And we’re just going deeper and deeper into this jungle. The fucking insects are the size of small airplanes. And those big snakes ain’t too shy of people, either. I guess they own this neighborhood. And if they don’t, I hate to think what the hell does own it.
On his way back to the rear of the column, he checked each man he passed in turn. They were all doing okay—except for Deuce Hashimoto.
“How’s the crotch holding up, Deuce?”
“Itches like crazy, First Sergeant.”
“I’m real sorry to hear that…but we need you out here. Don’t even think about dropping out and going back to the mountain.”
Going back…the thought of making his way back to Mount Dremsel—alone—sent a shiver down Deuce’s spine. He had decided many tortured steps ago to endure being filthy and wet all the time, broiling in the heat, and battling the enormous bugs and snakes. He’d endure the crotch rot, too.
“Who the hell wants to go back, First Sergeant? I’m staying right here…with all you guys.”
Chapter Fifteen
Jock’s estimate of a six-hour hike proved to be right on the money. It was just past 1600 hours when Oscar Solo pointed ahead and said, “Over there, Major Jock. Prison camp just across river.”
They could hear the river but not see it. The source of that watery burble might have only been thirty or forty yards away, but the jungle hid its secrets well.
“Good,” Jock replied, glad for the brief chance to rest and regroup. Watching his exhausted men flop into a defensive perimeter, he added, “My men and I are running on fumes. You’re a tough man to keep up with, Oscar.”
Solo didn’t approve of the rest stop. “You want to see prison camp before dark, no?”
“Of course,” Jock replied.
“Then we must walk fast more. We sleep later.”
Sleep later…the GIs would have been happy to take a nap right now, but they knew better. “Fat load of good this perimeter does us,” Sergeant Mike McMillen grumbled. “We can’t see five feet in this fucking jungle. Keep your eyes peeled, you guys. Any numbnuts I catch dozing off gets my size ten right up his ass.”
Their canteens were running low. It had only rained once—poured, rather, and briefly at that—as they struggled to make their way. They had only managed to catch a little in their helmets as they walked—barely enough for a refreshing swallow. At least now a plentiful source of cool, fresh water—the river—was nearby. They celebrated its presence by taking last gulps of lukewarm water from the canteens and then dumping whatever was left on their sweltering heads. Oscar laughed as he watched them.
Jock took the map from his helmet liner, unfolded it, and asked the question all his men were thinking: “Okay…now where the hell are we?” Along their direction of travel, the map showed a crooked blue line, indicating a wide creek or river. “Looks like we’re here,” he said as his finger fell on a point along that blue line. That point was just a little more than halfway between Mount Dremsel and Lorengau. “The trail to Lorengau—and two villages—should be less than a mile south of here.”
Oscar didn’t bother to look at the map. “Yes, Major Jock, villages that way,” he said, pointing south. “Trail, too.”
“Then we’re almost ten miles from Lorengau,” Jock said. “Why the hell did they put the camp way out here, in the middle of nowhere?”
Oscar just shrugged. Then he said, “But we must hurry. Sun go away soon.”
Bogater Boudreau returned from his scouting detail at the river. He was shaking his head. “We gotta go farther upstream, sir,” he reported. “Too many damn crocs in these parts. Water looks to be about chest high—just how they like it.”
Shit, Jock thought, more daylight wasted.
“You have rope,” Oscar protested. “We make rope bridge. Cross here.”
“Negative,” Jock replied. “Somebody’s still got to wade across to rig the far side. Sergeant Boudreau’s my resident croc expert…and there’s nothing he’d like better than to shoot one of those ugly bastards in the head. But a gunshot right now is as good as waving a big flag at the Japs. We’re going farther upstream.”
They were bunched together now, each hanging on to the pack of the man in front of him, afraid of being separated and lost in the thick undergrowth. It took almost an hour of hacking through one tangled vine after another until they found a safe place to cross. There, the water was shallow—only ankle deep—and ran swiftly. “Ain’t gonna find no crocs here,” Boudreau reported.
