Patchett gave Jock a curious glance and asked, “Still sucking up to the mucketymucks, eh, sir?”
“Get this,” Jock replied. “The general wanted a frontal assault on the bunkers.”
Patchett whistled like a bomb falling. “Well, fuck him and the jeep he rode in on. We’re smarter than that now.”
“Hey, Top…where did this tank come from, anyway?”
“A couple came up from Oro early this morning, sir. Supposed to be three, but one’s broken down already. They said they got orders to go to Eighty-Third Regiment down at Double-Dare, but they don’t have the faintest fucking idea where that is, so I made them a little deal.”
“What kind of deal, Top?”
“We’ll guard their fuel reserves—a deuce-and-a-half with drums full of aviation gas—and they’ll help us out. They’re real touchy about that gas getting appropriated, especially with that airstrip at Double-Dare opening up for business.”
“Who the hell is doing the guarding, Top? I thought we agreed every man not burning up with fever would be on the line in this attack.”
“And they are, sir…they are. Don’t you fret none. I’ve got some of those poor bastards from the Kapa Kapa doing the guard duty. They can do that job sitting on their sweet asses.”
Jock wished he had bitten his tongue; as usual, Patchett had the details covered. But there was one more question: “You said two tanks, Top. Where’s the other one?”
“I was just getting to that, sir. It’s in the plantation, with Able Company.”
Chapter Forty-One
It didn’t take long for Corporal Bogater Boudreau to decide he wanted nothing to do with the Stuart tank given to Able Company. “It draws too much fire, Lieutenant,” he told Theo Papadakis, “and it’s slowing me down. Y’all can hide behind it if you like, but I’m gonna go find me Sergeant Hadley. Catch up when you can…if that’s okay with you, sir.”
Papadakis was beginning to feel the same way about the tank. The sergeant in command seemed much too cautious, almost timid: He thinks there’s a fucking sniper in every tree in this plantation, waiting to drop a grenade on him. And these tight rows of trees make its path kind of predictable for an anti-tank gunner.
Still, it was nice to hide behind its comforting mass when the bullets were flying. The tank’s main gun—though relatively puny at 37 millimeters—was the most firepower they’d had at their disposal since the loan of the Aussie artillery. The two extra machine guns it carried were nice to have, too, scattering the Japs before them like a giant steel broom.
And these damn Japs keep popping up everywhere…like they’re crawling out of the ground five or six at a shot. It’s like a firing range at a lunatic asylum. At least we ain’t hit no fucking bunkers yet.
But the Stuart could only be one place at a time; Lieutenant Pop’s company was spread thin, advancing in a line almost 200 yards wide. Corporal Boudreau and his squad were well in front of that line.
“Remember,” Boudreau told his men, “Sergeant Hadley and his boys are firing Jap weapons now. Don’t get fooled by their sound and do something you’ll be real sorry about. We should be getting pretty close to them.”
Two troopers on the right flank of the squad were certain they were pretty close. Twenty yards in front, they heard a Nambu firing toward Buna Mission, opposite their direction of approach.
“It’s gotta be Hadley,” one of the GIs whispered. “Otherwise, they’d be firing at us, right?”
The other GI agreed. Together, they low-crawled forward until they came to what looked like a freshly dug trench.
They slid in, expecting to be greeted like saviors—and found themselves face to face with three skeletal Japanese.
The gaunt Americans didn’t look so great, either, but these Japanese might as well have been the walking dead.
The GIs tried to level their weapons—an M1 and a BAR—but they were too close.
Two of the Japanese soldiers already had iron grips on the muzzles, grappling them skyward despite the best struggle the GIs could muster.
These fucking Nips…they must weigh about forty pounds apiece. How can they be so fucking strong?
The panicked GIs fired several rounds, which streaked off to nowhere.
They were all locked in a struggle that would have appeared comical if it were not a matter of life and death: four men—exhausted and weakened by malarial fever before this joust even began—waltzing to and fro in the narrow trench to the rhythm of their mortal grunts.
