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

by William Peter Grasso

  It was early in their second morning on the trail. Lieutenant Lee Grossman’s Charlie Company was leading 1st Battalion. A new corporal was out in front of the column as point man. First Sergeant Tom Hadley was right behind him, grading his every move.

  It all happened so quickly. In one swift motion, the point man went to ground, his finger tightening on the M1’s trigger.

  Hadley was practically flat on top of him, whispering, “What’ve you got?”

  “Something up ahead,” the point man said, “it looks like a foot.”

  “It doesn’t look like a foot, numbnuts. It is a foot. And it’s wearing a GI boot.”

  Hadley began to low-crawl forward.

  “It could be a trap,” the point man whispered.

  Hadley didn’t stop. He couldn’t hear the words, anyway.

  Lieutenant Grossman scuttled up and joined the point man on the ground.

  “What’s going on, Corporal?” Grossman asked.

  It was First Sergeant Hadley who answered the question: “GET THE MEDIC UP HERE! RIGHT NOW!”

  Lieutenant Grossman and the medic joined Hadley, who was hunched over two prone, semi-conscious GIs.

  “These guys aren’t wounded,” Hadley said. “They’re sick…they’re burning up. Is this what dengue fever looks like?”

  The GIs moaned as the medic tried moving their arms and legs.

  “Yeah, could be dengue,” the medic said. “Or maybe bush typhus.”

  “I can’t believe Third Battalion just left them here like this,” Hadley said.

  One of the sick men was trying to say something:

  “Fell…behind...might…not know…not know…we’re gone. Help me…”

  “Yeah, sure, buddy,” Hadley replied. “Just take it easy.” He asked Grossman, “Sir, what do you say we get some of the native porters to carry these guys back to So Sorry?”

  “Yeah, by all means,” Grossman replied. “Just figure out how to redistribute the loads those porters were carrying. Do not leave anything behind. And for cryin’ out loud, Top, let’s get this column moving again, on the double.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  First Battalion made it to Dobodura—Double-Dare—on the morning of the third day.

  It wasn’t the last glimpse of the glistening blue Solomon Sea before the trail turned inland that caught the attention of the GIs, or the barren swampland stretching for miles that offered a soldier little in the way of cover or concealment.

  What did catch their attention was the aid station overflowing with casualties.

  “What the hell?” Lieutenant Theo Papadakis said to no one in particular. “Somebody’s been blowing smoke up our asses. Looks like there’s plenty of Japs around here. Those GIs didn’t wound themselves. Third Battalion must’ve took a hell of a beating here last night.”

  Another disquieting sight: natives digging row after neat row of holes—unmistakably graves.

  Jock Miles had just sat down to rest his soggy, aching feet when he was set upon by Lieutenant Colonel Horace Vann, 3rd Battalion commander, and the Australian coast watcher for Buna District, Dickie Bennett. Both had the haggard look of men too busy—or too terrified—to sleep.

  Colonel Vann said, “My lead company had advanced halfway down the trail to Ango Corner, Jock. They were unopposed and had no problems until the sun went down. Then the Japs came out of the woodwork. My men got hit with everything—artillery, mortars, machine guns. I swear, those Japs were rising out of the swamps like ghosts. I took over fifty dead or wounded—almost half of King Company.”

  Jock asked, “Your other companies, sir…did they have any contact?”

  “No,” Vann replied, “they were here, guarding the darkies clearing this airfield, and in Dobodura village. They heard it all, but they never got hit.”

  Dickie Bennett was obviously biting his tongue. Finally, he could hold back no longer. “You’ve got it all wrong, Colonel. Your men of King Company got spooked,” he said. “The Japs were doing their firecracker reconnaissance trick—a handful of sappers running around throwing firecrackers to see if you’ll start shooting and give your positions away. Your men did…and they paid for it.”

  It was Horace Vann’s turn to bite his tongue as Jock thought, Vann’s only been here a day but already there ain’t much love lost between these two. That ain’t good.

  Bennett poured more gasoline on the fire: “If me and my blokes fell for that every time the Japs tried it, we’d have been dead a hundred times over by now.”

