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

by William Peter Grasso

  On paper, elements of the 83rd Regiment—the unit guarding the coast trail from Fasari—were covering Charlie Company’s rear.

  In reality, Tom Hadley and his men knew better. The GIs covering the coast trail—soon to be the coast road—had grown quite fond of high-tailing it back to the relative comfort of Oro Bay each night, leaving nothing but weakly staffed listening posts behind.

  Tom Hadley had long ago decided his company would cover their own back door. He’d expressed his reason bluntly: “What’s an LP going to do for us when the Japs show up? Say goodbye as those long bayonets run them through, that’s what. That ain’t what I call protecting our rear.”

  He knew full well there was nothing stopping the Japanese from coming ashore in boats behind his company at any number of places along that 15-mile stretch of coast from Buna to Oro Bay. If they came that way, he had no intention of getting caught with his pants down.

  And if they came that way, it would be at night.

  That’s why he wasn’t surprised when one of the positions on the backside of the company’s perimeter called for illumination rounds. “Something clanged a couple of the noisemakers out there, Tom,” the voice on the field telephone said. “Let’s see what the hell it is.”

  At the battalion CP, Jock got the phone call from Hadley just as the first flare popped behind Charlie Company’s perimeter. The roar of gunfire filtered through the dense woods almost immediately.

  Jock asked, “How many Japs, Tom?”

  “Too many to count, sir,” was the reply.

  “Do you need help?”

  “I’ll get right back to you on that, sir.”

  It was nearly five anxious minutes before Tom Hadley was back on the line. By then, the shooting had died out all across 1st Battalion.

  “They’re either dead…or they ran away, sir,” Hadley reported. “Nobody’s screaming for mama or the medic, so I guess we’re all okay.”

  Melvin Patchett blew out a big sigh of relief. “If them reports stand the light of day,” he said, “we made it through a large-scale attack with just a couple of wounded and no dead. Didn’t give up an inch of ground, neither.”

  As his grease pencil screeched across the manpower status board, Patchett added, “I’m real pleased, sir. Our boys handled that real calm-like, and I believe they’re gonna be real proud of themselves when the sun comes up.”

  Jock nodded; he was thinking the same thing.

  “Hey, Top,” he said, “you think we just had ourselves a cat-list?”

  “Maybe so, sir,” the sergeant major replied. “Maybe so.”

  Morning broke and the casualty reports from last night’s action were confirmed: only a handful wounded in 1st Battalion, none seriously. There were no deaths. The Japanese they faced hadn’t been so lucky. Some 50 of them were dead, and the GIs were still counting.

  The morning brought more good news: for the first time since leaving Port Moresby, they had mail.

  “Best Christmas present we could give these boys is a letter from home,” Patchett said to Jock, “even if Christmas was two days ago.” Then he added, “You ready to head up to Division, sir? Don’t want to keep our new general waiting.”

  The morning’s good news stopped as soon as General Freidenburg opened his mouth. He sounded totally serious in his plan to throw an amphibious invasion at the Japanese stronghold of Buna. Dick Molloy was the only one of the three regimental commanders not too shy to voice his disbelief.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Molloy said, “but didn’t you just get blown out of the water off Buna?”

  “As I told you already, Colonel,” Freidenburg replied, “that was merely a reconnaissance…and it told me everything I needed to know.”

  General Vasey, the Aussie division commander, sneered at those words. Merely a reconnaissance, he told himself, that cost Australia a ship and her crew. Thank God their sacrifice was so helpful to this Yank wanker.

  Freidenburg continued, “When we stage our assault, it will include proper and effective suppression of enemy fire by sea and air…”

  The general paused. He could tell from the look on Colonel Molloy’s face he was not convinced. Plenty of other faces in the tent weren’t convinced, either.

  “Something you’d like to say, Colonel?” he asked.

  Molloy replied, “I was just wondering about this effective suppression you speak of, sir. The Air Force has been pounding the daylights out of the Japs ever since we got here, and it hasn’t done us a bit of good yet. As to naval gunfire, what caliber guns are we talking about, sir, if I might ask?”

