He simmered for a few moments. When he finally spoke, his tone could only be described as loathing:
“You’ve still got that chip on your shoulder, don’t you? You think having been a prisoner of war entitles you to do whatever the hell you want.”
She put her palms on his desk and leaned across it. He flinched, as if she might spit fire right at him.
“No, you’ve got that all wrong, Captain. If I’ve got a chip on my shoulder, as you say, it’s because I’ve been fighting the Japanese one way or the other for more than two years now, while you and all the other tossers in this establishment have done little more than polish your desks. None of you have a bloody clue what war is really like. If you did, you might not be so ready to stick your noses up MacArthur’s arse.”
The fat captain was sweating profusely now, the khaki of his uniform turning dark around the armpits, the tight collar, and the knot of his necktie. He realized he’d just lost this skirmish…but maybe not the war.
“How will you get there, Missus Miles? You’ll be gone for weeks in travel time alone. This command can’t tolerate absentee civilian workers.”
Jillian found that funny. “Weeks? Not bloody likely, I’ll be back in two or three days at most.”
“How on earth will you accomplish that?”
“Simple. I’ll hop on a plane.”
“But you’re a civilian. Travel on military aircraft is not authorized.”
Now she was laughing out loud. “You silly, silly man,” she said. “How hard do you suppose it is for a white woman in these parts to bat her eyelashes, show some leg, and hitch a ride on one of your airplanes? Especially one with the credentials I carry from your Supreme Commander himself? Hell, they’ll even be eager to let me fly the bloody thing for a bit.”
Jillian didn’t have much time if she was going to make that flight to Port Moresby. She’d rushed back to her quarters at Government House to pack. Trying to stuff the last of her things into a rucksack, she was startled by a voice in the doorway.
“What’s the big rush, baby?” Jock asked.
Shrieking with delight, she raced toward him. “What in bloody hell are you doing here?”
But once they were locked in that joyful embrace, there was no need for answers.
With a deft backheel, he kicked the door shut.
“Wait, wait,” she said as she untangled one of her arms and set the door’s lock.
One more kick to clear the bed of the rucksack…
And they collapsed onto the sheets as one, pulling down the mosquito netting with them as they fell.
“I don’t…don’t…have much time, Jock. I…oh, bloody hell, baby…”
And then they were lost in each other.
When they were finished, they lay side by side, drenched in sweat and contentment. It was Jillian who returned to harsh reality first. She jumped up and stepped out of her rumpled dress. After a quick session at the washstand, she pulled on a fresh shift from the wardrobe.
“I’ve got to get to Port Moresby, Jock. Greta—your mapmaker—has been sent there. I hadn’t been able to find her until this morning.”
“So her name’s Greta Dyckman?”
“That was her maiden name. She’s Greta Christiansen now.”
“Fantastic. Do whatever it takes to get her on my team, Jill.”
“I’ll do my best, Yank…but if news of her father won’t do it, I won’t have anything left to work with.” She snatched up the rucksack. “And if I don’t hurry, I won’t make the courier flight today, either.”
“I’ve got a jeep,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride to the airfield.”
“Brilliant. And while we’re driving, you can tell me why it is you’re here.” A big smile came over her face as she pointed to the disheveled bed. “Or was that the bloody reason?”
As they sped toward the airfield, Jock started to tell her about the surveying problems at Biak and how it was preventing them from creating the maps the GIs needed so desperately. He hadn’t gotten to the part about him actually returning there when Jillian said, “Stop the jeep.”
There was no need for him to say any more. She’d already figured it out.
When the jeep came to a halt, Jillian climbed out, walked several paces away, and stood there, arms folded across her chest, her back to him.
He killed the engine and said, “Jill, come on. Get back in. It’s not what you think.”
“It’s exactly what I bloody think, Jock.”
“But I came all this way just to make sure you heard it from me.”
“Thanks for small favors, Yank.”
