A shirtless GI—The medic…I recognize him—unbuttoned the colonel’s shirt and pressed a stethoscope to his chest.
“His heart,” the medic said, as he gently laid the colonel on his back.
Blevins was fascinated—and horrified—by the medic’s ribs:
The spaces between them…they’re all sucked in and hollow, like in those pictures of starving children…or that spear wound Christ suffered on the cross, only all over his chest. My boys are starving—they’re eating three times the daily K ration and they’re still starving. This jungle, these mountains—they suck the life right out of you…
And with one last, gasping breath, the jungle sucked the life out of Lieutenant Colonel Blevins.
The last shovelsful of dirt filled Colonel Blevins’s grave. Major Henson, the man who was the battalion’s XO just an hour ago, was now its commanding officer.
A senior sergeant told the new commander, “We should just turn back, sir. This has been a fucked-up deal from the git-go.”
“Negative, Sergeant,” Henson replied. “We have our orders. We’re pushing on.”
Chapter Nine
The view from the airfield at sunrise seemed conclusive: Kokoda Village was battered but still empty. The artillery had done its work in the night, expending their ammunition just as the Aussie major had prescribed. Six American C-47s arrived as promised, landing from the east as if borne on rays of the morning sun. Supplies were quickly offloaded; the sick and wounded filled the cabins for the flight back to Port Moresby. The Yank pilots—nervous to be on the ground in Papua’s wild interior for the first time—didn’t dare shut down their engines. They were airborne again just moments after their delicate human cargo was safely in place.
The materiel they delivered was short one notable necessity: “There’s no artillery ammunition in the lot, sir,” a lieutenant reported to the major.
“Get Port Moresby on the wireless immediately and make bloody sure the next lift brings some,” the major said. “Fifty rounds at least.”
“But that won’t be before tomorrow, sir,” the lieutenant replied. “At the earliest.”
“Then let’s hope to God we don’t need any before then,” the major said. “Now, why are you still here? Didn’t I just give you an order?”
As the lieutenant scurried away, a captain asked, “Are we still going to clear the village this morning, sir? Even without the guns?”
The major seemed surprised by the question. “Of course we are,” he replied. “Time waits for no man. Are you telling me the patrols haven’t set out already?”
“Not yet, sir,” the captain said. “The men are still eating.”
The major’s face flushed: “Eating, Captain? Now?”
“Yes, sir…you know how it is when we get a fresh food drop. The men eat and drink it immediately. It goes bad in no time otherwise.”
The company of diggers grew more confident with each step. Now less than 50 yards of open ground away, the first mounds of rubble—like so many shattered totems—marked what was once Kokoda Village. No one—living or dead—could be seen.
“Looks like a piece of piss, men,” the lieutenant leading the center platoon said.
He turned to say something to his platoon sergeant, but he never got the words out. The first burst of machine gun fire cut him down like a machete clearing jungle growth.
The second burst swept away the half of the platoon too slow in kissing the dirt.
All along the company line, diggers littered the ground. Some tried to burrow in and save themselves. For the rest, it was already too late.
As they lay immobilized, a smattering of deadly accurate mortar shells began to drop in their midst. Each THUMP of a round’s impact took another bite from the already decimated company.
“THERE MUST BE AT LEAST THREE NAMBUS, CAPTAIN,” a sergeant shrieked to the company commander. “I CAN’T SEE WHERE THE BLOODY HELL THEY ARE.”
I can, the captain told himself.
On the far side of the village, behind a massive pile of shattered timbers the Aussie artillery left behind, was a well-fortified bunker.
Sure, the bloody Japs left…but the little bastards came back.
The captain crawled to his right platoon. “Go around them,” he told the platoon leader. “Kick them in the arse. I’ll call in the mortars.”
He would have called for artillery, too—if they had any rounds to shoot.
The platoon crawled into the maze of tall, razor-sharp kunai grass and promptly became lost. The platoon leader had to stick his head up out of the grass to get his bearings—and nearly got it shot off for his trouble: a bullet snatched the slouch hat right off his head.
