Jock began the briefing by telling the story of the dead Japanese lieutenant’s rucksack containing the fish wrapped in an American map. “So as you can see, men, the Japs think as little of our maps as we do.”
“Damn, sir,” Boudreau said, “maybe we oughta just shitcan this Operation Alamo stuff and call this whole fiasco Operation Fishwrapper. Fits a whole lot better.”
“Not a bad idea, Sergeant Boudreau,” Jock replied. “But the reason our maps stink is we still haven’t compiled all the data we need to make them worth something. We’ve got great aerial photos…but they give us a flat world. And as we can see all around us, this place is anything but flat. And there are a lot of terrain features we can’t see in an aerial photo, especially with tree cover blocking the view of the ground. We’re going to need survey information—damn good survey information—to fill in the missing pieces. The survey team and recon platoon are going to work together to get it.”
Jock showed them where they’d be working that afternoon: with a grease pencil, he drew a big box on a high-altitude photo that included their current location. “We’re going to start here,” he said, “and do a continuous survey north, covering a corridor a mile wide all the way across the island. While we’re working in First Battalion’s area of operations, Sergeant Bogater’s recon platoon will provide support for the survey party. How does this play into the big picture? Like this: the division’s objective is to hold a line clear across the island. Once we own that line, we’ll be able to cut off the Japs trying to withdraw to the west. The Navy will see to it they can’t send reinforcements or evacuate anyone by sea, so every Jap we stop here means a man we won’t have to fight again someplace else on this rock.”
The survey team section chief—a smart-mouthed buck sergeant from Brooklyn named Lynch—was less than thrilled. “In other words, sir, we get to stick our necks out with the toughest job, while the other survey teams get to fuck the dog behind the front lines.”
Jock smiled when he saw the icy glare Bogater shot the survey sergeant’s way. He waited until he was sure Lynch had caught the look, too, and then replied, “Negative, Sergeant Lynch. You’ve just got the honor of being first. As soon as I’m finished with you guys, I’m going to get the other survey teams in gear, too. They’ll be sticking their necks out as far as yours, just a little farther down the line from here. Are there any more questions?”
There were none.
“Then good luck to you all. Frequencies and progress reporting times are in the commo section of the ops order. I’ll leave you in Sergeant Boudreau’s very capable hands.”
The survey team seemed in no hurry to get moving. The Cajun draped an arm around Lynch’s shoulders and said, “C’mon, mon frère, let’s get your boys saddled up. You and me gonna be great friends, we are.”
Maybe great friends was a bit of wishful thinking as Bogater dragged the sullen Lynch and his four terrified PFCs deeper into the rainforest. But at least they were getting the job done properly.
“You don’t gotta worry,” the Cajun said. “My guys are way, way out all around us. They’ll let us know if any Japs are around, believe you me.”
He watched Lynch set up a shot on the transit. But something wasn’t right; although they were plotting a hill several hundred yards ahead, there was no stick man holding the calibrated barber pole at its peak for Lynch to target.
“Wait a damn minute,” Boudreau said. “How come there ain’t nobody up on that hill with one of them sticks?”
“Don’t need it,” Lynch replied. “It’s far enough away to qualify as a distant aiming point.”
“Bullshit on that. Even a dumb coonass like me knows a distant aiming point gotta be distant. I could hit the top of that hill with a rock. And if we get that location wrong, everything you shoot off it’s gonna be wrong, too.”
Bogater picked up a barber pole off the ground, walked over to one of Lynch’s stick men, and shoved the pole into his hands. “Let’s go, young man. You and Corporal Simms here are gonna take a little walk up that hill.”
“But Sergeant Lynch said I didn’t have to.”
“I’m changing the sergeant’s mind for him, son. Get your ass moving. Simms will hold your hand all the way up there, if you like.”
The two men trudged off toward the hill.
“This is all a waste of fucking time,” Lynch said. “It ain’t gonna matter all that much how I take this shot…pole or not.”
