The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “Oh, Christ…!” Thorne breathed softly, his stomach churning over the news. “What of Kanimbla…? Did she get in to collect them?”

  “Sunk in Ambon Bay,” came the sad reply with a shake of the head. “Hit by a massed air assault on arrival – they never even had a chance to dock.”

  “This is not good,” Thorne growled, shaking his head also. “We can’t let the Japs get hold of that bloody bomb! We need to bloody-well get Eileen out of there too: God knows what they’ll get out of her if she’s captured – her knowledge of engineering and weaponry alone would be enough to give them a dangerous edge.”

  “Not to mention the fact that she’s a friend,” Trumbull pointed out unnecessarily, receiving a faint grunt of acknowledgement from him.

  “Sounds like you fellas need a contingency plan pretty damn sharpish,” Murray observed with a shrug, thinking the whole thing completely obvious. “No point dragging your heels on it if you need to ‘rescue the girl and save the day’…”

  “I think I like this fellow,” Trumbull noted with a grin.

  “Said the same thing, myself,” Thorne agreed. “You’re dead right, too, Harry, but the question is how we do that. We don’t have any concrete information on the disposition of enemy forces at the moment, nor do we have any real plan to get them out of there.” He thought for a moment. “Sure, I could take the Lightning in and pick up Eileen alone – that’s probably easy enough – but I’d really rather not leave Evan and Mal behind, or leave that bloody bomb for ‘em either. I have no doubt the Japs will take Ambon, be it sooner or later, and before that happens, we need to at least destroy that thing if we can’t recover it. As soon as that island falls, those bastards will have it on the fastest ship out of there, you can bet on it.”

  “We’ll see what we can do about that,” Trumbull assured, “but right now we need to do everything we can to get Eileen and the others out of there. Granted, the Lightning’s probably not optimum as there’s only room for one, but we do have other possible options; perhaps a flying boat extraction at night, if we can get them somewhere safe enough. We’re assuming the worst though: with any luck, our boys and the Dutch will push them back into the sea.”

  “They won’t,” Thorne growled dismally with significant hindsight into what had happened on Ambon during the course of the Realtime war. “We need to at least get in contact with Eileen first and find out what their situation actually is…!”

  “We’ll keep trying to do exactly that, Max,” Alec assured as the Land Rover arrived outside the officer’s mess. “For now though, let’s get something to eat and we can talk some more before the colonel gets back from whatever errand’s been requested of him.”

  “He’s not going to forget what you did to him back there, sir,” Murray pointed out as all three men climbed from the vehicle and made their way up to the mess doors. “Not sayin’ for a moment he wasn’t asking for it: just a friendly warning from what I know of the bugger; that he tends to remember things like that for a long time.”

  “I should jolly-well hope so, colonel,” Trumbull replied with a smirk as he reached for the door handle. “I’d prefer not to have to put him in his place again…”

  “It’s the classy way he does it that I like,” Thorne observed with a grin of his own, winking at Murray as they all entered the mess in search of food.

  Ambon Island

  Dutch East Indies

  The bombardment had begun within minutes of the alarm being raised, the heavy cruiser Nachi steaming up and down the shoreline, five miles off Hutumori, as her batteries of 8-inch guns thundered time and time again. From where the three German officers stood on the bridge deck, the sound was almost unbearable even with their hands clamped firmly over their ears. A pall of smoke and dust hung over the distant beach, fires burning here and there where the explosions had set the trees afire, yet otherwise there was little resistance.

  Closer in to shore, at least a dozen transports lay at anchor with wide strips of netting hung over their sides to allow the exit of the troops they carried within. Low, flat-bottomed landing barges would pull in beside their hulls, take on a few dozen men at a time and surge away again, heading straight for shore as another barge powered in to take its place. Four thousand men would eventually disembark these ships; the bulk of the 228th Regiment.

