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

by William Peter Grasso

  The hatch cracked open.

  “YOU’RE TOO HIGH,” Hadley said. “ONE BUNKER’S ONLY THIRTY YARDS DEAD IN FRONT OF YOU.”

  The tank commander shouted back, “THERE’S MORE THAN ONE?”

  “THE OTHER ONE IS ABOUT TWENTY DEGREES LEFT AND A LITTLE FARTHER.”

  The tank’s main gun fired.

  Ducked down behind the turret, Hadley was disappointed: he hadn’t felt a bit of recoil.

  That gun feels a little on the weak side.

  If a mortar can’t crack one of those bunkers, how’s this peashooter going to do it?

  The main gun fired again.

  And again.

  Then the tank was moving, pivoting left slightly as the turret traversed in the same direction.

  “YOU’VE GOT IT NOW,” Hadley said. “I’M GETTING THE HELL OFF.”

  He slid from the tank to the ground.

  The first bunker was still intact—but it was smoldering and silent now.

  A platoon moved briskly to flank it and take it from behind. It only took seconds: three Japanese dead, one GI wounded.

  When Hadley found Lee Grossman again, Jock Miles was there, too.

  Jock asked, “How’s the tank holding up?”

  “So far, so good,” Grossman replied. “Looks like it could use a bigger gun, though.”

  “Yeah,” Jock replied, “I noticed that. Took six shots at damn near point-blank range to shut one up over in Baker Company…and even then, the bunker was still standing.”

  Hadley got his breath back and added, “Just so the sons of bitches inside get dazed for a minute, that’s all we need.”

  Pointing toward the tank, Jock said, “Come on, let’s see what’s going on over there.”

  They scrambled to join the fight for the second bunker. Halfway there, the fire became so intense they had to drop to their bellies and low crawl the rest of the way.

  The platoon sergeant facing that bunker told them, “That fucking thing gotta be made outta more than just dirt and wood…look!”

  The tank had advanced to just yards from the bunker’s front face, so close its machine gun couldn’t depress enough to shoot through the narrow firing ports.

  The main gun fired repeatedly—a dozen rounds in 10 seconds—and each shot resulted in nothing more than a cloud of dust and splinters as it glanced off the bunker’s sloped roof.

  “Sir,” Jock’s radio operator said, “I’ve got Regiment on the horn for you.”

  “Tell him to wait a minute,” Jock replied. “We’re a little busy here right now.”

  The Stuart’s engine revved like it was at the starting gate of a race.

  It lurched forward, its nose pointing skyward as it drove onto the bunker, until its chassis was perched nearly vertical, like a begging dog on its hind legs, its belly exposed to anyone on the far side.

  The bunker didn’t collapse; it didn’t even shudder.

  The platoon sergeant threw up his hands and said, “See? What’d I tell you? That fucking lump in the ground’s made of iron or somethi—”

  The shock wave came first.

  Then they saw the flash of orange flames shooting from beneath the tank and heard the WHOOMP of the shell’s impact.

  A second more and they heard the distant poom of the gun that fired it.

  High-octane gasoline began to flow from the Stuart like liquid fire, engulfing the bunker in its flames.

  Two Japanese soldiers, ablaze from head to toe, stumbled outside to be shot dead—perhaps mercifully—by a host of GIs.

  “Well,” Hadley said, “that’s one way to take out a bunker—drop a burning tank on it.”

  “We’ve got to get that crew out,” Jock said. He stood up and started to sprint toward the spreading inferno.

  He got to the commander’s hatch. It was already ajar, two arms clinging to its rim.

  Jock grabbed for the arms but Tom Hadley already had them in his grasp.

  “This thing’s going to cook off any second, sir,” Hadley said, with startling calmness. “Here…I’ve got these guys. You go up front and try and get the driver out.”

  “No…no good,” the tank commander mumbled. “All dead…”

  Tom Hadley was amazed how easy it was to lift the man out. He seemed light as a feather.

