“About fifty-fifty, sir.”
“Then you did way above average, Mike. Damn good job.”
“Damn right,” Patchett added.
“Thanks, sir,” McMillen replied. “I heard a rumor that when Third Battalion got hit the other night, only a handful of guys expended any ammo at all. I didn’t want that to happen in my platoon.”
Jock nodded in agreement. The rumor sounded just about right, based on what he’d seen at 3rd Battalion that night.
“I’m noticing something else, sir,” Patchett said. “This is the second time we’re seeing actual dead Japs…and this bunch is looking awful well fed, just like the first. These uniforms ain’t much wore out, neither.”
They all knew what that meant, but Patchett felt obliged to spell it out: “Them sounds we hear from the beach at night—wherever they’re coming from, they’re bringing fresh meat by the boatload. You don’t suppose His Majesty MacArthur finally got some intel right?”
“It would be about time,” Jock said. “It’s about time for something else, too. I’m putting Lieutenant Pop in for a Silver Star. If he hadn’t managed to call in the mortars—wounded like he was—we probably would’ve been overrun.”
“Damn right again, sir,” Patchett replied.
Something near the edge of the swamp caught Mike McMillen’s attention. “Ahh, shit,” he said. “Look at that fucking Jap. Where the hell was he hiding?”
Fifty yards away, a Japanese soldier—one leg mangled and useless—was trying to low-crawl away through the swamp grass. If he had a rifle with him, it was submerged in the swamp water.
“Berman,” McMillen yelled to a bespectacled private, “put that poor son of a bitch out of his misery.”
Hesitantly, Private Berman took a shot with his M1. It missed by several feet.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” McMillen said. “Never mind, four eyes. I’ll do it…before he gets away.”
Mike McMillen brought the Thompson’s stock to his shoulder and took aim.
“God forgive me,” he muttered, and let a short burst fly.
The man stopped crawling.
Without saying another word, McMillen walked toward his victim.
“Careful, Mike,” Patchett called after him. “Make sure he’s good and dead.”
“I know the drill, Sergeant Major.”
When he was 20 feet from the man—close enough to ensure the head shot wouldn’t miss—he fired one more time.
Then he turned—forgiven or not—and slowly walked back to the perimeter.
A runner approached and handed a report to Patchett. He scanned the page in silence.
Jock asked, “How bad, Top?”
“Real bad, sir. Able Company got hit worst. Ten killed, a dozen wounded, four of them evac cases.”
Patchett ran through Baker and Charlie Company’s casualty lists. Jock took some small comfort: those numbers could have been much worse.
Patchett flipped the page, read for a moment, and made a tsk-tsk sound.
“The Aussies got their clocks cleaned real good, too,” Patchett said. “Them Bren Gun carriers? Cross ’em off, just like we suspected.”
Then the sergeant major told his commander something he knew all too well:
“Technically, sir, this battalion ain’t anywhere near combat effective strength anymore. And this whole regiment certainly ain’t. Probably the whole damn division, neither.”
Trevor Shaw put down his book and patted the cushion next to him, beckoning Ginny Beech to join him on the villa’s veranda. Being MacArthur’s host and housekeeper were providing far greater challenges than either of them had imagined. They needed to grab moments of relaxation whenever they could.
From inside the house, they could hear MacArthur ranting.
“His majesty is in quite a snit,” Ginny said as she took a deep drag on her cigarette. “He’s worked up about the bloody wankers in Washington telling him what to do again.”
“And here I thought he was giving that poor bloke in there with him bloody hell,” Shaw said.
“Oh, no,” Ginny replied, “General Freidenburg hasn’t gotten a word in edgewise yet. I’m not sure he even knows why he’s here. Probably thought he was getting invited to Christmas dinner.”
Actually, General Robert Freidenburg had a pretty good idea why he was there. He had a map case full of his ideas for Operation Easy Street, ready to show MacArthur. But the supreme commander wasn’t ready to hear them quite yet. As his head tracked The Great Man pacing back and forth across the drawing room, Freidenburg felt like he was at a tennis match.
