“No…not yet.”
“Then I’ll say it again, sir…First Sergeant Hadley saved all our asses. If he don’t get a big ol’ medal for that, then I don’t know what the heck a man has to do—short of dying—to get decorated around here.”
Decorations were the last thing on the minds of Tom Hadley and his detachment. The rain had brought no respite from attacks by Japanese desperate to dislodge them. So far, though, no Jap had gotten close enough to hurl a grenade their way.
The GI manning one of the captured machine guns said, “Those Nips ain’t so damn tough when they ain’t in them bunkers.” Raindrops sizzled on contact with the gun’s hot barrel as he struggled to reload. “Piece of Jap shit…shoots slower than my grandma and it takes forever to seat one of these damn magazines. Give me a belt-loading thirty cal any day.”
“You guys are doing just fine with those pieces of shit,” Hadley replied, gazing into Buna Mission with binoculars. “Hey…I think I see one of their mortar pits.”
He stopped to wipe the lenses dry and then took another look at his target.
“Shit,” Hadley said, “they’re fixing to hang one. You got line-of-sight on it?”
His eye squeezed against the mortar’s sight, the gunner replied, “No dice, Top.”
“All right then,” Hadley said, “use the plotting board. Azimuth three-two-zero, range five hundred.”
“We’ve only got three rounds left, Top,” the mortar section chief said.
“I can fucking count, Corporal. Let ’er rip…get them before they get us, okay?”
The gunner’s bloodshot eyes—strained, beyond tired—struggled to read the tiny numbers on the sight’s knobs as he set the firing data. “I swear,” he mumbled, “if I’m still alive when this is over, I’m gonna sleep for a week straight. I don’t care if they court-martial my ass, either.”
Bogater Boudreau would have cleaned up on his bet: they made it all the way inside Charlie Company’s perimeter without seeing any Japanese. Lieutenant Lee Grossman filled Jock in on the current situation.
Pointing west, Grossman said, “Hadley and his boys are a couple of hundred yards over that way. They’re shooting captured Jap weapons now and doing a hell of a lot of damage.”
Jock asked Grossman, “What about bunkers in Buna Mission?”
“Hadley says there doesn’t seem to be any between him and the Mission, sir. There are a few on the beach side, but they’re all burned up and don’t seem to be active.”
“Good,” Jock replied. “Here’s what’s going to happen: when the rain stops, the Air Force is going to bomb the hell out of Buna Mission and Buna Village. Then we’re going to move in from the east, while Third Battalion comes in along the Girua River from the west.”
Grossman seemed surprised: “You mean Third Battalion’s actually going to do something constructive? That’d be a first.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Jock replied. “To continue, I’m going to have Able Company pass through your position here, Lee, and attack Buna Mission from the beach side. They’ll be the ones to relieve Hadley, who can then join back up with you. Your company will attack straight ahead, while Baker Company will hook around and advance up Ango Trail to attack the southeast corner. They’ll come up against bunkers, but I’ve got an idea how to get around them.”
Grossman asked, “Are we getting any artillery support, sir?”
“Afraid not, Lee…but we’re going to put all the battalion’s mortars behind Baker Company—in open swamp country—where they’ll have good fields of fire.”
“Better than nothing, I guess,” Grossman replied.
Jock turned to Bogater Boudreau. “Now, Corporal…you just walked the best route to get here and you know where First Sergeant Hadley’s outpost is. I’ll expect you to be Able Company’s guide. Lieutenant Pop will be depending on you.”
Boudreau replied, “Ain’t no step for a stepper, sir.”
It was mid-afternoon before Jock got back to his battalion’s forward CP. The rain hadn’t let up a bit. The makeshift CP was situated beneath a ground sheet strung between trees to keep out the rain. In the fierce downpour, though, the ground sheet had become a rain collector, about to collapse any second from the sheer weight of water. Three GIs were struggling to drain the cover and restore its slope so it wouldn’t fill up again. They weren’t having much luck; one field radio had already been doused with the runoff. Until the radio operators got a chance to dry it out, it would be as useless as if it had been thrown in a lake.