The third Japanese soldier did his own hopping dance, trying to jab at the Americans from behind his comrades with a long bayonet.
But it wasn’t long enough. Its point couldn’t reach the GIs.
They danced on, for seconds that seemed endless, fueled only by adrenaline and the knowledge that to yield was to die.
The Nambu’s sudden silence, followed by those strange, random shots of the GIs’ weapons, caught Bogater Boudreau’s attention. He crawled as fast as he could in their direction.
His worst fear: some of his men had found Combat Team Hadley…and killed them.
His greatest hope: any other scenario which resulted in no Americans dead or wounded.
What he found lay somewhere in the middle: a situation still in flux, like watching a feeble tug-of-war between geriatrics.
Bogater put a stop to the dance: from only feet away, he dispatched the Japanese clinging to his men’s weapons with two shots from his Thompson.
The third Jap—the bayonet wielder—tried to run.
He’d only taken a few steps before Bogater’s third shot found him.
“Y’all can thank me later,” Boudreau told his panting, unnerved troopers. “Didn’t crap your pants, did you?”
They shook their heads.
“That’s real good. Now scoop up the Nambu and get moving. We ain’t there yet.”
A few moments more and they found Hadley. There was that same chatter of a Nambu as they approached, but this time Boudreau shouted the challenge word: Laramie.
Tom Hadley’s voice called back the password: Licorice.
Turning to the two GIs who had waltzed with the Japs, Boudreau said, “You see? That’s what the damn password’s for, zipperheads. Now get down here and give those Charlie Company mutts a breather.”
Boudreau’s squad jumped down into the trench. They found themselves on a catwalk of dead Japanese.
Another five minutes and Theo Papadakis joined them in Hadley’s trench. The Stuart idled 10 yards away.
Hadley, in awe of the metal monster, asked, “Where’d the tank come from?”
“The sergeant major gave it to us,” Lieutenant Pop replied. “He gave another one to Baker Company.”
Papadakis scanned Buna Mission with his binoculars. “So how do we get in there, First Sergeant?”
“I’m pretty sure there are no live bunkers on the beach side,” Hadley began, “just scattered Japs in holes and buildings. I’ve been calling in the mortars on every position I can see. Just keep doing that and you won’t have much trouble going in from this side.”
Hadley pointed farther inland, toward Charlie Company’s area of operation. “Charlie’s going to have it rougher,” Hadley continued. “They’ll be up against bunkers, I’m pretty sure. We’ve been taking fire from over there, and we can’t tell from exactly where. I’ve dropped mortars on them, but it didn’t shut them up. I think there’s a big open area, too. You see it? It’s too bright to be in trees like we are here. It’d be perfect terrain for a tank.”
Papadakis and Boudreau were thinking the same thing: Nice as it would be to keep that tank, Charlie Company needs it a whole lot more.
“Tom, I’m gonna give the tank to you guys,” Papadakis told Hadley. “It wouldn’t have a whole lot of room to maneuver on the beach, anyway. Tell Lieutenant Grossman that if I get in trouble, I might have to call for it back. But for now, it’s yours.”
Many loud clanks—every man’s head went down as machine gun rounds bounced of
f the Stuart.
“See, I told you,” Bogater Boudreau said. “You’d better be able to hide behind that damn thing because it draws fire like a son of a bitch. Better not be no anti-tank guns around here or the tankers’ asses are gonna get fried.”
First Battalion’s battle for Buna Mission was at full throttle, for better or worse. Able Company pushed in from the beach in the north, Charlie Company from the plantation in the east, Baker Company from the swamps in the south. They could only pray Colonel Vann’s 3rd Battalion was where it was supposed to be, covering the western flank.
