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

by William Peter Grasso

  “Like I told you back at Milne Bay, Nigel is the best engine mechanic I know,” she replied. “Far better than I am at keeping her running. Surely you can appreciate that, Mark.”

  She watched him tense as the familiar form of his name rolled off her lips. She’d done it intentionally; after spending all morning trying to foster a more comfortable working arrangement with this stick-up-the-ass Yank, she’d gone for broke.

  “Captain Concavage, please, Miss Forbes. I can’t let my men think it’s okay to abandon proper military etiquette and discipline just because we’re…”

  He didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.

  She glanced down at the rest of her passengers: a US Army survey team—one old, fat sergeant and two privates barely out of their teens. They lounged on the main deck among piles of gear, their shirts and boots off.

  Military discipline, my arse, she thought. Looks like his lads think they’re on a bloody vacation cruise.

  She asked, “Because we’re what, Mark? In mixed company? In the middle of nowhere?”

  “Yes,” Concavage replied, “all of those things, I suppose, Miss Forbes.”

  “You know, Mark, this isn’t the first time I’ve worked with the US Army.”

  She didn’t bother to add and that last lot was a hell of a lot tougher and far more interesting than you and your wankers.

  “Regardless, Miss Forbes. I must insist we address each other properly at all times.”

  “Fine, Captain Concavage. In that case, I must insist you refer to me as Captain Forbes.”

  “But, that’s not...”

  Again, Concavage floundered, not knowing how to finish his sentence.

  “I’m a licensed ship’s master. That earns me the title of captain.”

  The Yank seemed wounded; he hadn’t seen that parry coming.

  “Get used to it, Mark,” Jillian said.

  There were almost two hours of daylight left when they reached Oro Bay. Captain Concavage’s team wasted little time: in minutes, sounding lines were over the side as Jillian gently maneuvered Andoom Clipper around the potential harbor. By sunset, the initial survey was complete. Oro Bay was deemed a suitable harbor for the coastal and inter-island freighters that made up the bulk of the Allied transport tonnage around Papua.

  “I’d bring my Esme in here any day,” Jillian said, well satisfied with the day’s work.

  A delicious thought crossed her mind: I’m only about fifteen miles from my Jock, I think. Close enough to walk.

  The heavy radio, with its hand-cranked generator, was ferried ashore in the Clipper’s pram. Soon its message was acknowledged by Milne Bay and Port Moresby: this was the place to build a harbor.

  As he savored a cup of hot coffee from the Clipper’s galley, Concavage said, “Once we get the landing ships the Navy’s promised, we can even bring in tanks and all sorts of heavy vehicles.”

  “You don’t have to wait for the bloody Navy,” Jillian replied. “Beatrix’s ship, the Java Queen, used to carry railroad cars. Tanks won’t be a problem for her. All you blokes need to do is come up with a lighter big enough to float them ashore. Shouldn’t be much of a challenge for Yank geniuses like you.”

  Looking bewildered, Concavage asked, “Beatrix? You mean there’s another ship captained by a girl?”

  “A woman, Mark,” Jillian corrected. “She’s a woman. Just like me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jillian awoke to the clanking of tools. The sky was already turning pink at its eastern fringe; the sun would rise very soon. Nigel was fussing with the Clipper’s engine.

  “Everything all right, Nigel?” she asked.

  “I suppose, Miss Jilly,” the mechanic replied. “Better safe than sorry.”

  Jillian glanced at the narrow beach. The pram was still there, just where the Yanks had left her last night. Captain Concavage and his team had spent the night on shore with the equipment they’d shuttled from the boat so far. They’d come back for the rest first thing this morning, and then she’d be free to weigh anchor and return to Milne Bay. There’d been no point continuing the risky process of unloading in the darkness; she wouldn’t dream of trying to sail back through those hazardous waters at night, anyway. She went below to make coffee.

  At first, the chattering of the old, dented coffee pot on the burner masked the sound from outside, until it became too loud to be ignored:

  Airplane engines…and they don’t sound like Yanks or Aussies, either.