She still wouldn’t turn to look at him. So he went to her.
His limp never seemed worse than at that moment. He was grateful she wasn’t looking.
What he saw in her eyes surprised him. He’d expected hurt. Instead, there was a clear-eyed gaze far into the distance. Or maybe far into the future.
“How long, Jock?”
“Just a few days, I promise.”
“Ahh, there’s that word again. No promises, Jock. War doesn’t keep them.”
She hopped back into the jeep. “Come now, Yank, or I’m going to miss my bloody plane.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It had been four days since Major Homer Rowe took over 1st Battalion. Melvin Patchett summed up his new commander’s performance this way: The man couldn’t organize a pissing contest in a brewery.
They’d finally managed to mop up the lingering Japanese defenders around the main airfield at Mokmer, as well as the two smaller landing strips at nearby Borokoe and Sorido. But it hadn’t been easy, and it had taken much too long—days too long, in fact—and Colonel Molloy was fuming over the slow progress. He was beginning to think he’d made a mistake elevating Rowe to battalion commander.
“Major Rowe,” Molloy said, “I handed you what is probably the finest fighting battalion in this division, maybe in all of 6th Army…and in no time flat, you turned it into the fuck-up outfit.”
Rowe sputtered his answer: “We’re…I’m…doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances, Colonel.”
“I think those circumstances would get a lot better if you got your head out of your ass, Major. For example, I witnessed that little fiasco yesterday, where you sent Charlie Company’s assault right through Baker Company’s position. If it hadn’t been for Captain Grossman’s quick thinking, your men would have been killing each other. How’d that happen, Homer? Did you forget where you put Baker Company?”
Rowe’s sputtering continued. “No, sir. It’s just…well…”
“Never mind, Major. But this is the glorious morning of a brand new day. Do you understand what you’ve been ordered to do?”
“Yes, sir. We’re to move inland, onto the high tableland, and pursue the withdrawing Japanese.”
“Not just pursue, Major. Cut them off and finish them. And I want every last one of your companies up on that high ground by noon…without you having them trip all over each other. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Rowe replied, his voice squeaking with stress. “Quite clear.”
By noon, the four companies of 1st Battalion had arrived at their objectives on the high tableland. But the area wasn’t a wide open plain like their ancient maps indicated. It was a thick rainforest hiding a small village teeming with invisible Japanese. The first American squads blundering their way were quickly cut down.
“We’ll envelop the village,” Homer Rowe said, his words coming like gasps for breath. “Sergeant Patchett, have Able Company move—”
“Just a damn minute, sir,” Patchett replied. “Good plan, except we’d better call in artillery on that village first, before we show our asses again. And we’d better not be too close when it comes down, because with the coordinates we’ll be pulling off these fucking maps, only the Good Lord knows where that first round’s gonna land. Let’s narrow the odds of getting hit by our own guns, okay?”
“I…I suppose, Sergeant,” Ro
we replied as he began fussing with his map.
It became clear very quickly that the major hadn’t a clue where they were.
“I’ll take care of calling for fire, sir,” Patchett said. “Why don’t you make sure our wounded are getting pulled out?”
“Yes, yes…that’s a good idea, Sergeant.”
As Rowe and his radio operator scurried off, Patchett asked himself, I wonder if he even knows where the hell he’s going?
As soon as he called the fire mission in on his own radio, Patchett switched frequencies and broadcast a warning on the battalion net: “Every swinging dick better get their asses flat down on the double. Rounds on the way. Your guess is as good as mine where they’re gonna hit.”
Nobody guessed that first round would land behind them—and much too close for comfort.
“Son of a goddamn bitch,” Patchett said. “They gotta have the elevation of this place all fucking wrong. Hold on to your hats, boys…next one’s gonna come right overhead, close enough to give us all haircuts, probably.”
No sooner had Patchett radioed the corrections, a frantic call came in from Major Rowe’s radioman: “The C.O.’s down, the C.O.’s down, over.”
