He picked it up…
Started to throw it away…
And then stopped. He stared in disbelief at the object for just a second and then pushed it away as if toxic.
It was a digger’s boot…with the severed foot still in it.
“Bloody hell,” was all he could say, over and over again.
On the ridge a thousand yards away, a cannoneer rammed the first round into the breach of the only 25-pounder ready to fire.
The gunner lined up the target in his telescopic sight…tweaked the elevation wheel…
Just a little bit more...There!
Satisfied, he jerked the firing lanyard.
The first artillery round of the battle for Kokoda was finally in flight.
At first, the artillery round’s impact to their right front confused the diggers in the bomb crater.
A private asked, “Is that theirs…or ours?”
“Damned if I know,” his sergeant replied.
The wounded in the nearby grass had stopped their wailing. The diggers thought they could hear only a single Nambu machine gun firing now, the one to their left front.
A second artillery round slammed in, hitting the same spot as the first.
The private said, “The Japs wouldn’t be knocking out their own guns now, would they? That artillery’s got to be ours.”
“About bloody time.”
The second 25-pounder was finally in position on the ridge. Its dog-tired crew began to lay their piece on the same target the first gun was engaging.
The lieutenant stopped them. “No, lads, not there,” he said, binoculars pressed to his eyes. “You aim left, at the west edge of the runway. Target is the machine gun emplacement.”
Peering down his sight, the gunner said, “Yeah…I’ve got it.”
The Japanese machine guns were silenced, but the fight for Kokoda airstrip was far from over. The diggers had emerged from the bewildering blindness and point-blank combat in the kunai grass into the open spaces of the airstrip, pushing what was left of the Japanese defenders before them.
“Swing your company to the right, Captain,” the major said. “Let’s cut off their retreat and finish them before they vanish into the woods on the other side and the village beyond.” Turning to his artillery liaison, the major continued, “Go with them and pick out targets in the village for your guns—anything that shows its ugly head.”
“Very well, sir, but we’ve only got two guns in action so far,” the liaison replied.
“And they’ve done a bloody brilliant job. Keep it up.”
The men of 2nd Battalion, 81st Regiment had begun to wonder why it was called the Kapa Kapa Trail. It wasn’t a trail at all—it wasn’t even a footpath wide enough for two men in most places. GIs at the front of the column—the point men—couldn’t walk 10 yards without having to hack a path with machetes through jungle growth clinging to the steep mountainsides. They’d swing those blades until they thought their arms would fall off. Then it was someone else’s turn.
At least there was no shortage of drinking water; the frequent rain saw to that. All a man had to do was muster the strength to catch it.
Colonel Blevins, the battalion commander, was having a difficult time believing his native guide even knew where in this vertical hell they were. Puzzling over his map, Blevins said to the guide, “That stream we just crossed…it can’t possibly be the one you say it is.”
He pointed to another thin blue line on the map, farther down the “trail.”
“I think it’s this one,” Blevins said.
The guide shook his head. “No, sir. No, sir,” he replied. “It is the one I said it is.”
“But that means we’ve only come about fifteen miles in the last two days.”
“That’s right, Colonel,” the guide said.
Blevins blew out a sigh of exasperation. “We’re falling way behind schedule. This can’t be the right trail. Why is it so overgrown?”
“Because nobody uses it.”
“Why not?”
“Because only the insects want to go where it goes.”
Two days in this mountainous jungle hell and the GIs were already spent beyond recovery. They’d lost track of how many times they’d sunk in mud up to their waists or almost been swept away fording rapid streams. They’d left Port Moresby heavily loaded with weapons, ammunition, personal gear, and rations, but already men were faltering under their loads. Terrified to be left behind, they lightened up, discarding items that served no immediate purpose.
Mosquito netting was among the first items to get dumped alongside the trail: It doesn’t work anyway, the GIs told themselves. The fucking insects own this place. Raincoats were abandoned, too: You’ll get soaking wet one way or the other in this jungle. If it isn’t the daily rain, it’ll be the chest-deep streams you have to ford. In fact, the men had decided there was no point carrying any uniforms except the ones they were wearing.
And to hell with shaving kits…but keep your toothbrush: you’ll need that to keep your rifle clean.
The 60-millimeter mortars began to vanish, too—first the heavy base plates; next, the bipods; finally, the tubes and ammunition.
You can’t fire them with any accuracy in this dense jungle canopy, anyway…and the fucking things weigh forty-two pounds each.
It’s not like we’ve seen any Japanese. We’re the only ones stupid enough to be in this tropical shithole.
When told of the disappearing mortars, Colonel Blevins said, “But damn it to hell, that’s all we had for fire support.”
Before he could say, Make them go back and find those weapons, he stopped himself. There would be no point: the mortars would never be found now, hidden by that thick jungle. The column had to keep moving. The men detailed to the search might never find their way back.
He took cold comfort in one fact: I guess it’s a good thing I decided not to bring any pack howitzers. They would’ve just ditched them, too…and eaten the mules.
On the spot, Blevins decided the heavy field radio set—three packs weighing 50 pounds apiece—would never leave his sight. Without that set, the airplanes that were supposed to drop supplies would never find them.