  Boy, I must be really pumping the old adrenaline. I’m strong as hell.

  Then he saw why the man was so light: both his legs were gone.

  Back down on the ground, they had no idea how they had gotten themselves and the legless man out of the flames.

  Or how they had done it so quickly.

  That speed had saved them: the second artillery round slammed into the tank’s thin, exposed underbelly.

  This time, the ammunition onboard did start to cook off, driving every man’s head back to the ground once again.

  Lee Grossman was already calling for fire from the battalion’s mortars. Between transmissions, he told Jock, “I was looking for that artillery when it fired the second time. Saw the flash. Gotta take him out before he does any more damage.”

  Thirty seconds later, they heard the dull crump of mortar rounds impacting.

  Binoculars still pressed to his eyes, Grossman said, “Yeah, that ought to do it.”

  Jock acknowledged Grossman with a nod; he was busy on his radio, finally able to have that conversation with Colonel Molloy at Regiment. While listening to the colonel, he watched as the medic shook his head and gently closed the tank commander’s eyes.

  The medic gave him a look that seemed to say, Nice rescue, sir, but…

  Then he hurried off, toward the sounds of wailing men he might actually be able to save.

  At first, Jock didn’t know why Grossman and Hadley were staring at him with those worried looks. Then he realized his hand was shaking.

  In fact, his whole body was shaking. All of a sudden, he was freezing cold, too.

  What the hell’s going on? Is this the fright just coming out now? Or…

  He realized what it was:

  Shit. Malaria.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Melvin Patchett couldn’t believe his eyes. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said to Jock, “but how the hell did you get malaria? You took your Atabrine real regular-like, didn’t you? You must’ve—you’re yellower than them Jap sons of bitches.”

  Jock shrugged, and then pulled the blanket tighter around his body. The chills were still with him.

  “I was pretty good about taking it, I thought,” Jock replied, “but Doc says it’s not one hundred percent effective. Just my damn luck…”

  “How high’s the fever running?”

  “Don’t know, Top. I haven’t had the fever part yet. But the chills haven’t been too awful…so maybe the fever won’t be, either.”

  “Let’s hope so, sir,” Patchett replied.

  They both knew it was the fever that would make all the difference. Some of their men were fighting the Japanese right now with fevers of 103 degrees. Jock and Patchett had set that reading as the cutoff: any higher, a man was usually too weak and useless, a danger to himself and his buddies. He’d be pulled off the line and sent to the aid station.

  “Do me a favor, Top…don’t mention I’m sick to anyone, not even Colonel Molloy.”

  Patchett grimaced. “A little late for that, sir.”

  Dick Molloy was approaching, only a few yards away. He’d heard every word of Jock’s last sentence.

  Molloy asked, “Don’t tell me what?”

  Then he saw Jock huddled in the blanket; he didn’t need an explanation.

  “Shit,” the colonel said, “you’ve got the bug, too. How bad?”

  “Doesn’t seem too bad so far, sir,” Jock replied.

  “That’s good, because I’ve got a couple of things to tell you. It’s not all good news, I’m afraid, Jock.”

  Patchett, not sure his presence was required, began to excuse himself. Molloy motioned for him to stay.

  “I’m relieving Colonel Vann,” Molloy
said. “He left a hole big enough for half the Japanese Army to slip through. Your battalion has done a great job so far, Jock, but because of Vann dropping the ball again, some of those Japs you pushed back squirted right out the other side. We could have had them all trapped in Buna Village and let the Air Force pound them to dust, but now we’ll have to fight them all over again. Worse, I’ve had to pull his lines back so his whole battalion doesn’t get enveloped and destroyed.”

  Patchett asked, “Who’s getting his job, sir?”

  “Rudy Sontag. Just arrived from Australia. He’s a damn good man. I think you both know him, right?”

  They nodded approvingly.

  Jock asked, “Anything we can do to help, sir?”