  “All right,” Vann said, “that’s enough out of you, Mister Bennett—”

  The Aussie interrupted with a surly, “That’s Lieutenant Commander Bennett, Colonel.”

  “Fine…Commander. Thanks for all your help, but I’ve had enough of your fucking snide comments, okay?”

  Bennett stormed off. The words that ain’t good repeated in Jock’s head. He asked Vann, “Do you have radio contact with Regiment yet, sir?”

  “Nope. Haven’t been able to raise them. My radios are as waterlogged as this swamp. Do you know if Colonel Molloy’s in the area yet?”

  “Should be, sir. He and his headquarters group were at the ass end of my column.”

  “Well, then,” Vann replied, “me and my boys are sitting right here until he shows up and figures out what he wants us to do. I’m not crippling another company doing some recon in force when we have hardly any force at all. If you’re smart, Jock, you’ll keep your men right here, too. At least for now.”

  Lieutenant Papadakis approached and said, “Able Company’s ready to move out, Major Miles.”

  Jock slung his Thompson submachine gun over his shoulder. “Very well, Lieutenant,” he replied. “Let’s go.”

  Unmistakably annoyed, Colonel Vann said, “That’s a bad idea, Major Miles. Your men should stay here and reinforce my battalion. You and I are all alone out here. The Aussies are still up on Kokoda, the rest of our division will take days to trickle in, and the Japs are like the insects…they’re everywhere.”

  Jock kept walking.

  Vann called after him, “Stay here, Jock. It’s the smart thing to do.”

  “I never said I was smart, Colonel.”

  Theo Papadakis asked, “What was all that fuss with Colonel Vann about, sir?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Theo,” Jock replied as he spread the map on the ground. “Take your company and start moving to the coast. Find a good, dry place for a camp between Cape Sudest and the east end of Duropa Plantation.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Just be careful, Theo. There aren’t a lot of places to hide in those swamps.”

  Papadakis laughed and said, “Those swamps…that dumb Cajun Boudreau can’t wait to get ass deep in them. Says it feels just like home on the bayou.”

  “Use Bogater wisely,” Jock replied. “He’s the best scout in this battalion…probably the whole damn division.”

  “I will, sir. I promise.”

  “Keep me posted on the radio what you find, Theo. I’ll send the other companies up after you. By nightfall, the whole battalion should be settled in.”

  “I promise one more thing, sir,” Papadakis said.

  “What’s that, Theo?”

  “I promise my men won’t be shooting at no firecrackers.”

  Jock started to laugh, but the racket of automatic weapons fire—definitely not firecrackers—erupted from the head of Able Company’s column. The shooting ended quickly.

  When Jock and Papadakis arrived, GIs were pulling the bodies of two dead Japanese soldiers—a private and a lance corporal—from the swamp and onto the trail.

  “ANYONE HIT?” Papadakis asked.

  “Just these Nips,” a sergeant replied. “Probably scouts, but the fucking idiots shoulda known better than to be snooping around like that in broad daylight.”

  “Funny thing, though,” Jock said. “These Japs are awfully well dressed. Their uniforms and gear look right out of the box. And they’re fit and well fed, too. They sure
don’t look like sickly, rag-tag survivors of the Port Moresby evacuation…like we’ve been told to expect.”

  Theo Papadakis asked, “You think they’re getting reinforcements over the water from Rabaul, sir?”

  “They’re getting them from somewhere, Lieutenant, that’s for sure.”

  “I like the way you’ve set up your men so far, Jock,” Colonel Molloy said. “If you can push the Japs out of that plantation, we’ll be money ahead. We can come at Buna Mission—and Buna Village—from two directions.”

  Jock wished he felt more optimistic about that prospect. The Duropa Plantation—the little he could make out of it through binoculars from the tree he climbed for a better view—looked like a narrow, deep fortress of closely spaced coconut palms. The sea guarded its long, northern flank; a seemingly impassible swamp guarded the southern flank. We might take it, Jock thought, and be money ahead, like the colonel said, but I’ll bet we spill gallons of our blood doing it.