  As the first of those barges reached the shoreline, a pair of lumbering LSTs accompanied them. Huge, towering vessels, they intentionally beached themselves, allowing the wide ‘clamshell’ doors in their bow to crank open and deploy their loading ramps. Light tanks roared out of their holds the moment those ramps hit the sand, each ship disgorging at least a dozen along with light trucks and several small utility vehicles.

  “I suspect it’s going to be rather unpleasant for the defenders once that lot get ashore,” Reuters observed coldly, staring out at the troopships through a large pair of binoculars. “I doubt they’ll know what hit them,” he added, handing the glasses across to Schiller.

  “There’s certainly a lot of them,” his aide agreed slowly, raising them to his eyes and taking a turn at observing the operation. Although too far for any real detail, he could see well enough to at least make out the individual soldiers clambering down the ships’ side nets into the barges below. As he watched, another thought struck him. “They’re all carrying maschinenpistolen,” he remarked slowly, noting the fact that almost every man leaving those ships had a small, black submachine gun slung across their back.

  “The wonders of our ‘mutual’ technological exchange,” Reuters shrugged with a wry smile. “They gave us their ship-building expertise and we give them the Uzi… among other things…”

  “Isn’t that a little ironic, giving them the design for an Israeli weapon?” Schiller ventured, keeping his tone intentionally light as his thoughts again turned to Rachael and the Holocaust.

  “Oh, that’s just business,” Reuters answered with a chuckle. “These bastards’ manufacturing capabilities are so bloody poor they wouldn’t have been able to handle something as complex as our MP2 in any reasonable numbers, so we gave them the simplest, most effective design we had.” He shrugged, mostly suppressing a grin that Schiller would later come to despise him for. “Now, if we had been using the Uzi…? That would be ironic…!”

  Albert Schiller mostly managed to withhold the angry sneer that struggled to force its way into across his features as his CO uttered those flippant words, choosing instead to turn back to the invasion and continue to stare out at the proceedings. Reuters also stared on, completely oblivious to the inner turmoil his aide was experiencing, although to his credit, Ritter, standing opposite, did pick up on the momentary change in body language and stared in surprise at the sudden coolness radiating from the man beside him.

  They were interrupted a few moments later as one of the ship’s officers approached, coming to attention before them and offering a crisp salute accompanied by several sentences in loud, lightning-fast Japanese.

  “I believe they have a transport prepared, if we wish to join the troops on shore,” Ritter translated with careful slowness as the others stared at him expectantly.

  “Excellent!” Reuters exclaimed, taking a step forward. “About time we were out there in the thick of it!”

  Another burst of Japanese followed, accompanied by a single step forward also from the officer with a raised hand to back it up.

  “He says that you are not to go, Mein Herr,” Ritter advised, working his way through the translation again. “He says that General Itō has ordered you remain aboard Nachi for the time being – for your safety.”

  “Outrageous…!” The Reichsmarschall snarled, not at all pleased about the idea of being force to remain behind. “Who does he think he’s talking to?”

  There was a short pause as Ritter discussed the situation with the officer and waited for an equally loud and equally firm response.

  “It appears he doesn’t care who he’s talking to…” Ritter observed, displaying as
little wry humour as he could manage. “His only interest is in following orders, and those orders are that you are to remain on board until such time as the situation on land is deemed secure.”

  “Outrageous…!” Reuters repeated in the indignant tones of someone generally accustomed to getting their own way most of the time. “Tokyo will hear of this!”

  “That’s as may be, sir, however I doubt they’ll hear of it today,” Ritter pointed out, “and this fellow is demanding we come with him now if we want to get to shore… he says the transport won’t wait…”

  “And how will I communicate with these little yellow bastards if you’re not here?”

  There was another short exchange in Japanese.

  “You speak English I believe, Mein Herr?”

  “Well enough,” Reuters conceded warily, reluctant to give ground.

