Once the bunker was taken, the other two companies would exploit the success by attacking the next ones in line down the communications trenches. The bunkers would fall like dominoes—hopefully—and that cleverly built defensive wall would be breached.
It didn’t take long to realize that wouldn’t be the case. Far from it: the fire from the southeast bunker—and every other bunker facing the approaching GIs—was just as withering as the first two ventures into the plantation.
Never getting closer than 200 yards to the objective, Charlie Company pulled back, dragging its dead and wounded through the merciless swamp as best it could.
Once back at the assembly area, Melvin Patchett flung his gear on the ground as he summed up everyone’s feelings: “Fucking Air Force is useless as tits on a bull.”
General Hartman took the news of 1st Battalion’s failed attack as a personal insult. Berating Jock Miles, he asked, “How could that be, Major? Clearly, you don’t have a very good grasp of your enemy’s situation. You’ve played right into his strength time and again.”
Jock was beyond being intimidated or insulted. “Sir,” he began, “until we have a means of putting large-caliber direct fire on those bunkers, be it from naval gunfire, tanks, or our own artillery, we will not breech them. They’re too well built. The Air Force just dropped a couple of tons of high explosives on them, and it looks like they bounced right off.”
“I just cannot accept that, Major,” General Hartman replied. “Were the targets marked for the bombers?”
“Well marked, sir. The spotter plane pilot gave his life doing it.”
“That’s a shame,” Hartman said, “but don’t get all down on the Air Force just because one strike didn’t kill every Jap. Give them a chance.”
“It’s not a question of killing every Jap, sir. I don’t think they killed any of them. And every second we wait for the Air Force to live up to its promises, more of my men die.”
“Well, Major…we can’t sit on our hands and wait for someone else to win the battle for us. MacArthur won’t hear of it…he’ll hang me out to dry so fast your head will spin. I’ll be discussing a new plan of attack with Colonel Molloy the minute he returns from Popondetta.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dickie Bennett didn’t believe in sugar-coating bad news. He told Horace Vann point-blank, “You’re in the wrong bloody place, Colonel. You don’t really think this piddling goat trail is the Sanananda Road as I described it to you? In great detail, I might add.”
He considered capping the insult with you stupid Yank wanker, but in a rare surrender to tact and cooperation, decided not to do so.
Maybe it’s just the malaria making him bloody stupid, Bennett speculated. Looks well enough at the moment, though.
Colonel Molloy told Vann, “Get your men saddled up and over to Popondetta. Expect to link up with the Aussies coming down from Kokoda within twenty-four hours.”
Horace Vann didn’t mind those instructions one bit. He knew of the beating Jock Miles’s 1st Battalion was taking at Buna. He’d gladly stay well out of the way and act as greeters for the Aussies.
“Something else, Horace,” Molloy said. “Get the Aussies to loan us a couple of their artillery pieces. Don’t wait for it to have to go through MacArthur’s channels. Just get us those fucking guns right away.”
The word passed through Colonel Vann’s battalion quickly: they’d set up their ambush in the wrong place. The five Japanese they’d captured—and then killed—were probably as lost as they were; that sarcastic Aussie coast watcher with Colonel Molloy seemed quite sure of it.
The men of 3rd Battalion weren’t terribly upset with that turn of events, though. Their collective thinking: If we can stay out of the Japs’ way, that’s just fine with us.
Another issue wasn’t fine with them, however: their commander was sick with malaria and, as a result, occasionally unable to perform his command duties to the fullest.
But he was staying at his post.
That meant only one thing to the men in the ranks: if they got sick with malaria—or any of the other tropical diseases that laid a man low sporadically, only to recover until the next, unpredictable attack—they’d be expected to stay at their posts, too. Parading to sick call with the slightest hint of chills or fever would only get you paraded right back to your company.
Forget about being evacuated to Port Moresby…or even Australia. You’re stuck in this tropical sewer for the duration…
On half-rations, yet.
Half-rations sounded like a pretty good deal to the gaunt, exhausted diggers who stumbled out of the mountains and into Popondetta the next morning. Compared to the little 5th Air Force had been able to supply the last few weeks, half-rations would be a grand feast.
