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

by William Peter Grasso

  “Like when they had to blow the shit out of Charlie Company at the plantation, sir?”

  That was a memory Jock didn’t wish to relive right now. “Yeah, Theo,” he replied. “Something like that.”

  The four planes flew a low circle in trail and lined up for their next run. The third began to trail grayish smoke, which quickly turned oily black. As it closed on the grove, tongues of bright orange flame burst from the stricken P-40.

  Already close to the treetops, she snapped over on her back…

  And plowed into the ground, snapping tree trunks and digging a furrow through the grove like a meteorite come to Earth.

  Just like that, the firing from the Japanese bunker stopped.

  Able Company wasted no time racing toward the grove.

  When they got there, a startling find awaited them:

  It had, in fact, been machine gun fire from a bunker pinning them down.

  But the bunker had been cleaved open by the crashing P-40, its engine an unyielding projectile of nearly a ton traveling over 200 miles per hour.

  Now, the bunker was just so many mangled logs, charred and torn bodies, and upturned dirt.

  From the grove, Jock had a concealed yet unobstructed vantage point for observing Buna Village.

  “Dig your guys in here, Theo,” Jock ordered. “Let’s hold on to this patch of turf for a while.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  They’re lost, Jillian realized. We’re walking in bloody circles.

  The two stumbling Japanese soldiers holding her captive seemed to be getting weaker and more confused with every passing minute.

  They’re sick…and wounded, too, she told herself. Look at those bandages…they’re filthy. Festering. Bloody hell…if I’d realized that, I would’ve just taken my chances and run. But those bayonets…they look sharp enough even a child could drive one right through you.

  There was no question of running now. Ropes wrapped around her torso had her arms—with wrists lashed together—pinned tightly behind her back. A noose had been fashioned from another rope and slipped around her neck. One of the soldiers had a grasp on the other end of the noose rope and used it to pull her along.

  Like a dog on a leash, I am.

  The soldiers’ movements grew more lethargic; their eyes became glassy.

  Maybe they’ll stop walking, lie down, and slip off to sleep. I could work these ropes against one of those bayonets…maybe take back my knife from that one’s belt…

  A sharp tug on the noose nearly jerked her off her feet. They were changing direction. The soldiers suddenly seemed more confident, with a tepid burst of renewed energy. The smell of meat cooking drifted through the air. In a few moments, Jillian realized why: a small camp of lean-to shelters was nestled among the trees ahead.

  In the camp were four more Japanese soldiers. One was a lieutenant, complete with sword.

  I still remember the rank insignia from their little stay at Weipa.

  The soldiers were busy boring holes into coconuts—the task seemed to be causing them great difficulty—and then pouring the milk down their throats.

  Old women can crack open coconuts with ease. What’s wrong with this lot?

  They must all be sick.

  Seated on the ground nearby were four nuns in full habits, the black cloth torn, tattered, and filthy. No bonds held them in place. They seemed to be patiently waiting their turn to drink. One appeared to be middle-aged: Mother Superior, probably. Jillian put the ages of the other three as very close to hers: mid-to-late twenties, I reckon.

  Not far away stood Marcus Concavage, lashed to a tree, looking battered and in shock. His vacant stare seemed focused a million miles away; he didn’t notice Jillian being brought into the camp. He didn’t seem to notice much of anything.

  Using the free end of the noose rope, the soldiers tied Jillian by her neck to a tree not far from the Yank captain. Almost choking her, they pulled the rope tight, leaving her stretched in an awkward and painful parade rest, body rigid, hands joined behind back.

  Concavage still seemed oblivious.

  “Marcus,” she whispered, “what in bloody hell happened to you?”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. He just kept staring straight ahead, gazing into some alternate reality only he could see.

  The Japanese lieutenant put six coconuts on the ground and motioned to the older nun. She gave one to each of her charges, set one aside for herself, and carried the last two to Jillian and Concavage.

  “Do you speak English, my dear?” the nun asked with a thick Irish brogue.

  “I bloody well do,” Jillian replied.