  “He says that all of the senior officers on board speak English, if you need someone to translate,” Ritter explained. “He says any one of them will be happy to help if you need anything…” The pilot turned and fired words at the officer that were clearly intoned as a question. “He says that most Japanese learn it in secondary school and that for many years, their navy issued all commands in English, so most of the older officers speak it anyway.” He noted Reuters’ quizzical expression. “No, I don’t understand it either, but that’s what he’s telling me.”

  “Well, if they all speak bloody English here, what did I need you for in the first place?” Reuters growled under his breath, sounding rather petulant considering the situation. Ritter dismissed the remark as nothing more than it was, busy enough just translating to have no time for frivolities, although the already-angered Schiller took clear note of the manner in which the Reichsmarschall had spoken, raising a silent eyebrow in response and filing that away also for future reference.

  All the arguing in the world proved to be pointless however, and Kurt Reuters was left standing alone on that same bridge deck some minutes later as one of Nachi’s lighters roared away from the ship at high speed, carrying Ritter and Schiller and two of their accompanying bodyguards toward the distant beach.

  A single shell whirred overhead from somewhere inland, striking the water a few hundred yards beyond the cruiser and sending a geyser of water skyward. Four more followed quickly after, all closer, with the last actually landing a hit near the ship’s stern that sent a small cloud of debris into the air above a flash of fire and black smoke.

  “Ahh, yes,” he muttered darkly to no one in particular, “so glad I’m staying here… where it’s safe…”

  In truth, even he knew that what appeared to be a hit from light artillery would be unlikely to do any real damage to a heavily-armoured cruiser, and Nachi’s main guns were already answering with a salvo of their own, but the pointless complaint made him at least feel a little better, so in his mind the effort wasn’t entirely wasted.

  Papa… papa…! I want papa…!

  “Not now, damn you!” He hissed vehemently, tightening his grip on the railing to the point that his knuckles turned white. “Enough of this insanity…!”

  Yet the voice continued to plague his thoughts, continuing to echo through his mind for at least another half hour: the worst such incident he’d experienced in a very long time.

  Lead elements of the 228th were already pushing inland and advancing along the coast road to the north, having faced almost no resistance whatsoever on arrival. The landing site was a long, wide section of flat beach on either side of the small village of Hutumori, a native hamlet comprised mostly of bamboo huts thatched with palm leaves. Most of the locals had evacuated the area already, although there were nevertheless significant casualties from both the naval bombardment and at the hand of troops in the first wave of invaders.

  Most of the village was burning by the time the two Germans made their way up the beach, noting just a handful of dead Japanese soldiers lying about by comparison to the dozens of murdered villagers they subsequently encountered closer to the shattered township. Neither man was an expert in such matters, however it nevertheless quickly became clear that few of those deaths had been caused by shooting. Most of those killing blows appeared to have been inflicted either by sword or bayonet, something they were horrified to witness several times as their bodyguards followed them further inland with the second wave of invaders.

  Provided with basic combat webbing and water canteens, the two officers carried only their sidearms, although their escorts were at least armed with MP2 submachine guns that should be ample protection, should any threat arise.

  “Where are they going?” Ritter asked their guide – the same naval officer who’d come to collect them earlier aboard Nachi.

  “Inland…” the lieutenant answered with a matter-of-fact shrug, considering the whole thing to be rather obvious. “Half our main force is pushing toward Ambon town while the other half moves north along the coast toward Paso. Between them is the Dutch HQ, and we are going to cut them off. At the same time, we hope to secure the ship you have come for.”

  Ritter relayed that information back to Schiller and intended to ask more questions, however the man was already pushing ahead, sword in hand and eager to advance as he shouted orders this way and that. So far as the pilot could tell, he was mostly being ignored, but that didn’t seem to dampen his fervour as they pushed on into the jungle.