MacArthur suddenly stopped, turned to his guest, and said, “Do those fools in Washington really think they can tell MacArthur anything about how to run a war, Robert?”
A rhetorical question, for certain, Freidenburg told himself. I’ll just purse my lips and shake my head, like I’m agreeing with him. Surely, those stupid bastards in Washington know by now they can’t tell him a damn thing.
MacArthur continued, “I will not—repeat, will not—consider bypassing Buna, like George Marshall is suggesting, just to keep the casualty figures down to something they can stomach. I will not stop fighting until I raise the stars and stripes over Buna Village. They can’t have their war and not expect to spill some blood, too. Now show me what you’ve got, Robert.”
Freidenburg spread his maps across the table. “Our mistake,” he began, “was not realizing that the Japanese strong points at Buna, Gona, and Sanananda are essentially islands, with the sea on one side and swamps on the other. We need to stop treating their capture as if it’s a land attack and employ an amphibious assault.”
MacArthur said nothing, just stroked his chin as he studied the maps.
“Of course, sir,” Freidenburg continued, “we lack the transport equipment to stage an amphibious assault across vast swamps—we can’t truck the necessary boats over land. But we could certainly stage an amphibious assault from the sea.”
“But what of naval fire support, Robert? We can’t sail capital ships through those treacherous waters.”
“That’s very true, sir,” Freidenburg replied, “but do we really need capital ships? Corvettes, frigates, and all sorts of gunboats are already sailing as far west as Oro Bay. It’s only fifteen miles more to Buna and twenty-five to Gona. In conjunction with Fifth Air Force, those vessels can sail close to shore, giving us all the firepower and anti-aircraft cover an amphibious landing needs.”
“What about landing craft, Robert?”
“The Australians have retained quite a few from the Milne Bay landings, sir. Many of them are already at Oro Bay, being used as lighters to unload transport ships. Not enough to land an entire division in one wave—but when have we ever had that luxury?”
Deep in thought, MacArthur stepped away from the maps. He began pacing once again but more slowly this time. It didn’t take more than a minute for his eureka moment to strike.
“Robert,” the supreme commander said, “I’m placing you in command of Thirty-Second Division, effective immediately. Relieve Hartman and turn his fiasco around.”
Freidenburg fingered the three stars on his collar. “But, sir,” he said, “I’m a lieutenant general. It would be a demotion to command a division.”
“Nonsense, Robert. Not only will you command our Thirty-Second Division, I’m putting you in overall charge of the Aussies, as well. You will be the theater commander, in complete charge of Operation Easy Street. A job certainly befitting three stars. Who knows? Perhaps it will be the path to your fourth star.”
Or, Freidenburg thought, I’ll be your perfect scapegoat if this plan doesn’t succeed.
“I’ll arrange an airplane for you to leave within the hour,” MacArthur said. “You will personally hand-carry the orders relieving General Hartman of his command. For security reasons, I will not broadcast such information over radio channels.”
Salutes were exchanged and Freidenburg headed for the door.
“Good luck, Robert,” MacArthur sai
d. “I’ll bet you never expected to be taking supper at Buna tonight, did you?”
“No, sir, I certainly didn’t.” He wished his reply had sounded more enthusiastic.
“And Robert…one more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Hartman: take Buna, or don’t come back alive.”
Chapter Thirty
Jock and Colonel Molloy could tell their fate right away. When they stepped into the division CP tent—General Hartman’s headquarters—no one would look them in the eye.
“We’re getting shit-canned, Jock,” Molloy mumbled. “Merry Christmas, dammit.”
General Hartman got straight to the point. “Gentlemen, I’ll put it bluntly: MacArthur’s breathing down my neck for results, and I’m just not getting them from you. Colonel Molloy, I’m relieving you as commander of Eighty-First Regiment. Your XO will take over until a permanent replacement is decided on. You are to report to General MacArthur’s headquarters at Port Moresby for reassignment immediately.”
Dick Molloy said nothing; he remained braced at parade rest.
“Now, as for you, Major Miles,” Hartman continued, “I’m having you reassigned to Eighty-Second Regiment. Since that regiment is fighting with the Australians, I believe you’ll fit in there just fine, as fond of Aussies as you apparently are.”