Patchett replied, “Down? As in hit, over?”
“Negative, Sarge, negative. He’s just down. Something’s wrong with him. Don’t know what, over.”
Ain’t that just ducky? Like we ain’t got enough going on right now.
The next adjustment round streaked in, impacting well in front of the huddled GIs this time. It didn’t quite reach the village but it was close enough to call, Add five-zero, fire for effect.
“Shot, out,” Patchett’s radioman announced. The rounds were on the way—six each of 105-millimeter high explosive, with point-detonating fuzes.
And they better be right on the fucking money…
A soldier crawled up to Patchett and tugged at his shoulder. “Sarge, there’s a couple of trucks coming up the trail behind us.”
“Are they GI trucks?”
“Yeah.”
“Then they’re lost worse than we are, son. Don’t worry about ’em. Now watch close…”
The fire for effect rounds seemed to do exactly what their name implied. One second, the village was standing, offering a thousand concealed places from which a Japanese soldier could kill Americans.
The next second, it was leveled, looking like a box of giant toothpicks had been spilled and splayed across the ground—a most powerful effect. But it was no guarantee of victory. Rubble often yielded fighting positions every bit as good as standing structures. Maybe better.
If the Japanese soldiers in that village weren’t dead, maybe they’d been stunned and rendered useless by the blasts just long enough for the GIs to swarm in and finish them.
It only took Patchett a few terse sentences over the radio to get the companies moving into the village:
Able hook in from the left,
Baker from the right;
Charlie—cover Able and Charlie’s asses and cut off any Japs running out the back door;
Dog Company—your heavy mortars stay put and provide fire support on call.
That’s what we call your classic double envelopment, boys. Y’all make sure you don’t shoot each other, now.
“C’mon, son,” Patchett told his radioman, “let’s go see what’s the deal with Major Rowe.”
The medic from Dog Company had beaten them there by several minutes. Despite his frantic efforts to revive Rowe, one thing was painfully obvious: the man’s dead.
“What on God’s green Earth happened to him?” Patchett asked.
“Heart attack, I think,” the medic replied. “There ain’t a mark on him.”
“It fucking figures,” Patchett said. Then he told his radioman, “Get me Regiment. Maybe we can convince Colonel Molloy to put a real combat officer in charge this time. And then call Charlie Company and tell Captain Grossman he’s running the battalion in the meantime.”
The radioman hadn’t yet keyed the microphone when he saw the man coming toward them. He’d know him anywhere—and the limp just made it easier to recognize him at a distance.
“Speaking of real combat officers, Sarge, take a look over yonder…”
At first, Melvin Patchett thought he might be dreaming. Or worse, he was seeing a ghost…the ghost of Jock Miles.
But real or imagined, this apparition could speak: “How’s the morale around here, Top?”
“Pretty shitty right now…and pardon my French, sir, but just what the fuck are you doing here?”
“Just checking up on your cracker ass. What happened to Major Rowe?”
“Heart attack, Doc says. Four days in command was too much for the man, I reckon.”
“He was the C.O.? Did Billingsley finally get kicked upstairs?”
“In a manner of speaking, sir. He bought it those same four days back. Got hisself killed trying to take a shit.”
“Well I’ll be a son of a bitch. So who’s next in line? Lee Grossman?”
“Affirmative. He just got the word about a second ago.”
The intermittent crackle of small arms fire from the village swelled to a crescendo. The radioman clamped the handset against his ear, desperate to hear the voices being drowned out by all the noise.
“Charlie Company needs the big mortars, Sarge…and a couple more heavy machine guns. They’ve got a bunch of Japs on the run.”
“Give ’em what they want, son.”
He turned to Jock and said, “I gotta get closer, sir. Things are a little hectic right now.”
“I’ll come with you, Top.”