They crossed the river, filling their canteens as they did. Hadley kept an eagle eye on the process. “That’s right, boys,” he said, “two Halazone tablets in every one of those canteens. Let ’em dissolve real good. First man I see trying to cheat, I’m gonna let die in a pool of his own runny shit.”
The journey south along the river had brought them close to one of the villages drawn on the map. They could see several shafts of wispy, grayish smoke rising above the trees. Oscar plucked from the air an aroma only he could distinguish. Rubbing his empty belly, he slipped into excited pidgin and announced, “Kaikai! Kukim pik!”
Hungry, exhausted, and miserable, Deuce asked, “What did he say? It was about food, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Hadley replied. “Some lucky bastards are roasting a pig over there.”
“That doesn’t seem fair, First Sergeant. These natives—these primitives—eat better than we do.”
Hadley replied, “What’s not fair? They killed the pig, they get to eat it. If you kill a pig, you’ll get to eat it, too. And who said they’re natives? They could be Japs. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and stay alert, dammit.” He pointed toward Oscar Solo and added, “Don’t be knocking these primitives, either. In Australia and Papua, they saved our asses more times than I care to remember.”
Once across the river, they moved more slowly—more cautiously—as they made their way back up the opposite bank toward the camp. They couldn’t see any of it yet, but the sounds of human activity filtered through the trees like whispered warnings. As they drew still closer, those whispers grew and became recognizable: the rumble of vehicles, the neighing of horses, voices shouting in Japanese.
Jock pulled Deuce to his side and whispered, “What are they saying, Corporal?”
“Just marching commands, sir…and telling someone to hurry up.”
Jock asked Oscar, “How much farther to the barbed wire?”
“Very close, Major Jock.”
He was right. After ten minutes of silent struggle through the thick vegetation, the Americans could catch fleeting orange glints of the setting sun reflecting off the tin roofs of the camp.
They crawled forward, silently enduring the pain of prickly thorns tearing skin right through their clothes. Mike McMillen bit his tongue as his arm was sliced by another of nature’s barbs: Gotta get some sulfa in these cuts real soon or we’re all going to die of jungle infections. But I’ll take getting scarred up…just so I don’t see another fucking snake.
Then, just short of the wire, like a curtain being drawn back, they earned their reward: a broad view of the prison camp from well-concealed front-row seats.
“Just like what I figured,” Jock whispered to Hadley. “Twenty, maybe thirty acres of cleared land, watchtowers in the four corners. We’ve got to get around the east side for a good look at those buildings.”
“Something’s funny, though, sir,” Hadley said. “That handful of prisoners over there near the wire, digging those holes—they aren’t white like we expected. They’re Melanesian. Sure, they’ve got shorts and shirts on instead of loin cloths, but still…what the hell are they doing in there?”
“Let’s ask Oscar.”
The native guide’s answer was simple: they were islanders who had worked for the Australian administrators before the Japanese came and had failed to show the proper switching of allegiances. Mostly clerks, merchants, kitchen help, and menservants—about a hundred of them.
“So they’re in the nick,” Oscar s
aid.
“They didn’t just kill them?”
“No, Major Jock. They only kill ones like me, who fight. The rest…hostages.”
“Are there any white men in there?” Jock asked.
“Some.”
Then Oscar pointed to the natives on the digging detail. “And those not holes, Sergeant Tom,” he said to Hadley. “They are graves.”
“Those guards,” Hadley said, “are they Japanese or Korean?”
“Go ask Deuce,” Jock replied.
Hadley returned quickly with the answer. “He can’t tell, sir. They’re too far away. Can’t see their faces good.”
The Squad moved slowly east along the camp’s southern wire. Progress through the thick jungle growth became tougher: the fraction of daylight that managed to filter through the canopy was fading as late afternoon slid into evening. Jock and Oscar were in total agreement on one point: they’d stop for the night before they lost the light completely. It would be too dangerous to try and keep going in the dark.