  “Ahh, wonderful…an Australian,” the nun said. “Here…drink.”

  She held the coconut to Jillian’s lips. It was difficult to regulate the milk’s flow: Jillian’s head, lashed against the tree as it was, could not tilt back to catch all of the refreshing liquid. A good deal of it ran down the front of her bound torso.

  “That’s all right, Sister,” Jillian said. “I’m not very thirsty. I was sipping coffee on my boat not that long ago.”

  “What’s your name, child?

  “Forbes. Jillian Forbes. What do I call you?”

  “Sister Benedicta. Was anyone else with you, Jillian?”

  “My mechanic…Nigel…I’m afraid…”

  “That’s all right, dear girl. He’s in the hands of our Lord.” The sister pointed to Concavage. “Do you know this poor man?”

  Jillian explained how they came to be at Oro Bay. When her story was done, she asked Sister Benedicta, “Are you their…prisoners?”

  “Technically, I suppose,” the nun replied, “but it seems to be a somewhat more symbiotic relationship now.”

  “What the bloody hell do you mean, Sister?”

  She pointed to the wild pig roasting on a makeshift spit. “They supply the food, and we provide the medical care.” Benedicta winked when she said medical care. “We’re nursing sisters, don’t you know?”

  “How do you converse with them?”

  “The lieutenant—that beastly young man; that murderer—studied in Paris for a few years, so with my schoolgirl French, we get by. It’s a shame those studies didn’t impart some western civility in him. Actually, I think he’s quite homesick for Japan.”

  “He’s more than homesick—he’s got some jungle disease or another. They all do. And all their wounds are infected. You can smell it.”

  “Of course they’re infected, child. We’ve seen to that.”

  Jillian looked at the nun with a mixture of awe and respect. “Then maybe you could see to getting me untied, too, Sister? This is all a bit overdone, don’t you think? What is it with these bloody Japs and their fondness for ropes?”

  From their vantage point in the grove, Theo Papadakis and the men of Able Company watched as the attack planes pummeled the Japanese at Buna Village. The hail of bombs and bullets went on all morning and well into the afternoon; six waves of aircraft came and went, the waves separated by an hour or so. By the third wave, Lieutenant Pop’s men—as well as the airmen overhead—noted the lessened volume of anti-aircraft fire. By the fifth wave, there was none at all.

  “Them anti-aircraft guns…they probably ran out of ammo,” Sergeant Major Patchett said.

  Papadakis replied, “They’ll just get more and use it against us when we attack.” He didn’t sound defeatist, merely resigned and girding for the next struggle.

  Melvin Patchett frowned, raised an eyebrow, and asked, “More? From where, Lieutenant?”

  “You heard the rumors, Sergeant Major…they’re bringing in supplies and reinforcements during the night…on barges and submarines.”

  Patchett pointed to the planes darting overhead and said, “Don’t you think the Air Force would have spotted them, Lieutenant? Even if they showed up here at night, it’s a long ways to anywhere, and boats don’t move that fast. They’d get caught out in daylight somewhere.”

  Papadakis wasn’t convinced. “What about submari
nes? You can’t see them when they’re underwater.”

  “They ain’t gonna be underwater if they’re anywhere near shore around here. It’s too damn shallow. And I ain’t no sailor, Lieutenant, but from what I hear about them pig-boats, they ain’t hardly got room for their crew inside, let alone passengers or cargo.”

  Still unpersuaded, Theo Papadakis shook his head and replied, “I don’t know…they just seem to have this shit figured out better than us.”

  It was Patchett’s turn to shake his head. “Lieutenant,” he began, “I’m sure as hell hoping you ain’t been pumping them fairy tales to your men. Major Miles and me got enough trouble keeping the damn rumor mill under control. With all due respect, sir, we sure as hell don’t need no officers greasing them wheels. Besides, that little ol’ plane crash taking out that bunker over there just might be the cat-list we’ve been looking for.”

  Papadakis looked confused: “The what?”

  “Cat-list, Lieutenant…You know, something that lets something happen that couldn’t happen before.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Papadakis said. “That.”

