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

by William Peter Grasso

  “Couldn’t be helped, son,” Freidenburg replied. “I needed to do a little recon.”

  The leftenant tried not to burst out in sardonic laughter as he thought, Or maybe you were just demonstrating a “failure of imagination,” you bloody tosser. “Couldn’t be helped,” my bloody arse. Tell that to my dead crew.

  One of Hadley’s men handed the general a canteen. He drank it down with gusto.

  “Well, Hadley, Thomas P.,” the general said, “You’ve done me a good turn. Now what can I do for you?”

  Hadley replied, “Well, for openers, sir, you can get us our battalion commander back. That might take a lump or two of coal out of our Christmas stockings.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  General Hartman looked at the orders General Freidenburg had just handed him and smiled. More than anything, he marveled at the economy of the English language:

  I’m relieved of my command: fired, sacked, shit-canned, kicked upstairs—whatever you wish to call it.

  At the same time, that same word has a different meaning: I’m relieved to be relieved.

  In fact, you can say I’m thrilled. This unholy donnybrook is out of my hands now.

  Robert Freidenburg found Hartman’s idiotic grin ridiculously inappropriate.

  Where’s this man’s sense of dignity? His military bearing?

  He wondered if the outgoing commander was of sound mind. All the more reason he needed an answer to a question vexing him ever since he washed up on shore:

  “General,” Freidenburg said, “I’ve been told you’ve just fired the commander of the Eighty-First as well as one of that regiment’s battalion commanders. I must ask you: why?”

  “Quite simple, sir…their performance was deficient.”

  The answer earned a harrumph from Freidenburg. That sounds odd coming from a man being fired for exactly the same failing, he thought.

  After giving a quick situation briefing—and a most superficial one at that—to the new division commander, Hartman was eager to depart. He wasn’t worried at the moment about the stigma that would undoubtedly be attached to his firing. He could taste the hot food and cold beer of Port Moresby already, perhaps even the safety and comfort of an Australian posting.

  The moment Hartman left the tent, Freidenburg told the division G1, “Rescind those relief orders for Molloy and Miles immediately. There’s going to be enough chaos around here…I don’t need multiple changes of subordinate commands going on at the same time, too.”

  “But sir,” the flustered colonel replied, “Colonel Molloy is probably back in Port Moresby already.”

  Freidenburg was about to say then get him back, when Dick Molloy walked into the Division CP.

  After salutes and introductions, Molloy said, “I have some surprising news, sir—Second Battalion of the Eighty-First has finally come off Kapa Kapa Trail…what’s left of it, anyway.”

  At 82nd Regiment HQ—an island of Yanks in the middle of the Australian Seventh Division HQ—a field telephone rang. The sergeant taking the call turned to Jock Miles and said, “Major…hope you didn’t unpack yet.”

  Jock wasn’t in the mood for beating around the bush. “Why, sergeant?” came from his mouth like a growl.

  “Because you’re going back to the Eighty-First, sir. Your orders just got rescinded.”

  Leaving should’ve been no problem at all. He hadn’t even met Colonel Triplett, the regimental commander, yet and had been assigned no duties in his command. It was only 12 miles back to his old unit; Jock would’ve walked it—even lugging all his gear—but nightfall would catch him before he was halfway there. Wandering around in the dark was a good way to get yourself shot. He needed a ride, but all of the Eighty-Second’s vehicles—scarce as they were—were busy at the moment. He flopped down on his pack outside the headquarters tent and laid in wait to snare a jeep.

  He didn’t remember dozing off. It seemed dreamlike, though, when something began tapping him on the shoulder rather firmly. When he opened his eyes to see what it was, a reflex shot through his body; he transitioned from repose to standing at attention in less than a heartbeat.

  An American bird colonel and an Aussie general hovered before him, looking less than amused.

  “You must be Major Miles,” the colonel said. “I’m Colonel Triplett. This gentleman to my right is General Vasey. Do you know who he is, Major?”

