Another exchange in Japanese. Ace and Deuce were dumbstruck by the Koreans’ response. Deuce asked, “Did you get that? Did they really say kirā?”
“Yeah,” Ace replied, “I think they did.”
Kirā. Killer.
As the Koreans smiled proudly, Ace relayed their reply to Jock. “There were six men on the OP, sir—these two plus four officers. They’re saying they shot the officers to death.”
It was Jock and Patchett’s turn to be dumbstruck for a moment, until Patchett asked, “And I’m guessing they did this last night sometime?”
“That’s right, Sergeant Major. That must be why their radio went dead.”
Patchett checked his watch: 1720 hours. About an hour until sunset…
“We better get our asses up that damn mountain on the double, sir.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Sergeant Major.”
Patchett pointed his Thompson toward the Koreans. “What about these two?”
Jock replied, “They’re coming with us.”
Under his breath, Patchett muttered, “Well, ain’t that just fucking dandy…”
As The Squad raced toward Mount Dremsel with their two Korean guests, the interrogation continued on the fly. “Try and find out why they killed their officers,” Jock told the Nisei.
When they reached the foot of Dremsel, the path leading to its peak looked just as the Aussie Sergeant Burke had described it back at Milne Bay—a spiral staircase that wound its way around and around the steeply-sloped mountainsides. As they started the long, uphill climb, Ace and Deuce thought they had pieced together the answer to Jock’s question.
“If I’m hearing them right,” Ace reported, “the Japanese are preparing to pull out of Manus, so they’re getting rid of their excess baggage. These two thought they’d be killed rather than be taken off the island, so…”
“What made them think that?” Jock asked.
“Apparently, there’s a POW camp here…and the Japs have been killing off the prisoners. When they’re done with that, the rumor is they’ll kill off the Korean guards—”
“And these two as well, I suppose,” Jock said. “Where’s this POW camp?”
“Just this side of Lorengau, sir.”
Patchett could see the wheels in Jock’s head turning—and he didn’t like it one bit. He pulled close to his major and whispered, “I know what you’re thinking, sir. You best put a notion to freelance out of your mind right now. Rescuing POWs ain’t our mission here.” He stopped himself from adding, Don’t get your hopes up, sir. She ain’t gonna be here in no POW camp. You said yourself Miss Forbes is dead.
Jock shrugged him off. “First things first, Sergeant Major. After that, we’ll play it by ear.”
“We lose focus here, sir, and we just might all get dead. Plus them GIs landing at Hollandia get dealt a real bad hand.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know, Sergeant Major. Like I said, we’re going to play it by ear. End of story.”
“With all due respect, sir—”
Jock’s icy glare cut him off. “Give it a rest, Top. I haven’t forgotten what with all due respect really means.”
The last rays of sunset still lit the peak when Jock and his men got there. The OP’s layout looked quite like they expected. The watchtower the Aussies built was still standing, well-weathered and rickety but serviceable, its apex looming high over the treetops. The radio—a low-power unit, just like Botkin suspected—sat unmolested inside an open-sided wooden shelter. Several tents housed living accommodations. In one of them were the bodies of the four slain officers: three lieutenants from the Imperial Japanese Navy, one captain from the Army. All had been shot to death. Squadrons of flies and battalions of maggots were laying claim to the corpses.
As Ace Nishimoto spun the cranks of the radio’s generator, Sergeant Botkin hunched over the set’s dials with headsets pressed to his ears. It only took a moment for him to jump up and announce, “We’re in business, sir. The set’s working.”
“That’s great,” Jock said. “Tell Lorengau we had radio trouble but we’re back on the air.”
Ace and Deuce composed the message in Japanese Morse. Botkin sent it. The reply from Lorengau was immediate. After quickly translating it, Deuce read it out loud.
“The captain-in-charge has been warned not to let the radio malfunction again,” he said, stifling a laugh. “And they want to know if his section needs relief before Three March.”
“That sounds almost too good to be true,” Jock replied. “By Two March we’ll be long gone. Tell them the captain is doing just fine. No relief necessary.”