“You boys could fuck up a wet dream,” Melvin Patchett fumed as he stepped in to provide direction to their hapless efforts. Pointing to the tallest of the GIs, he continued, “You, Stretch…poke the tarp right here with your rifle butt…”
When Patchett jerked his arms upward to lend a hand, the sleeves of his sodden, mildewed fatigue shirt separated at the shoulders. In a burst of rage, he ripped the sleeves clean off.
“Don’t sweat it, Sergeant Major,” Jock said, rubbing his hands over the many tears in his own sopping-wet uniform. “You’re still the best-dressed son of a bitch in the outfit. And you can always draw the stripes on your bare arms with a grease pencil.”
Patchett replied, “With all due respect, sir, that ain’t fucking funny. Not a damn bit. It ain’t bad enough them flyboys get their three hots and a cot, but I’m betting they get a new suit of clothes the minute a button pops off, too. At the rate we’re going, them natives in their jock straps gonna be wearing more than us dogfaces real soon.”
One of the radio operators handed Jock a message from Regiment. Its contents didn’t seem to impress him at all.
As if a switch was thrown, Patchett was all business again: “So what’s it say, sir?”
“It says we’re to consolidate and hold our positions.”
“Shit,” Patchett scoffed, “you already had us doing that last night. You’re way ahead of them brass hats, as usual, sir.”
Java Queen, with her load of three Stuart tanks, was only a few miles from dropping anchor in Oro Bay when the tug, Mieke, making good speed back to Milne Bay, passed in the opposite direction. Beatrix Van Der Wegge scanned her cousin’s vessel with binoculars: there was no sign of Jillian on board.
She grabbed the blinker light and flashed a message: Where is Jillian?
From Mieke’s bridge, the answer flashed back: Missing. Presumed drowned.
Chapter Forty
The next sunrise brought clear skies—and the bombers of 5th Air Force. Jock and his men listened as they approached, encouraged and excited by what sounded like an aerial armada about to deal the first punch in their assault on Buna.
“Don’t get your hopes up too much until you see where them eggs land,” Melvin Patchett said. “We been down this road a few times already.” The fact that the men of his command were close to the target area—in some cases, as little as a few hundred yards close—did little to bolster his confidence. He’d been on the receiving end of errant American bombs before.
“But it’s a perfectly clear day, Sergeant Major,” Lieutenant Tony Colletti, Baker Company’s commander, said. “How the hell can they miss?”
Patchett’s tight-lipped smile was his silent but respectful way of telling an officer exactly what he thought: You dumb fuck. You got yourself a shitload to learn yet.
In First Sergeant Hadley’s position—the closest to the target area—he and his men burrowed deep into their fighting holes as the rumbling of aircraft engines grew louder. Tom Hadley peeked out from under the rim of his helmet just as the bombs began their plummet to the ground.
SHIT! They’re going to land right on top of us!
He dropped to the bottom of the hole, yanking the helmet tight against his head. Right now, he wished his whole body could fit inside that steel pot.
The string of bombs landed, one right after the other, a series of explosions Hadley could only describe as the footsteps of a giant on a double-time march.
With each explosion, the gr
ound in which the GIs lay shook as if attached to the planet by the thinnest of threads.
The sound of the impacts—those giant’s footsteps—got closer and closer…
And then they stopped. The only sounds now were the distant whoomps of bombs impacting in Buna Village—and the pounding of their hearts.
Gingerly, Hadley and his men patted themselves all over.
They were all okay; Close…but no cigar.
But what about the Japanese?
Hadley slowly raised his head over the edge of the hole and brought the binoculars to his eyes.
“For fuck’s sake,” he said, “they tore the hell out of the beach, and that’s about it. If anyone was taking a morning swim, they’re dead about ten times over.”