What didn’t sound like a good deal: the Japanese they were pursuing had slipped right through what should have been an impassable American roadblock. General Vasey, the Aussie division commander, vented his frustration on the first American officer to greet him: Lieutenant Colonel Horace Vann.
“Are you bloody kidding me?” Vasey said. “You stopped a grand total of five Nips? And you want to nick some of my artillery, to boot?”
“Buna has turned into a hell on earth, sir,” Vann replied. “The bulk of the Japanese defenders seem to be holed up there…and they’re very well dug in. The Jap strongholds in your area of responsibility—Sanananda and Gona—appear to be held much more weakly.”
Vasey snickered. “That sounds like another of MacArthur’s brilliant intelligence assessments. They may have been weakly held once but not anymore. Not since you Yanks let in the whole bloody lot I chased from Port Moresby.”
“We need those guns, General,” Vann insisted. “If Buna falls, the pockets of resistance you face will crumble quickly.”
Vasey mulled it over for a moment. Finally, he said, “I’ve brought twelve pieces over the mountains, Colonel. I’ll loan you four of them. If I don’t, your General MacArthur will just order it, anyway. Consider it a gesture to promote Allied cooperation—something I haven’t seen bloody much of from your camp.”
“We greatly appreciate the gesture, General,” Vann said, “and he’s our General MacArthur, sir. We’re all in this together.”
“Bloody unfortunate,” Vasey replied. “Perhaps I’d be more willing to believe we were in this together if I had seen just one Yank walking the Kokoda Track. Just do me a personal favor, Colonel.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“The gun crews I loan you…make sure the lads get to enjoy a fair share of your half-rations, please.”
It took a full day for the four Australian artillery pieces, drawn by horses and mules every bit as hungry and exhausted as the men driving them, to arrive at 1st Battalion’s CP near Duropa Plantation. The diggers couldn’t believe their luck when the first words out of Sergeant Major Patchett’s mouth were, “Let’s get you boys fed. We fixed y’all a nice, hot supper here.”
Nice, hot supper: that meant C ration cans warmed in a 55-gallon drum full of water boiling over a fire. In this primitive setting, it was better than a dinner at the Ritz. The diggers nearly ripped the scalding cans of stew open with their bare hands.
The Aussie lieutenant in charge of the gun sections asked Jock, “Do you Yanks eat like this all the time, sir?”
Jock laughed. “No, I'm afraid not. We just set some aside because we heard company was coming.”
The lieutenant seemed embarrassed as he asked, “Some of your lads didn’t eat, then, sir?”
“No, we all ate. Just not very much.”
In truth, the GIs didn’t look anywhere near as malnourished as the Aussies—But give us a little more time, Jock told himself.
Their stomachs content for the moment, Jock and the Aussie lieutenant—Leftenant Fairburn, as the Aussies pronounced the rank—raced the setting sun to complete their recon of firing positions. Fairburn grew more uneasy as they waded ankle-deep in swamp water. He asked Jock, “You say there’s some d
ry ground ahead, sir, closer to the target? We can’t shoot from this muck. The guns will just slide and sink.”
“Yeah, there’s dry ground…and a treeline, too. Should give you some concealment from air attack.”
“Has there been much air activity from the Nips, sir?” Fairburn asked.
“Not yet, Lieutenant. Not yet.”
When they reached the place Jock had in mind, Lieutenant Fairburn didn’t look pleased. As he gazed across the vast expanse of swamp into the distant plantation, he asked Jock, “It has to be direct fire on those bunkers, sir, like we were engaging tanks?”
“Affirmative,” Jock replied. “We need that dead-on accuracy. Lobbing indirect fire at them is just too chancy. Hell, the Air Force just bombed the crap out of the place…but those bunkers are still there.”
“Well, sir…if this is the closest we can get, then it’s too bloody far for direct fire,” Fairburn said. “It’s well over two thousand yards. Anything over fifteen hundred yards and it’s indirect fire. You really think those bunkers are that tough?”