He didn’t bother trying to find it.
Reoriented, the platoon tried its flanking attack. The machine gun fire that raked the diggers was every bit as savage as before.
“Our mortars, our Brens…they’re aren’t hurting that bunker a bit,” the platoon leader said. “We’ve got to pull back.”
The survivors escaped only by crawling back through the kunai, dragging their dead and wounded with them.
Far behind the fight and still high on the ridge, the artillerymen were rigging their impotent guns for the descent to the plateau below.
Gathering his section’s gear, a gunner nearly threw his back out as he jerked on what he thought was an empty ammunition box. It barely moved; neither did the one beneath it.
“LADS,” he said, “WE MUST’VE BEEN MORE COCKED UP THAN WE THOUGHT LAST NIGHT…”
He held open the lids of the ammo boxes as if revealing found treasure.
They still had four more rounds to fire.
It only took a few moments to have a gun ready to shoot again.
The first round was short.
The second was long.
The third and fourth blew the bunker apart like so many matchsticks.
As the diggers combed through the smoking remains of the Japanese position, a sergeant reported to the major: “We found eight Nips, half-naked, as usual.”
“Are they all dead, Sergeant?”
“They are now, sir…also, three machine guns, two small-caliber mortars, and enough ammunition to hold us diggers off for another day, at least. Thank God for our bloody gunners…even if the silly bastards can’t count for beans.”
“Very well, sergeant,” the major replied. “Now, let’s get moving. We’re still only halfway there.”
Chapter Ten
Colonel Molloy took his pointer to the big map. “The Kapa Kapa is every bit as difficult as the Aussie coast watchers told us, apparently,” he told his assembled commanders and staff. “Second Battalion has only made it to here”—the pointer made an aggravated snap against the paper—“as of last night’s radio report.”
Not even close to halfway, Jock thought. Maybe we should’ve listened to those coast watchers a little better. MacArthur must be really pissed about now, with his “grand gesture of help” to the diggers turning to shit and all.
“I think we can write Second Battalion off as being any help to the Australians,” Molloy said, as his pointer now traced the Aussie advance along the map. “They’re well past Kokoda Village now—to about here—on the Track’s downhill run to the coast. They’ve occupied three more airstrips the Japs abandoned, too, so they’re getting regular resupply and casualty evacuation from Fifth Air Force…but between all that mountain climbing and fighting Jap infantry tooth and nail for every mile, they’re still in real bad shape. Any questions so far?”
There were none.
“Okay, then,” Molloy continued, “we’ve got our airlift schedule to kick off Operation Easy Street, the conquest of Buna. Colonel Vann, your Third Battalion will fly over this coming Monday—three days from now. Major Miles, your First Battalion will go on Tuesday. Your respective areas of operation once we get there are marked on the map.”
Jock had a question now. “Sir,” he asked, “are you telling us it’ll take an entire day to move one
battalion by air?”
Colonel Molloy gestured to his Air Force liaison: “You want to answer that one, Major?”
“Certainly, sir,” the liaison said. Taking the lecturing tone of a grade school teacher, he continued, “It breaks down like this, gentlemen: eight C-47s have been assigned to this movement. It’ll take all of them just to move one company and its equipment. Each battalion has four companies. By the time you fly around the mountains, it takes almost three hours for a round trip between Port Moresby and Fasari—that’s the airstrip our Aussie friends were nice enough to have the natives clear for us. Now, we get twelve hours of daylight…” He mimed adding columns of numbers in the air; the smile that crossed his face as he did it could only be described as condescending. “Are you with me so far?” he added.
“We can do the math,” Jock said, “but I’m curious about the allocation. That’s all we get? Eight airplanes?”
“There’s a real big war going on, Major Miles,” the liaison replied.
Yeah, Jock thought, and I need some desk clerk with wings to tell me that.
