Operation Fishwrapper (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 5)

by William Peter Grasso

  Sliding onto the stool in front of the radio set, he tapped out the Dutch words, just as he had every two hours of his shift last night. When it was done, he shuffled the message back into the queue without giving it another thought. But as he was about to start sending the next message, his headphones came alive with Morse. The characters seemed like gibberish:

  Een schaap met witte voetjes,

  die drinkt zijn melk zo zoetjes.

  It was a moment before he noticed the repetition of those two words: een schaap.

  “Hey, Sarge,” he called out to the section chief, “somebody besides me is talking about sheep in Dutch.”

  “You mean we finally got an answer?”

  “Looks that way.”

  The sergeant ran to get Greta Christiansen.

  By the time Jock arrived at Charlie Company, Lee Grossman had gone over all the maps they’d taken from that Japanese rucksack. They were printed in Japanese, not Dutch, and had detailed topographic information. In addition, symbols that could only be the location of defensive positions had been drawn in by hand. The position the GIs had just overrun—the place they’d found these maps—was clearly listed.

  “Look…this place was just an outpost,” Grossman told Jock. “According to this map, their main position is about five hundred yards ahead, right in front of Baker Company. If we get Baker to fix the Japs in place with the sea at their backs, I can swing my company around from the left real quick….and Able can swing in from the right. We’ll surround them…and finish them. They won’t have any chance of getting away.”

  Jock eyes didn’t lift from the map. “Hold on a minute, Lee,” he said. “Something’s fishy here.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I don’t believe this map, Lee. I’ve walked across this island before—not quite this far west—but I’ve still got a pretty good feel for lay of the land. And it’s just not as regular as this map wants us to believe. The coast especially…it gets real rough and then cliffs drop off to the coastal lowlands.” He scanned the curtain of rainforest all around them. “And you can never really get a good look at what’s ahead because the trees hide so much.”

  “You think it’s some kind of set-up, sir? A hoax?”

  “Could be. Maybe the Japs at that outpost were supposed to leave those maps behind for us to find, but your guys nailed them before they could pull back. Look at the defensive positions they’ve drawn in. Do you really think the Japs would occupy low ground rather than high ground?”

  “Yeah, I see your point, sir.”

  Jock rolled up the maps. “How much do you want to bet that if we moved on the position they’ve got drawn, we’d be the ones trapped on the low ground, while they’re above us all around?”

  Grossman wasn’t in a betting mood. He just nodded.

  “They’re going to want to make a stand pretty soon,” Jock said, “before their backs are flat against the sea. So this is what we’re going to do…I’m going to take these maps up to Regiment and see what Missus Christiansen has to say about them. In the meantime, I want the rifle companies to hold their lines right where they are. Each company is to send out a squad-sized recon patrol. Feel around for what’s really up ahead in this maze of trees.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  This damn leg of mine…

  When he arrived at the regimental CP, Jock’s leg had almost buckled on him as he stepped from the jeep.

  “You okay, sir?” his driver asked.

  Clinging to the jeep’s hood for support, Jock replied, “Yeah…give me a second.”

  Once inside the tent, he found Greta and her big map weren’t there.

  “She’s at the commo shack, sir,” an intel sergeant told him. “Something about sleeping babies and white sheep.”

  Jock knew what that meant: the lullaby was now a duet. They’d made contact with her father, Andreas Dyckman.

  He struggled back into the jeep. “Drive over to the commo tent,” he told his driver.

  “But it’s right over there, sir…like only twenty yards—”

  “Just drive, dammit.”

  As the jeep rolled to a stop in front of their destination, Jock said, “Hey…I’m sorry I snapped at you back there.”

  “It’s okay, sir. You sure you don’t want the doc to have a look at that leg?”

  “No time,” Jock replied and limped inside.

  “My father’s right here,” Greta told him, pointing to a pin they’d stuck in the map. “We’ve gotten a fix on him. Apparently, the Japanese haven’t…yet.”