  Jillian rushed out to the deck. The first thing she saw was Nigel cradling the hunting rifle they kept on board: pirate insurance, they called it.

  The second thing she saw was the jagged-V formation of six Japanese planes in the dull gray sky—single-engined fighters—low over the water, no more than a mile offshore.

  One by one, they peeled away, forming an accelerating column that descended straight to the anchored Andoom Clipper.

  “GET IN THE WATER, NIGEL,” Jillian shrieked.

  She dove overboard, propelling her body as deep into the watery darkness as she could.

  Just when she thought her lungs would burst, she heard the swoosh of bullets piercing the water’s surface…

  And then the explosion—its shattering roar amplified by the water—that shoved her still deeper like a giant hand.

  Melvin Patchett seemed lost in thought. Jock asked, “Something on your mind, Top?”

  Picking up the operations order from the field desk, Patchett waved it like a flag and replied, “Much as I like this little plan you and Colonel Molloy cooked up, sir, I think I know what’s gonna happen. Y’all are asking to get yourselves relieved…maybe even court-martialed.”

  “It’s worth that risk, Top.”

  “But the general specifically said he wanted a full-blown regimental attack on Buna, didn’t he? This ain’t nothing more than that recon in force business all over again…and it’s kinda light on the force part. Most of our battalion’s still going to be on the edge of the plantation, sitting on the balls of their asses, marking time.”

  “Consider them my reserve, Top. In the meantime, we can say they’re there to block those reinforcements everybody’s so damn sure the Japs are going to land. And what’s the difference, anyway? We don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of just walking up the road into Buna without serious armor and artillery support.”

  “You don’t have to convince me, sir…but it just looks like we ain’t even pretending to do what General Hartman ordered. Not by a long shot.”

  Melvin Patchett’s voice took on the fatherly tone Jock hadn’t heard directed at him in quite a while. “I know what y’all are trying to do, sir,” he continued, “and I surely do appreciate it. So do the men who won’t be dying in this shithole quite yet. But we like having you around, Jock Miles…and Colonel Molloy, too. I guess I misjudged that man—turns out he’s all right. Now, we don’t want the brass thinking you both slipped into casualty avoidance mode. Don’t ever forget that MacArthur knows your name…and in your case, that’s a bad thing. He’d make an example outta you in a fucking heartbeat.”

  “Thanks, Top,” Jock said. “I appreciate the sentiment. I really do. But those are my orders…at least until we get the firepower to do this job right.”

  Patchett shrugged, and then replied, “As you wish, sir. Now, speaking about casualty avoidance mode, are you good with having Charlie Company commanded by an NCO?”

  “What do you mean? I can’t think of a better man for the job than Tom Hadley, Top. Can you?”

  “No, sir, I sure can’t, neither. But it’s a natural fact that an outfit run by sergeants is gonna be a lot less likely to take the initiative…especially when that initiative involves bloodshed. That’s why this man’s army thinks so highly of its officers. They don’t seem to mind getting people killed as much…present company excepted, of course, sir.”

  “You really believe that’s true?”

  “I guaran-damn-tee it, sir.”

  A sly
grin crossed Jock’s face. “Then maybe we should offer Hadley a battlefield commission, Top.”

  An equally sly grin was on Patchett’s face now. “And I would strongly advise him to refuse it, sir. He don’t need hisself no gold bar. Besides, if I buy it one of these days, you just might need him to fill my shoes. That’s a damn sight more important than minting yourself another mustang.”

  She thought she’d never make it to the surface. The need for oxygen, the convulsive panic, the growing certainty these were her last moments on earth, all rolled together into a darkening maelstrom…

  But suddenly, her watery grave began to lighten; the surface was just above…just an arm’s length…an inch…

  A burst of air filled her lungs—a life-saving infusion that quickly had her choking on the fumes of burning diesel. She was adrift in a field of shattered wooden planks that once formed the proud hull of Andoom Clipper.

  Between her and shore was a spreading pool of floating fire. She couldn’t tell how long or wide the pool was.