Boudreau replied, “It’s gonna matter a whole lot to me, Sergeant Lynch, next time I’m calling for fire on that hill and that first round don’t get in the ballpark. And it’s gonna matter a whole lot to Major Miles, too.”
“I don’t understand why everybody in your outfit’s so willing to eat shit for that gimpy-legged son of a bitch. Does he give out blow jobs on Sunday or—”
The next thing Lynch remembered was being flat on his back, his jaw throbbing like it had been struck by a hammer. Bogater’s snarling face hovered over him. The muzzle of the Cajun’s Thompson was inches from his face.
“You ever say anything like that in front of any man in this battalion again, he’s gonna shoot you dead on the spot. Consider this your warning, mon frère. Now get the fuck on your feet and take that plot.”
Colonel Molloy studied the piece of paper in silence as the KP poured him and Jock another cup of coffee. The colonel seemed troubled. He was pacing the CP tent with that faraway look on his face all soldiers wore as they struggled to deal with the trials of their profession.
“I don’t know what to do about this, Jock,” Molloy said, waving the paper in his hand.
“About what, sir?”
“I’ve never seen anything like this in all my years of soldiering. It’s a petition…can you believe that? Signed by every officer and NCO in First Battalion. Your old battalion.”
Jock cringed. He’d learned a long time ago never to sign your name to anything critical of your command or a higher one. The Army wasn’t a democracy; civil institutions didn’t cut any ice here. Those who tried to make it work like one endured quick and vicious punishments.
Every officer and NCO. Shit, that sounds like a mutiny. Were my guys—my ex-guys, I suppose—really dumb enough to put their names on something like that en masse?
God, I hope not.
The next sentence Molloy spoke should have brought him great relief.
But it didn’t…for a completely different reason.
“Jock, what this paper says is they want you back as their battalion commander.”
“But I thought Lee Grossman was supposed to get moved up. He’s more than ready.”
Molloy laid the petition on the table in front of Jock and pointed to the first signature:
Leon Grossman, Captain, USA.
Right below it was Melvin Patchett, Master Sergeant, USA.
Feelings of pride and dread were stirring themselves into a witch’s brew in his gut. He wanted the job back. There was no doubt in his mind.
So I limp a little…okay, maybe a lot sometimes. The field grades of this man’s army are full of old coots with one physical problem or another.
How can I say no and let my men down?
But how can I say yes and let Jillian down? I’m not a fool…all her talk about “don’t make promises” assumed we were talking about staff jobs, not a combat command.
Would she leave me?
What the hell do I do?
“Am I really being offered a choice here, sir?”
“Absolutely, Jock. It’s your call. But I think you know what I’d like. There’s just one thing—I need an answer by tomorrow morning.”
That didn’t seem like enough time. Sleeping on it wasn’t an option, because Jock knew there’d be no sleep tonight with this hanging over his head.
“But sir, how could we make this work? I’m in Fifth Air Force now. That’s a whole different chain of command.”
“Don’t worry about that, Jock. Buck Ziminski and I are classmates from the Point.
He didn’t just save your ass from getting shipped home when he offered you that job—he was returning a favor.”
“A favor…to you, sir?”
Molloy nodded. “So he and I are even now. He never figured he’d have you forever. Now I know your leg can be a challenge for you sometimes, Jock…”
“It’s not about my leg, sir.”
“That’s good to hear. And speaking of Buck Ziminski, I heard he was about to promote you to light colonel. I wouldn’t mind doing those honors myself, Jock.”
That news took Jock by surprise. Promotion had been the last thing on his mind for quite some time.
“But what about the survey teams, sir?”
“Looks like you’ve already solved that problem, Jock. I’m detaching the survey teams to the individual infantry battalions, continuing what you’ve started. It was a really good move. It’ll keep them on track.”
“Sir, if I say yes, can I get back to Hollandia—even just for a day—so I can talk to Jill in person?”