  Jock figured she’d be happy but she wasn’t. Her face was stretched tight with worry.

  “My father and his people are pushed back against the sea. He says the Japanese are right in front of him, a very large force, very close. He’s very talkative all of a sudden. He must be terrified.”

  Jock unrolled the map in his hand, the one he’d taken from Lee Grossman. Comparing the two maps, two things became quickly apparent. First, the terrain depicted on the map in his hands looked nothing like the features on Greta’s map. Second, if the Japs were all around Dyckman—and not where the captured map claimed they were—half of his battalion would have blundered into them as they advanced to attack positions that were nothing more than lines on paper.

  Greta took a glance at his map and said, “Where did you get this piece of stront?” He wouldn’t have been surprised if she spit on it. “It should show sharp, rocky ledges dropping to narrow beaches, Jock, not some gently rolling meadowland.”

  “It’s no good, then?”

  “Complete garbage. It’s not from anything I drew, I can tell you that. It looks like the Japanese were trying to deceive you.”

  “Yeah,” Jock replied. “That thought crossed my mind.”

  “We’ve almost completed the next map sheets—the ones you’ll need to go where my father and the Japanese are. We’ve had to rush since you’ve covered so much ground today, so they’re very rough, I’m afraid. We have no survey data yet to sharpen them up. Everything you see is from my head.”

  “So we found this Dyckman fellow,” Colonel Molloy said, “and he’s in deep shit?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jock replied. “We can’t afford to lose him. He’s giving us great intel on Jap strength and dispositions.”

  Molloy studied Greta’s map. “Yeah, I see. So we’re backing a battalion-sized force of Nips up against the coast and your Dutchman’s gotten himself in the way.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve got to get him out of there. We owe it to him…and to Greta.”

  “Dammit…that’s going to slow us way down,” Molloy replied, “and my ass is already in a sling because we’re eight days into an operation that should have taken three.”

  “That’s not your fault, sir.”

  Molloy laughed. “Yeah…you and I know that, Jock. But it don’t mean jackshit to the boys upstairs.” He stared at the map in silence for a few moments more before adding, “All right. I’ll take this up with General Freidenburg. But in the meantime, make sure your boys have those Japs bottled up good and tight.”

  “It would be a very simple rescue, sir,” Dick Molloy told General Freidenburg. “Two landing craft—at most—could pluck Dyckman and his people off the beach under cover of night.”

  “Negative, Richard,” the general replied without giving it a moment’s thought. “Can’t spare the boats. I’m using them all to send a battalion from Eighty-Second Regiment to hold Owi.”

  “But there’s nobody on that island, sir.”

  “Maybe not today, Richard, but the Navy’s getting real antsy about having to sail so close to it on the way here. If the Japs were to slip in down there with a couple of big guns, maybe some planes and torpedo boats…it could make our resupply efforts on Biak a living hell.”

  “The Japs are running in the opposite direction, General.”

  “Are you questioning my tactical judgment, Colonel? You, who’ve managed to move your regiment a mere ten miles in eight days?”


  “No sir, of course not. It’s just that…”

  “It’s just what, Richard?”

  “It’s just…I don’t know, sir…It’s just a shitty deal to be sacrificing people who’ve done nothing but help us.”

  “Spare me the violins, Colonel. This isn’t some pity party we’re running here. It’s a war…and people will die. Or have you forgotten?”

  “No sir, I haven’t forgotten. But I can’t forget about the Dutchman’s daughter, either, and how much she’s done for us in such a short time. I think we owe it to her, too.”

  Perhaps the tone of Molloy’s remark wasn’t what it should have been. A bit more respect in his voice might not have changed General Freidenburg’s decision, but it might have radically altered the outcome of this meeting.

  “Let me tell you something, Colonel Molloy. I don’t give a sweet fuck what you think. That split-tail has been here exactly one day and already you make it sound like she’s winning the war single-handedly. It’s the same kind of bullshit you dispensed to conjure up special privileges for that Major Miles of yours.”