The two tanks, hobbled as they were by terrain, were still making the difference everyone had hoped they would. The Stuart attacking with Baker Company dared not stray from the trail; it would promptly become mired in the muck of the swamp if it did. Protected from Japanese sappers by a squad of Lieutenant Colletti’s GIs, it had done well from the trail, though, rumbling to less than 50 yards from the first bunker and pelting it with 37-millimeter shells. Aiming at a firing port but never managing to put one through, it took six shots from the Stuart’s small-caliber main gun to partially collapse the bunker and pound it into silence.
Jock, with the rest of Baker Company, emerged from the swamp behind the bunker. “They’re not all dead,” Jock said, pointing at the dazed and battered Japanese stumbling out of its entryway.
Jock was right; most of the bunker’s complement were quite alive.
The deafening racket of gunfire erupted.
So did the screaming of men at the top of their lungs.
The gunfire was over in 10 seconds.
The screaming was not.
GIs still in the thrall of combat cursed their enemy.
The wounded begged for help in two different languages.
The dead stared with vacant eyes into a realm no one wished to visit.
But this bunker finally belonged to the Americans, who wondered in fear how many more like it would have to be taken.
The GIs didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
They were already drawing fire from another bunker.
Able Company raced along the groves rimming the beach and plunged into Buna Mission.
The terrifying noise, blinding smoke, and confusion of combat surrounded them as it had so many times before.
Kill or be killed once again became a doctrine not to be pondered but a mantra believed in with your heart and soul.
Rare was the GI not firing, hoping his refusal to participate in combat would somehow exempt him from its consequences.
You couldn’t hide behind a battle line when there wasn’t one—the enemy wasn’t just somewhere in the distance before you; he seemed to be all around.
Theo Papadakis’s one miscalculation: he forgot the mortars were almost two miles away. Once he called for fire over the walkie-talkie, his request relayed to the mortar section, and the rounds launched, it took over a minute for them to land on target—an eternity in close combat.
Caught in a murderous crossfire, he had to give up hard-won ground waiting for mortar rounds too long in coming.
That was my fuckup…and two good men died. I swear to God, I’ll never stick our necks out like that again.
They were deep in Buna Mission now, a very different but no less dangerous battlefield. Rickety buildings still amazingly intact stood amidst the rubble of those flattened by 5th Air Force.
Bogater Boudreau took a practical view: “At least when you pitch a grenade here, it don’t bounce off a tree and come right back at you.”
He tossed one right through a hut’s unshuttered window.
Its blast puffed fleeting clouds of dust and debris out every opening. The thatched roof fluttered like windblown hair.
The Japanese inside stopped shooting.
Motioning toward the hut, Boudreau tapped two GIs lying next to him and said, “It’s y’all’s turn…go finish them off.”
The troopers didn’t want to go. His voice trembling, one said, “You’re crazy, Cajun. You really like this shit, don’t you?”
“Don’t matter none if I like it or not. I got no choice…and neither do you.”
“But maybe the Japs in there are already dead.”
“Then they won’t mind you shooting them one little bit. Get your asses moving.”
Tom Hadley was surprised to find what he thought was an open field was actually an airstrip not long abandoned by the Japanese. Drums of oil and fuel lined a trench covered with camouflage netting. Salvaged aircraft parts littered the field’s periphery. There was a tattered windsock flying from a tall pole.
It made a perfect killing ground for machine guns, several of which opened up in an interlocking field of fire, crisscrossing the airstrip the moment the GIs appeared at its far end.
As most of Charlie Company sprawled on the ground for cover, a squad of GIs scrambled behind the Stuart as it rumbled toward the machine guns.
It was all over quickly. Two nests were wiped out, one blown to shreds by the tank’s 37-millimeter gun at 30 yards, the other by its machine guns at point-blank range.
If there were more Japanese machine gunners, they had fled by the time the rest of Charlie Company crossed the airfield.
The GIs needed a break. Lee Grossman figured half of them were running fevers. As they sagged into a ragged defensive perimeter, he worried they might never have the energy to get up again.
Everywhere he looked, though, men were breaking off chunks of D bar—those bitter blocks of chocolate designed strictly to provide calories for energy—and popping them into their mouths.
