waving his arms in protest. “Where the fuck did you guys come from?”
“From behind you,” Hadley replied.
“But that’s cheating! You’re supposed to come from the front!”
The men of Hadley’s platoon got a huge kick out of the corporal’s complaint. They taunted their opponents in this war game with those words over and over again: But that’s cheating! Bogater Boudreau tucked the butt of his Thompson under his chin and pretended to play it like a violin. “That’s some sob story,” Bogater said, “but you’re all still dead, you clowns.”
A cocky young second lieutenant with a white band around his helmet—the mark of a war game umpire—walked purposefully toward Tom Hadley and spewed the words, “What do you think you’re doing, Sergeant? Your mission was to stage a frontal assault on this position, testing your ability to use fire and maneuver to achieve your objective.”
Hadley laughed and said, “Begging your pardon, Lieutenant, but even with everyone shooting blanks, a frontal assault sounded like a real dumb idea. Our way worked a whole lot better.”
The lieutenant scribbled on his clipboard as he said, “Unacceptable. What’s your name, Sergeant?”
“Hadley, sir. Thomas P.,” he replied in a polite yet confident tone.
“Well, Sergeant Hadley, Thomas P., you just delayed the whole afternoon’s training schedule with your little stunt. Not to mention you exhausted your men by walking miles out of your way to get behind this position.”
Hadley took a look at his men. They were hardly exhausted—and they were quite delighted with what they had just done.
The arrogant lieutenant had more preaching to do. “I’m here to tell you, Sergeant, when you’re up against the Japs—”
That wiped the smiles from the faces of Tom Hadley and his men.
“With all due respect, sir,” Hadley said, “what would you know about being up against the Japs?”
The lieutenant took Hadley’s question like the insult it was meant to be. “That’s it! I’m putting you on report, Sergeant. What’s your unit?”
With great pride, Hadley replied, “C Company, First of the Eighty-First, sir.”
The lieutenant became so ham-fisted, the point snapped off his pencil before he could write the second letter. He realized who the men of this unit were. There were hints of awe and reverence in his voice as he stammered the words, “You men…you men are…”
“That’s right, sir,” Hadley said. “We’re Task Force Miles. We know a little something about being up against the Japs. And we don’t give a damn about how far we have to walk…hell, we could walk a hundred miles. Or more. In spades.”
The lieutenant’s attitude changed drastically. Now, he wanted to be their buddy. “Is Captain Miles here?” he asked. “I’d like to meet him.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Hadley replied, “but the captain got called up to battalion. We’ll be sure to give him your regards, though.”
At the battalion headquarters tent, Jock received two pieces of bad news. One was expected. The other was not, and it shook him so badly he needed to sit down.
The expected news: within a week, his unit would relocate from the tactical training camp near Toowoomba, where the division had been bivouacked for the past three days, to Hervey Bay—a five-hour drive north of Brisbane—for amphibious assault training. The amphibious training would take three weeks. After that, they would be off to staging areas—well to the north, probably near Townsville—for the invasion of the Solomon Islands.
The news he hadn’t expected came at mail call in a letter from Jillian. He’d read the letter a dozen times since opening the envelope a few minutes ago. But he’d read it again, hoping against hope it would say something different this time:
My darling Jock,
I beg you not to think me cruel or heartless, but by the time you read this, I’ll be gone. My boats are waiting for me at Karumba. My crewmen are being held close by at the prison camp in Normanton. I’ve been given the paperwork to secure their release.
It’s my fault they’ve been rotting in that prison camp. They did nothing wrong. They’re not at war with anyone. It’s not fair that they stay there another day. Please understand.
You know where to find me.
I love you, Jock Miles,
Jill
It had only been four nights since they lay in each other’s arms. He thought they would have so much more time.
The deepest cut of all: he never told her he loved her. Maybe if I had, she’d still be waiting in Brisbane...
But he knew her better than that.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
They were finally cut a break. Once the division finished tactical training at Toowoomba, it was allowed to return to its Brisbane bivouac for five days before shipping off to Hervey Bay. They’d need two of those days to refit. The other three, they were granted leave.
First Sergeant Patchett asked Jock, “What are you gonna do with your three days’ leave, sir?”
“I’m going back to Weipa, Top.”
Patchett didn’t need to ask why Jock was going. He had a more practical concern, though: “How on God’s green Earth do you plan to do that, Captain? It’s a thousand miles from here.”
