Operation Fishwrapper (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 5)

by William Peter Grasso

  That was the best news Molloy had heard yet.

  “But that doesn’t give you much time, Richard. We’ve still got radio contact with Miles?”

  “As of thirty minutes ago, we did, sir.”

  “Good. Let’s get with the Navy liaison and coordinate the pickup. They say they’ve got two subs in the area, and either one can handle it. Now get your ass back to work, and don’t let this little rescue sideshow get in the way of your real job.”

  “No problem, sir. Everything is on schedule for the Biak landings.”

  Willoughby didn’t even look up from his desk as he replied, “Very fine, Richard. Dismissed.”

  Hector Morales was just about to shut down the transmitter when his earphones came alive once more. Grabbing the code book he’d just put away, he told the islander assisting him, “Get Major Miles. Now!”

  The message was still coming in when Jock arrived at the lean-to sheltering the radio. Over Morales’ shoulder, he strained to read what was already written down by the dim glow of the receiver’s dial. The message was still coming when a breathless Andreas Dyckman joined them.

  “It’s good news and bad news,” Jock told the Dutchman. “The good news is they want to take us off the island tomorrow night.”

  “I will not go,” Dyckman said. “Not now. Not if your Army is coming so soon.”

  “That’s your call,” Jock replied. “Whatever you want to do.”

  “But what is the bad news, Major?”

  “They need coordinates for where we want the sub to pick us up.”

  Dyckman seemed surprised. “A submarine? How will that work?”

  “It’ll park in deep water a mile or two offshore and send a rubber boat in for us.”

  Jock knelt and unfolded his map on the ground, lighting it by muffled flashlight. “So where the hell do I tell them? With this piece of crap for a map, their landing party could end up God knows where and we’d never find them in the dark.”

  “It’s a pity,” Dyckman said. “We made some excellent maps, but the Japanese have them all now. My daughter Greta and her husband were the cartographers. They’d mapped almost all of the southern island when the Japanese came.”

  Jock asked, “So they’d be the ones who know this part of the island pretty well, then?”

  “Yes, Major…they’d be the only ones. But now Greta is dead, as is Lukas.”

  “I’m real sorry to hear that. But how’d they die? In that evacuation attempt you told me about?”

  Dyckman nodded.

  “Gee, I’m sorry,” Jock said. Turning back to the map, he asked, “So what do you think, Mister Dyckman? Where the hell are we?”

  Dyckman leaned over the map and ran his finger along a curved section of coastline, where blue ink met green, both faded by time and the elements and barely distinguishable in the faint light. When his finger came to a stop, he said, “We are here, I believe, on this bay.”

  The bay he picked—little more than a tiny crescent scooped from the coast—didn’t even have a name on the map.

  “I won’t be able to get a look at this beach until sunrise,” Jock said. “Can a boat land here?”

  Dyckman replied, “Yes, Major.”

  Morales looked up from the radio and nodded his agreement. “I saw the beach before the sun set, sir. It’ll do.”

  “Well, it’s decided, then,” Jock said. He wrote down the coordinates and handed them to his radioman. “Send them quick, Hector, and get that transmitter the hell off the air. Maybe the Japs won’t get another chance to track us.”

  Jock was certain of one thing: even if the Japanese hadn’t tracked their signal to this no-name bay, he and his people were in a terrible defensive position, one they’d have to hold for an entire day. They occupied a narrow coastal plain, not quite a mile deep, with a horseshoe of high ground above them and their backs to the sea:

  The Japs can lob mortar and artillery fire down from the cliffs to their hearts’ content, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it except try to dig into this coral that’s like fucking concrete and keep our fingers crossed.

  The only thing we’ve got going for us is there’s only one way down here from the high ground—that one steep, skinny foot trail—unless the Japs decide to slide down off that cliff on ropes. But then they’d be the vulnerable ones…and they’d need about fifty miles of rope to get any numbers down here.

  So all we’ve got to do is keep them off that trail…

  For twenty-four hours.