“We don’t think, Lieutenant. We know they’re that tough. I tell you what…rest your men and your animals tonight. Set up your guns here at first light and we’ll see what you can do. Maybe we can pull a rabbit out of a hat together.”
In the harbor at Milne Bay, Jillian smiled as a small but familiar vessel glided alongside and tied up to her anchored freighter Esme. It was Andoom Clipper, one of her fishing boats out of Weipa, Queensland. Old Robert, the Aborigine elder and Jillian’s right-hand man in Weipa, was at her helm.
Beatrix Van Der Wegge downed the last swallow of after-supper whiskey and asked, “You’re not really going adventuring in that little tub, are you, schatzi?”
Jillian replied, “Why not? It’s perfect for the job. That’s why I volunteered her.”
Beatrix said nothing in reply but her scowl made it obvious: she didn’t agree.
Old Robert didn’t look too pleased as he came aboard Esme, either.
“Try not to get this one sunk, too, Miss Jilly,” he said. “We need it to catch fish so our country can eat.”
Jillian put on a display of mock indignation. “Well, it’s very bloody nice to see you too, Robert,” she said.
Without a hint of contrition in his voice, Old Robert replied, “I mean no disrespect, Miss Jilly, but we really do need the boat.” He paused, looked down at his feet, and added, “We need you, too. When are you going to come home? What happened to the woman who wanted nothing to do with their war?”
Jillian exhaled loudly, an exasperated puff whose meaning Robert knew all too well: She’ll come back to Weipa when she’s good and ready...
His mind finished the sentence with a note of personal dread: if she gets to come back at all.
“I wish everyone would stop worrying,” Jillian said. “It’s just a little survey mission, trying to find suitable harbors closer to Buna—”
Beatrix interrupted, “More likely, trying to get closer to that Yank of yours, schatzi.”
Jillian ignored her, adding, “A small, fast, inconspicuous boat is just what we need—better than one of those patrol boats that keep getting shot up all the time.”
Old Robert laughed without smiling. “Inconspicuous? She’s fifty feet long. Only a canoe would be inconspicuous when the Japanese planes come,” he said. “Even then…” His voice trailed off, as if he didn’t want to think about how vulnerable a boat like Andoom Clipper would be when an airplane—Japanese or Allied—strafed her.
“To hell with both of you,” Jillian said, turning her back to them to watch the sunset.
Both Beatrix and Old Robert wanted to believe those words were offered in jest. But they were having a rough time convincing themselves.
Chapter Nineteen
The nights, at least, were quiet at 1st Battalion’s perimeter. Only the hushed sounds of nature fell on the GIs’ ears: the hiss of inevitable rain, the rustle of wind, the calls of animals. There had been no combat in the dark; the sickly, starving, yet still deadly Japanese troops were content to stay in their fortress-bunkers. Jock and Colonel Molloy had discussed using the cover of darkness to surprise and overwhelm the nearest enemy positions, but no plan had been formulated. It was hard enough trying to fight an enemy you couldn’t see in broad daylight. Trying to seek him out at night only seemed like a prescription for confusion, massive casualties, and certain defeat.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky in the morning with this Aussie artillery,” Colonel Molloy said before trying to catch an hour or two of sleep.
Melvin Patchett wasn’t so sure about the getting lucky part. “It’s still gonna take some fancy shooting from them cannon-cockers to blow them bunkers apart,” he said to Jock, “and that’s gonna be pretty hard and all with just throwing a few rounds their way. Maybe it’ll make their ears bleed…but hell, their ears should already be bleeding from our Air Force’s little visit.”
As his words faded, quiet should have prevailed once again…but the night stillness was abruptly pierced by the continuous shrieking of a man. The terrible cries seemed to be coming from Charlie Company’s area. As Jock and Patchett hurried closer, the wailing subsided to sobbing and a torrent of tortured, unintelligible words. Their source: a distraught young private in the grip of his first sergeant, Tom Hadley, who was carefully burning a leech from the man’s body with a cigarette.