They exchanged messages with the Japanese at Lorengau again. “One more thing, sir,” Deuce said as he scrawled the translation. “They say to make sure we transmit the usual status report at 2200.”
Patchett had other things on his mind. “We gotta get rid of them rotting bodies, sir…and that lousy death tent they’re in, too.”
“Have the Koreans dig some graves downslope,” Jock replied.
“You sure that’s such a good idea, sir? I mean, untying them and all?”
“They’re not going anywhere, Top. They think they hit the jackpot running into us.”
“I ain’t so sure about this, sir…”
“Besides, Top, there’s probably a lot of intel we can get out of them.”
Patchett blew out a chestful of frustration. “You’re thinking about trying to save these damn POWs, ain’t you, sir?”
“I don’t know if we can save anyone or not. But we sure as hell are going to find out what the story is. We just got handed a gift—we’re on top of this mountain, without a fight, two whole days ahead of schedule. We’re going to make good use of that extra time.”
“It still ain’t our mission, sir.”
“We’re doing our mission, Top. Hell, it’s damn near done already. But maybe—just maybe—we can do a little bit more. Even if we can just pinpoint the POW camp so our flyboys don’t bomb it.”
And just maybe we get ourselves all killed chasing rainbows, Patchett thought.
But he didn’t dare say that out loud.
All he said was, “As you wish, sir. As you wish.”
“By the way, Top…after what’s happened so far, do you still think the minuses of having the Nisei outweigh the pluses?”
“Still a little early to tell, ain’t it, sir?”
Chapter Fourteen
It poured all night, turning the OP at Mount Dremsel’s peak into a replica of the soggy rainforest floor far below. Without being told, the Koreans had taken over the water collection duties, catching the rain in outstretched ponchos, diligently ensuring everyone’s canteens were filled to the brim. The stash of water jugs the Japanese had used on the OP were topped off, too. Watching the captives bustle about as dawn broke, Patchett told Jock, “Even if it stops raining right this minute, we should be good on water for our planned stay up here, sir. These Ko-reans are working their asses off…but I still ain’t trusting them one li’l bit. Something really puzzles the shit out of me, though.”
“What’s that, Top?” Jock asked.
“There was Nambus and Arisakas laying all over the place when we got here,” he said, pointing to the pile of Japanese pistols and rifles the GIs had gathered and secured. “How come they didn’t take any when they made their getaway?”
“They were trying not to look hostile, Top. Their only chance at survival was getting taken in by some natives.”
“That’ll never happen, sir. Given half a chance, the natives’ll run spears right through ’em, I reckon.”
“Maybe so, Top. But they’re in your hands now. You sure you’ve got enough guys to cover this OP and keep an eye on the Koreans while we’re gone?”
“Yes, sir. Me and Allred, with Botkin and that Nip Ace on the radio, should do the job just fine…but you sure you want to give me Ace?”
“Why not him?”
“He’s the one Hadley says is the better fighter, sir.
Wouldn’t you rather have a better fighter where you’re going?”
“Nah…I just need a translator. You need both.”
“Okay, sir…if that’s the way you want it.”
Hadley walked up with a walkie-talkie. “Botkin’s got me all checked out on changing the frequency on this thing, sir.”
Patchett had that skeptical look on his face. “What the hell you gonna do with that thing, sir? You’ll be out of range with us in no time.”
“True,” Jock replied, “but we can still receive your nightly 2200 broadcast to Lorengau. If you don’t transmit, we know you’re in trouble.”
“Hmm…pretty clever,” Patchett said. “So I’m guessing you’re expecting to be gone a while, then?”
“Maybe. The earliest we’ll be back is midday tomorrow, Top.”
“And if you’re not?”
“Hold this OP until sunrise of Two March, then get the hell back to the boats.”
As soon as Jock and his men headed off down the mountain, Sergeant Botkin had a question for Sergeant Major Patchett: “Do you think the major’s got his hopes up about finding Miss Forbes? I thought everyone said she was dead.”