  Molloy’s radio operator rushed up with a report. “Revelation Six reports they’re in position, sir,” the radioman said.”

  Revelation Six: Lieutenant Colonel Vann of 3rd Battalion.

  “Very well. Thank you, Simmons,” Molloy replied.

  Alone with Jock again, Dick Molloy said, “About damn time Vann’s in position…especially after that cavalcade of fuckups he presided over last night. It’s just poor combat discipline that a company got chewed up like that. For cryin’ out loud…throwing firecrackers? Have you ever come up against that, Jock?”

  “Heard about it, but no, sir, never came up against it.”

  “You think your men will handle it better than Vann’s did?”

  Jock really wanted to answer in the affirmative, but he knew better. “Hard to say, sir,” he replied. “You never know what’s going to happen that first time.”

  “Yeah,” Molloy said, “ain’t that the hell of it? I appreciate your candor, though. Speaking of candor, what do you think of that Aussie coast watcher we’re working with?”

  “He’s got a temper, sir…and I don’t believe he thinks too highly of us Yanks. But he’s all we’ve got right now. At least he was right about the airstrip at So Sorry being wide open.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sergeant Mike McMillen was pissed off and didn’t mind saying so: “We’re going to be spending Christmas in this sewer. You all realize that, don’t you?”

  The men in Able Company’s 1st Platoon were already miserable enough. They didn’t appreciate their sergeant dumping coal in their stockings two weeks in advance. In fact, they didn’t want to be reminded of Christmas at all. This waterlogged, mosquito-infested, disease-ridden tropical hell called Buna had taken them as far from the Yuletide spirit as anyone could imagine. What was worse: they were about to go patrolling again—farther out this time—in search of the Japanese they knew were there, somewhere, but had yet to see.

  “Let me walk point again, sir,” Bogater Boudreau said to Lieutenant Papadakis. “I don’t trust none of these touch-holes up front, anyways. They’ll get us all fucking dead.”

  “You sure?” Papadakis replied. “You did it yesterday. It’s not your turn again for a while.”

  Actually, Theo Papadakis would be thrilled to have Bogater Boudreau on point today, or any other day for that matter. He didn’t trust any of those touch-holes, either. At least not yet.

  A strange sound greeted Jock and Sergeant Major Patchett as they slogged their way to Colonel Molloy’s HQ at Double-Dare: a jeep’s engine.

  “What in tarnation is that thing doing here?” Patchett asked, more annoyed than surprised. “All I can say is it better be loaded to the brim with stuff we need…like food, medicine…”

  Jock caught first sight of it as it wound its way along the trail. “Well, Top,” Jock said, “looks like all that jeep’s bringing is General Hartman.”

  Patchett laughed. “I hope he’s got enough gas in his tank to get his ass back outta here, ’cause he probably ain’t gonna like what he sees one bit.”

  The sergeant major couldn’t be more right. The first words out of General Hartman’s mouth were, “Why haven’t you pushed into Buna, Colonel Molloy?”

  Not the least bit flustered or intimidated, Dick Molloy turned to the map. “We’re not in a position to do so yet, General,” he replied. “The rest of the division is only just arriving in the area. As of this morning’s report, the Australians estimate they’re still three days out on the Kokoda Track. As a result—and per your orders, sir—I’ve had to shift my regiment’s Third Battalion west, well into the Aussie area of operation, to try and cut off any Japs retreating from Kokoda to Buna, Sanananda, or Gona.”

  Hartman scowled. “Something your Second Battalion on the Kapa Kapa should have done some days ago, Colonel.”

  Molloy tried not to let his irritation at the general’s studied indifference to reality boil over into anger. “I’ve had no radio contact with Second Battalion, sir,” he said. “Neither has the Air Force at Port Moresby. In all honesty, we sent them off on a mission that was ill-fated from the start. I’m not sure if or when we’ll ever see them again.”

  Hartman scowled again. “It could have been done, Colonel. It should have been done.”