“I’m going to fly,” Jock replied.
The RAAF Catalina amphibian—named G for George—lifted off from the runway at Archerfield and turned north. Once settled in at cruising altitude, Wing Commander Tim Wells turned the control
s over to his co-pilot and joined Jock in the cabin.
“Thanks for letting me come along, sir,” Jock said, “and bending your schedule a little to accommodate mine.”
“Call me Tim, Jock…and you’re very welcome. It’s the least I can do, and you bloody well deserve it. Everyone knows what a farce that was, pinning medals all over those Yank pilots…and you lads not even getting a mention. That Jillian is some feisty sheila, though, to stand up to MacArthur like that.”
“That she is, sir...uhh, Tim.”
“No wonder you want to see her again,” Wells said. “Anyway, when they told me to scout the Weipa area for a possible seaplane base, I thought to myself, It couldn’t hurt to take along someone who knows the place really well…someone who’s actually been there.”
With a wry smile, Jock said, “My colonel thought I was out of my ever-loving mind, volunteering to give up my three-day leave to do this.”
“Ahh, the things we do for love, eh, Jock?”
Gazing over the Pacific from the Cat’s gun blister, Jock couldn’t believe how different the maritime traffic looked from the last time he had flown this route. Then, there was just a pitiful trickle of vessels plying their way to Brisbane. Now, it looked like an armada of freighters, troop ships, and tankers—carrying that all-important fuel—was on its way to save the world. The columns of ships stretched across the ocean like a band of steel in the spotlight of the low, early morning sun.
“Looks like we’re finally getting the stuff to do this job right,” Jock said, smiling at the spectacle on the sea below.
“Yes, indeed,” Tim Wells said. “Things are definitely getting better. This was the first week I haven’t had to fight to get enough fuel for my planes.”
“That’s good to hear,” Jock said. “You know, when we came in to refit, we got everything we needed without any bullshit. Every last damned thing.”
“It’s about bloody time, too,” Tim Wells added before heading back to the cockpit.
The sun was making its orange dome on the western horizon as the Cat splashed down on Albatross Bay. Two American fighter planes streaked low overhead as she taxied to the harbor, waggling their wings in greeting. Lighters from cargo ships anchored out in the bay crowded the shore, transferring their loads to US Army trucks. Where Japanese soldiers once prowled the Weipa Mission, now there were only Yanks. As the Cat plowed past the mast of the sunken Japanese destroyer, still protruding high above the surface, one of the Aussie gunners bowed in mock-Japanese style, and then flicked the V sign in its direction.
Tim Wells cut the engines and G for George coasted to a stop. As the crewman in the nose turret dropped the anchor, a boat slowly approached and turned a lazy circle. Jock recognized the name on her bow—Andoom Clipper. One of Jillian’s boats.
As the boat pulled alongside, one of her black crewmen recognized Jock immediately. He smiled broadly as he said, “Captain Jock…you come back! Remember me? I am Nigel. I brought food to your camp.”
Jock climbed into the boat, exchanging hearty pats on the back with her crew. In complete innocence, Nigel asked, “You want Miss Jilly?”
“Yes, I do,” Jock replied, imagining the snickers that question would cause in the barracks. “Where is she?”
“On shore. The supplies just came.”
He found her where the icehouse used to stand, tallying stacks of crates and barrels, her back to him. Black men and women were busy loading the goods onto wagons.
“Need a hand with anything?” Jock asked.
She was turning at the first sound of his voice. Like a perfectly choreographed dance, they were locked in each other’s arms at the precise moment her pivot was complete.
They kissed and kissed again. She asked, “How long do you have?”
“Two nights.”
“And then?”
He didn’t need to answer. The faraway look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. She hugged him tighter and asked, “Why’d you come all this way, my silly boy?”
His faraway look vanished. Looking deep into her eyes now, he said, “I forgot to tell you something...”
***
About The Author
History is a parade of chance outcomes, influenced by any number of natural forces and human whims. As a lifelong student of history and lover of alternative historical fiction, William Peter Grasso’s novels explore the concept change one thing…and watch what happens. The results are works of fiction in which the actual people and historical events are weaved into a seamless and entertaining narrative with the imagined.
Focusing on the WW2 era, Grasso’s novels have spent several years in the Amazon Top 100 for Alternative History and War.