  “We’ll have the use of several frigates, corvettes, and gunboats from both our Navy and the Australians,” Freidenburg said.

  “So the biggest guns we’re looking at are four inches…maybe five inches, tops?”

  “That’s correct, Colonel.”

  Trying to keep his voice calm, Molloy replied, “Sir, we’ve been firing Aussie artillery pieces of that caliber at the Japanese positions for two weeks now…and we haven’t made a dent in them yet. Shooting from boats isn’t going to make it any more effective…unless those boats are cruisers or battleships with guns twice that size. And from what I hear, the big ships aren’t interested in coming into these waters just yet.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the other officers. Robert Freidenburg got the distinct impression he was losing this crowd. But he was a general, by God—and generals always got their way. The blinding reflection off those three silver stars on his collar never failed to silence the most vocal of subordinates.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the general said, “there’s been much talk in Port Moresby about how your troops are demoralized and won’t fight. That’s because they’ve been led in a manner that is less than, shall we say, inspirational. We’re going to change all that—right here, right now. Nothing brings inspiration like a plan that’s truly different—and what could be more different than the failed strategy you’ve been employing than a dynamic amphibious assault?”

  He paused to read the faces of the silent men before him: They’re bending to my will—they have no choice, of course—but they’re not fully on board yet. I think it’s time to puff them up with some bullshit.

  General Freidenburg continued, “Speaking of inspiration, gentlemen, last night I witnessed something truly inspirational. The First of the Eighty-First did a positively crackerjack job against those Japanese probes…”

  “Probes?” Patchett whispered loud enough for Jock and Colonel Molloy to hear. “More like battalion-sized attacks, wouldn’t you say?”

  But the general was still talking: “And seeing the outstanding job that battalion did inspired me to make a decision. Major Miles, you and your men will have the honor of spearheading the amphibious assault on Buna.”

  That was the last thing Jock wanted to hear; he was sure his face showed it. But for some reason, Patchett had a big grin on his face. He leaned toward Jock and whispered, “The man can make an ass-screwing sound like the sweetest blow job you ever got, can’t he?”

  “Dammit, Top,” Jock said, “he’s watching us. Knock it off.”

  “That’s why I’m grinning like a fucking idiot, sir. He thinks I’m telling you how proud our outfit is to get shit on like this. Spearhead, my ass.”

  General Vasey had a question. “Sir, will my Australian troops be involved in these amphibious landings in any way?”

  “I’m afraid not, General,” Freidenburg replied. “We don’t have the boats for it.”

  General Vasey grinned broadly and made no attempt to hide it. That was the most inspirational thing he’d heard in a long time.

  Freidenburg wasn’t finished with the Aussie commander, though. “You and I will discuss the role of your Australians in the coming operation at the conclusion of this briefing,” he said.

  The briefing was turned over to the division staff officers—the G2, G3, and G4—responsible for the assault’s planning. It quickly degenerated into the usual
litany of half-baked estimates and wishful thinking. The only bright spot revealed: the amphibious assault couldn’t be scheduled any sooner than 10 days from now. It would take that long to gather enough assault boats at Oro Bay.

  “Plenty of time to whip your troopers into fighting shape,” the G3 assured everyone.

  “Happy Fucking New Year,” Patchett mumbled when the assault date of January 6, 1943, was announced.

  It was 1100 hours when the briefing finally lumbered to a close. Before dismissing his officers, General Freidenburg said, “Gentlemen, I have it on good authority that your previous division commander was told to take Buna, or die trying. I suspect he might have expressed that same mandate to all of you.”

  Nodding heads throughout the tent confirmed his suspicion.

  The general continued, “Well, I’m here to tell you…I don’t plan to try and I certainly don’t plan to die. I just plan to win.”

  As they walked from the HQ tent, Patchett muttered, “Now how fucking inspirational was that for a way to close a briefing?”

