Operation Easy Street (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 3)

by William Peter Grasso

  General George Vasey, the division commander, watched with quiet despair as a stream of casualties trickled to a primitive aid station just a hundred yards behind the fighting. A few of the stricken could walk—or at least hobble—on their own. The others had to be carried by native litter bearers.

  Most of the casualties weren’t wounded; they were sick, weakened by malaria, bush typhus, or a host of other tropical diseases. General Vasey wasn’t surprised he was losing men to sickness carried by insects and ground water; he just hadn’t expected so many of them. General Blamey, the commander of all Australian forces in Papua and Vasey’s boss, had estimated a casualty rate to disease of no more than 20 percent.

  It’s going to be twice that, at least, Vasey told himself.

  There was no room for the newly sick and wounded under the aid station’s tattered tarp. They’d stand, sit, or lie in the pasty mud and frequent rain, too tired to swat away the ever-present mosquitoes, waiting quietly until it was their turn with one of the three harried doctors. Offering only triage and not treatment, a doctor’s time with a sick digger would be over quickly. If deemed too sick to stay on the Track, he’d be marked for evacuation to Port Moresby. That journey would take several days on foot—without medical treatment and fully exposed to the conditions that made him sick in the first place. The trek would begin only if there were native bearers to spare after the badly wounded had been evacuated.

  Sick or wounded, a digger might not survive the journey. Only an airplane could improve his odds.

  A doctor said to General Vasey, “We’ve got to do better for the lads than this, sir. How long to Kokoda?”

  “Two, maybe three days,” Vasey replied, as if trying to convince himself.

  “Is the airstrip there still serviceable?”

  “As far as we know,” Vasey said. “Let’s bloody hope it still is when we get to it.”

  First Battalion’s field exercise may have been every bit the Chinese fire drill Sergeant Major Patchett predicted, but it wasn’t a disaster. Everyone expected there to be mistakes, and those mistakes were not the issue. What Jock Miles would do to correct them was.

  “That wasn’t the first time a platoon or squad got lost,” Jock told the battalion’s assembled cadre, “and it won’t be the last. Those of us who’ve been here a while know Papua is not exactly studded with landmarks. But you’ll learn quickly how to correlate terrain features with your map. Your company commanders all did, in no time flat. Learn from them.”

  Jock looked to the battalion communications officer and asked, “All the radios working again, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes sir, they are,” the commo officer replied. “User error, mostly.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant,” Jock said, “and I’ll expect all company commanders to educate their men on the care and feeding of those radios.” Jock yielded the floor to Patchett: “Sergeant Major, you’ve got stuff to add, I’m sure.”

  “I sure do, sir,” Patchett began. “First off, as far as those on-the-air fuckups went, I think a few good raps on the helmet should fix that. And if that don’t work, make sure they write their fucking call signs in grease pencil right on their walkie-talkies so they can’t forget. But most importantly, nobody got hurt…not so much as a stubbed toe. Believe me, that’s something y’all can feel good about.”

  And they did: they all knew training accidents were endemic to the military. GIs could always find diverse ways to maim themselves. Even without live ammunition, their profession combined all the most dangerous elements of working with machines while existing in the wilderness.

  “Now,” Patchett continued, “we still got ourselves a li’l ol’ morale problem. A whole bunch of these shitheads still ain’t taking this soldiering business with the proper seriousness…because they ain’t figured out how to take it serious yet. Serious is too damn terrifying.”

  He took a dramatic pause before continuing, “And they won’t take it serious until that special something happens that makes a man change inside, like hauling off what’s left of his buddy in a mattress cover. You need that cat-list.”

  There were strange looks being cast all around, men wondering if this was some army term they had somehow never heard before.

  Jock broke the confused silence: “You mean catalyst, Sergeant Major?”

  There was just a hint of indignation in Patchett’s voice: “I believe that’s what I said, sir.”

