Operation Blind Spot (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 4)

by William Peter Grasso

  “I’m betting they came from Lorengau,” Jock replied.

  “How the hell many you reckon there are, sir?”

  “Too many…way too many to try and take on here. Kill zone’s too small.”

  “Yeah,” Bogater said, “we hit the front end and the back end will dismount and flank us through the jungle.”

  “Right,” Jock replied. “And if we let most of them pass and hit the back end, then the front end will turn around and flank us.”

  Bogater shook his head. “Maybe if we hit the back, sir, the front will just keep on running.”

  “I doubt that, Bogater. And even if they did, that’ll put a quick-moving Japanese force between us and the mountain—one we can’t even catch up with, let alone stop. Doesn’t sound like much of a way to help out Patchett and his boys, does it?”

  Bogater kept trying—and failing—to count the Japanese through his binoculars. “I don’t know, sir…it sure looks like a lot of them. Maybe if we could take out half…”

  Jock had already made up his mind what they were going to do. He told Bogater, “Sergeant, go round up the ladies. While the Japs are taking their rest stop, we’re going to make a break for it up the trail to the mountain. We need to find a better place to try and stop them.”

  “You mean we’re going to stay out of the jungle and use the trail for once, sir?”

  “Yep. Now GO! And don’t sneak up on those women. They’re armed, remember?”

  As Bogater scurried off, Oscar said, “You want better place, Major Jock? I know where, but it’s not close to here.”

  Jock unfolded the map. “Show me.”

  The place Oscar pointed to was two miles down the trail.

  With Oscar far ahead, acting as lookout, the six Americans—plus Jillian and Anne Marie—double-timed down the steamy jungle trail toward the mountain. They had only stopped once—just for a matter of seconds—to fill their canteens from a stream. It was torture not being able to drink the cool water right away. They would have to wait an agonizing ten minutes for the Halazone tablets to dissolve.

  Within moments of the last man filling his canteen, though, Mother Nature bestowed a double blessing: a downpour began. All the fresh water they could collect was falling from the sky and it didn’t need to be treated. The men caught what little they could in their helmets while on the run, gulping it down as they tried to quench their deep thirst and then passing the helmets to Jillian and Anne Marie. They’d still have the treated water in the canteens for later, and the cooling effect of the rain was very welcome now.

  The second part of the blessing was even more welcome: the Japanese would find themselves greatly slowed as the rain softened the trail, forcing them to dismount and push their bikes. Jock’s party, unencumbered by narrow-wheeled machines, could still manage a brisk pace, even as the trail quickly turned muddy. For once, being on foot was an advantage.

  Two miles, Jock told himself. We just might beat them there.

  Tom Hadley brought up the rear of the column, making sure there were no stragglers while keeping a watchful eye over his shoulder for the Japs. Jillian and Anne Marie were right in front of him, the bulky medical kit bag suspended by its strap between them as they shared the load. They seemed to be keeping pace with his GIs just fine.

  These are some tough ladies, he told himself, but, hell, Miss Forbes was always tough as nails. We’ve still got a long way to go, though.

  As he caught up to them, he saw their eyes burning with desperate purpose. “Miss Forbes, Miss Smits…how’re you two holding up?”

  “Don’t worry about us, Tom,” Jillian replied, not even breathing hard. “It’s amazing what you can do when you’re running for your life.”

  Perched on the tower at the OP, Patchett checked his watch. It said 0930. He picked up the binoculars and scanned the ships still passing far out to sea.

  No way those Navy bastards gonna be gone by 1000, like they said. At the rate they’re moving, it’s gonna be a couple more hours until they’re out of sight. That’s for damn sure.

  Got rain coming, too. That oughta fuck up visibility real good. Can’t be sure then if they’re out of sight or not.

  He climbed down from the tower and walked to the radio shelter. Botkin was diligently sweeping the frequencies, hoping to glean some hint of what might be going on around them.

  “What’re you hearing?” Patchett asked.

  “Not much of anything, Sergeant Major. Our fleet out there’s practicing perfect radio silence…not a peep out of them.”

  “How about Lorengau?”

  Ace pulled his headphones off to answer that question. “They’re doing their usual chatting with Rabaul…all admin stuff. They’re not calling us anymore, though.”

  “Ain’t surprised,” Patchett replied. “The jig’s up on that little scam of ours. Worked pretty good for a while, though. Tell you what…don’t bother monitoring Lorengau anymore. Lock onto the major’s frequency and stay there, just in case they’re trying to make contact.”

  “Sure,” Botkin replied, spinning the dials on the Japanese radio. “I can do that.” Then he asked, “Is our fleet out of sight yet, Sergeant Major?” It was obvious there was another part to that sentence left unsaid: So we can get the hell out of here.