  “NIGEL,” she yelled, “NIGEL…WHERE ARE YOU?”

  There was no answer.

  She did a quick inventory of her physical state: Now that my lungs have stopped aching, I think I’m all right.

  The offshore breeze was pushing the pool of fire slowly toward shore.

  If I stay behind it, I’ll make it to the beach…eventually. It’s not far…I’ve swum a hundred times farther than that before. Please tell me Nigel’s not hurt. But if he stayed on the boat…

  She tried not to think about it. Tasting the still-unburned diesel coating the surface of the water around her, she thought, If this lot starts to burn…

  But the flaming pool began to diverge into smaller pockets, dwindling and snuffing themselves out as the floating diesel was burned off. After minutes that seemed like they’d never end, Jillian was ashore.

  The pram hadn’t moved: Why aren’t the Yanks trying to help? You’d think they’d at least want to try and salvage their equipment, some of which is still bobbing around out there in the bay.

  Where the bloody hell are they, anyway?

  Jillian walked into the trees, where she thought she’d seen the Yanks’ campfire glowing last night.

  Pretty stupid of them to light a fire when you don’t know who’s around. It’s got to be here somewhere…

  She found it. The fire was snuffed out.

  So were the lives of Concavage’s three men.

  They were dead in their bedrolls, each man’s throat cut.

  That explains why there was no noise…

  But where the bloody hell is Marcus Concavage?

  She heard the crunch of vegetation being trampled. It sounded very close.

  Able Company was the unit Major Miles picked to probe along the road leading to Buna Village. That didn’t bother Theo Papadakis even as he told himself, It’s not much of a road, actually, more of a dangerously exposed goat trail on a strip of dry ground just a little above swamp level, with occasional dense stands of trees—perfect places for the Japs to pull off ambushes.

  What did bother Lieutenant Pop was the unit on his left flank: Colonel Vann’s 3rd Battalion:

  I wouldn’t trust those useless sons of bitches to mind my dog, let alone cover my ass. They’re supposed to be probing along a trail about a mile west of us. But they’re moving so damn slow we keep getting way ahead…and I end up with nobody protecting my left flank at all. But we’ve got to maintain contact with them—I think I’ll detail Bogater Boudreau and his squad to that job.

  When Boudreau finally found some of 3rd Battalion’s men, they were huddled at the edge of a grove, taking cover behind the stoutest trees they could find.

  “Get down,” a sergeant hissed at Boudreau, “there’s a sniper in those trees up ahead.”

  Bogater replied, “So? Shoot the son of a bitch.”

  “No,” the sergeant replied. “If we don’t shoot at him, he won’t shoot at us.”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Boudreau said, as he turned to one of his men. “Curly, swap me your M1 for a minute.”

  “You looking for a Purple Heart, pal?” the sergeant asked.

  “Don’t need one, Sarge. I already got two,” the Cajun replied. “Give me that damn M1, Curly.”

  “Ahh, c’mon, Bogater,” Curly replied. “Let me do it.”

  “Nah…you city boys can’t shoot for shit.” Offering his Thompson in trade, he insisted, “The rifle, please…that’s a fucking order, Private.”

  Binoculars in hand, Boudreau asked, “All right…which tree is this dead Jap in? Oh, never mind. There he is.”

  “You’ll never hit him,” the sergeant said. “He’s at least three hundred yards away.”

  “More like two hundred, Sarge, and I can shoot the eye out of a bayou gator at two hundred yards.”

  Boudreau’s first shot splashed against the tree trunk, so close it made the sniper flinch.

  “Hmm…a little left,” the Cajun said and squeezed the trigger again.

  The shot knocked the sniper from his perch. His body dangled lifelessly from its tether, high in the air.

  “There,” Bogater said, “just let the bastard hang. Now then, Sarge, where’s your C.O.? We gotta get you boys moved up about half a mile. First Battalion’s got its derriere sticking out in the wind with y’all dug in way back here.”