  “Just making sure, Sergeant Major,” Jock said, in his best soothing voice. “Just making sure. Please continue.”

  “I just got one more thing to say, sir. I think we can stop fiddly-fucking around and move on to live fire training exercises first thing tomorrow. We’re gonna need every minute to get our asses ready.”

  Jock replied, “I couldn’t agree more, Sergeant Major.”

  Infantry may be Queen of Battle, but artillery is still king. As in any successful marriage, the king and queen have to learn to work together to achieve common goals. That’s exactly what this portion of the live fire exercise was about: infantry and artillery coordination in the attack. The infantrymen of Charlie Company, under Lieutenant Lee Grossman, were dug in at the edge of the exercise area, watching as 75-millimeter artillery rounds landed on the hill some 50 yards in front of them. In another minute the fire would lift, and Grossman’s men would assault the hill in a mock attack, firing live bullets at defenders made of burlap sacks and straw. None of the company’s rookies had ever watched an artillery round impact so close before.

  There were a few brief ooohs and ahhhs, but by and large, the men weren’t impressed. Disappointed would be a better word. They were expecting hellfire and brimstone. All they got were some muffled booms, wispy puffs of smoke, and a few clods of earth flung into the air.

  Surely nothing powerful enough to stop a horde of Japanese swarming down on them.

  “You may not think it looks like much now, men,” Grossman would tell squad after squad as he moved along the line, “but when we start doing this for real, we’re going to be a hell of a lot closer to it—maybe right under it—so close you’ll hear the shell fragments whizzing through the air. So close your ears will bleed.”

  His words only seemed to be making the men more disenchanted with their current lot in life, so Grossman would add, “You’d better believe that when the Japs are in your face, you’re going to want that artillery. You’re going to need that artillery, because without it, you’ll be in real deep shit. Trust me on that one.”

  Yeah, trust me, Lee Grossman told himself as he reached the last platoon. I’ve already been down that road a couple of times.

  Sergeant Major Patchett wasn’t pleased by the interruption. He was trying to compile evaluators’ reports on the live fire exercise for the lunchtime debriefing when the Headquarters mess sergeant burst into the command tent.

  “We’ve got a big problem, Sergeant Major,” the mess sergeant said, on the verge of panic. “We can’t cook that chicken for lunch. We ain’t got no grease!”

  Patchett’s slow boil began. Last night, he had plainly instructed the men would receive hot meals throughout their training at Port Moresby: Three fucking squares a day, I believe my exact words were. The boys will have plenty of time to eat K rations once we’re back in the field.

  But now, this mess sergeant was telling him his kitchen wasn’t prepared to do that.

  Patchett asked, “And when did you realize this, numbnuts?”

  “Just now, I didn’t—”

  Signaling stop like a traffic cop, the sergeant major shut him up. “Don’t want to hear no excuses,” Patchett said. “You fucked up, plain and simple. Never checked your requisitions, did you?”

  His eyes staring at his feet, the mess sergeant shook his head: No.

  “So now you’re telling me my hungry boys are gonna get dog squat for lunch? While you shitcan a couple hundred pounds of fresh chicken?”

  “I ain’t got nothing else to cook, Sergeant Major.”

  “Bullshit you do
n’t. How much butter you got?”

  “Plenty…but I need that for breakfast and—”

  Patchett cut him off again. “That’s right. You got plenty. Fricassee the goddamn chicken with some of that butter…and make it snappy. Lunch is in thirty fucking minutes.”

  “But—”

  “And it better not be one second late, neither…or I’m looking at my new mess private. Or, even better, my new rifleman.”

  It was obvious to Jock: the men in his 1st Battalion still had that li’l ol’ morale problem, just like Patchett had described. As they marched in from the live fire exercise, Jock could see it throughout every company. Most men grumbled, shuffling their tired feet as they walked, paying no attention to the steady cadences called by their sergeants. Some engaged in horseplay. Occasionally, there was a burst of snide laughter: a few jokers hidden deep in the ranks were, no doubt, passing witty comments attempting to satirize how this man’s army was run by incompetent idiots who wanted to play hurry up and wait all day long. The men felt entitled to laugh: this whole war was nothing more than a cruel joke being played on them.