  Patchett added, “Y’all enjoy the night in this nice, dry hunk of tropical paradise…and tomorrow—once the rest of the battalion gets here—we just may find ourselves a way to take that li’l ol’ village over there.”

  It might’ve been a nice, dry night in the grove if it hadn’t rained steadily until midnight, soaking everyone to the bone once again. The offshore breeze that followed the storm blew in something the GIs didn’t want to hear: the faint, puttering sound of engines coming from the seaward side of Buna. Unmistakably nautical.

  “See?” Theo Papadakis said. “Rumor, my ass, Sergeant Major. I told you the Japs were bringing stuff in at night.”

  Melvin Patchett’s acknowledgement was simple yet irritated: “Shit.”

  Jock Miles’s reply was slightly more expansive: “Dammit. No wonder we keep hitting a brick wall.”

  Whatever those vessels were, their stay was brief; the sound of engines drifted away quickly. The night became still and quiet—you might dare call it peaceful. Each man in Able Company’s perimeter—officer and enlisted alike—allowed himself a brief interlude to imagine he was not at war, not stuck in this soggy hell called Buna. Thoughts drifted to home, to loved ones, to happier times…bittersweet memories that fortify a soldier’s will to keep going while leaving his heart torn and aching with loss.

  It was a coincidence Jock Miles checked his watch—0310 hours—at the exact moment the explosion shattered that peace. It came from west of Able Company’s position in the grove.

  “Third Battalion’s getting hit,” Patchett said, his ears sorting the racket of gunfire that came on the heels of the blast. “I ain’t hearing nothing but Jap weapons. Ain’t those fools gonna fight back?”

  The radio frequencies came alive with screaming voices from Colonel Vann’s 3rd Battalion begging for fire, begging for reinforcements…

  Or just begging for salvation: “THEY’RE EVERYWHERE! THEY’RE EVERYWHERE!”

  But in Able Company’s perimeter, there was no attack. None of Lieutenant Papadakis’s men had fired a shot.

  “Negative contact for my platoons, sir,” Papadakis said to Jock.

  Very good, Jock thought, they’re not panicking…not even in the dark.

  Another explosion rumbled from 3rd Battalion’s direction.

  “Just a mortar,” Patchett said. “Small-caliber stuff. Gotta be Jap.”

  A new voice shrieked from the radio—Colonel Vann himself:

  “I’M PULLING MY BOYS BACK. WE’RE GETTING FLANKED.”

  The pitch of Vann’s voice raised with each terrified word.

  “Flanked? How?” Patchett said. “We’re snug up on his right, the Aussies are on his left.”

  The next voice to spill from the radio was cool and composed. It belonged to Colonel Molloy: “Negative, negative, Mudbath. Stay in position. Artillery on the way.”

  “Artillery…swell,” Jock mumbled. “How many rounds did they have left?”

  “Twelve,” Patchett replied. “And those idiots over in Third Battalion didn’t even shoot their own mortars yet, neither.”

  Colonel Molloy was back on the radio. This time, he was calling Jock. His message was terse: “Proceed west with all available resources, engage enemy forces in unknown strength attacking Mudbath.”

  “That’s a new one on me,” Patchett mumbled. “A company going to rescue a battalion.”

  They listened as the first volley of Aussie artillery impacted to the west.

  “Eight rounds left, I reckon,” Patchett said. “I bet they’re gonna shoot up every last round before this thing’s over.”

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” Jock said. “Theo, take Able Company west…probe carefully, now…and engage whatever Japs you find.”

  Papadakis asked, “Should I leave a platoon here to hold the grove, sir?”

  “Negative, Theo. Take all your firepower with you.”

  Papadakis didn’t like that idea. “I don’t know, sir,” he replied. “If we leave, we may never get it back.”

  “That’s the chance we’ve been ordered to take, Theo.”

  Patchett asked, “Where are you gonna be, sir?”

  “I’m going to Third Battalion CP…maybe between me and Colonel Vann, we can sort this thing out.”

  “Very well, sir,” Patchett replied. “Where do you want me?”