But the Japanese facing them in Buna Mission were still very much alive as they scurried from deep cover to man fighting positions once again.
“All right, guys,” Hadley said, “be real careful now. Lieutenant Pop and his bunch are going to be coming soon. Let’s try to shoot only the Japs, okay?”
Tony Colletti’s Baker Company watched the bombing as they lay poised along Ango Trail. Much to their surprise, one bomb—at long last—scored a direct hit on a Japanese bunker, blowing it to smithereens.
For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, they had something to cheer about.
But after that brief celebration, it was time to get moving and launch their attack into the teeth of the remaining bunkers.
I need to be here with Colletti’s company, Jock told himself. He had known that since the inception of this plan. Baker Company’s roll would be the most difficult part of 1st Battalion’s attack—and the most fragile.
But something was wrong right off the bat: along the trail, a platoon of GIs—not from Jock’s battalion—had several dozen natives kneeling in a line, hands on head…
Like prisoners condemned to death.
A cocky sergeant strolled casually behind the line, laughing as he pressed the muzzle of his Thompson against the neck of each native in turn without pulling the trigger.
Standing to the side, a cluster of native women and children, all bewildered and crying, were being held at bay by American soldiers.
A young officer was in charge. Jock asked him, “What the fuck is going on here, Lieutenant?”
“We caught these Jap sympathizers manning one of the bunkers, sir,” the lieutenant replied.
“What’s your name, Lieutenant?”
“Lundsford, sir. James W.”
“What on earth makes you think they’re sympathizers, Lieutenant Lundsford?”
Before he could answer, one of Colletti’s sergeants emerged from the bunker in question. “We cleaned this line of bunkers out yesterday, sir,” the sergeant said. “There ain’t a fucking weapon in there.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure they shot at us, sir,” Lundsford said, as if trying to convince himself. “They must have thrown the weapons in the swamp.”
Colletti’s men were muttering the same thing Jock was thinking: “Bullshit.”
Jock asked, “What unit are you from, Lieutenant?”
“Love Company, sir…Third of the Eighty-First.”
“You’re Colonel Vann’s men, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Figures. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do, Lieutenant. First, release these people—”
“But sir, they must have been working for the Japs.”
“And now they work for us. Do it now, Lieutenant.”
Within seconds, the natives were on their feet, scurrying away from Buna as fast as they could.
“Very good,” Jock said. “Now, you realize you’re in the wrong place, don’t you? Your battalion’s boundary is Girua River.”
The lieutenant looked confused. He pulled a map from inside his helmet and began to fumble with it.
Jock pointed west. “Don’t bother, Lieutenant. It’s that way, a good couple of hundred yards. I suggest you get over there immediately. They’re probably wondering where the hell you are.”
With Lundsford and his platoon gone, Jock settled into a secluded grove with Colletti’s men. They needed to review the attack plan one last time.
“Through the swamp, fellows,” Jock said, “it’s the only way. While Third Platoon bluffs a frontal attack, the rest of us slide in through the wetlands and get behind the bunkers. When the Japs see us there—and they will see us—at least some of them will have to come out into the open and engage…”
Tony Colletti picked it up from there: “That’s when we tell the mortars to let ’em have it.”
“Exactly,” Jock said. “Once we’re behind the bunkers, you all know the drill…”
Jock paused, distracted by the sound of a jeep coming up the trail. A GI on the perimeter sounded the warning: Big brass on the way.
The jeep came to a halt just feet from Jock’s briefing site. General Freidenburg stepped out.
So much for our concealed location, Jock told himself, cursing the sound of the jeep’s engine. Now every fucking Jap in Buna knows there’s something to shoot at here.
General Freidenburg stood in the middle of the trail, glistening stars and all, as if waiting for someone to salute him. Dozens of men would have been glad to offer that salute, if only it wouldn’t make them a target for the snipers, too.
“Better step over here, sir.” Jock urged the general toward the shelter of the trees. “This is a pretty hot area.”