  “Just keep doing what you’re doing, Jock. Once all your units have moved through Buna Mission, consolidate your position on the far side and link up with Sontag on your left. Come tomorrow, we’ve got a tactical air unit moving into Dobodura airstrip. That’ll give us continuous air support from sunup to sundown. We’re going to get some Navy destroyers offshore by sunrise tomorrow, too. A naval shore group is coming up from Oro today to coordinate fire support.”

  Patchett whistled happily. “Them little five-inch guns on them boats will be better than nothing, even if it is swabbies doing the shooting,” he said. “Why’s the Navy suddenly so interested in coming way up here, sir?”

  “Seems they just scored some big victory over the Japs north of Rabaul,” Molloy replied. “The Solomon Sea isn’t the sole property of the Imperial Japanese Navy anymore.”

  They could tell the colonel had something else to say but he looked hesitant, as if he couldn’t find the words.

  Molloy finally pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and said, “I’ve got this message here from Oro Bay…I figure it’s meant for you. It’s from a lady by the name of Beatrix Van Der Wegge. She’s a freighter captain, I’m told. Do you know her?”

  “Yeah,” Jock replied, “I’ve heard the name. She sails with Jillian.”

  Words now failed Molloy completely. He handed over the sheet of paper.

  Jock read it silently.

  It was all there: how Jillian Forbes had personally led the fireship deception.

  In other words, she’d gone and done exactly what I begged her not to do.

  He couldn’t tell if he was shaking from the malaria or the terse, life-shattering finality of those last four words: She’s missing, presumed drowned.

  Jock handed the message to Patchett.

  After he read it, the sergeant major dismissed the message with a shake of his head. “Presumed my ass, sir,” he said. “No way that lady’s dead. She’s too damn clever…and too damn tough.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Night brought Jock’s fever. The first thermometer reading: 102.6 degrees.

  The medic started to say, “If it gets to over 103, he’s—” but Patchett cut him off.

  “We know the damn drill, Doc,” the sergeant major said as he gave the medic the bum’s rush out of the tent. “We wrote that rule, remember?”

  “He keeps mumbling something, too,” the medic added. “About some woman. If you ask me, he’s getting delirious.”

  “No one’s asking you nothing, son,” Patchett replied. “We’ll call you if we need you.”

  The medic gone, Patchett told Jock, “Try and get some shuteye, sir. I’ll be in the CP if you need me.”

  As the sergeant major vanished into the shadows, Jock could feel himself being sucked down into that vacuum of despair again.

  Does he really think I’m going to be able to sleep?

  How can I?

  It’s my fault.

  I told her not to go…

  No, I begged her not to go.

  She’s not dead.

  She can’t be dead.

  But if I really believed that, why do I have to tell myself over and over again?

  It might have been the heartbreak; it might have been the fever.

  Or maybe just the exhaustion they’d all lived with far too long.

  Whatever it was, he collapsed into the emptiness inside him…

  …and slept.

  Dawn broke to strange, new sounds: the faint and distant roar of American aircraft taking to the air at Double-Dare; the much closer CRUMP of naval shells landing in Buna Village.

  “Time to get up, Sleeping Beauty,” Patchett said as he gently shook Jock. “You’re gonna miss all the fun. How’s the fever doing?”

  Jock touched his hand to his forehead. “Feels like it’s gone.”

  “Good to hear, sir, because we’re fixing to carry you around like the Queen of Sheba if need be.”

  Struggling to focus, Jock asked, “Whose artillery is that?”

  “The Navy’s, sir. Lieutenant Pop’s already got their fire support team up and running. Ol’ Bogater Boudreau dragged those swabbie officers kicking and screaming right up to our front line. I tell you what…they weren’t too thrilled about that, not one li’l bit. He even told them they ain’t got a hair on their asses if they weren’t close enough to eyeball the targets. None of this we’re going to do it by sound shit. With all due respect, of course.”

  Jock had come around enough to visualize the scene Patchett described. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the Cajun corporal goading naval officers to risk their necks on land.

