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

by William Peter Grasso

  “If we go much farther,” Papadakis said, “we’re going to have to start talking Australian again.”

  There was a commotion ahead—men scared out of their minds, running and yelling in American English:

  “HURRY UP, LOUIE…HELP ME WITH GEORGE…BEFORE THE BASTARDS CATCH UP WITH US.”

  Four GIs—Louie, George, and their two buddies—ran right into Theo Papadakis and a group of his men.

  “Hey, wait a minute…calm down,” Theo said, corralling the petrified GIs. “Where the fuck are you guys running to? And where are your weapons?”

  “We’re getting out of here, Lieutenant,” came the reply, “and you should to, if you know what’s good for you. They’re coming.”

  Papadakis asked, “Who’s they?”

  “Who do you think? The fucking Japs.”

  Growing weary of all this, Theo rubbed his head and said, “You know, we’ve been all over your position. We’ve seen exactly three Japs…and we killed them.”

  “But they’re everywhere, Lieutenant!”

  “They’re everywhere…and nowhere,” Theo Papadakis replied. “Everywhere and nowhere, dammit.”

  A flare popped overhead, casting the swamp in its ghostly, flickering light.

  There was no one to see in the flare’s glow but themselves.

  Once dawn broke, four facts became unmistakably apparent:

  The Japanese casualties littering the alleged battlefield could be counted on one hand.

  Third Battalion was in hopeless disarray. It would take a day or longer to re-establish their position opposite Buna—provided the Japanese let them.

  The casualty count for 3rd Battalion boiled down to zero killed, zero wounded, and two missing.

  “The crocs probably got them,” Jock mumbled.

  Finally, Jock’s 1st Battalion, through no fault of their own, had suffered the worst. While they were rushing to aid 3rd Battalion—aid it was now obvious hadn’t been needed—the Japanese had reoccupied that choice position in the grove in force.

  Probably with fresh troops that landed last night, Jock feared.

  Able Company, with the help of the just-arrived Baker Company, tried to retake the grove. Both companies were exhausted before they began, Able from the night’s needless adventure, Baker from the all-night march from the plantation to rejoin the battalion. As the casualty reports began to trickle in, Jock ordered, “That’s enough. Call it off. Pull back and regroup.”

  With great disgust, he summed up the night’s action: “That was a big step backward.”

  As if the fiasco never happened, General Hartman found something else on which to vent his displeasure. Lining up Jock and Colonel Molloy in his sights, he began: “You both deliberately ignored my orders. Explain to me, Colonel Molloy, why only one of Major Miles’s four companies was where I ordered them to be?”

  “Three companies, General,” Molloy said. “There are only three companies in First Battalion.”

  “Why the hell is that, Colonel?”

  “Because his weapons company was decimated by a plane crash before it ever got here. Perhaps you recall, sir.”

  Hartman looked confused, as if this was all news to him. But he recovered his air of disapproval quickly. “Regardless, Colonel. Where were the other two companies?”

  Molloy replied, “Two are here, sir, and they did the bulk of the fighting last night. The third, Charlie Company, is still at the coast, near the plantation.”

  Hartman’s face turned a furious red. “And what the hell are they still doing there, Colonel?”

  “They’re holding that terrain until Eighty-Third Regiment relieves them,” Molloy said. “I believe that was your intent, sir, to protect our flank against the Japs reinforcing by sea.” He paused, hoping the logic of his statement would sink in, before adding, “Was it not?”

  General Hartman’s face grew slack as the feistiness drained out of him. He seemed struggling to remember something…

  His own words, probably, Jock thought as he watched the confrontation in silence. I think the old man’s losing it.

  Molloy asked, “By the way, sir, where is the Eighty-Third, anyway? We thought you said they’d be here yesterday.”

  “There’s been a small change of plans,” Hartman replied. “I’ve ordered them to secure Oro Bay. The engineers will be there within days to build the road to Buna.”

  He hesitated, sensing how inadequate his explanation seemed, before saying, “Didn’t my staff advise you?”