  “Mister Dyckman,” he said, “I need four of your armed men who speak good English.”

  “Why, may I ask, Major?”

  “I’m going to take them and one of my Navy guys with the machine gun to the head of the trail. We’ll keep the Japs from coming down here so your people can try and get some rest. Until the shooting starts, at least.”

  “Do you really think they’ll come at night?”

  “If they know we’re here, they just might,” Jock replied.

  “Take me, sir,” Hector Morales said. “I got a good nap before while Sid was out looking for you. He can mind the radio for us.”

  “You’ve got a deal, Hector. Grab the thirty cal, then gather up the guys Mister Dyckman picks and meet me at the base of the trail. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  Jock needed that minute to check in on Steve Richards. He was lying beneath a small canvas tarp the islanders had rigged to shelter him from the inevitable rain. His bloody shirt and makeshift field dressing were gone, replaced by a cloth competently wrapped around his abdomen.

  “Pretty good-looking bandage, Steve,” Jock said. “Who did it?”

  Richards’ voice was strained, but he was in good spirits. “One of the Dutch guys. Seemed like he’d make a pretty good corpsman. And here I was, expecting some witch doctor remedies with leaves and voodoo chants and stuff.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “I hear we’re getting rescued tomorrow night, sir.”

  “Yeah, you’ll be back in your Navy’s hands before you know it.”

  “Maybe I’ll even be around to see it.”

  “You will be, Steve. Just take it nice and easy and we’ll get you out of here safe and sound. Like I told you back there, you’ve got a good wound. You’re going to be all right.”

  Richards couldn’t help but smile at the words good wound. “I didn’t think there could be such a thing, sir. But I guess you’ve seen a whole lot of them…and you know good from…well…” He let the sentence drop. “But I’ve got to ask you something. Is ground combat always like that? I mean, so fucking confusing, like you’re caught in some machine—you can’t even see its parts, but you know damn well they’re whirling all around you—and they’re trying to rip you to pieces.”

  “Steve, have you ever heard the saying anyone who’s not confused doesn’t understand the situation? The guy who coined that one had to be talking about ground combat.”

  Richards nodded. He could find no argument with that piece of wisdom.

  “But that Jap, sir…did I kill him?”

  “You did, Steve.”

  He thought that over for a minute. Then he asked, “I really didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

  The trail seemed so much steeper in the dark. It was especially tough on Hector Morales as he lugged the heavy .30-caliber machine gun. The only way they knew they had reached the top was when their aching leg muscles told them they weren’t climbing anymore.

  “Hector,” Jock said, “set the thirty cal up right here.” He held out a forearm like a signpost. “Now orient it in this direction. Follow my arm. There was a curve in the trail about twenty yards out. You’ll be shooting right across it. Nobody should get past.”

  “What if I can’t see ’em, sir?”

  “It won’t matter, Hector. Just keep your bursts short so you don’t blow your ammo all at once. And don’t let the barrel climb. Put those rounds out there at knee height, so they can’t even crawl under them. I’m going to go set up t
he others now…spread them out wide on either side of you. Then I’ll be right back.”

  When Jock returned a few minutes later, Morales asked, “Sir, I thought of something when we were getting that last message from HQ. You weren’t thinking about going back to the other side of the island again, were you? I mean, you’re limping pretty bad and all.”

  “Why the hell would I do that? We’re getting picked up tomorrow.”

  “I know, but suppose they’d asked you to do another scouting mission. Would you have gone?” He paused, and then added, “I’m betting you would’ve.”

  Jock had to stop and think about it. Morales had a point: if he’d been ordered, would he have tried to do it again?

  Yeah, I would have tried, at least. But no point pretending to be a hero now by saying it out loud.

  “You’d have bet wrong, Hector.”

  Morales shook his head. “That’s not the way I read it, sir. Remember what Honest Abe said? You can fool some of the people—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I heard that tune a long time ago.”