  “Actually, sir, it’s Colonel Miles now.”

  “WHAT? We’ve promoted that man? On what grounds, if I may ask?”

  “Well, for openers, sir, he deserved it.”

  “How so, Colonel? For his sexual prowess? It seems to me you’re trying to tailor that man’s career so he can share as much sack time as possible with that Australian chippy.”

  “Sir, the woman you’re talking about is his wife, not to mention a valued civilian official of this command. And if what you say is true, Jock Miles wouldn’t be on this island leading a battalion again. He’d be back on New Guinea, with the rest of the pencil-pushers…and his wife.”

  “So not only is my judgment faulty, Colonel, but now I don’t know a damn thing about what makes men tick, either. Well, I’ll tell you what, Richard Molloy…maybe you shouldn’t be lowering yourself by working for me, insightful as you are. So I’ll make it real easy for you—you’re relieved of your command. I’ll get someone else to give Eighty-First Regiment the kick in the ass it so sorely needs. My adjutant will have orders cut sending you back to Hollandia for reassignment within the hour. Good luck with what’s left of your career, Colonel.”

  There was no point trying to fob off the blame on the failures of two dead battalion commanders. There was no point blaming the maps, either. In fact, there was no point blaming anyone but himself. As commander, he was responsible for everything his regiment did or failed to do. Molloy braced, saluted, and walked away, enjoying that brief elation that comes with unexpected liberation. The regrets would come soon enough, he knew, and so would the stinging impact of Freidenburg’s last sentence, like the venom of a snakebite slowly taking hold:

  Good luck with what’s left of your career, Colonel…

  For now Dick Molloy knew for certain he would never in his lifetime wear a general’s star.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Melvin Patchett was never a man to mince words. He told Jock, “That General Freidenburg don’t know whether to scratch his watch or wind his ass. Anyone dumb enough to shitcan a man like Colonel Molloy—probably the best fightin’ regimental commander in this whole fucking army—oughta be taken out and shot. It’s just criminal what he done, especially now, in the middle of—NO! Cancel that. It’s criminal any damn time.”

  “Gee, Top…for a moment there, I thought you were going to throw in a with all due respect.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it this time, sir.” Patchett seethed for a few moments longer. “So what are we gonna do about that Dutchman of yours.”

  “As far as Dyckman goes, I figure we’re pretty much on our own at the moment. Command is going to be in a state of flux for a day or two, no matter who succeeds Colonel Molloy.”

  “So we’re gonna go ahead and rescue this guy?” Patchett asked.

  “Damn right we are, Top. I owe him one hell of a big favor.”

  “I understand, sir. When?”

  “Tonight…before our new boss has a chance to stop us from doing it.”

  “We better get our asses organized right quick then, sir. Sun’s gonna be down before we know it.”

  At least they now had Greta’s latest map, the one that covered the mile from 1st Battalion’s present position to the coast. Jock’s three rifle company commanders were busy sketching in the details their recon patrols provided.

  “We think they’re getting ready to hit us, sir,” Lee Grossman told Jock. “The way we’ve got them hemmed in, their only chance is a breakout. Theo’s guys may have found out something that makes that scenario real plausible.”

  Theo Papadakis picked it up from there. “There’s a big gap in their line, sir,” he said. “My guys went all the way through it and walked far enough to see the beach. Never saw or heard a Jap the whole time.”

  Grossman added, “It’s not like the Nips to leave a hole that big in a defensive perimeter. We didn’t fall for their little trick with the maps, so we figure they’re scrambling to put together an attack and may have gotten a little disorganized doing it. That’s sure happened to us a bunch of times.”