  Patchett continued, “The Navy’s gonna be done in a couple of minutes, then it’ll be the Air Force’s turn. We’ve got fire support coming out our asses all of a sudden.”

  “About fucking time,” Jock said. “Is that tank still running, too?”

  “Yeah. It’s still with Baker Company. That okay with you, sir?”

  “That’ll be fine, Top.”

  Then he thought of Jillian…and the agony of losing her returned.

  It took an entire day to fight their way into Buna Village. A rain squall in late morning had slowed things down considerably; the Air Force retreated to fairer skies, leaving only the guns of the Navy destroyers offshore to soften up what seemed a never-ending string of Japanese strong points.

  The air support—now flying from the nearby airstrip at Dobodura—could spend much more time pounding any given target before it was chased off by weather or the need to refuel and rearm. “They’re knocking the shit out of the Jap heavy weapons,” Jock told Colonel Molloy, “but the troops do what they always did—they go underground until the planes leave. We’re going to be digging them out of those holes for days.”

  “Good thing it’s a small village, then,” Molloy said. “What’s your battalion’s strength now, Jock?”

  “Going down at a pretty good clip, sir. We’re not really a battalion anymore…more like a very big company.”

  “I see,” Molloy replied. “How’re you holding up?” He hedged immediately, adding, “You know, being sick and all.”

  What Jock wanted to reply: Malaria is the least of my problems. I feel dead inside…and unless I find her again, I’ll probably feel this way for the rest of my life.

  Instead, he said, “I’ll be okay, sir.”

  Jock was sure the colonel saw through this flimsy optimism to the lie festering beneath. It was what he needed to hear, though; they both had too much to do—with too much at stake—to flounder in the truth right now.

  Later that evening, Tom Hadley and Bogater Boudreau asked to have a word. Jock knew it would be about Jillian; both had come to know her well during the ordeal on Cape York. Their respect and admiration for her was no secret.

  “We all feel real bad about Miss Forbes, sir,” Hadley said. “Hell, if it wasn’t for her, we’d have all been dead last year on the Cape…not to mention right now, here at Buna.”

  Boudreau added, “So we want to volunteer, sir.”

  “Volunteer? For what, Bogater?”

  “For the search party for Miss Forbes, sir,” Boudreau replied. “She must’ve swum to shore somewhere around here, after she got the Japs’ drawers all in a bunch with them firesh
ips.”

  Jock looked at the two earnest young men standing before him. Like Melvin Patchett, neither believed a little thing like being lost at sea could claim someone like Jillian. The doctrine of a combat commander loving his men had been a part of his being from his days at West Point. But he had never felt that love more strongly than at this moment.

  “I really appreciate that, guys,” Jock said. “You don’t know how much that means to me. But right now, I need you to do me an even bigger favor.”

  Hadley asked, “What’s that, sir?”

  “Just try to keep yourselves and your men alive, okay?”

  The Japanese soldier was curled into a mudhole barely big enough for his withered frame. He could hardly see the notebook page inches from his nose. What little light there was filtered through voids in the rubble heaped above to conceal the hole.

  He heard no American footsteps. It was time to put pen to paper.

  I write my final entry for the hundredth time

  From a shelter that may well be my grave

  We who are left behind are human booby-traps

  Hundreds of us…maybe thousands

  Snipers at point-blank range

  Picking off Americans

  Exhausted men, like me

  Whose thoughts seemed a million miles away

  I killed five today, an unseen assassin

  How am I still alive?

  Once, we fought from ingenious shelters

  Marvels of practical engineering

  Which could withstand all but the mightiest blow

  Now we fight crouched in puddles

  With only frail scraps above our heads

  While the airplanes fill the sky like flocks of birds

  Spreading their droppings of iron rain

  When I am out of bullets I am to flee

  But to where?

  We are cornered in a room full of enemies

  Some say they’ll save their last bullet for themselves

  I will save my last bullet for a man in a group

  At least I’ll take one more of them with me