  General Vasey’s private talk with his new field commander, General Freidenburg, got off to a rocky start when Freidenburg, with complete sincerity, said, “George, I’m sorry your Aussies won’t be part of the amphibious assault.”

  “I’m not, General,” Vasey replied, “not in the least. We climbed over the bloody mountains to get here, pushing the Japs back the whole way, while you Yanks rode in leisurely and unopposed on your bloody airplanes. After all that mountaineering, we don’t need a bloody swim, too. You’re bloody welcome to it.”

  Freidenburg thought, Maybe that’s why they call him “Bloody George.” And here I thought it was because he was such a tough fighter.

  The American general bristled as he said, “Need I remind you, General, it’s those American planes that keep you supplied.”

  “And for that, we are most grateful to our generous ally,” Vasey replied. “But what we need most—tanks and more artillery, bigger artillery—your airplanes can’t provide. That can only come from the sea.”

  “And the American regiment fighting with you, General Vasey—the Eighty-Second. I trust you’re most grateful for them, too?”

  “Of course we are, sir…they make wonderful ammo mules and road guards. And they’re very happy to leave the actual fighting to us.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jock and Patchett had just made it back to their battalion CP when the sound of rifle fire pierced the quiet midday. It didn’t sound like a fight was in progress—more like a solitary soldier taking target practice, dispensing well-aimed rounds at a leisurely pace.

  “That’s an M1 doing the shooting,” Patchett said. “Sounds like it’s coming from over at Charlie Company.”

  More curious than alarmed, the two men headed off in that direction.

  When they came to the source of the gunfire, it took a moment to sort out what was going on.

  A weeping Private McCurdy was standing a few yards beyond the treeline that was Charlie Company’s perimeter, M1 in hand, in plain sight of any Japanese sniper who happened to be in range. Across a swampy clearing, tangled in the plantation treetops some 200 yards from McCurdy, was a decoration that hadn’t been there earlier that day: a Japanese fighter plane, upside down, its lifeless pilot dangling from the cockpit by one leg still trapped inside. McCurdy would take his time lining up the dead pilot in the rifle’s sights, wiping the tears from his eyes before squeezing off another round.

  His last shot had been a hit; the pilot’s body was still rocking back and forth like a pendulum.

  “First Jap son of a bitch I’ve actually seen in this shithole,” McCurdy announced as he pushed another clip into the M1, “even if he was dead from the git-go.” At the shooter’s feet was an ammo box still brimming with bullets.

  “I could do this shit all day,” he added.

  A dozen GIs from McCurdy’s platoon—men responsible for defending this sector of the perimeter—had left their positions and clustered like grenade bait, watching in aimless silence from a respectful distance. Tom Hadley, the acting company commander, was among them.

  “Sergeant Hadley,” Jock said, “stop that man from what he’s doing immediately. Get him back under cover before he gets his ass blown off.”

  “We tried, sir,” Hadley replied, “but he took a shot at Sergeant Matthews.”

  Matthews stood next to Hadley, looking none the worse for wear but with eyes full of anger. It seemed likely he would have already shot McCurdy if not for the continuing intervention of Tom Hadley. Now that their battalion commander and sergeant major were on the scene, no one except Private McCurdy was in a hurry to commit a court-martial offense.

  McCurdy popped off another shot at the Japanese pilot’s body.

  It missed.

  Patchett asked Hadley, “Ain’t that the lad who got all girly over some leeches on him about a week back? You were burning them off him, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Hadley replied. “Looks like he’s really gone off his rocker this time.”

  Jock asked, “Do you know what brought all this on, Sergeant Hadley?”

  “Mail call, sir. McCurdy just found out his wife had a baby. His sister sent the damn letter. Only trouble is, he isn’t the father. Even counting for the two months it took the letter to catch up with us—the baby couldn’t be his by about three months.”

  Before Patchett could say, You want me to handle this, sir? Jock was already striding straight for the shooter, who was lining up his next shot.