  Crouching at the edge of a grove, the men of Able Company could see the rooftop of Government House, the long, one-story building that had once been the Australian district headquarters at Buna Village. Just to its east was a cluster of similar buildings that comprised Buna Mission. Jock, having joined the company for this probe, asked its commander, “How far do you figure to Government House, Theo?”

  Papadakis replied, “A mile, sir…maybe a little more.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figure, too,” Jock said. “I can’t believe we haven’t run into any Japs yet. Not that I’m complaining…”

  About a half mile up the trail was one more grove, a broad island of cover and dry ground jutting from this unforgiving swampland. To get to that grove, you had two choices: you either walked down the road in plain sight, like lambs to the slaughter, or you slogged through the swamp and took what little concealment the swamp grass offered.

  “Spread your platoons wide and use the swamp, Theo,” Jock said.

  Without a hint of reservation, Lieutenant Pop replied, “Roger, sir.”

  They could hear the steady thrum of aircraft engines growing closer. Spotting the first flight—a quartet of American P-40 fighters streaking toward the village at low level, Jock said, “Even better…while they’re hitting Buna, maybe they’ll distract the Japs enough to mask our advance. Get your men moving, Theo…and pray those flyboys do us some good for once.”

  They were halfway to the next grove when the Japanese machine guns concealed there opened up on Able Company. They had no place to take cover except the noxious water of the swamp.

  “It’s like hiding in a fucking toilet,” Papadakis said. “I’m calling in the Aussie artillery, sir. We need—”

  “No, hold up, Theo,” Jock interrupted. “They can’t shoot with the Air Force overhead.”

  Half-crawling, half-swimming the few yards to his radio operator, Jock asked, “You got those planes up on the net?”

  “Yes, sir,” the radioman replied, handing Jock the walkie-talkie.

  “Good,” Jock said. “Let’s give them another chance to see if airplanes really can be as good as artillery.”

  Tracers were rising up from anti-aircraft guns within Buna Village, spraying the sky with speeding balls of brilliant light as the gunners zeroed in on the P-40s. Jock’s conversation with the flight leader was brief.

  “They’ll be more than glad to come over and help us out,” he told Papadakis. “They’re getting their asses riddled over the village. Do all your platoons have yellow smoke?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Have each platoon pop one to their front. That
should be enough to get the pilots oriented…hopefully.”

  Papadakis sounded wary as he asked, “So they hit the Japs and not us?”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Jock replied. “How are your casualties?”

  “We’re okay so far…two wounded in Third Platoon…not badly, though, sir.”

  “Let’s try and keep it that way. The Japs fucked up, Theo…they’ve got our range all wrong. Most of this stuff’s going over our heads.”

  “Yeah,” Papadakis replied as he scanned the grove with binoculars. “I swear to God, sir…that fire’s coming from a bunker just like the ones on the plantation.”

  “Wouldn’t that be hot shit,” Jock said. “You’ve got to hand it to these little bastards. They built up one hell of a fortress on real short notice.”

  Theo Papadakis had to laugh. “Yeah,” he replied, “it’s amazing what you can do when there’s someone’s sword up your ass.”

  Their spirits plummeted when the P-40s made their first pass at the grove. It was a strafing run with their .50-caliber machine guns.

  “That’s all they’ve got?” Papadakis said, genuinely disappointed. “Machine guns? No bombs? Shit…we’ve already got fucking machine guns. Look how much good they did us so far.”

  Jock’s radio came alive with the flight leader’s voice.

  “They’re coming around for another pass,” Jock said. “I told them to strafe closer to the near edge of the grove this time.”

  “Might as well,” Papadakis replied. “I guess the Air Force likes it here. Nobody’s shooting at them.”

  “Yeah,” Jock said. “You must be right about those Japs being in a bunker. Their machine guns don’t seem to be able to shoot up, only out.”

  Papadakis had a new concern: “What about the Jap artillery, sir? Why do you figure they ain’t opening up on us? We’re in range…and they don’t give a shit if they hit one of our planes or not.”

  “I’m betting they’re as low on ammo as our guns,” Jock replied. “They’re saving it until they really need it.”