  “Just saying, sir. Can I ask you something else?”

  “Might as well. Just make it quick.”

  “How come you call me and Sid by our first names? Naval officers never do that. Ever. It’s like they’d die if they ever got informal with subordinates.”

  “The way I see it, Hector, just consider it my way of showing you guys some respect for the way you’ve come through out here. Now let’s shut the hell up and stay alert.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jimmy Ketchum lay on a cot in the Quonset hut’s sweltering heat and thought, If this dump is the guest quarters, I’d hate like hell to see the stockade on this post. I’d rather sleep outside with the snakes and the jungle rats than in this sweatbox…but it’s the least I can do for that lady. She’s got enough problems right now, with her husband in limbo and all. I swear, she must be tougher than nails.

  The sparse room in a corner of the hut was officially assigned to Jillian Miles; her name had even been neatly printed on the door in chalk by one of Sergeant Knox’s minions; her clothes and gear were scattered throughout. But she would never sleep there. She’d burrowed herself a refuge in an adjacent Quonset among the towering stacks of clothing, cots, blankets, and sheets, probably intended for the resettled civilians but yet to be distributed. It was a good hiding place: the building—and its contents—seemed all but forgotten.

  To complete their deception, Ketchum would spend the nights in this room meant for her rather than the big, barely occupied tent designated Visiting Officers’ Quarters. To make sure he’d be awake if the intruders came, he’d rigged noisemakers—tin cans with a few small rocks inside—on the floor near all doors and windows; the same precautions GIs used on jungle perimeters. To keep it dark, he’d pulled the fuses for the ceiling lighting. For emergency communication, he’d hooked up the unused telephone wire strung between the two huts to simple buzzers he’d found lying around. All you had to do was touch a flashlight battery to the wires and the buzzer would wake the dead.

  Proud of his handiwork, he reminded himself, You know what they say about infantrymen—we’re skilled generalists. We can do a little bit of everything.

  He wasn’t asleep when he heard the first rattle of a noisemaker. Within seconds, he could hear footsteps outside his door…

  And then the scrape of the door latch as the knob was turned.

  One hand gripping his Thompson’s trigger, the other his flashlight, Ketchum slid himself and his weaponry deeper beneath the sheets. He was ready.

  The door opened part way, just enough to allow the moonlight seeping through the window to illuminate their faces.

  Blacks. Two of them.

  One rushed in, batting the mosquito netting around the bed aside…

  Ripping away the sheet…

  Straddling Ketchum’s legs, grabbing his boxer shorts, trying to pull them down…

  And then stopping—frozen in place and time—as the muzzle of Ketchum’s Thompson was deep in his mouth.

  “Maybe you wanna fuck this instead,” Ketchum said.

  In the flashlight’s beam, he caught the other intruder lunging toward the cot. Something in the man’s hand glinted like metal…

  He’s got a shiv.

  The angle was almost perfect, one assailant nearly lined up behind the other.

  It only took a jerk of the Thompson’s muzzle, still in the first man’s mouth, to resolve the geometry.

  A three-shot burst killed them both—through the mouth, out the neck, into the chest of the man behind.

  Scurrying footsteps beyond the door…

  Shit, there’s another one.

  There was no sound of a screen door slamming.

  The bastard’s still in here, somewhere.

  Jillian didn’t need a buzzer to warn her. The gunshots sufficed.

  She grabbed her rifle—the buffalo gun, as Jimmy Ketchum referred to it—and slipped her torch into the pocket of her shorts. Barefoot and silent, she ventured outside to cover the entrance to Ketchum’s hut.

  She could hear noises from inside: intermittent sounds of frantic movement—brief but rapid skittering and thumping—like a rat trying to prevent itself from being cornered.

  Then, Ketchum’s voice: “I’d give it up if I were you, pal. Just come out with your hands up.”

  The sweep of a flashlight made crazy shadows dance. Ketchum’s scanning the interior, she thought. He said “pal”—I reckon that means there’s just one.