  “We’ve been pretty busy with the Japanese, sir,” Molloy replied. Making a great play of conciliation, he added, “Perhaps we overlooked the message.”

  Molloy knew differently, though, telling himself: There was no message, General, because neither you nor any member of your staff can find his ass with both hands.

  But news of the road sounded like a dream come true. In a hopeful, polite tone, Molloy asked, “And with this road, we can expect our artillery and armor support soon?”

  Sounding more like a naïve cheerleader than a division commander, Hartman replied, “You betcha, Colonel…and then we’ll really show those Japs something!”

  But the stern general in him quickly resurfaced, pushing the enthusiasm aside. In harsh, adult tones, Hartman said, “But you will not sit on your asses and wait for it to arrive, gentlemen. You will continue to attack the Japanese with everything you’ve got…”

  His voice faded. This time, at least, he didn’t add or die trying.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It had been four days since Jillian became the unwilling guest of the sickly Japanese detachment. Sister Benedicta was true to her word: the Japanese lieutenant had been persuaded to ease Jillian’s bonds. She was still bound by the neck to a tree, but the noose rope was looser now, allowing a foot or more of movement. Her hands were still bound behind her back, but not as strictly as before, helping to ease the ache in her shoulders and numbness in her hands. The ropes binding her arms to her torso were gone.

  She was allowed brief periods to deal with bodily functions. The long tail of the noose functioned as a leash; the soldier holding it would turn his back as one of the nuns helped Jillian, her hands still bound, through the process. On this particular toilet break, Sister Benedicta provided the assistance.

  The nun said, “I must ask you, when is your womanly time of month due? I’ve saved some wadding for you.”

  Jillian scowled; her period had been the last thing on her mind.

  “Why do you care?”

  “They must not know you are bleeding. In the primitive religion these savages practice, menstrual blood is considered poison.”

  Jillian smirked as she replied, “Oh, so they’re Christians, then.”

  “Do not make a joke of this, child,” the old nun said. “They will beat you…maybe kill you. We witnessed several young women from our mission killed by them in that way.”

  “Why? Just because they had their periods?”

  “Yes, and the Japanese found them handling their food.”

  Jillian mulled that over for a moment. Growing up around the missionaries at Weipa, she was used to religious hysteria…

  But right now, I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry.

  “All right then, Sister. If you must know, it was due last week. I’m usually regular as clockwork but—”

  “Oh, goodness,” Benedicta said as she hurriedly crossed herself. “Have you sinned with a man?”

  “I certainly have…but we were real careful.”

  “Perhaps not careful enough, dear girl.”

  Wanting desperately to change the subject, Jillian asked, “What if I just ran away right now? That tosser can hardly lift his rifle, let alone chase me.”

  “I’d ask you not to do that, Jillian,” Benedicta said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you escape when in our charge, they will kill us. That was the deal I had to make to help you.” Her brogue sounded as somber as a funeral march. “The Lord ha
s helped my sisters and me survive the captivity of these…these creatures. Don’t undo his good work so carelessly, I beg you.”

  Jillian had watched and marveled at how Sister Benedicta and her nuns were, slowly but surely, sickening the Japanese soldiers. She had been told of their cache of coconuts—well hidden beneath fallen fronds, empty and long drained of their sterile milk—which they repeatedly used to “cleanse” the wounds of the steadily deteriorating men.

  The milk in those coconuts wasn’t fresh; it wasn’t even milk—it was water from a nearby stream.

  Everyone who’d spent any time in this corner of the world knew never to drink or wash with water from the streams, creeks, and rivers of Papua. They were nature’s sewers, chock-full of disease-causing organisms.

  It can’t be much longer before these wankers are too weak to move.

  “But suppose I wasn’t in your charge,” Jillian said. “If you could somehow get my knife to me and—”

  “I’m afraid that’s a very dangerous undertaking, too, Jillian.”

  “All right…slip me something that’s sharp. Anything.”

  Benedicta nodded. “Perhaps I can manage that.”

  “And for God’s sake, Sister, you and the other nuns come with me. Once they’re too weak to catch food, you’ll starve.”