  “Yes, sir. He commands the Australian Seventh Division.”

  “Very good, Miles,” the colonel said. “Now I’ve just been told you won’t be staying with us. Damn shame, too…we could use replacement officers. But before you go, the general would like to pick your brain for a few moments…or will that cut into your beauty sleep?”

  Hmm, Jock thought, first he refers to me as a “replacement” officer, then the “beauty sleep” crack. I’m not a replacement—replacements are rookies and I ain’t a rookie. And everyone knows a smart soldier catches his sleep whenever he can. Keep the insults coming, Colonel. It’ll be a pleasure not working for you.

  Jock kept his annoyance to himself and replied, “I’m at your disposal, sir.”

  “The bunkers, Major,” General Vasey said. “They’re nothing like the defenses we defeated coming across Kokoda. These are some very tough nuts, and we haven’t cracked one yet. We hear you’ve had some success at taking them. Please share with us how you did it.”

  “I wouldn’t call what I’ve had success, sir,” Jock replied. “A platoon got behind one once and went in through the back door. Couldn’t hold on to it, though. The Japs counterattacked in force and kicked them out. The other time…well, that was just a fluke.”

  “What kind of fluke, Major?”

  “A plane did it, sir. It—”

  Growing impatient, Vasey interrupted, “You mean a plane bombed it?”

  “No, sir. I mean the plane crashed into it. The engine block went through that bunker like a hot knife through butter.”

  “I see,” said the general. “That way doesn’t seem bloody practical at all, does it?”

  Jock shook his head. “Without big guns or tanks, sir, those bunkers are still going to be here long after we’re dead and gone.”

  Colonel Triplett cast a disapproving glare Jock’s way. “That sounds a bit defeatist, Major. Not something I’d expect to hear from an American officer. With an attitude like that, you’ll never succeed in taking Buna.”

  Jock replied, “I really don’t think it’s a question of attitude, sir.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with the major,” the general said. “I can’t wait to hear how your General Freidenburg intends to proceed with this bloody cock-up, now that MacArthur’s made him my boss, too.”

  Vasey didn’t sound pleased with that turn of events. Not one bit.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, sir,” Colonel Triplett said. “Bob Freidenburg will have Easy Street straightened out in no time.”

  It was late the next day—the day after Christmas—when Jock finally got back to 1st Battalion. As he threw his gear down inside the CP tent, Melvin Patchett greeted him with a bemused smile: “Couldn’t find no work, I reckon?”

  “Afraid not,” Jock replied. “You’re still stuck with me, I guess.”

  “Worse things could happen, sir,” Patchett said as he shook Jock’s hand with genuine enthusiasm.

  “Have we seen anything of our new general yet, Top?”

  “Not since Hadley and his boys fished him out of the drink. But there’s a big briefing at Division for all you mucketymucks tomorrow at 0800.”

  “Is Colonel Molloy back yet?”

  “Actually, sir, the colonel didn’t get too far at all…and you ain’t never gonna believe who he brought back with him.”

  “I heard a rumor,” Jock replied. “He found Second Battalion, right?”

  “Yep, he sure did. About a hundred of ’em’s all that’s left. Seventy-five percent casualties and they never ran into even one Jap. Didn’t do the Aussies they were supposed to help a bit of goo
d, neither.” His voice dropped to just above a whisper as he added, “Damn shame. The ones who made it here look like they already got one foot in the grave. Another of The Great MacArthur’s master plans turned to shit.”

  Theo Papadakis limped into the tent, grinning from ear to ear. His wounded hand was concealed in a mitten of bandages. “Great to have you back, sir,” the Mad Greek said.

  “Theo!” Jock said, truly surprised to see his Able Company commander. “I figured you’d be at the hospital in Port Moresby by now, with nurses catering to your every whim.”

  “Nah, I’ll save that shit for the badly wounded, sir.”

  Jock gave him a good once-over: Lieutenant Pop was one tough son of a bitch, but at the moment, he looked anything but fit for combat duty.