The air liaison continued, “Once you’re on the ground, it’s only forty miles over flat ground from Fasari to Buna.”
Only forty miles…like this flyboy’s ever walked—and fought—across forty miles.
Jock had another question. “Maybe I’m missing something here, but I thought we were taking a battery of seventy-five-millimeter howitzers with us. When do they get airlifted? And how will we move them from Fasari to Buna? Mules? Jeeps?”
Colonel Molloy’s expression turned sour. “You’re getting ahead of me, Major Miles,” he said. “That’s my next point in this briefing.”
Standing in the corner of the tent, the captain commanding the artillery battery looked like he was going to throw up. Jock could feel the sting of bad news before it was even spoken: I guess it’s time to bend over and spread those cheeks, because here comes another shafting.
“There’s going to be a change in our fire support,” Molloy said. “We’re turning in the seventy-fives and replacing them with one-oh-fives. MacArthur figures we’re in line for an upgrade in firepower…and the divisions struggling in the Solomons badly need the lighter pack artillery, and plenty of it, on the double.”
So why does the chief cannon-cocker over there look like he’s going to puke all over himself?
“This poses a bit of a transport problem for us, though,” Molloy continued. “One-oh-five howitzers don’t fit in a C-47…not unless they’re completely broken down, airlifted piecemeal, and then reassembled. Unfortunately, it would take special tooling at each end of the trip to accomplish that…and that’s something we don’t have right now.”
The air liaison added, “And each broken-down gun would take up an entire C-47. We just can’t afford to waste airlift capacity that way.”
“That’s all great,” Jock said, “but we’re not going to give up the seventy-fives until after we’ve got control of Buna, right?”
Colonel Molloy shook his head. So did the artillery captain.
“The seventy-fives are to be at the docks by tomorrow, Jock,” Molloy said. “MacArthur wants them in the Solomons within a week.”
Jock couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “So we land with absolutely no fire support? Not from Navy ships…not from our own guns. Just nothing?”
The air liaison replied, “The Fifth Air Force is all the artillery you’ll need, Major Miles.”
“Funny,” Jock said, “but I’ve heard that line before. It was bullshit then…and it’s bullshit now.”
An hour after the briefing, Jock was still in a rage, swearing and throwing things around his battalion CP tent.
“NO FUCKING ARTILLERY,” he said, kicking a footlocker across the dirt floor. “NONE AT ALL. CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS SHIT? DON’T WE EVER LEARN ANYTHING?”
He didn’t notice Colonel Molloy enter.
“ATTEN-HUT,” Sergeant Major Patchett said, hoping to silence Jock before he spewed another epithet their regimental commander might take personally.
Jock and the four battalion staff officers present snapped to attention.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Patchett said to Molloy, “but we were just hashing out a few of them Problems of Command training scenarios…”
The colonel laughed: You’ve got to respect the loyalty of an NCO who’ll flat out lie to cover for his commander.
“I’ll bet you were, Sergeant Major,” Molloy said, “but I’m glad you’re all here. I just gave Third Battalion this sermon, and now I’m going to give it to you. Let’s sit down. Take a load off.”
They grabbed whatever they could find—folding chairs, camp stools, storage chests—and formed a circle with Molloy at the head.
“Now, Major Miles,” the colonel began, “I understand exactly how you feel: the battle for Port Moresby was a shambles because you didn’t have the firepower to punch through the Jap defenses…”
“Amen to that, sir,” Patchett muttered under his breath.
“And you think we’ll be making the same mistakes at Buna all over again,” Molloy continued. “Am I right, Jock?”
“Yes, sir. That’s it, in a nutshell.”
“Well, Major…I’d agree with you, if it wasn’t for one thing…”
“What’s that, sir?”
“It just might be different this time with our air support. When you were fighting for Port Moresby, they had to come all the way from Australia. I’ve heard the comments about how the Fifth Air Force did such a great job, for five fucking minutes a day. But this time, they’re right over the mountains at Port Moresby and right down the coast at Milne Bay. That should make a big difference.”