They’d wither and die faster than they already were.
December 1942
Chapter Eight
Everybody thought it, but no one dared to say it out loud: the last supper.
This could very well be the last time they’d all be together.
Beneath a canopy on Esme’s foredeck, Jillian Forbes played hostess to Jock and the dozen American soldiers from Charlie Company she’d known—and fought the Japanese with—back in Cape York. Her ship’s Aborigine cook had outdone himself: the GIs gorged themselves on the seafood feast.
There was something else the Yanks appreciated: anchored offshore, waiting her turn to unload her war cargo, Esme offered a respite from Port Moresby’s ever-present squadrons of mosquitoes. Safe beneath the canopy, even the inevitable rain couldn’t dampen their spirits.
“Just like old times, ain’t it?” Corporal Bogater Boudreau said, shoveling still more food onto his plate. “Here we are again, with Miss Forbes bringing the vittles to us starving…”
He paused, searching for the right word.
Jillian finished the sentence for him: “Wankers, I think you mean to say. You poor, starving wankers.”
“Yeah, that’s it, ma’am,” Boudreau replied. “That’s us, for sure.”
She laughed and planted a sisterly kiss on the top of the blond Cajun’s head.
Sergeant Major Patchett popped open another bottle of Australian beer and downed half of it in one swallow. “That’s mighty fine,” he said. “I’m getting real tired of that Japanese piss-water them yellow bastards left behind.”
He raised the bottle to toast Jillian: “Thanks so much, Miss Forbes, for bringing us the good stuff.”
The sun was setting on the western Owen Stanleys. Once it slipped behind those jagged peaks, the gray filter of dusk
would envelop land and sea once again, slowly dimming until darkness closed around them like a black curtain. There would be no party lights on Esme’s deck: “Blackout rules, you know,” Jillian reminded everyone.
Jock asked, “Jill, is this really your last trip to Port Moresby?”
“Afraid so.”
“I thought maybe there’d be time for one more…”
She shook her head.
“Where will you be sailing next?” he asked.
“Not sure,” she replied. “There’s been some talk of running supplies to the Aussies at Milne Bay—”
“What about Buna, Jill?”
She smiled, caressed his hand, and said, “Wouldn’t that be lovely?” But the smile faded quickly. “There’s just one little thing, Yank…you haven’t taken the bloody place yet. I hear it’s still lousy with Japs.”
She took a long pull on her beer, trying to wash away the fear that after tonight, they might not be together again for months, maybe years…
Maybe ever.
“Sailing to Buna would be difficult, though,” she continued. “Coming around the east end—through the Trobriand Islands—it’s very treacherous. Nothing but reefs, Japanese airplanes—”
“And submarines,” he said, like a raw nerve had been struck.
“No, not so much there, Jock. Too shallow and hemmed in for them. For big warships, too. But getting back to what I was saying, the only half-decent harbor near Buna is Oro Bay.”
“How far away is it?”
“East, about fifteen miles, I think.”
Fifteen miles of jungle, Jock thought. Might as well be a thousand.
It was time for the men to get back to shore. Tomorrow would be another full day of training, and these 12 combat veterans were among the teachers. Patchett gathered everyone for a last toast.
Raising his beer bottle, he said, “I’ve had better assignments in this man’s army…but I’ve never been with better people.”
Bottles clinked all around. No one felt the slightest hint of disagreement with Patchett’s statement.
As the men began to climb into the longboat taking them ashore, a chill coursed down Jillian’s spine. She turned to Jock and asked, “But you…you’re staying the night, aren’t you?”
He looked surprised as he replied, “Of course, Jill. Of course I’m staying.”
They took their time making love. When they were finished, their damp, naked bodies still entwined on the sheets, Jock whispered, “We’re getting awfully good at saying goodbye.”
She squeezed him tighter. “We’ve had too much practice, Jock.”
Nestled within the shading mountains, Kokoda was already in darkness, hidden from the sunset beneath the soft glow of a burnt orange sky. The Aussies had won the fight for the airstrip. This was no cause for celebration, though: they were still only halfway to their objective, the north coast of Papua. They hunkered down for the night, knowing today’s victory would only ensure their chance to die another day.
Having the airstrip improved their situation dramatically. In the morning, once the mist cleared—and barring a blinding rainstorm—C-47 transports of the American 5th Air Force would land with their loads of supplies.
A digger said, “We won’t be mucking about in the jungle, lads, looking for those bloody parachutes.”
“And none of it will go to the Nips,” another added.
His shattered hand swaddled in a blood-stained bandage, the wounded Bren gunner said, “I’ve got you all beat. I’ll be taking my lunch in Port Moresby tomorrow. It’s just a short airplane ride away.”
Once past Kokoda, the Aussies would begin their downhill run to the coast. Often, it wouldn’t seem like a descent: there would still be plenty of climbing out of valleys, but the peaks to be scaled would be lower. As the Owen Stanleys gradually yielded to swampy coastal plains, there would be more plateaus—and more airstrips to turn to good use.
But first, they had to evict the Japanese blocking their path at Kokoda Village.
“Level the bloody place,” the major told his artillery liaison.