  Without skipping a beat, Molloy continued, “Nevertheless, sir, that leaves me with just two battalions—now less than seven hundred men due to combat casualties and sickness—trying to secure a front almost eighteen miles long. That’s one man for every one hundred thirty-five feet. I’m afraid I’m in no position to attack anything at the moment.”

  General Hartman stepped to the map and said, “That’s a ridiculous mathematical analogy, Colonel. Now, what about Miles and his First Battalion? What are they doing way over there by the coast?”

  Molloy replied, “We believe the best way into Buna Mission and Buna Village is through Duropa Plantation, sir, it’s—”

  “Nonsense,” Hartman interrupted as he stabbed a point on the map repeatedly with his finger. “It’s painfully obvious the best way into Buna is straight up the road from Ango Corner. Didn’t you bother to do a map recon, Colonel?”

  “We’ve done much more than that, sir,” Molloy replied, “and quite painfully, too. Colonel Vann’s battalion took nearly fifty casualties at Ango Corner a few nights back.”

  He let his words sink in before adding, “As far as the maps go, they’re almost useless. Almost nothing on the ground jives with them. For example, that road you mentioned is little more than a footpath, flanked by swamps. And we still haven’t received the low-level recon photos we requested from the Air Force.”

  “You’re giving me nothing but excuses, Colonel,” Hartman said. “We need results…and we need them quickly.”

  “Well, sir,” Molloy replied, “if it’s results you want, we just may get some very soon. Major Miles, are your men going into Duropa Plantation today?”

  “As we speak, sir,” Jock replied.

  “Then I wait with bated breath, gentlemen,” the general replied.

  Outside the tent, all was not well with Hartman’s jeep. The odor of burned-out clutch hung heavy in the air.

  “Damn thing won’t move, sir,” his aide said. “We must’ve damaged the transmission slipping and sliding all over that jungle trail.”

  A broad smile of satisfaction spread across Sergeant Major Patchett’s face. “Maybe he should’ve come in a tank instead,” he said to Jock. “We could’ve used it…but then again, the piece of shit probably would’ve broken down in about a mile, anyway.”

  It could all seem so normal, so ordinary—like an idyllic stroll in a tropical sylvan paradise. The handful of combat veterans in Able Company knew better, though; the neat row after row of coconut palms defining the Duropa Plantation formed perfect lanes of fire. The few rays of sunlight filtering through the palm fronds seemed to be spotlighting the killing zones. Instinctively, the veterans slid close to the nearest line of palms. They wanted to be no more than a step from the best source of cover av
ailable: a stout tree trunk.

  The rookies hadn’t learned that lesson yet. They walked, cautious yet oblivious, in the middle of lanes wide enough for a jeep, passing from one pool of sunlight to another. They were unable to draw visual cues from their more experienced comrades for one very simple reason: they couldn’t see most of them. The dense stand of palms limited visibility in every direction but one: straight ahead.

  It seemed unnatural when the first chorus of gunfire rang out…

  And even more bizarre when bullets—like invisible tripwires—began to cut GIs down.

  It didn’t matter whether a GI had been in combat before or not: no one could tell where the Japanese shooters were. They were close—the racket of their weapons made that clear—but invisible.

  For the rookies, it was hard to decide which was more frightening: the deadly chatter of Nambu machine guns or the screaming of the wounded.

  A terrified private clung to Bogater Boudreau’s back as they took cover behind a tree trunk. The private had already dropped his rifle; his free hands were trying to cover his ears.

  “What’d you think was gonna happen?” Bogater told him. “This ain’t some cowboy movie where you get shot and then you lay down and go to sleep. Now pick up your fucking weapon and return fire, dammit.”

  “Where, Corporal? I can’t see where they are! Can you?”

  Bogater slammed a fresh magazine into his Thompson. “Shoot anywhere, numbnuts. It don’t matter where. Just shoot.” He squeezed off another unaimed burst and then tried to stick his head out for a better look.

  The solid thup thup thup of bullets hitting the other side of the tree trunk changed his mind in a hurry. He seemed to be asking the heavens when he said, “Am I the only son of a bitch trying to fight back around here?”