  “I know what you’re thinking, sir,” Papadakis said, “but I can manage. Besides…my guys need me. You need me.” He held up his bandaged hand. “Don’t worry about this. It ain’t my shooting hand.”

  “But you’re beat up all over, Theo…your leg, your—”

  “I’m fine, sir…and a lot better off than Lee Grossman is. At least I can get off the crapper now and then. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta check my perimeter before it gets dark.”

  With Papadakis gone, Jock asked, “Grossman’s still here, too?”

  “Yep,” Patchett replied. “He insists he’s gonna be fit as a fiddle any day now. I can’t get rid of these officers of yours no how.”

  Patchett began briefing Jock on what he had missed the past two days. “Basically, sir, it don’t look like we’ll be doing much of anything until our new division commander gets his britches dried out.” Sweeping his hand across the local map, Patchett continued, “We’ve been using the time to harden our position—we strung out what little barbed wire we could get our hands on along likely avenues of approach, laid in some more mortar registration points across the battalion front, got our fields of fire marked right down to the last rifleman, and rigged a whole shitload of noisemakers. You can see them all marked on the map.”

  “Yeah…looks good, Top. How’s our sick call doing?”

  “About the same…a handful of new cases every day. Guys with malaria are, for the most part, going right back to duty, riding out the fevers and the chills as they come. Of course, they’re useless as tits on a bull during those times, but we ain’t got the transport to evacuate them, anyway. The Atabrine supply is getting pretty low, but Doc’s expecting a fresh shipment real soon.”

  Jock asked, “Are the men actually taking the Atabrine now?”

  “Most of ’em are, sir. They’re getting used to that yellow tinge it gives the skin.” Pointing to his own sallow face, he added, “I tell ’em it blends in with the jungle better, anyway.”

  “What about quinine, Top?”

  Patchett laughed. “Ain’t got none. Ain’t seen none.”

  Jock didn’t see anything funny in that. “So we’re still below combat strength,” he said, “and getting worse by the day.”

  “Affirmative, sir,” Patchett replied. He paused, and then added, “But we’re still in better shape than those poor bastards who come off the Kapa Kapa.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Japanese planes came just after midnight, twin-engined bombers droning high in the sky. They scattered their bombs far and wide with no precision, blasting barren swampland more often than any Allied position. It even appeared some of the bombs fell into the Japanese positions near the plantation and Buna Village. The only serious damage done to the Americans was on the airfield under construction at Dobodura: the longest runway—almost finished after laborious clearing and leveling by hand—was now pockmarked with bomb craters and useless. It would take a week or more of backbreaking work to make it right again. Until it was, no transport planes with supplies for Buna could use it; Fasari—some 40 miles away—would remain their closest suitable airfield.

  The night bombing served another purpose: it ensured all the Allied troops were wide awake when the Japanese ground attacks began a few minutes after the planes flew away.

  Sergeant Mike McMillen was surprised—and well pleased—to find every man in every fighting hole of 3rd Platoon firing his weapon. “Keep it up, you guys,” he’d tell the occupants of one hole before scurrying to the next.

  The company’s mortars were pumping a steady stream of shells toward the enemy. A few of those would be illumination rounds. Any second, their flares would pop, throwing harsh light and crazily dancing shadows across the battleground as they drifted down on tiny parachutes. When they did pop, McMillen figured he could get a fair estimate of how many attackers they faced:

  All you see is their motion..

  You get a second to count the ones in the open when they first get lit up. You’ll see their shapes plain as day—until they freeze.

  One or two of them, and it’s probably just a squad—or maybe just a few sappers—probing you for a weak spot.

  Four or five, it’s a platoon.

  More than that, you won’t be able to count them all before they stop moving and you lose them. You’re looking at a company—or better.

  Something seemed odd to McMillen about the sound of this fight: The wounded screaming their fucking heads off—it’s a lot more than usual...

  And most of the screaming seemed to be in Japanese.