Patchett looked at the walking stick in Jock’s left hand: At least it ain’t his shooting hand…and he’s still got the good ol’ Thompson in the other.
“Suit yourself, sir. You sure you can keep up?”
“Just watch me, Top.”
“Damn glad to have you along then. Be like old times, sir.”
Captain Lee Grossman was thrilled to see Jock Miles, the man he’d succeeded as Charlie Company commander two years ago in the early days of the Papua campaign. Like every other veteran in the battalion, he desperately wanted to believe Jock had come to take command once again.
“Technically, I’m with Fifth Air Force now, Lee,” Jock said. He tapped his walking stick on the ground. “And this bum leg of mine makes my infantry credentials pretty weak.”
Patchett added, “Besides, with the job he’s in now, he gets to snuggle up with Miss Jillian every chance he gets. Hard for a man to pass up duty like that.”
“No, Top, it isn’t like that, I’m afraid. Jill and I don’t get to see much of each other at all.”
With a knowing smile, Patchett replied, “I’m sure you two find a way plenty of times, sir. But now that we done quieted the Japs down for a spell, run it by us again exactly what you’re doing here.”
“It’s simple,” Jock said. “Your maps are old and obsolete and I’m going to fix that. I had the same problem when I was stuck on this damn island a couple of weeks ago.”
Patchett was surprised. “You been here before, sir?”
“Long story…and it wasn’t planned, believe me. But speaking of bad maps, I couldn’t help but notice that adjustment round that landed behind you earlier today. It damn near killed me and that survey team of mine. What the hell was that all about?”
“Target elevation error,” Patchett replied.
“That stuff’s been happening to us all the time, sir,” Grossman added. “We just pray we can get eyes on where that first round lands…and that it’s not right on top of us.”
Jock asked, “Are you setting up registration points for your artillery and mortars?”
Patchett and Grossman exchanged looks like schoolboys caught without their homework. It was Grossman who finally spoke up: “Haven’t had much opportunity, sir.”
The answer surprised Jock. It wasn’t like either of them not to be on top of everything. He asked, “Why the hell not, Lee?”
“Most of our target locations are pretty indistinct, sir. It’s hard to find them again when you need them—all the trees look alike. And it’s not like we’ve got maps good enough to record them on.”
“I see your point,” Jock replied. “But that village you just cleared the Japs out of…you sure as hell better make that a registration point on the double. Your artillery knows exactly where that is now.”
“I’ll take care of that right quick, sir,” Patchett said as he motioned for his radioman to join them.
“Great, Top. Now I need a favor from you guys. That survey team of mine…how about we hook them up with your recon platoon? It just might help the quality of their work a whole lot if they knew someone was watching their backs…someone who wasn’t still green behind the ears.”
Patchett snickered. “You mean they’re a li’l bit skittish about getting their asses out in the boondocks, sir?”
“More than a little bit, Top.”
“I reckon you’re right, sir. First we’ve seen of a survey team on this damn island, and we’ve been the tip of the spear ever since we got here. And I’m sure ol’ Bogater would be glad to take them under his wing.”
Jock smiled at the sound of that name. “That crazy Cajun’s got the recon platoon?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Outstanding. This is getting better by the minute.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sergeant Bogater Boudreau thought his leg was being pulled when he was told Major Miles was with the battalion again. He’d replied, “I might’ve been born at night…but I wasn’t born last night. So y’all can fuck off.”
When he reported to the battalion CP for the survey team briefing, though, he was never so happy to owe someone an apology. “As I live and breathe, sir,” Bogater said, “I thought I died and gone to heaven when I saw you standing there. On second thought, forget the dying part. We been through enough of that together, ain’t we?”
“Good to see you, too, Bogater. You’re a couple of stripes heavier, aren’t you?”
“Yessir, seems like the brass think if they give you more stripes, you’ll like it here better, the dumb bastards. Present company excepted, of course.”
Operation Fishwrapper (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 5) Page 18