  Their uniforms labeled them as soldiers; their manner labeled them as anything but. Real life was someplace else, thousands of miles across the ocean. They still thought they could play these silly army games just enough to get by: keep your nose clean, keep your head down, and somehow you’ll get home in one piece.

  They’d had the mantra kill or be killed drummed into their heads—but they still didn’t want to believe it.

  “They’re just scared shitless, sir, that’s all,” Patchett said.

  Jock hadn’t heard his sergeant major walk up behind him.

  “Scared shitless,” Patchett repeated, “and them poor bastards don’t know how to show it proper yet.”

  “I know, Top,” Jock replied, “I know. Chow ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” Patchett replied. He didn’t bother relating the incident with the mess steward; he knew Jock had enough on his mind.

  Besides, Patchett told himself, that’s my job to take care of them nitpicky little details.

  A command echoed down from the lead platoon, and 1st Battalion’s column of twos shifted right and became single file. Another battalion-sized unit was coming the other way on the narrow dirt road. The men in that column were in full field gear, heavily loaded with ammunition, horseshoe packs, and canteens. Full of somber purpose, they marched forward, their faces wearing the resolute expressions of men communally tasked with a difficult and deadly job.

  “That’s Second Battalion,” Patchett said. “They’re moving out to the Kapa Kapa.” He paused, shook his head, and added, “Poor bastards.”

  “Look how different they seem from our guys, Top.”

  “A couple of week ago, they didn’t look so different, sir. But they’re real soldiers now. They’ve got bloody hands, just like me and you. They know what it’s like to bury their own.”

  A faceless, sarcastic voice from 1st Battalion called out, “See you at Buna, suckers.”

  There was dead silence for a moment, until a voice from within its ranks—a voice cold, harsh, and certain—thundered 2nd Battalion’s reply:

  “You won’t be seeing shit when you’re dead, rookie…and that’ll be real soon.”

  It was as if God himself had just spoken to the men of 1st Battalion. It took a few seconds to become obvious, but a change had swept over them: they shook off their slouched postures and stood ramrod straight. Any hint of indifference vanished from their faces. In those few seconds, the cruel joke they had considered this war to be evolved to a serious and inescapable reality.

  Patchett took it all in with a smile. “I do believe we just had ourselves a cat-list, sir,” he said.

  Chapter Seven

  The last of the American B-25s swept low over the mountain plateau that was the Kokoda airstrip. They released their bombs, hugged the treetops ringing the hardscrabble runway, and made their swift escape as the ground shook in a chorus of explosions.

  On the high ground overlooking the airstrip, the Australians tried to take stock of the raid’s effect. Looking through binoculars, the Aussie major said, “Well, at least they blew up the two bloody airplanes…not that they were causing us any trouble. They were probably broken down and left behind, anyway. And they were careful not to crater the runway.”

  A senior sergeant replied, “Those fucking machine guns are still alive, though, sir…both of them, one in each corner of the strip. Their parapets are still intact, too. They could put down some murderous interlocking fire on us.”

  “Yes, I can see that for myself, Sergeant,” the major replied. “Shook the little buggers up, though, didn’t they? They’re jumping around like their pants are on fire. I still don’t see any of that dug-in infantry on the perimeter we ran into this morning, though.”

  Yeah, the sergeant told himself, when it cost us eight men for nothing, you silly bastard.

  He knew what the major’s next words would be. He wasn’t in the least bit eager to hear them. Setting down his binoculars, the sergeant drew a deep, anxious breath.

  “There’s only one way we’re going to find out how many of those buggers are still alive,” the major said.