“McCurdy’s just gone a little swamp-crazy, sir,” Hadley said. “I’ll get him calmed down and—”
“The hell you will,” Private McCurdy said, a big man coming apart at the seams before their eyes. “I can’t take it no more…these bugs…the snakes…fucking crocodiles…the crotch rot…everything’s wet and falling apart”—he held up a sodden GI boot with the sole half-detached—“and I know I’m sick.” He put the palm of his hand to his forehead. “Look…I’m burning up.”
Hadley put his own hand against McCurdy’s forehead. “You’re not burning up. You’re no sicker than the rest of us.”
“But I’m starving to death, First Sergeant,” McCurdy whimpered.
“We’re all a little hungry,” Hadley replied as he gave Jock and Patchett a searching look, its meaning evident even in the dim moonlight: What the hell do I do now?
Patchett nodded to Jock, a gesture that meant let me handle this, sir. He pulled Hadley aside and, speaking softly, said, “Don’t fret none that you’re new to this top sergeant game, Tom. You’ll learn how to be their mama when you need to be. You’re doing just fine for now.”
Hadley didn’t looked convinced he was doing just fine; he was out of ideas how to deal with Private McCurdy.
Patchett stepped over to McCurdy. “I just want y’all to remember something,” the sergeant major said, his voice as soothing as a country preacher comforting the bereaved. “Sure, ain’t none of us had a decent meal since Grant took Richmond…and we’ve been living in stinking water up to our asses for what seems like a month of Sundays…but the same goes for them Japs over there, only worse.”
Hadley and McCurdy had the same confused look on their faces. His voice high-pitched and trembling, McCurdy asked, “How do you figure that, Sergeant Major?”
“It’s just a natural fact, son. Mother Nature can’t be no kinder to them yellow-ass bastards than she is to us. In fact, they gotta be suffering worse than we are ’cause they been here longer than us.”
McCurdy wasn’t buying it. “So why are they kicking our asses?” he sobbed. “They’re killing us left and right.”
Patchett’s tone changed from soothing to evangelical. “Why, son, we’re just getting started. We’ll get our ducks in a row real quick here, and then your Charlie Company will go right through them Japs like shit through a goose, just like it did at Port Moresby.”
Hadley rolled his eyes. Bullshit, he thought. Nobody had walked right through anybody at Port Moresby.
“I wasn’t at Port Moresby,” McCurdy said. “I’m a replacement.”
“Then you’re a lucky man, Pr
ivate McCurdy,” Patchett replied. “Your chance to make history has finally arrived. Now, the question is, are you gonna seize that chance like a man? Or are you gonna keep sniveling like some little nancy-boy?”
McCurdy had been in this man’s army long enough to know there was only one answer to that question. His body gave a shudder of resignation—and then he picked up his helmet and began bailing water from his fighting hole.
“It’s just going to fill back up,” McCurdy mumbled as he flung the water away. “It always does. More water, more fucking bugs. Some fucking foxhole…”
“A foxhole’s something you hide in, son,” Patchett replied. “You’re standing in a fighting hole. Besides, the exercise’ll do you good…take your mind off your troubles.”
As he and Jock began to walk back to the battalion CP, Patchett said, “We gotta keep a handle on this shit, sir. If it can start in an outfit as squared away as Charlie Company, it can happen anywhere. If we let it take hold, it’ll spread like wildfire.”
Tom Hadley hurried to catch up. “Something else I’ve got to tell you, sir,” he said to Jock. “Lieutenant Grossman…he’s in a real bad way.”
They found a groaning Lee Grossman, his pants around his ankles, lying across the narrow, water-filled slit trench that functioned as the latrine. The Charlie Company medic was holding on to him, trying to prevent his weakened, spasming body from doubling over and sliding butt-first into the trench. Even in this pungent swampland, you could smell what was wrong with Lee Grossman from a long way off.
“Good lord,” Patchett said, “the man’s squirting like a fire hose.”
“It’s dysentery,” the medic said. “Worst case I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve seen worse, son,” Patchett replied. “Plenty worse. Saw a whole company come down with it once…”
Operation Easy Street (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 3) Page 10