Retired from the aircraft maintenance industry, Grasso is a veteran of the US Army and served in Operation Desert Storm as a flight crew member with the Civil Reserve Air Fleet (CRAF). These days, he confines his aviation activities to building and flying radio-controlled model aircraft.
Contact the Author Online:
Email: William Peter Grasso
Connect with the Author on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorWilliamPeterGrasso
More Novels by William Peter Grasso
Moon Above, Moon Below
A Moon Brothers WW2 Adventure
France, August 1944. In this alternate history WW2 adventure, American and British forces struggle to trap and destroy the still-potent German armies defending Normandy. But the Allies face another formidable obstacle of their own making: a seething rivalry between generals leads to a high-level disregard for orders that puts the entire campaign in the Falaise Pocket at risk of devastating failure—or spectacular success. That campaign unfolds through the eyes of two American brothers—one an idealistic pilot, the other a fatalistic tanker—as they plunge headlong into the confusion and indiscriminant slaughter of war.
Operation Fishwrapper
Book 5
Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series
June 1944: A recon flight is shot down over the Japanese-held island of Biak, soon to be the next jump in MacArthur’s leapfrogging across New Guinea. Major Jock Miles, US Army—the crashed plane’s intelligence officer—must lead the handful of survivors to safety. It’s a tall order for a man barely recovered from a near-crippling leg wound. Gaining the grudging help of a Dutch planter who has evaded the Japanese since the war began, Jock discovers just how little MacArthur’s staff knows about the terrain and defenses of the island they’re about to invade.
The American invasion of Biak promptly bogs down, and the GIs rename the debacle Operation Fishwrapper, a joking reference to their worthless maps. The infantry battalion Jock once led quickly suffers the back-to-back deaths of two commanders, so he steps into the job once again, ignoring the growing difficulties with his leg. When his Aussie wife Jillian tracks down the refugee mapmaker who can refine those fishwrappers into something of military value, the tide of battle finally turns in favor of the Americans. But for Jock, the victory imparts a life-changing blow.
Operation Blind Spot
Book 4
Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series
After surviving a deadly plane crash, Jock Miles is handed a new mission: neutralize a mountaintop observation post on Japanese-held Manus Island so MacArthur’s invasion fleet en route to Hollandia, New Guinea, can arrive undetected. Jock’s team seizes and holds the observation post with the help of a clever deception. But when they learn of a POW camp deep in the island’s treacherous jungle, it opens old wounds for Jock and his men: the disappearance—and presumed death—of Jillian Forbes at Buna a year before. There’s only one risky way to find out if she’s a prisoner there…and doing so puts their entire mission in serious jeopardy.
Operation Easy Street
Book 3
Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series
Port Moresby was bad. Buna was worse.
The WW2 alternative history adventure of Jock Miles continues as MacArthur orders American and Aus
tralian forces to seize Buna in Papua New Guinea. Once again, the Allied high command underestimates the Japanese defenders, plunging Jock and his men into a battle they’re not equipped to win. Worse, jungle diseases, treacherous terrain, and the tactical fantasies of deluded generals become adversaries every bit as deadly as the Japanese. Sick, exhausted, and outgunned, Jock’s battalion is ordered to spearhead an amphibious assault against the well-entrenched enemy. It’s a suicide mission—but with ingenious help from an unexpected source, there might be a way to avoid the certain slaughter and take Buna. For Jock, though, victory comes at a dreadful price.
Operation Long Jump
Book 2
Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series
Alternative history takes center stage as Operation Long Jump, the second book in the Jock Miles World War 2 adventure series, plunges us into the horrors of combat in the rainforests of Papua New Guinea. As a prelude to the Allied invasion, Jock Miles and his men seize the Japanese observation post on the mountain overlooking Port Moresby. The main invasion that follows quickly degenerates to a bloody stalemate, as the inexperienced, demoralized, and poorly led GIs struggle against the stubborn enemy.
Seeking a way to crack the impenetrable Japanese defenses, infantry officer Jock finds himself in a new role—aerial observer. He’s teamed with rookie pilot John Worth, in a prequel to his role as hero of Grasso’s East Wind Returns. Together, they struggle to expose the Japanese defenses—while highly exposed themselves—in their slow and vulnerable spotter plane. The enemy is not the only thing troubling Jock: his Australian lover, Jillian Forbes, has found a new and dangerous way to contribute to the war effort.
Long Walk To The Sun (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 1) Page 41