We’ll make noise…we won’t be able to help it stumbling around in the blackness.
And Japs could be less than fifty yards away.
There was still some daylight when they reached the southeast corner of the camp, enough to see the soldier manning the watchtower. His gaze was focused on the camp’s interior. He never once turned to look into the jungle beyond the wire.
“I guess they’re not much worried about people trying to get in,” Hadley whispered.
As the GIs turned north to skirt the camp’s eastern edge, Oscar pointed to their right and warned, “Be very careful. Big pundaun that way.”
Pundaun…that word was beyond the GIs’ knowledge of pidgin. Oscar could tell right away by the confused looks on their faces.
“Come. I show.”
“No, wait,” Jock said as he studied the map. “It’s almost dark. We don’t have time.”
Oscar made a motion with his hand—a downward tuck with flattened palm—like a diver plummeting.
“You mean we’re going to fall?”
“Ya, Major Jock. You fall far.”
“I guess we would,” Jock said, his finger tracing a line on the map. “Looks like we’re on the edge of a real big drop here, men…the eastern edge of this island’s central plateau.”
It was starting to make sense to Jock why the Japanese put this prison camp so far outside Lorengau: Pretty unique location, even for this part of the world. So many natural obstacles. If someone manages to slip through the wire, they get their choice of thick, nasty jungle, a river full of crocodiles, or a chance to fall off a cliff. I wonder if anyone’s even tried?
And if they did, how long did they survive?
“Come on,” he urged his men, “let’s try to get near those buildings while we can still see a little.”
They made it just as the sun dropped behind distant trees. Though nestled close together in the undergrowth, they were almost as invisible to each other as they were to the Japanese. Exhausted and bleeding, they had made it to their objective, at least. Now, it was time for a new revelation: this was where they’d be spending the night, in easy range of the enemy, surrounded by nature’s tropical horrors. There would be no going back once darkness fell.
Bogater Boudreau held up his bayonet. Stuck to its point was the largest crawling insect he’d ever seen—a centipede of some sort, almost a foot long, with a body like an armadillo. “Think we can eat this?” he asked Joe Youngblood, waving the impaled, writhing creature in his face.
Youngblood pushed the bayonet away. “Be my guest, Sergeant.”
“Well, maybe not.” Boudreau replied. With a flick of the bayonet, he launched the creature far into the tangled green web surrounding them.
Insects and food were the farthest things from Jock’s mind at the moment. Peering through a veil of broad leaves, he and Hadley couldn’t take their eyes off the scene unfolding before them.
Just beyond the gate in the camp’s wire stood several barracks-like buildings and a house surrounded by a veranda. The house’s tarnished tin roof reflected what little it could of the sun’s last light. A Japanese officer stood on the veranda, looking down at a small circle of his soldiers—ten, maybe twelve at a quick count—and a barefoot man at the center.
Definitely not Japanese or Melanesian. Those rags he’s wearing look like what’s left of an Aussie flyer’s uniform. I think I can still see the wings sewn on.
His arms were bound to his sides.
He was blindfolded.
One of the soldiers stepped to the blindfolded man and forced him to his knees.
He drew a sword…
Like a batter awaiting the pitcher’s delivery, he cocked the sword behind his ear…
Just a glint as the shiny blade vanished in a horizontal blur…
And buried itself in the Aussie flyer’s neck.
“Holy fuck!” Hadley said. Immediately, he covered his mouth, afraid he’d said it too loud.
The executioner put a foot on the Aussie’s back and pulled the sword free. The decapitation was, at best, partial.
He took another swing—this time, a vertical hack straight down.
The head bounced and came free.
It pivoted on its face and rolled one full turn in the dirt.
Two soldiers dragged the headless body to a cart.
A third lifted the head, using an ear for a handle.
It, too, was flung into the cart.
“Holy fuck,” Hadley repeated, much quieter this time.
“Miserable, low-life savages,” Jock whispered.
Oscar said, “See? I tell you…holes are graves.”