  The clomp of running footsteps on the wooden floor…and then the screen door slammed open as Fritz Van Flyss burst out of the hut, arms and legs flying like a champion sprinter…

  And went sprawling over Jillian’s outstretched leg.

  He struggled to regain his feet and resume his dash, but a foot against his backside pushed him face down into the dirt. He would have tried to get up and run again, but there was something cold and hard pressing behind his ear.

  Something larger, not quite as firm—a bare foot, perhaps—was resting against his scrotum, causing him to wince with the anticipation of pain, pending but not yet delivered. He tried to turn his head to see his captor but was blinded by the brilliant beam of a flashlight—her torch—aimed right in his face. The Webley revolver in his hand felt wasted, like a trump card played too soon.

  “Toss the bloody gun away, wanker,” Jillian said, pressing the rifle’s muzzle more firmly against the back of his neck.

  Van Flyss did as he was told. “You’ve got this all wrong, miss,” he said. “I know why you’re here. I know everything. I can help you.”

  “Bloody rubbish,” she replied.

  “But I was trying to stop them!”

  Standing a few feet away, Jimmy Ketchum stifled a laugh and said, “Get a load of bullshit this guy’s peddling. Two of his buddies stone cold dead and he’s trying to play hero and cut himself a deal. Some balls, eh?”

  Jillian dug her foot into Van Flyss’ scrotum, making him whimper.

  “Some balls, indeed,” she replied. “Why don’t you start helping by telling us your name, bucko?”

  He told her.

  “Brilliant!” she said. “Just the scumbag we’re looking for. Tie him up, Lieutenant.”

  “But you need me,” Van Flyss protested.

  “It looks like I’ve already got you, laddie…and for as long as I bloody want, too.”

  “You sure had them pegged, ma’am,” Ketchum said, “figuring they’d come after you like that.”

  “They certainly didn’t waste any time trying it,” she replied. “It just shows how desperate they are.”

  If only we bloody knew what it is they’re so desperate to hide.

  “So what are we going to do with him now, ma’am?”

  “For starters, we’re going to have him locked up for the attempted murder of a Yank officer—you, Lieutenant.”

  Ketchum was almost done binding Van Flyss’ hands behind his back. But he paused to marvel
at what Jillian was doing. She had bound his ankles to allow some movement—a slow, hobbled walk at best. Baby steps, she called them. A man could never run away bound like that.

  Then she fastened a noose around Van Flyss’ neck, like a dog’s choke collar and leash. Perfect for leading a prisoner around.

  “Where’d you learn to do all that, Missus Miles? The Girl Scouts?”

  She laughed and replied, “No, Lieutenant. I learned at the hands of the Japanese.” Checking Ketchum’s work, she shook her head and added, “You’re not doing his hands right at all.” She began to retie the rope. “Here…do it this way. He’ll chafe the skin off his wrists before he ever gets out of it.”

  “So I guess they used to tie you POWs up a lot, ma’am?”

  “All the bloody time, Lieutenant. The Japs love their ropes.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  They could hear the thunder now as the storm coming off the sea grew closer. Each streak of lightning would illuminate the pitch black rainforest before them like a photographer’s flash—an instant of trickster’s light, showing them things that existed only in their fears. In those momentary flashes, every dancing shadow could be a soldier of the Emperor advancing toward them. Each of Jock’s five men, though only a few yards from the man next to him, felt completely alone.

  Jock could sense how anxious they’d become: If I can’t calm them down, it’s only a matter of time before someone breaks and gives us away. He moved quietly along the dispersed line they formed, offering whispered words of reassurance he could only hope they believed.

  Even Hans and Josiah seemed much too jumpy. He’d placed them on the flanks because of all Dyckman’s people he knew them best and trusted them the most. Now he was beginning to doubt even their composure.

  We need this fucking storm rolling in like a hole in the head. If someone starts popping off, we’re screwed.

  But what can I do? Take their weapons away?