“She’s presumed dead, son. Big difference.”
“What do you think, Sergeant Major?”
“If she was a POW, she probably would’ve still been in Buna when we finally took the place. But we didn’t find no POWs there…not live ones, anyway.”
“But couldn’t she still be in a camp someplace else?”
“Who knows, son? You don’t get no cards and letters from POWs.”
Jock and his five men were halfway down the spiral staircase when it finally stopped raining. As they walked, each man used the army green towel looped over his neck to wipe the water droplets from his weapon—all except Deuce Hashimoto. He seemed preoccupied and very uncomfortable as he tugged at his crotch.
“What’s the matter, Deuce?” Tom Hadley asked. “A bug crawl up your ass?”
“No, First Sergeant. I’m itching like crazy.”
As Deuce pulled the wet fabric of his trousers tight against his buttocks, Hadley saw the distinct outline of another garment below. “Holy shit, Deuce…are you wearing underpants?”
“Yeah…I am.”
“For cryin’ out loud, how long have you had them on?”
“Since the submarine, First Sergeant.”
“Shit. How many times do we have to tell you? No fucking underwear in the tropics. That’s guaranteed crotch rot. Take those goddamn things off right now.”
Deuce shed his gear and his pants. When he slid the underpants down his legs, he was embarrassed to find Hadley squatting before him, ready to check him out.
“Damn!” Hadley said, eyeing Deuce’s wares. “Seen worse, but that’s a pretty good irritation.” He pulled a packet from his first aid kit. “Here…put some sulfa on it. Didn’t they teach you anything in that medical school?”
“Crotch rot wasn’t much of an issue in San Francisco, First Sergeant.”
“You ain’t in Frisco anymore, Corporal. Pay attention when we tell you something. And make it snappy, before Major Miles kicks us both in the ass for straggling.”
Deuce did as he was told. Once he donned his gear again, though, he tossed the underpants to the side of the trail.
“Pick those lousy drawers up and take them with you,” Hadley said. “They’ve got your fucking name in them. In English! Why don’t you just leave the Japs a calling card that we’re here?”
Bogater Boudreau was where he felt he belonged: walking point, the lead man in the column. Ain’t nobody got the instinct like me. I’d rather be point man all day long, every damn day, than trust some other touch-hole with the job.
No sooner did that thought pass than the razor-sharp instinct had him flat on his belly. There was something on the trail ahead, right at the base of Mount Dremsel. The five men behind him followed his lead and dove for cover, too.
An anxious Jock, a few paces back and unable to see what his point man could, whispered, “What the hell’s going on, Bogater?”
“I don’t rightly know, sir.”
Jock crawled forward to take a look.
There was a native man sitting cross-legged smack in the middle of the trail. He was grinning broadly as he waved a hand in greeting.
“You come back, Aussie,” the man said. “I be waiting long time.”
“We’re not Australians,” Jock replied. “We’re Americans.”
“Same thing. You kill Japanese, yes?”
“We sure try.”
Jock figured the man to be in his thirties, but like most island men who’d reached that age, he looked older. It was the weathered and leathery skin that did it.
At least this guy still seems to have some of his teeth.
The man popped to his feet like a spry youngster. He was barefoot and wore a tattered Australian Army shirt over baggy shorts. A web belt laden with ammo pouches hung around his waist. When he stood, his slender frame was barely over five feet tall.
I’ll bet he weighs about eighty pounds soaking wet.
“My name is Oscar Solo,” the man said. “I am here to help you take back Lorengau.”
Jock asked, “How the hell did you know we were here?”
“You make much noise.”
Tom Hadley voiced what everyone was thinking: “You think we can trust this guy, sir?”
Oscar seemed injured by the question. He asked, “Don’t you remember me? I am Number One Fuzzy-Wuzzy.” His chest puffed with pride as he said it.
Fuzzy-wuzzies: what the Australians called the island natives.