A few minutes later, the GIs found themselves wrapped in the cloak of night’s darkness.
Chapter Sixteen
The only light the men of The Squad could see were the few oil lanterns burning in the camp, like stars hung low in the sky. The moon seemed to cast no glow this night. Even if it did, none would have penetrated to the jungle floor where they lay.
Tom Hadley turned off the walkie-talkie. “The 2200 report from the OP just went over the air, sir.”
“That’s good. At least all’s well with Patch and his boys.”
Hadley asked, “How many Japs you figure there are in that camp, sir?”
“From what we saw, Tom, I’m thinking no more than a platoon or two.”
“You think we could take them?”
“Not unless we could knock out all four watchtowers first…and that’s not likely. Looks like they’ve got Nambus up there.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too.” There was an awkward pause before Hadley added, “So what are we going to do, sir?”
Without hesitation, Jock replied, “Right now, I have no earthly idea, Tom. Maybe when the sun comes up we can see a little more…and maybe—”
“Seems kind of risky, sir. We don’t know if there’s any more of our guys left in there to save. That guy they just killed…suppose he was the last one?”
“Wake up, Deuce,” Sergeant McMillen whispered. “Your turn on watch.”
“I’m awake, Sergeant. Who the hell can sleep out here, anyway?”
McMillen cupped a hand over his red flashlight, letting it cast a dim, ghostly light on Deuce’s face. The man looked scared out of his mind. It wasn’t just the deep shadows making him appear that way.
“You’ve got to loosen up a little, Deuce. Nobody’s shooting at you yet.”
“I just…I just can’t stand being out here, Sergeant. All these insects…these snakes…”
“Are you shitting me? We just watched a guy get his head cut off and you’re worried about bugs? I think you need something to keep yourself busy, so get on the stick and go relieve the Indian over there.”
Tom Hadley had just come off watch. He crawled through the blackness like a blind man looking for Jock—He should only be a couple of feet away!—but he couldn’t find him. Not until he stumbled right over someone hunkered under a ground sheet.
&nbs
p; “Oh, shit,” Hadley whispered, “is that you, sir?”
“Yeah, Tom, it’s me. Come in here for a minute. I think I’ve figured something out.”
Beneath the ground sheet, Jock was using a flashlight to study the map and make notes without lighting up their position to the Japanese.
“Thick as this jungle is, sir, I’m not sure the Japs would see one li’l ol’ red flashlight, anyway.”
“Let’s not take that chance, Tom. Now look at this…we’ve seen every part of that camp except the north side. We haven’t gotten a good look at those buildings…or who’s in them. At first light, I want you and Youngblood to scout up that way.”
“Why Youngblood, sir?”
“He’s our sharpshooter. I want him to see the two towers on that end up close, so he can figure out which of the four are the easier to take out.” He tore a page from his notebook and handed it to Hadley. “Here…I made you a diagram of the camp as we know it so far. I’ve got one just like it. Go have a look and fill in the blanks, Tom.”
Hadley stuck the diagram inside his helmet. “Good plan, sir. I’ll take care of it.”
“Just be extra careful about one thing, Tom. That trail that runs into the camp…you’re going to have to cross it somewhere. Pick a good spot so you won’t get…”
A strange sound suddenly filled the air, stopping Jock’s words cold. It was music—and it sounded so out of place in this brutal jungle. Someone in the camp was playing a piano, and a well-tuned one, at that.
“What the hell?” Jock said. “That’s Liszt…one of the Hungarian Rhapsodies.”
“How the hell do you know that, sir?”
The answer was almost too painful to think about, let alone say out loud: “Because Jillian—Miss Forbes—used to play it all the time. She loved Liszt.”
Hadley wished he had never asked the question. Every man in the unit tiptoed around any mention of Jillian when Jock was near. She had helped them in so many ways on Cape York and again on Papua—and now she was gone. That knowledge was just as painful to the men as it was to Jock.
Operation Blind Spot (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 4) Page 9