Freidenburg didn’t move an inch, but the two staff officers riding with him—both colonels—inched steadily toward the cover of the trees. The general asked, “You’re Miles, aren’t you, Major?”
“Yes, sir. First of the Eighty-First C.O.”
“I thought so. What are you waiting for, Major Miles? The air bombardment is over. Move your men up this trail on the double.”
Up this trail—and become fodder for the bunkers’ machine guns.
Half the company heard the general’s order. Whatever hope the weak and weary GIs had held of surviving to see tomorrow was collapsing like a house of cards.
But then there was a most surprising and unlikely reshuffle of the deck. Unlike anything they had heard before in their military life, their battalion commander replied, “Negative, sir. We’re not going to frontally assault bunkers. We learned that lesson a long time ago. We’re going around them, through the swamp, and attack them from behind.”
The GIs could not believe their ears. Sure, they’d heard men balk at orders before, but the man giving the order had usually been just a sergeant; the man resisting the order did it with the knowledge he was about to experience the full wrath of discipline that sergeant could cook up, be it guard duty, KP, or a trip behind the barracks to be beaten to a pulp.
But this was different—much different. They’d never seen an officer’s order—much less a general’s—refused by anyone, let alone another officer.
They had no idea where this standoff was going.
But Jock did. The cat was out of the bag now—and his mind was made up: as long as he was in command of this battalion, not one more man would be offered up to the slaughter of the bunkers.
If the general wants another frontal attack, he’ll have to find someone stupid enough to lead it.
He fully expected the next words from General Freidenburg’s mouth would be the ones relieving him of command.
But the general said nothing. He just kept glaring at Jock, as if waiting for him to crack—to come to his senses—and follow orders like a good soldier.
Jock said nothing, either. For the soldiers watching, the motionless silence of the two men became awkward and then frightening. The GIs were the pawns in this unlikely chess match, one in which the general had all the moves.
It would be checkmate, Major Miles any second, they were sure…
As soon as somebody said something.
That somebody was the general. He broke his glare at Jock, swept contemptuous eyes across the anxious troops, an
d said, “You’re just yellow, Major, and I don’t mean from the Atabrine, either.”
Jock didn’t reply. He betrayed no emotion at all.
But the GIs started to grumble; they didn’t agree with the general’s assessment.
They knew better.
“The Japs aren’t near as tough as all you men think they are,” Freidenburg said. “I’m betting there’s no serious threat here. I’ll decorate the first man who’ll walk fifty yards down this trail toward Buna Village.”
There were no volunteers.
“Some of us already got decorations, sir,” a GI said. “They’re called Purple Hearts, and we ain’t begging for another one.”
The general spit on the ground in disgust. “Like I said…you’re yellow.”
Then Jock said, “I’ll tell you what, sir, I’ll walk down that trail…if one of your staff officers would be kind enough to accompany me.”
Freidenburg’s two staff colonels were trying to make themselves invisible behind some trees. Neither was about to volunteer for anything.
“Well, I’m not seeing any takers, sir,” Jock said, “so I’m guessing—”
His words were cut off by a rumble-clank-clatter of heavy machinery approaching. Everyone turned to see the olive drab outline of a Stuart tank, its treads throwing clods of mud into the air behind it as it chewed its way up the trail.
There was a man riding on top, standing behind the turret. Even from this distance, they could tell it was Sergeant Major Patchett.
The Stuart rattled to a stop beside the general’s jeep. Patchett jumped down and said, “It followed me home, Daddy…can I keep it?”
General Freidenburg seemed annoyed by the tank’s arrival.
“All right, then, Major,” the general said, “maybe this is what you need to jack your courage up. All you people have been bellyaching about armor support ever since I got here. Well, here it is. Impress me.”
The general and his colonels hopped in the jeep and made their escape down the trail toward Double-Dare.
Operation Easy Street (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 3) Page 24