  “Not by a long shot, son. Y’all sit tight. We ain’t leaving just yet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They’d been jogging down the trail for almost twenty minutes. The brief rain was long over, allowing the jungle’s stifling heat and humidity to return and inflict their crushing toll on the human body—even bodies lean, tough, and hardened by constant sacrifice, like those of the men and women in Jock’s party. The canteens were nearly empty again—most of the contents had been poured over their heads. Bogater Boudreau defended the improvised cooling method this way: Sure, it’s like we’re throwing good water away, sir. But if we don’t, our brains are gonna boil over.

  Jock couldn’t argue with him. The heat and exertion—coupled with the tension of impending battle—had already given him a pounding headache. He was relieved to see Oscar waiting on the trail ahead, smiling and casually standing around as if waiting for a bus.

  “Just ahead is very perfect trap,” Oscar announced. “And more water.”

  It might not have been perfect, but it wasn’t a bad start. A narrow wooden bridge—just wide enough for an ox cart, a small truck, or two bicyclists abreast—spanned a fast-flowing stream running deep in its steep banks. It wasn’t a very long span—only fifteen yards or so—but it was enough to create a bottleneck for bicycles. The Japanese would have to slow down and form an orderly, double-file queue to ride across, or dismount to ford the stream. The jungle offered the Americans well-concealed firing positions near both ends of the bridge.

  “Here’s the plan, Tom,” Jock told Hadley. “You take Deuce and McMillen and cover the south side short of the bridge. Me, Bogater, and Oscar will cover the north side opposite you. Youngblood is going to cross the bridge and set up beyond it—in that tree line over there—and pick off the lead element while it’s crossing. That should create one hell of a roadblock, so your team and mine can have a turkey shoot…at least for a couple of seconds, anyway.”

  Hadley knew exactly what at least for a couple of seconds meant. There would be far too many Japanese cyclists to engage all at once. Since they couldn’t trap the entire contingent, their attack wouldn’t fit the definition of an ambush. It would be a blocking action—and a brief one, at that. How successful it would be depended on how well the Japanese recovered from the initial shock.

  Jock continued, “If what’s left of them turn and run back up the trail, well…we’ve bought ourselves a little more time to get to the mountain without having to fight for every yard.”

  “Yeah,” Hadley said, “but if they don’t panic and regroup, we’d better haul ass, and fast. If it comes down to a shootout in the jungle, the law of attrition’s on their side. They’ve got the numbers…in spades.”

/>   “I know, Tom. You got a better idea?”

  “No, sir…I sure don’t.”

  “Good. Let’s do it, then. One more thing…Jillian and Anne Marie, I want you to stay across the bridge with Private Youngblood. Keep our sharpshooter’s back covered while he’s picking off the Japs.”

  “My pleasure,” Jillian replied as she clicked off the safety on the .45 pistol. “I’m ready.”

  Joe Youngblood couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He asked Jock, “Do they have to stay with me, sir?”

  “Yes, Private, they do.”

  Youngblood mumbled, “Yes, sir,” and set off across the bridge with the women in tow. Settling into their hide, he took up a prone firing position and put the near end of the bridge in his sights. His eyes still fixed on his target, he said to Anne Marie, “Miss Smits, I need you right next to me.” He patted the ground where he wanted her. Several clips for his M1, with eight bullets each, were already stacked there, waiting. “When you hear the ping, that means the rifle’s empty. Put another clip in my right hand right away.” He held up his open right palm to demonstrate where he wanted it. “I won’t waste any time reloading that way.”

  Anne Marie tried to pick up a clip and promptly fumbled it. Her voice trembling, she said, “Jillian’s so much better with weapons. Shouldn’t she be doing this?”

  “No, ma’am.” Struggling for a believable explanation, he added, “Your dark dress…it blends in better…all those flowers on it…looks so natural.”

  He thought that sounded so much better than, She’s the death spirit and you’re not.

  “This dress is so faded and wet you can hardly see the flowers, Private Youngblood.”

  “Maybe…but at least it’s not shiny white like hers. Better she stays away, back there, out of sight. Now be quiet, please…here they come.”

  Youngblood let four pairs of riders fill the bridge before he pulled the trigger. In the few seconds it took for the M1’s ping to announce he was ready to reload, six of the riders were sprawled on the bridge, their bicycles in a jumble.

  Eight rounds fired, six hits…

  The two Japanese who weren’t down yet were trapped in the maze of toppled bicycles, darting back and forth on the bridge seeking cover that didn’t exist.

  With Youngblood’s first shot, the teams on either side of the trail opened up with a noise like a factory clattering at full, deafening output. The five Thompson submachine guns flung their wild and withering shower of lead, chewing up flesh, metal, rubber, and dirt without discrimination. Oscar’s Enfield rifle contributed to the carnage as fast as he could cycle its bolt between shots.