“No can do, Jock. I’ve been called back there myself. I’m flying out tomorrow morning to brief the big boss. I can’t have one of my battalion commanders gone at the same time, can I? Especially my best one. I can’t have this whole show going to hell in a handbasket overnight. Not again.”
The die was cast: Dick Molloy was already talking as if the deal was closed. They both knew it was.
The colonel’s body language made it clear the meeting was over. He had one more thing to say: “Tell you what, Jock…write down whatever you want to say to Jillian and I’ll deliver it to her personally tomorrow.”
He knew it would be the hardest letter he’d ever had to write. All he could do now was hope she’d understand…somehow.
Chapter Thirty
It was just past noon when the ship carrying the Dutch refugees arrived at Port Moresby. Warily, the men and women stepped down the gangplank to be shepherded onto waiting trucks. Jillian stood by, watching the procession, but there was no sign of the woman she’d come to collect.
“Where is Greta Christiansen?” she asked the man from the Red Cross, who was checking off names on a clipboard. Two very disinterested American MPs were by his side.
“Christiansen…Christiansen. Ah, yes. I have her name on the list. It’s right here.”
“So where in bloody hell is she?”
His tone suddenly pompous, he asked, “And who is asking?”
She showed him her credentials.
His face dropped. Any hint of arrogance was gone.
“If she’s not on board, Miss Miles—”
“It’s Missus Miles, thank you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Missus Miles. But if she’s not on board, I have no idea where she is. I can ask these MPs to go and search—”
“No need getting MPs involved,” she said. “These people aren’t criminals.” She called to the ship’s first mate standing at the top of the gangplank. “Permission to come aboard?”
With a theatrical flourish, he bowed from the waist while sweeping his arm wide and high in welcome.
Stepping onto the deck, she asked the mate, “Do you know of a Greta Christiansen onboard this vessel?”
He grinned as if she’d just tapped into a juicy subject. “Yes, of course,” he replied.
“Well, where the bloody hell is she? I would think she’d be in a hurry to get off this rust bucket.”
“Now that we’re in port, I’m sure you’ll find her in the navigator’s quarters, ma’am.”
“The navigator’s quarters? Why?”
“Turns out they’re husband and wife. A real touching story…they both thought the other was dead. Until she turned up on this ship.”
The Red Cross man on the wharf was getting anxious. “WELL? IS SHE THERE?” He pointed to his wristwatch.
“NO,” Jillian replied with a perfectly straight face. “I’M AFRAID NOT.”
He seemed unsure what to do. He paced in a circle at the foot of the gangplank for a few moments, and then stopped to jot something on his clipboard. When he was done, he signaled the trucks and the MPs to be on their way, jumped into a waiting car, and was gone.
“What was all that about?” the first mate asked.
“Much easier than having a little administrative tussle over custody right there on the dock. Let’s just say Missus Christiansen has a higher calling at the moment than cooling her heels in another resettlement camp. Show me to the navigator’s quarters, please.”
It took a lot of knocking—and a few minutes of waiting—before the navigator opened the door to his darkened compartment. Looking past the annoyed and shirtless man in the doorway, Jillian could see Greta inside, hurriedly buttoning her dress. She didn’t look thrilled to see who their caller was, either.
“Hello, Greta. I just did you a favor,” Jillian said, “and maybe I can do you another.”
“If this has anything to do with working for the American barbarians, you already have my answer.”
Greta joined her husband in the doorway. Jillian extended her hand to him. “Lukas Christiansen, I presume?”
“You presume correctly, miss,” he replied, his tone anything but cordial.
“It’s missus, actually. The Dutch government-in-exile will be delighted to know you are alive and well. And a navigator, too! Not a lot of difference between cartography and navigation, is there?”
“What would you know about it?”
Greta provided the answer. “Actually, Lukas, she knows quite a lot. She used to be a ship’s master.”
“Still am, technically. Just doing some other war work for the Yanks at the moment.”
He still wasn’t impressed. “It figures. She speaks like a fucking American.”