  Sister Benedicta shook her head. “We’re doing God’s work, child, and it’s not done yet. He will provide.”

  Pointing to the delirious Marcus Concavage, bound to a nearby tree, Benedicta asked, “What about the Yank? Would you take him, too?”

  “I don’t think that would work out, Sister.”

  It must’ve been hours since the sun went down; Jillian slumped against the base of the tree that was her prison. Concavage was babbling nonsense: something about his mother and the Christmas pudding he couldn’t have.

  That poor tosser is so off his nut. Could he possibly know it’s nearly Christmas?

  There was a soft swishing noise—the sound of a nun’s habit as she walked.

  Something was pressed into Jillian’s hand. It felt smooth and cool—and very sharp on its edge. Like a rock. Or a piece of glass.

  Out of the darkness, Sister Benedicta’s voice whispered, “I believe this is your chance, child. God bless and be with you.”

  It took a long, frustrating while to free her hands with the crude tool, and then just seconds to slip out of the noose. She’d watched the sun’s path every day of her captivity; she knew which way to walk to get back to the coast.

  I can’t be far from Oro Bay…but I don’t fancy stumbling for hours through the pitch black jungle, with all the goodies it has to offer: snakes, crocs, venomous spiders, wild pigs, falling into hidden ravines…maybe even more Japs. And I have nothing for a weapon…but what choice do I have?

  Maybe the Yanks will be there already.

  As she made her way, walking in circles became her biggest fear. She was relieved to find the rare break in the jungle canopy, allowing her to observe the stars and stay on course.

  Jillian had no idea how many hours she had walked when the sounds of vehicles rumbled out of the darkness. A few more minutes of walking and she heard the voices of Americans.

  “HELLO,” she called out. “I COULD USE SOME HELP, YANKS.”

  The surly reply: “OH YEAH? HOW ABOUT IDENTIFYING YOURSELF, LADY?”

  “My name is Jillian Forbes. I’m master of the motor vessel Esme.”

  “AND I’M THE FUCKING KING OF ENGLAND.”

  “NO YOU’RE NOT. YOU’RE SOME BLOODY YANK TOSSER WHO’S TOO STUPID EVEN FOR GUARD DUTY. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO CHALLENGE ME FOR THE PASSWORD, NUMBNUTS.”

  A hushed conversation ensued among the still-unseen Yanks.

  “YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE PASSWORD IS, DO YOU, YOU WANKERS?”

  A different voice spoke up: “JUST COME FORWARD WITH YOUR HANDS UP, LADY. NICE AND SLOW.”

  Jillian did as she was told and was soon surrounded by a squad of Yanks. Each of her arms firmly in the grasp of a GI, she was marched off, a prisoner once again. It didn’t take much walking until the waters of Oro Bay came into view, shaded in the soft light of dawn. Half a dozen freighters were at anchor, unloading their cargoes of men and materiel onto lighters and whaleboats. She knew all the ships on sight, including Beatrix Van Der Wegge’s Java Queen.

  She recognized the small boats, too: They were in the salvage heap at Milne Bay.

  Soon, Jillian was inside a tent, standing before a US Army colonel. He knew her name; he just wasn’t convinced she was the person attached to that name.

  “I told you,” Jillian said, “my papers went down with Andoom Clipper.”

  “Then how do I know you’re not a spy?” the colonel asked.

  Beatrix’s voice boomed from the tent’s entryway: “If you Yanks were any dumber, you’d need help dressing yourselves. Of course she’s Jillian Forbes. Who else could she be?” She threw an arm around Jillian and asked, “What happened, schatzi? Did you lose your boat?”

  Jillian told her story. As the telling came to a close, she asked, “I suppose you’ve found the bodies of those three lads from the survey team?”

  The colonel nodded, and then asked, “And their captain…you say the Japs have him?”

  “Yes, and he’s gone completely crackers.”

  “I see,” the colonel replied. “And these nuns? They’re…”

  He wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.

  Jillian helped him out: “They’re killing the Japs for you. Just slowly.”