Shit! Does anyone not know about me and Jillian?
Hartman asked, “Do either of you have any questions?”
They replied, “No, sir,” in near-perfect unison.
“Then you’re dismissed. Pack your bags, gentlemen.”
Dick Molloy was packed and ready for his drive to Fasari in less than an hour. The jeep driver assigned to take him was delighted: he’d have plenty of time at So Sorry to grab a hot Christmas meal at the airfield mess, a luxury the GIs stuck in Buna could only dream about. No doubt, the supply sergeants at the airfield, not wanting to waste a precious cubic foot of cargo transport, would want to fill his jeep with materiel for the trip back. They’d done that every trip he’d made, so far.
Maybe it’ll be stuff I can squirrel away and sell to some poor suckers.
They were driving on the coast trail only a few miles out of Buna when Colonel Molloy yelled, “STOP.”
“What’s the deal, sir?” the driver asked as he slammed on the brakes.
“There are men in the brush alongside the road, Corporal,” Molloy replied.
Gunning the engine, the driver threw the gearshift into reverse and said, “But they could be Japs! We gotta get the hell outta here!”
“They’re not Japs, Corporal. They’re GIs. Now stop…that’s an order.”
A man—an American soldier—stumbled onto the trail before them. Each step seemed an agonizing task. He collapsed to his knees and began to crawl toward the jeep.
Dick Molloy met him halfway. He tried to help the man to his feet but it was no use. He was little more than a skeleton draped in skin, which was hollowed and sunken everywhere there was no bone. His uniform was filthy and in tatters, his boots disintegrating about his feet. On his collar, he wore the gold leaf of a US Army major.
Molloy gently cupped the man’s unshaven chin, raised his head, and looked into his empty eyes. Somehow, despite all the severe changes in appearance, Dick Molloy recognized this man.
“Major Henson,” he said.
There was a glimmer of recognition in those empty eyes for a moment, and then Ralph Henson replied, his voice a tortured whisper, “Colonel…”
“Unbelievable,” Molloy said. “You men of Second Battalion made it off Kapa Kapa after all. How many are you, Ralph?”
Henson seemed to be searching the heavens for the answer before he said, “A hundred…give or take.”
My God, Dick Molloy thought. One hundred…out of the four hundred fine men who I sent on that trek. What a waste…I am the stupidest son of a bitch who ever wore this uniform.
In time, Colonel Molloy would remember their journey hadn’t been his idea: he’d been ordered to send a battalion over Kapa Kapa Trail.
He would mourn forever the loss of those 300 under his command nonetheless.
“Corporal,” Molloy called to his driver. “Empty all my gear out of the vehicle.”
Molloy began to load as many of the bedraggled troopers of 2nd Battalion as would fit into the jeep. When it could hold no more, he told the driver, “Take these men to the field hospital at Buna. I’ll stay here and round the rest up as they straggle in. Come back on the double with as many vehicles as you can find.”
“But sir,” the driver said, “wouldn’t it be better to take them to So Sorry?”
“Too far,” Molloy replied. “Take them to Buna.”
“But your orders, Colonel! You’re supposed to be—”
“Fuck the orders. Take them to Buna NOW, Corporal.”
The driver looked at the starving men—only inches from death—piled into the jeep. He began to feel guilty he’d wanted to make these starving suffer the much longer journey…just so he could snag a hot meal.
No—guilty was too kind a word. He felt like a piece of shit.
“Roger, sir,” the driver said. “I’ll be back in a flash.”
Lieutenant General Robert Freidenburg was on the ground at Fasari three hours after his meeting with MacArthur. The 25-mile-long road to Oro Bay was still under construction by Army engineers but usable. Good speed could be made along the road in dry weather, and it hadn’t rained yet today. The jeep carrying General Freidenburg made the trip in less than an hour.
“Your gunboat is ready, General,” Freidenburg was told as he arrived at Oro Bay, “but are you sure you don’t want to drive to Buna, sir? You can be there over the coast trail in about an hour. The boat will take three times as long.”