“But sir,” the liaison replied, “that will take all the ammunition we have for the twenty-five-pounders...and probably more.”
“So? The Yank planes are coming tomorrow. We’ll get more.”
A breathless sergeant from the recon platoon approached on the run. “Major, if I may?” he asked.
“What on earth is it, Sergeant?”
“Me and my lads think the Japs might have already pulled out of the village,” the sergeant said.
“We’d be wasting the artillery ammo if that’s the case, sir,” the liaison added.
The major shot the liaison a look that made sure he’d shut up unless spoken to from this point on.
“What makes you think they’re gone, Sergeant?” the major asked. He seemed dismissive of the reply before he heard it.
“We were able to get really close, right up the trail…almost into the village itself. It was getting dark, for sure, sir…but there was no sign of anyone. It’s deserted. You’d think they’d lay machine guns across the trail, but no…Nothing. We even made some noise to try and draw fire.”
The major didn’t bother to deliberate more than a second or two.
“Level the bloody place,” he said, and walked away.
It had taken the better part of the day for the Aussies to pull the last two 25-pounders into firing position. The effort cost them three more injured men: a block had fractured while hauling up the last gun. Ropes quivering with tension were suddenly released, whipping through the hapless diggers like horizontal guillotines, breaking bones and gashing flesh. Mercifully, nobody was run over as the gun slid downhill some 40 yards, accelerating and revolving end-for-end until it came to rest against a broad tree trunk. Save for a bent shield, the piece was undamaged.
Now, as darkness fell, the last gun was finally in place. Exhausted beyond caring, the artillerymen fell asleep wherever they dropped.
They stayed asleep for the 45 minutes it took the artillery liaison to climb to the ridge.
Shaking the lieutenant awake, the liaison said, “Get these lads shooting right bloody now, or you’ll have a boot mark in your arse like the one the major just gave me.”
He didn’t want to wake up. “What? Shooting…at…uhh…what, sir?”
“The village,” the liaison replied. “The bloody village. Come on, man…I’ll help you work up the firing data. How many rounds do you have left?”
That was far more information than the lieutenant was able to process at the moment.
The liaison insisted: “A rough figure, man!”
“Fifteen…I think. Maybe seventeen.”
“Good,” the liaison said. “Prepare them all.”
The native guide had begged Colonel Blevins to stop sooner along the Kapa Kapa Trail. He made an impassioned plea: “We must not stay on Ghost Mountain at night!”
“I can’t stop while there’s still daylight,” Blevins replied. “We’ll never meet the Aussies at this pace.”
Only when dusk washed away the jungle’s color did the colonel bring 2nd Battalion to a halt. The native guide wanted to flee, but he had taken an oath to support the Allies; he couldn’t dishonor himself by going back on his word. Seeking shelter in the hollow of a tree, he pulled a GI blanket over his head. He didn’t want to see what night on the mountain would offer.
It never grew dark. Twilight yielded to an eerie green glow: the jungle was alive with phosphorescence. The soft, chemical radiance seemed to emanate from everything: trees, vines, the vegetation and rotting logs covering the jungle floor. Devastated by exertion, the soldiers usually fell dead asleep at any halt. This time, they stayed awake, staring in uneasy wonder at the surreal light.
“It’s perfectly normal,” a GI said, “a natural process. Some materials store energy and emit it as light, just like the face of a wristwatch.”
A squadmate sprawled on the ground nearby asked, “What are you, a fucki
ng chemist or something?”
“I was studying to be one.”
“Ahh, that’s too fucking bad, pal…but I don’t care if it’s natural or not. It’s scaring the living shit out of me. I thought Halloween was over already.”
A sergeant stumbled by, making his way to the head of the column. “You ain’t the only one scared shitless,” he said. “The porters…it looks like they’re all gone…high-tailed it back down the trail.”
When the new dawn broke, the sergeant was proven right: the native porters—some 50 of them—had vanished. Unlike the guide, they’d taken no oath; they were just paid labor. The porters had no intention of spending a night on this place they called Ghost Mountain.
“Do you suppose they’ll come back now that the sun’s up?” Colonel Blevins asked his guide.
“No, Colonel, I don’t think so.”
That was the last thing Blevins needed to hear. There would be no one to tote the hundreds of pounds of ammunition, field rations, and pioneer equipment. No one but his own GIs—and he already knew how averse those GIs were to carrying anything that didn’t support their immediate needs.
Blevins needed to sit down. He felt strange; he couldn’t describe it any other way, as if whatever energy his worn-out, middle-aged body had left was being flushed into the ground.
If we ever get out of this jungle, he told himself, my battalion will be useless as a fighting force…
But who am I kidding? It’s useless now. The only fighting we’re doing is to stay alive.
Something was happening inside him. Pain began to shoot down his arms. He was sure some giant clamp was being tightened around his chest. Breathing caused excruciating pain.
Soldiers were gathering around him. They crawled up on hands and knees—Are they too weak to stand, too?—just staring, trying to understand. In the dim green light, their eyes seemed sunken in their skulls, just black holes where bright orbs once shined.
Operation Easy Street (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 3) Page 4