  The flares popped. Mike McMillen could see what all the screaming was about:

  Japs caught in the barbed wire, getting their asses riddled. More than I can count…a lot more.

  Struggling to free themselves from the wire, they stayed in plain sight—their thrashing silhouettes backlit by the cruel beacons floating down—until bullets and mortar fragments finally ended their misery.

  Turkey shoot, McMillen told himself.

  At the company CP, Theo Papadakis was starting to get the same impression: This seems to be going a whole hell of a lot better for us than the last time they attacked.

  His mangled and bandaged hand hung at his side, a grim reminder of that night. In his other hand, he held his Thompson by its trigger grip, its butt against his hip.

  One of the field telephones rang. The voice from 2nd Platoon said: “We’ve lost contact with Baker Company on our right.”

  “Stand by,” Papadakis said. He put down his Thompson and cranked another phone—the one to Battalion—with his one good hand.

  “We’ve got Baker Company on the line right now, Lieutenant,” Melvin Patchett told him. “They’re saying they lost contact with you.”

  “I’m gonna check it out,” Papadakis replied. “I’ll be on the radio.”

  Thompson in hand, walkie-talkie slung over his shoulder, Theo Papadakis set out toward the break in the treeline marking the boundary between Able and Baker Companies.

  Fucking guys are probably five feet away from each other but too scared to know it, he hoped. They should be right around here…somewhere…

  Two fresh illumination rounds popped over the swamp, casting jiggling shadows through the trees before him.

  He thought the silhouettes popping in and out of those moving shadows were scrub.

  Then he remembered there was no scrub as tall as a man in this wooded position.

  The flare’s light hung still for a moment, long enough to catch the shape of the helmets…

  They were definitely not GIs—and they were maybe 30 feet away…

  There was no point in challenging with the password.

  He squeezed his trigger instead. He didn’t let go. The magazine was empty in two seconds.

  One silhouette was still standing.

  Theo Papadakis dropped to one knee, propped his Thompson against his bent leg and, with his good hand, pulled another magazine from its pouch.

  Then, with his bandaged hand supporting the weapon against his leg as best it could, he tried to ram the magazine home.

  The weapon slipped and fell to the ground.

  Out of the darkness, there was a sharp, metallic clack-clack—like a rifle
bolt being cycled…

  And then a single shot.

  Theo Papadakis felt nothing. He expected a flash of hot, searing pain as the force of the bullet’s impact knocked him back.

  But he hadn’t moved an inch. All he felt was the thup-thup of his heart pounding. All he heard were the sounds of the fight still raging far in front of him.

  His good hand found the Thompson and brought it back against his leg. This time, he rammed the magazine in and managed to pull the charging handle.

  In any other time, the reloading mishap would’ve seemed brief: it only took a few seconds to resolve. But in combat, those few seconds seemed like hours.

  And the silhouette was still there, unmoving…

  Definitely not shooting.

  Bogater Boudreau’s voice came from Lieutenant Pop’s left: “I’ve got it, Lieutenant. Don’t shoot me.”

  The flare’s light was fading fast, but Papadakis could make out another shape with a GI helmet—Boudreau, he was pretty sure—blend with that unmoving silhouette. Then they were both gone with a soft plop of an object hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  Bogater’s voice floated out of the darkness again: “His gear was just hung up on that tree, sir. Between you and me, we killed him at least twice. What’re you doing out here, anyway, banged up like you are?”

  “You guys said you lost Baker Company.”

  “Yeah…some damn fool over there tripped on the commo wire, sir. Pulled it right out the phone. It’s all fixed now. Don’t worry yourself none over it.”

  “Don’t worry myself none? Are you fucking kidding me, Bogater? Japs walked right through a gap in our line.”

  “Looks like we just fixed that, too, Lieutenant.”

  Charlie Company held the right flank of 1st Battalion; Charlie Company’s right flank was the Solomon Sea. They could hear the fight raging at Able and Baker Companies to their left, but so far they’d had no contact with the Japanese this night. Not so much as a stray gunshot came their way.