  Chaos had set in around the Ambon Township almost from the moment that warning had been received of the approaching invasion force. Expecting a landing from the north of the island, Kapitz had positioned a large proportion of his forces in across the upper reaches of the Hitu Peninsula, north of Paso and Laha, and he had immediately pulled most of those units back to defend Paso and the isthmus. Some of those units were then drawn even further south to Halong to defend Kapitz’s HQ.

  Communications and traffic of all kinds right along the south-eastern shore of Ambon Bay from Paso to Benteng had been chaotic as a result, a situation exacerbated dramatically by an increasing rush of native civilians heading north in search of a safe haven. That any such sanctuary might be fleeting at best was of little consequence – the invaders were approaching from one direction and all they cared about was heading in the other as fast as was humanly possible.

  Eileen, Lloyd and Langdale had attempted to remain at the Tan Tui hospital as long as possible. All three armed with assault rifles and ready to fight if necessary; the two men’s personal weaponry enhanced somewhat by each having ‘acquired’ a US-made M1A1 Bazooka, the stubby, disposable rocket launchers strapped securely to one side of each man’s combat pack. Efforts were being made organise transport for the wounded but none had so far been forthcoming, as any available vehicles had been commandeered to assist with the defences. As a result, both doctors had unfortunately been forced to devote more time to arguing with headquarters over a crackling, intermittent phone line than to the care of their patients.

  “This is a joke!” Watson snarled, inside his small office and slamming the phone back onto its cradle in disgust for the fourth time in half an hour. “A hundred wounded or more, some of them dying, and we can’t find one bloody truck to help get these poor buggers to safety!” That technically-speaking there was no safe place on the entire island at that point was largely irrelevant in his mind.

  As if to underline that point, a trio of Zeros howled past low overhead at that moment, raking the adjacent barracks lines with cannon fire. Watson paused to watch in horror as at least a dozen screaming wounded emerged from various exits about the structure, followed quickly by flames that leaped up through the dry, thatched roofs and began to spread quickly.

  “Heads up, doctor…” Eileen called sharply, appearing at his office doorway. “The MPs have arrived: they’re moving everyone up to Halong to more defensible positions.”

  “Halong is more defensible…?” Watson retorted with more than a little incredulity.

  “John, we need to go…” Eileen pressed urgently, the strain showing in her voice.
“…Now…!”

  The transport Watson had been demanding all morning arrived five minutes later: one battered old flat-bed Bedford lorry and an equally antiquated farm tractor towing a low, open trailer that was barely large enough to carry perhaps a dozen men lying down, if they weren’t too concerned about personal space.

  It took perhaps another half-hour to load the worst of the wounded into both vehicles, that desperate burst of activity interrupted several times by further aerial attacks and two shell strikes from offshore bombardment that were far too close for comfort, both of them obliterating more of the already-burning barracks buildings.

  “Oh, God, how many will be left at the other end?” Watson moaned softly under his breath as he watched the tractor pull away with the first load of the most severely wounded, their painful cries haunting him long after the sound had died away beneath the background rumble of gunfire and artillery from the other side of the peninsula.

  “More than if we leave them here…” Donelson pointed out, no happier about the situation than he but forced to accept it as by far the lesser of two evils.

  “All right, you lot!” A grizzled old sergeant called down from the driver’s seat of the remaining truck. “All aboard anyone who’s goin’…!”

  “Come on, Doctor… up intae the truck wi’ ye – they’ll need y’ with the patients at the other end.”

  “What will you do…?”

  “Brisk walk never hurt anyone,” she replied with a shrug, not bothering to mention that she had excelled at marathons and long distance running.

  “Nonsense,” Watson fired back with a frown. “I’ll not take a ride at the expense of a lady… not in this lifetime…”

  “If we piss about, John, there’ll be a lot of patients missing a doctor…” Eileen pointed out, choosing a mild use of less than ladylike language to illustrate the fact that she considered herself to be anything but. “You’ve also got your daughter to think of…” she added, glancing across to the waiting truck. “I’d say there’d be enough room in there for two more…”