Again his wife filled in the blanks. “That’s only because she’s married to one, Lukas.”
Pleading woman-to-woman now, Greta said, “Jillian, I’ve only got a few moments left with my husband, the last ones for who knows how long. Please leave us in peace before I must fall back into the chaos of Red Cross hospitality.”
“Actually, that was the favor I just did for you, Greta. I told them you weren’t on board.”
At first, she didn’t seem to comprehend. Then, as the short-term implications sunk in—she was free to linger with her husband—she became amused. A few moments later, the long-term implications reared their ugly heads.
“Oh my god, Jillian…you just made me a ghost again! I’m officially missing. I don’t exist.”
“No, no, no, Greta. It won’t be like that at all. Have you forgotten what my job is? And who I work for?”
“You can fix it? You can make it right again?”
“Of course. Didn’t I fix it at Aitape?”
The conversation was making Lukas confused and distrustful. Greta soothed him, holding him close while running her hand through his hair. He started to speak—to hurl more vitriol, no doubt—but Greta shushed him with a kiss.
“You said something about another favor, Jillian. What would that be?”
“I’m thrilled that you’ve found your husband again, Greta…but how would you like your father back, too?”
Within a few hours, the two women were on the day’s last military flight back to Hollandia. Greta spent their time in the air telling Jillian every detail of Lukas’ miraculous story. How, after they were captured by the Japanese and then separated, he’d been placed on a motor barge with other prisoners which headed west toward the Moluccas. The barge swamped in a storm; a few of the male prisoners made it ashore on the Vogelkop Peninsula. The escapees worked their way south, managing to stay just ahead of the advancing wave of Japanese. Hitching a ride at Sorong on a trawler which survived several attacks by Japanese aircraft as it crossed the Banda and Arafura Seas, they finally landed in Darwin. There, Lukas met a Dutch freighter captain desperate for a navigator and willing to overlook the undocumented status of this ragged but talented refugee who knew how to read charts and use a sextant.
Jillian asked, “And
he never thought to identify himself to any of the Allied authorities?”
“Let’s just say he reveled in his anonymity.”
“Like a hermit at sea.”
“Exactly. I’m sure it was his way of escaping the war…and the memory of losing me. He was so sure I’d die a prisoner.”
Jillian replied, “They love to underestimate us, don’t they?”
They landed just before dark and went straight to the Office of Civil Affairs. Her boss was still at his desk. He took one look at Greta and said, “Oh, good grief! Don’t tell me this woman is Greta Christiansen.”
“Of course she is. She’s the reason I went to Port Moresby, remember?”
His voice becoming loud and shrill, the fat captain said, “Good lord, Missus Miles, you’ve done it all wrong. Don’t you realize you’ve just kidnapped a Dutch citizen?”
“Not true,” Jillian replied, not in the least bit concerned by the captain’s rage. “She came of her own free will. Isn’t that right, Greta?”
Greta had no trouble mimicking Jillian’s nonchalance. “Absolutely. I’m here to help.”
“THE RED CROSS HAS ALREADY LISTED HER AS MISSING. THEY DIDN’T WASTE A SECOND WIRING ME THE REPORT. DO YOU REALIZE THE AMOUNT OF PAPERWORK AND AGGRAVATION THIS LITTLE STUNT OF YOURS IS GOING TO CAUSE, MISSUS MILES?”
“Actually, Captain, it will cause neither. A simple letter to the Dutch East Indies government-in-exile in Australia will suffice. I can have that prepared and on its way first thing tomorrow morning. By the way, we’ve turned up her husband alive and well, so we can cross another name off our missing, presumed dead list.”
He looked about to boil over but Jillian kept on talking. “And as far as the Red Cross goes, they have nothing to be aggravated about. We’ve just given them one less mouth to feed. As soon as Missus Christiansen signs her statement of employment with Supreme Allied Headquarters, the baffling mystery of her whereabouts will be solved to their satisfaction.”
Operation Fishwrapper (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 5) Page 19