  The colonel leveled a jaundiced eye and said, “Kind of odd that just you escaped, though. Why are you so lucky, Miss Forbes?”

  “Maybe because I’m not doing the Lord’s work, Colonel. Just MacArthur’s.”

  The colonel’s display of suspicion had finally ground to a halt; Jillian and Beatrix left the tent, triumphant. As they walked toward the beach, Beatrix said, “You gave us quite a scare, schatzi. Pity about your little boat, though…and your poor mechanic, too.”

  Jillian stopped walking and flopped down on a supply crate. “Hold on a minute,” she said, grasping her mid-section. “My stomach…something’s not right.”

  “Good lord, schatzi! You’re not preggers, are you?”

  The sudden wetness between Jillian’s thighs provided the answer. Her words came out like a sigh of relief: “Definitely not…but I’ll need to borrow some trousers from you. I’ve bloodied mine, I’m afraid.”

  Now it was Beatrix who breathed a sigh of relief. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is not to have that little problem anymore,” she said, wrapping her overshirt around Jillian’s lower body. “Actually, schatzi, I would have loved for that to have happened right in front of that idiot colonel, just to see the look on his face. Men can be so squeamish about these things.”

  When she stopped laughing, Jillian added, “I should count my lucky stars Aunt Flo’s visit held off until now. I’m told Japanese men can be a lot worse than squeamish.”

  A lighter slid up on the beach carrying a small tracked vehicle—a Bren Gun Carrier in Aussie parlance—armed with the machine gun for which it was named. The soldiers called them “tanks,” but Jillian wasn’t impressed. As they rumbled off a makeshift ramp onto shore, they didn’t seem to her like armored vehicles at all: They look like cheese boxes on treads.

  “I carried four of them this trip,” Beatrix said. The Aussies are going to drive them up to their lads fighting near Buna. If they manage not to break down, they’ll be there in a few hours.”

  Buna was all Jillian needed to hear. As soon as she was in fresh pants from Beatrix’s foot locker—a little too roomy but nothing a belt couldn’t handle—she quickly found the Aussie lieutenant in charge of the vehicles. “Do you think you could give a sheila a ride to Buna?” she asked. “I’ve got a Yank I’d like to see up there.”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” the lieutenant replied. “It could be a dangerous trip…and you’re not military.”

  Jillian could fee
l the blood rising to her face as she said, “Not military? I’m military enough to drive a boat that brings you and these bloody kiddie cars you call tanks to this hell hole…and I’ve tangled with the Japs a few times already without any help from you and your lot. So how about it, sport?”

  He didn’t doubt her determination. She looked ready to throw the first punch.

  The lieutenant gave a quick look around to ensure none of the brass were watching. Reluctantly, he said, “Well…all right. Climb in, ma’am.”

  Beatrix called after her, “Don’t stay too long, schatzi. We need Esme in the convoy again.”

  “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Jillian replied. She pointed to the sky and added, “Be careful, now. There’s nowhere to hide from the bloody Jap airplanes.”

  There was nowhere for the Japanese to hide from the American and Australian airplanes, either. Huddled in their bunkers, their bodies were safe from all but the improbable direct hit of the bombs.

  But their minds were not:

  The planes come day and night now

  Like an invasion of locusts

  Kill one, kill two…it makes no difference

  They are millions

  Every bomb blast shakes our squalid world like the earthquakes of home

  Pounding our souls flat like the blows of a thousand hammers

  Making us certain of our demise

  Shattering our courage to face this unwelcome inevitable

  The blasts come in clusters of ten, twenty…sometimes more

  Multiples of terror

  We are helpless

  We are hopeless

  A crowd of deaths—all different, all the same—argue over which will claim us

  The Japanese soldier closed his notebook. His only hope was someday someone might read it—and learn the truth.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  New and different sounds—unrecognizable at first—began to mix with the constant rumble of bombs dropping on Buna. Soon the sounds grew loud enough to be identified: the creak and growl of tracked vehicles. Men scrambled from the CP tent to have a look.