“Negative,” Freidenburg replied. “I need to see the overwater route for myself. Consider it a reconnaissance.”
The Australian crew of the gunboat—eight men with a leftenant in charge—seemed less than thrilled to be spending Christmas Day making this voyage into hostile waters. General Freidenburg tried to lay their fears to rest: “The aerial photos show no evidence of shore batteries at Buna. We’ll take a good look around for ourselves before I go ashore at Cape Sudest. An American unit will receive me there.”
None of the Aussies bothered to say their collective opinion out loud: Good luck, chum. Yank intelligence hasn’t been worth a bloody fart so far.
Once out of the general’s earshot, one enterprising seaman wanted to start a betting pool on whether they’d encounter Japanese coastal batteries or not. The wager was a non-starter: none of his fellow crewmen would bet against the gunfire. It didn’t matter to them what this Yank with the stars on his collar said.
The general found the motoring toward Buna quite congenial: plenty of sunshine, delightful sea breezes. The steady throb of the gunboat’s engines was comforting. Sailing less than a mile offshore, he scanned the beaches with binoculars and made copious notes.
“This looks like perfect terrain for amphibious landings,” Freidenburg told the boat’s skipper.
The leftenant replied, “Then how come nobody’s tried one yet, sir?”
“Call it a failure of imagination, young man,” Freidenburg said.
The general checked his map. “I’m estimating five minutes until we’re off Buna Mission. That puts us right—”
“BLOODY HELL,” the leftenant cried as he jammed the boat’s throttles full forward.
A string of rail-thin geysers—like the spurts of decorative fountains—stitched a path straight as an arrow across the water’s surface.
With one slight correction by the Japanese gunners on shore, the geysers zeroed in on the gunboat. They had her range now.
More guns joined in, throwing shells toward her in shallow arcs, slicing into her wooden hull like a team of skilled carpenters.
The leftenant swung the helm hard to starboard.
It only helped for a moment. The boat was quick
ly zeroed in once again.
“This isn’t small arms fire,” the leftenant yelled. “TWENTY MILLIMETER, AT LEAST. THEY’LL CUT US IN BLOODY HALF.”
He began to order his crew to return fire, but there was no point…
He had no crew anymore.
They—and the deck guns they manned—had been swept clean by Japanese shells into the sea.
The thuds, clanks, snaps and groans of the boat’s dissection drowned out her engine’s soothing throb.
General Freidenburg was still onboard, huddled behind the twisted steel of what had once been a gun mount. As the boat turned, he skittered on all fours to put the scant safety of the metal between him and the gunners on shore.
At least the bloody Yank knows how to take cover, the leftenant told himself.
He’d turned her 180 degrees now, gotten farther offshore…
But she was dying fast.
She’s shipping too much water…her engines will die any second.
And the Japanese gunners had found her range again.
The leftenant yelled to the general, “I’M GOING TO TRY AND PUT HER AGROUND NEAR CAPE SUDEST.”
Now low in the water, she’d sink without any further assistance from the Japanese…and soon.
The gunboat went under still a hundred yards from shore.
General Freidenburg and the leftenant, buoyed by life jackets, paddled to the beach. A handful of GIs met them in the low surf and pulled the exhausted and shaken men ashore.
“What’s your name, First Sergeant?” the general asked one of the soldiers holding him up.
“Hadley, sir. Thomas P.”
“What’s your unit, Sergeant Hadley?”
“Charlie Company, First of the Eighty-First, sir. I’m acting C.O.”
Freidenburg gave him a curious look and asked, “Why’s that, son? Where are all your officers?”
“They’re all dead or wounded but one, sir…and he’s got the shits real bad.”
“Hmm, I see.”
“Can I ask you something, sir?” Hadley said.
“Go ahead, son.”
“With all due respect, sir, what the hell were you trying to do out there in that boat? Didn’t the Air Force tell you Buna is a fortress? Anti-aircraft guns work pretty darned good against everything else, too. They sure cut that boat of yours to shreds.”
Operation Easy Street (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 3) Page 17