  Miserable at reading his commander’s mind so well, the sergeant replied, “I know, Major. I bloody well know. But before we probe them again, can we at least wait until the twenty-five-pounders are ready to shoot? They say it won’t be much longer until they’re up on the ridge.”

  “We can’t wait forever, Sergeant. We’ve got to have that bloody airfield.”

  The sergeant made no effort to stifle the pleading tone in his voice: “So give us a fighting chance to take it then, sir. Please…we need those guns.”

  There was no arguing with the sergeant’s logic: artillery support could make all the difference between a successful attack and another slaughter at the hands of Japanese heavy machine guns.

  Time…we can’t waste any more bloody time, the major thought. We’re already days behind schedule.

  As he gazed into the distance, across that coveted airstrip, the major replied, “Thirty minutes, sergeant. We attack in thirty minutes, whether the bloody artillery is ready or not.”

  The closest artillery piece was still a hundred yards downslope from the ridge’s crest. Muscles trembled as exhausted teams of men pulled on the long ropes hauling the 25-pounders up, struggling to get the four guns to clear firing positions. They knew the infantry desperately needed some fire support right now—and they were just as desperate to provide it.

  But the laws of physics don’t yield to desperation. With each pull, blocks and tackles groaned, ropes taut as wire blurred and buzzed, Australian soldiers and Papuan natives cursed their mothers for giving them life—all to gain mere inches of uphill progress.

  At this rate, they’d never be ready to fire in time. They would fail their mates in the infantry.

  A gunner shouted an idea: “Lieutenant…suppose all of us get on one rope and pull just one bloody gun into position? It’ll be much faster…That one can be shooting while we haul up the other three. Better than nothing, no?”

  The lieutenant knew a good idea when he heard one. So did everyone else: they all ran to the ropes of the gun closest to the ridge and started pulling with whatever might their wrung-out bodies could muster.

  We could hide in this high kunai grass forever and the Japs would never see us.

  The diggers took comfort in that fact as they crept toward the airstrip.

  Of course, if they’re around, we won’t see them, either, until we’re right on top of them. And this bloody kunai is sharp as razor blades. Let’s try not to bleed to death from the slashing it’s giving us.

  The first Japanese soldiers they stumbled across were dead, scattered in the kunai, done in by an American bomb. Some bodies were intact but inert, their internals shattered by concussive force alone. Others were torn to pieces, shredded by fragments hurtling through the air like a thousand iron t
alons. The diggers couldn’t see the bomb crater concealed in the tall grass until they crept right up to it. They slid in, welcoming the cover the crater afforded while they got their bearings.

  They didn’t all make it.

  The kunai grass trembled as if gigantic, invisible scythes were trimming it to the height of a man’s knee. The first digger struck by the bullets was dead before he hit the ground.

  In a split second, three more would be hit but not die outright. They wailed as fate decided which of them to claim, making sounds the living never wanted to hear again but would never be able to forget.

  The chatter of Nambu machine guns to their left and right…

  Fuck! We’re caught in their bloody kill zone.

  Those lucky enough to be in the crater pressed tight to its rim, feeling the thupp thupp thupp of machine gun bullets burrowing into the churned-up earth all around them. There wasn’t much else they could do…except stand up and die in the machine guns’ fire. The sporadic pows of Enfield rifles and the thumps of light mortars posed an ineffectual counterpoint to the steady rhythm of the Nambus.

  A digger tried to raise just his Bren Gun over the edge of the crater. Before he could squeeze off even one round, the weapon was shot away. The gun—and the hand that had tried to wield it—was now shattered and useless.

  The wailing of the wounded and dying men in the kunai grass wouldn’t stop. If anything, it grew louder…and there was still nothing the men in the crater could do for them.

  An object flew into the hole...

  “GRENADE,” someone—or everyone—cried out.

  The wounded Bren gunner stared at it in disbelief.

  Two of the others tried to crawl inside their helmets.

  The last man in the hole lunged for it…