  “Get with our staff…make damn sure that when Baker and Charlie Companies get here, they go where we need them…”

  “Wherever in hell that may turn out to be,” Patchett said, finishing Jock’s sentence perfectly.

  “Theo, one more thing,” Jock said. “Don’t walk into our own artillery. Your job’s going to be hard enough.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The first person Jock ran into at 3rd Battalion CP was Colonel Molloy. “I’m sorry I had to pull your guys out of that great position,” Molloy said, “but General Hartman ordered me to do it. I tried to change his mind, but—”

  “I understand, sir,” Jock replied.

  “No, Jock, you don’t understand the half of it yet. Hartman’s convinced we’ve got the whole damn Imperial Japanese Army storming our front. I say that’s bullshit…this is just more of their night probing, trying to get us to panic…and it sounds like that’s exactly what Vann’s people are doing. Again.”

  Jock asked, “Are the Aussies helping out on the other flank?”

  Molloy laughed. “Fuck no,” he replied. “They’re smarter than that…and they’re determined not to let our confusion become their problem. They say if we pull back, they’re withdrawing all the way to Pompano.”

  Moving along swamp trails was hard enough in daylight. At night, it was inviting disaster. By the time they had walked half a mile, most of Able Company’s men had fallen off the trail into swamp water at least once.

  One terrified private swore he landed on a crocodile.

  Bogater Boudreau tried to shake some sense into the man. “If you did,” the Cajun corporal said, “you wouldn’t be standing here to yack about it. Trust me on that, mon frère.”

  “But I felt it! It moved! I—”

  Bogater wasn’t buying it. “Do us all a big favor, McConnell, and shut the fuck up. Look at the bright side…now that you’re all wet, nobody can tell you pissed your pants. Get moving.”

  Boudreau addressed the rest of his squad: “If I see one more fucking flashlight come on, I’m gonna shove it up your ass until your belly button glows. All you gotta remember about crocs and gators is stay away from the teeth. The rest of it can’t hurt you much. And if one’s in your way, shoot it in the fucking head.”

  Able Company had advanced a few hundred yards farther when a machine gun began raking the trail.

  The first two men in the column were erased in the blink of an eye.

  The third man, Theo Papadakis, found himself in swamp water up to his chin.

  He knew what and who it w
as slicing up his company:

  That ain’t no Nambu! It’s a fucking thirty cal! Our own guys are shooting at us!

  He grabbed the two men closest to him in the water.

  “Follow me,” Papadakis told them as he pulled them forward.

  One of the men, a private crouched so low in the water the helmet on his head looked like a floating turtle, asked, “Where the hell are we going, Lieutenant?”

  “That’s our own guys shooting at us,” Papadakis replied. “We’re going to make them stop. Now follow me. That’s a fucking order.”

  “But what about the crocs?” the private asked, on the verge of tears.

  Papadakis replied, “What are you more afraid of…a croc or a machine gun? Come on, dammit.”

  It didn’t take long for the trio to slog alongside the machine gun emplacement. The gunners, focused on the trail, never saw them coming.

  Theo Papadakis stood up, covered in muck like some comic book swamp monster, and bellowed: “HEY, SHITHEAD! WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE SHOOTING AT?”

  The gun went silent.

  He was startled to see three Japanese faces—just as startled—staring back at him in the glow of a parachute flare.

  But the gunners were only startled for a moment. They began to swing the machine gun toward Theo Papadakis.

  His grenade dropped right in their midst…and blew them to kingdom come.

  Theo and his two men crawled out of the swamp water and onto the dry ground. They found the US-issue Browning .30-caliber machine gun toppled on its side.

  “Some sons of bitches in Third Battalion gave up a thirty,” Papadakis said.

  “Maybe they got it taken from them, sir,” a sergeant said, “and they’re dead.”

  Theo Papadakis shook his head. “Knowing those useless bastards,” he said, “they gave it up and ran like scared little girls.”

  Able Company pressed on. They had yet to encounter a trooper of 3rd Battalion.

  And they encountered no more Japanese.