“I have proof,” Oscar said. He reached into his breast pocket and produced what looked like the leaf of some jungle plant. Folded within it was a stained and brittle piece of paper. He opened it carefully and offered it to the Americans.
Jock read the paper slowly, trying not to damage it any worse than time and nature already had. It certainly looked like an official Australian Army letter, granting Oscar Solo a commendation for Meritorious Service in support of His Majesty’s Australian Forces on Manus Island.
This looks like the real deal.
Jock leaned close to Hadley and whispered, “Keep Deuce out of sight until I tell you. Let’s not spook this guy like those other tribesmen. Maybe he can do us some good.”
“My rifle is ready, sir,” Oscar added.
“Show me, Mister Solo.”
“No mister, sir…you call me Oscar, please.” He led Jock off the trail. Stashed behind a tree was an Enfield Rifle, its stock engraved with the royal crown of the British Empire.
“Please, sir…inspect it. But careful…it is loaded.”
Jock gave the rifle a quick but thorough going over. When he was done, he said, “This weapon is in fine shape. How many rounds do you have for it?”
Oscar patted his ammo pouches and said, “Many more than these, sir.”
“Very good. My name is Miles…Major Jock Miles, US Army. That tall fellow over there is First Sergeant Tom Hadley. Now let’s have ourselves a little talk.”
Jock told Oscar why they were there and what they planned to do. When asked if he knew a way to the POW camp that would keep them off the main Lorengau trail, avoiding all the villages along the way, he replied, “Yes. There is another way…very quick-quick, too, Major Jock. No one see us.”
“Can you guide us there, Oscar?”
“Yes, Major Jock, yes! We go now, okay?”
“Not quite yet,” Jock said. He proceeded to explain there was a Japanese-American soldier with the patrol, finishing with, “He’s a friend, Oscar. Not your enemy.” Then he signaled Hadley to bring Deuce forward.
Solo didn’t seem in the least bit concerned. He pointed to the Nisei and said, “If you not kill him, I not kill him.”
Deuce took little comfort in that sentiment: Great…the others just ran away. This one would just as soon finish me off.
Oscar asked, “Sir, your other men on the mountain. They st
ay?”
“How the hell did you know about other men?”
“I count you when you go up last night. Six here now, six up there.”
“Gee, you don’t miss a trick, do you?”
The little tribesman’s reply was a proud, beaming smile.
Jock signaled the patrol to its feet. “All right, Oscar,” he said, “you lead, we’ll follow.”
Following Oscar Solo was proving quite a challenge. He covered ground rapidly, plunging Jock’s patrol deeper and deeper into an impenetrable wall of green as the rainforest thinned and yielded to jungle.
Wasn’t expecting terrain like this, Jock told himself. This place is full of surprises. I hope to hell I didn’t fuck up taking this little guy on as a guide.
Rarely did Oscar bother to swing his machete, instead slipping his small, lithe body through the tangled vines as if they were no more than sinewy curtains. When he did lash out with the blade, it was more often to slice a particular vine from the undergrowth. Without slowing a step, he’d squeeze the clear fluid within the vine into his mouth. The jungle was his canteen.
The taller, broad-shouldered Americans couldn’t navigate this murky wilderness quite so easily. Bogater Boudreau and Joe Youngblood, the next men behind Oscar, often had to hack their way through the stubborn patches inch by inch. Then all the GIs would jog through the newly cut openings to catch up to their guide. The machete wielding was exhausting, too. Boudreau and Youngblood were ready to let someone else swing the blades for a while.
Hadley brought up the rear of the column so he could better police up stragglers. During passage through some relatively open ground, he sprinted to the column’s head to ask Jock, “You have any idea where the hell we are, sir?”
Compass in hand, Jock replied, “All I know is we’re headed east-northeast. That’s where we want to be.”
“How much ground you figure we’ve covered so far, sir?”
“I have no idea, Tom. But I’m guessing this little hike is going to last about six hours.”
“Shit,” Hadley said as he checked his watch. They’d only been walking for one hour…
Operation Blind Spot (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 4) Page 8