  Patchett had a different take. “But they ain’t done no probing of their own, looking if we got ourselves a weak spot. What if they’re planning on pulling all the way back and being evacuated by sea?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jock said. “If they were planning on being evacuated tonight, they’d be down by the beach already. It’d be too chaotic moving a unit that size in the dark, unless they’d already marked exit lanes through the forest and down the cliffs. We asked the Dutchman if they had. He says there’s been no sign of it.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right then, sir,” Patchett replied. “But since we’ve got our bearings with this new map and all, why ain’t we pasting the shit out of them with artillery right fucking now?”

  “That’s a great idea, Top…and we’re going to do that…just as soon as we’ve gotten Dyckman and his people out of the way. We don’t want them caught in that fire. I owe him that much.”

  Patchett narrowed his eyes and asked, “Unless, of course, Captain Grossman’s correct and the Japs come on us like stink on shit, right?”

  “Yeah, of course, Top. You really have to ask that?”

  “Just checking, sir. Seems like you got yourself a whole lotta owing going on here. I wanna make sure who gets paid off first when push come to shove.”

  “All right,” Jock said. “Let’s get down to business. Theo, who led your patrol that found this gap?”

  “Sergeant Boudreau, sir.”

  “Great,” Jock replied. “Bogater’s going to be my pathfinder on this little romp in the dark.”

  “Whoa, wait a damn minute,” Patchett said. “You ain’t really going in there yourself, are you, sir?”

  “That’s my plan, Top. I’m the only one who knows the Dutchman and his people. It only makes sense I go.”

  Jock knew what Patchett was thinking: You really gonna carry yourself around in the dark on that leg?

  “I’m not worried about my leg, Top. You shouldn’t be, either.”

  “As you wish, sir. How big a team you gonna take?”

  “Let’s keep it small…about ten men. But I’m taking one of the heavy machine guns and a couple of extra walkie-talkies to be on the safe side. Don’t want to get out of touch with you guys if the shit hits the fan.”

  Lieutenant Ben Stone had never seen anything like it: they’d asked for ten volunteers. They got forty-three—and this in an army where volunteering didn’t really exist. The word was just a euphemism for being selected against your will.

  Stone was the newest and by far the least experienced rifle company commander in 1st Battalion. He’d only been in New Guinea a month when he was given Baker Company during the mop-up phase of the Hollandia invasion. It had been strictly a matter of attrition: the few lieutenants senior to him had been killed, wounded, or stricken with one tropical disease or anothe
r. Compared to Captains Lee Grossman and Theo Papadakis—veteran company commanders who’d outlived the odds of survival many times over—Ben Stone was a neophyte at this savage game and he knew it. He’d never laid eyes on the limping Colonel Jock Miles, the third commander of this battalion he’d served under, until yesterday.

  “I don’t understand it,” Stone said to Theo Papadakis. “Why the hell are all these guys volunteering—I mean actually volunteering—to get themselves killed trying to save some civilians who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “You’re pretty new here, Stone,” the Mad Greek replied, “and there’s a shitload of stuff about this outfit you don’t understand. But let me tell you this, my friend…those guys are volunteering because Jock Miles asked them to, plain and simple.”

  Darkness is my friend…Darkness is my friend…

  Bogater Boudreau figured those words had scrolled through his mind a thousand times, like the news ticker coursing around that building in New York City he’d seen in the picture shows. Maybe if that ticker played long enough, he’d actually start believing its message.

  Trouble is, it’s too damn dark. I can’t see a blasted thing in this forest. But I’m a tracker…a crack scout…and I’m the point man, the GI in front of this column. I’ll use what I got: sound, smell, feel—whatever it takes—to give the guys behind me a fighting chance to stay alive.

  It was sound that came first, a clack-clack he’d heard too many times before:

  That’s the bolt of an Arisaka rifle…and it’s damn close, too, just off to my right.

  Bogater stopped and crouched against a tree. Behind him, each GI in the column bumped to a stop against the man in front, like the cars of a long train braking to a halt. They recoiled like a compressed spring, re-established their short intervals, and took up firing positions as Jock crawled forward to join Bogater.