“I sure hope you’re right, sir,” Jock replied.
“But I’ve decided on one thing,” Molloy said. “Until we know for sure what kind of fire support we’re going to get—whether it’s from Fifth Air Force, floating in our artillery and tanks on barges, or whatever it takes—I consider the mission of this regiment at Buna nothing more than a reconnaissance in force. We will not attack any fortified positions with our asses uncovered and left out to dry…not as long as I command this regiment. You have my word on that.”
As soon as the colonel left the tent, Patchett said, “Maybe I was wrong about that man, sir…but it’s all just fancy words until we see him in action.”
Lieutenant Paul Hellinger peered over the tailgate of the deuce-and-a-half. Just as he feared, the bed was empty.
“Where’s the rest of my mortars?” Hellinger asked the supply sergeant in charge of the truck.
“That’s all there was, Lieutenant,” the sergeant replied. He thrust his clipboard in Hellinger’s face. “Sign here for what you got, sir…in triplicate, please.”
The paperwork done, the truck drove off, leaving nothing but dust and empty promises in its wake. Paul Hellinger watched it go, a forlorn young man trying to come to grips with a failure not of his own making, but his to bear nonetheless. He shuffled the useless sheaf of requisitions in his hands. He wasn’t a combat veteran yet, but he didn’t have to be one to know some lousy sheet of paper merely requesting a weapon was no substitute for the real thing.
“Something wrong, Paul?” The voice belonged to Lieutenant Lee Grossman, commander of Charlie Company.
“Yeah, Lee…something’s wrong. Real wrong. I was supposed to get four 81-millimeter mortars. I only got two…and it’s only four stinking days until we move out. Some weapons company I’m running, eh?”
Grossman asked, “You tell Major Miles yet?”
“No…I just found out. But to be honest, I’m not looking forward to telling him…not one bit.”
“Why’s that?”
Hellinger wasn’t sure where to begin. “Well, for starters,” he said, “I’m the new kid on the block. I don’t know him…not like you guys do, anyway. I’m not sure how to approach him. Plus, he’s a West Pointer and—”
“Oh, hell, I wouldn’t worry about that, Paul. I know some of
those ring-knockers from the Academy can be real assholes…like this is their club and we don’t really belong. But Jock Miles isn’t like that. You couldn’t ask for a better CO. Give it to him straight. Just don’t ever try to bullshit him.”
A dark thought crossed Grossman’s mind: “Paul…your paperwork…it was in order, wasn’t it? I mean…you didn’t make some clerical mistake that’s causing us to get the short end?”
Hellinger held up his handful of requisitions. “Nope…the paperwork’s okay, Lee. I checked it a hundred times. Supply just didn’t deliver.”
“Then just deal with it…that’s all he’s going to tell you to do,” Grossman replied. “Being short a couple of mortars is a bad deal, for sure…but it’s not your fault. Hell…we’re already short artillery support. But we’ve been in deeper shit than this, believe me. We’ll figure a way out.”
Chapter Eleven
Colonel Dick Molloy didn’t imagine General Hartman had summoned him for a friendly chat: I can smell the ass-chewing coming a mile away.
The look on the general’s face didn’t change Dick Molloy’s mind. Ordering his CP tent cleared so they’d be alone, the general began, “At ease, Colonel. You and I need to have a little talk. I think your outlook on things may need a little…”—he took a second to search for the right word—“reorienting.”
Molloy decided this might be a good time to just shut up, stand at parade rest, and speak only when spoken to.
“I’ve heard some rumors,” Hartman continued, “that you’ve been telling your men this Buna operation will be a reconnaissance in force. Is that true, Colonel?”
“Yes, sir. I believe I did use those words.”
Hartman kept pushing: “You have read the operations order, have you not? You are aware Buna is an offensive operation?”
“A reconnaissance in force can be a great asset to an offensive operation, General.”
Operation Easy Street (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 3) Page 5