At least they’re giving it the old college try, Grossman told himself.
He’d seen troops that had thrown in the towel before.
His men hadn’t.
He pulled out his pocket notebook: I’ve got to make some notes for the after-action report—if I live long enough to write one.
It fell open to a reminder he had written earlier that morning. He smiled when he read it: Recommend Hadley for Medal of Honor.
Lieutenant Colonel Horace Vann was suffering through another malaria attack. The chill phase was upon him, teeth chattering, wrapped in a blanket despite the sweltering heat of his CP tent. He’d tried to focus on his battalion’s situation map but given up. His faltering concentration would only get worse when the chills passed and the fever kicked in.
A frantic staff captain burst into the tent. “Colonel,” he said, “I’ve just been told there’s a big gap in our lines.”
“Show me,” Vann replied, pointing to the map.
The captain hastily sketched a dismal picture: India and Love Companies had never established contact on their flanks, as were their orders. The resulting gap—rumored to be half a mile wide, maybe more—had become a causeway for Japanese fleeing 1st Battalion’s push from the east, squirting enemy troops toward Sanananda or even the mountains inland.
“As we know, sir,” the captain said, “the Japanese don’t run away. They regroup to counterattack.”
“Bullshit, Captain,” Colonel Vann replied. “They ran away from Port Moresby. They’ve run away from a lot of places. They’re not supermen…and they’re not suicidal.”
“But we’re supposed to be the blocking force, sir.” Pushing his finger into the map at the point of the gap, the captain added, “We’re supposed to be stopping exactly what’s happening right now.”
“So…get those companies to close the gap, Captain.”
“They tried, sir. They were beaten back…quite badly.”
Vann wrenched his face into a look of disgust. “They never did have any backbone. Make them try again.”
With great hesitation, the captain began, “Begging your pardon, sir…but many of your men are just as sick as you. I think this might be a time for you to make a command visit and…you know…influence the situation with your presence.”
For a brief moment, Vann was full of piss and vinegar as he replied, “OH, DO YOU REALLY, CAPTAIN?”
But that spark burne
d out as quickly as it had flared. Colonel Vann slumped back into his camp chair like a man too exhausted to care. He tucked the blanket tight under his chin and muttered, “Just leave me in peace and go do something, will you, Captain?”
Charlie Company’s break was over all too soon. They were up and moving forward again, leaving the abandoned Japanese airstrip behind.
They heard the gunfire and explosions from Buna Mission. Now, through the trees, they could see its buildings not far away.
Thinking out loud, Lee Grossman said, “It can’t be this easy.”
He was right.
The sound of machine gun fire seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.
The first rank of the lead platoon crumpled to the ground, mowed down like a bloody harvest.
Shit. Bunkers. One left, one right.
Where’s the fucking tank?
The Stuart wasn’t far behind. Its engine revved as it swerved through a row of trees.
The steady CLANK of bullets ricocheting off the metal beast was as unnerving to the GIs hugging the nearby ground as it was to the crew inside.
Lee Grossman and Tom Hadley, huddled behind a stout tree trunk, had figured out where the bunkers were.
The tank commander, buttoned up and half-blind in his turret, had not. His first shot from the main gun streaked above and past one of the bunkers.
He wasn’t answering Hadley’s radio calls, either.
“I’ve got to get him straightened out,” Hadley called to Grossman.
Sprinting like a madman, the first sergeant hopped on the tank’s rear deck. Huddled for cover against the turret, he saw why they’d lost radio communication:
The damn antenna’s shot off.
He reached over the top and banged on the hatch with the butt end of his Thompson.
The hatch didn’t open.
Can’t blame the guy…I could be a Jap sitting up here. Got to get his attention.
Maybe this’ll work…
He banged on the hatch with the Thompson again, but this time, he tapped out a rhythm: thunk-thunkthunkthunkthunk-thunk-thunk, to the tune shave and a haircut, two bits.
Operation Easy Street (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 3) Page 25