  But McCurdy heard the footsteps approaching from behind. He spun around, pointing the rifle straight at his battalion commander…and then he faltered, if just for an instant. You could see the uncertainty flash across his face: there was all this serious authority closing in on him.

  That gold leaf on his collar…

  McCurdy’s aim wavered. He knew he was already in deep trouble, but if he pulled the trigger now, he’d open the door to a whole new realm of retribution.

  But he didn’t care. He’d already made himself an easy target for the Japanese. He couldn’t see any difference in whose bullet ended his miserable life.

  In for a penny, in for a pound…

  The muzzle of the M1 rose, inches from the major’s heart…

  With a lightning-quick jerk of his hand, Jock snatched the M1 from McCurdy’s grasp.

  It happened so fast: the private’s trigger finger squeezed hard but the trigger was already gone.

  Jock’s voice sounded like the judgment of the heavens when he said, “We don’t desecrate the dead around here, Private. And we don’t shoot each other, either.”

  Grabbing McCurdy by the web gear, he disarmed him of his bayonet as he pulled the man back inside the perimeter. “Turn him over to the MPs at Division,” he told Hadley. “And get the rest of your men back in position right fucking now, before the Japs join us for lunch.” Turning to Patchett, he added, “Sergeant Major, a word in private?”

  They walked out of sight behind a thicket. Jock squatted, his back against a tree. He seemed to be gasping for breath.

  “You okay, sir?” Patchett asked. It was then he noticed Jock’s hands shaking.

  “I…I will be...in a minute, I think. Cover me, will you?”

  Melvin Patchett stood guard, watching as his commander passed through the three stages all sane men endure when conquering mortal danger: first, the decisive action that recognizes no fear; second—the stage Jock was in now—the sudden remembering you are mortal after all, and what you just succeeded in doing could have ended instead in a variety of tragedies. Soon would come the third stage: pushing as much as possible of what just happened from your mind so you can get on with the business at hand, knowing full well the memory had taken up permanent, life-altering residence in your psyche.

  Patchett waited the few moments it took for Jock to pass into that third stage before saying, “Well, I’m here to tell you, sir, they’re gonna be calling you B-B from now
on.”

  “B-B? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Brass balls, sir. I can hear ’em clanking together now, matter of fact.”

  “Cut it out, Top,” Jock said as he pulled himself to his feet. “C’mon…let’s find Hadley and have a word with him before we head back to the CP.”

  Hadley found them first. He asked, “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Sure, Tom. What is it?”

  “I just wanted to say, sir, that what you did…well, that was really impressive.”

  “No, Tom, it wasn’t impressive…just necessary. By the way, you did a pretty good job keeping that situation from getting too far out of hand.”

  Hadley shrugged and replied, “The way I figure it, sir, we had enough of our guys killing each other back on Cape York.”

  Jock and Patchett were halfway back to their CP before either man spoke; Hadley’s parting words had brought back some painful memories of the ordeal on the Cape. It was Patchett who finally broke the ice: “How do you want McCurdy’s charge sheet to read, sir?”

  “Make it so they’ve got no choice but to give him a Section Eight, Top. He doesn’t belong here…never did. But he doesn’t need to rot for the rest of his life in Leavenworth, either. Life’s dealt him a shitty enough hand already.”

  Patchett mulled that over for a few seconds before nodding with satisfaction. “Sounds good to me, sir,” he said. “But, you know, just before he saw you coming, I was pretty sure he was fixing to turn that weapon on hisself.”

  “Nah,” Jock replied, “he may be fucked up…but he ain’t that fucked up.”

  Patchett looked skeptical. “I don’t know, sir,” he said, “and I can still hear them balls clanking.”

  Over in 3rd Battalion—Colonel Vann’s command—two GIs had decided to become that fucked up. Posted to a stinking, water-logged, mosquito-infested hole that served as a listening post on the trail between Ango Corner and Buna Mission, the PFCs took the assignment as their golden opportunity: a guaranteed ticket out of this deadly tropical hell.