  Five seconds…a few hundred precious rounds expended…

  And so many Japanese at the rear of their column untouched, prone in firing positions, shooting back…

  Abandoning bicycles and dashing into the concealment of the jungle.

  Shit. They’re well disciplined…and well organized. Maybe we got half…but half a hundred still makes it fifty against seven…

  The attrition fight Jock knew he couldn’t win.

  We’ve got to get the hell out of here.

  As if Jock’s hand signal to Pull Back! wasn’t clear enough, two rounds from Japanese knee mortars came crashing into Hadley’s position across the trail, making the point with deadly emphasis.

  Hadley’s men had already stopped shooting, Jock told himself. They must have been gone from there and into the jungle before those mortars hit.

  The words were more prayer than certainty.

  Both teams would have to ford the stream to get to Joe Youngblood’s position. He was still sniping, picking off any Japanese soldier foolish enough to venture back onto the trail. It didn’t matter if the range was one hundred yards or more; Youngblood was scoring first-round hits.

  Jock made it to the open expanse of the stream before he realized Bogater and Oscar were not with him. He scrambled back into the concealment of the jungle and peered down the trail—both men were running like champion sprinters toward the stream. Their arms were loaded with heavy objects unrecognizable at first.

  As they splashed into the knee-deep water, Jock recognized what they were carrying:

  Knee mortars! With ammo! They must’ve swiped it off some bicycles.

  When the two reached the stream’s far bank, reciprocal justice issued a stern verdict: a mortar shell landed within yards of them.

  An eye for an eye…

  Jock splashed across the stream, grabbed the two dazed and bleeding men and, pumped with adrenaline, dragged them into the undergrowth on the far side. No sooner did they get there, Bogater popped up as if jolted by electricity. He sprinted back to the stream and recovered one of the mortars and four rounds.

  Dropping the swag at Jock’s feet, he started back for the rest.

  Jock tackled him.

  “Knock it off, Boudreau. I need you alive more than I need some pop-gun mortars. Look at you…you’re sliced up like crazy. I think the blast scrambled your brains a little, too.”

  Oscar was in even worse shape. His scalp had been grazed and burned by a shell fragment. Blood was streaming down his face. His outstretched hands felt someone beside him.

  “I cannot see,” he said.

  Jock took the towel from his neck and fashioned a crude bandage around Oscar’s head. With the free end, he wiped the blood from his guide’s eyes.

  “Thank you, Major Jock. Much better now.”

  Maybe not—there was another fragment sticking out of Oscar’s thigh.

  “We’ll get Miss Smits to have a look at you,” Jock said. “But we’ve got to get the fuck out of here, right now.”

  Bogater was staring at Jock’s trouser leg—a spot on his thigh was slowly turning dark with blood. “What about you, sir? Looks like you caught yourself a piece, too.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Jock said. “I can’t feel a damn thing. I guess it mustn’t be too bad then, eh? C’mon, you two…let’s get moving.”

  Jock acted as Oscar’s crutch. Bogater toted the mortar and rounds for which they’d nearly died.

  “Did Hadley’s boys make it out, sir?” Bogater asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  “We sure kicked them Jap asses right good, though, didn’t we, sir?”

  “I don’t think we kicked them enough, Bogater. Too damn many of them…and this sure as hell isn’t their first time under fire, either.”

  When they reached his position, Joe Youngblood was still picking off the odd Japanese soldier unwise enough to show himself.

  “Saddle up, all of you,” Jock said. “We’re moving south. We’ve got to link up with Hadley and his men…”

  If they’re still alive.

  Anne Marie took one look at Jock, Oscar, and Bogater. “I need time to tend to all your wounds,” she said.

  “Time’s something we don’t have right now,” Jock replied. “Get moving.”

  Youngblood’s eyes were still trained on the bridge. “Wait a minute, sir. Look at this.”

  A cluster of Japanese—eight, maybe ten—were on the bridge, flinging wrecked bicycles over the side, dragging bodies out of the way.

  “Should I take them down, sir?” Youngblood asked.

  “Save your ammo,” Jock replied. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  He took the mortar, stuck its T-shaped base into the ground, bracing the weapon with his foot as he knelt on one knee behind it, and angled the tube toward the bridge with one hand.

  Youngblood said, “So that’s why they call it a knee mortar. And here I though it was because you fired it off your knee.”

  “Nah, that’s a good way to break your leg.” With his free hand, Jock picked up one of the rounds—a hefty 50-millimeter grenade—and hung it over the open tube. “Here goes nothing. Everyone…turn your face away.”

  He let the round drop into the tube, and then pulled the firing lanyard.

  With a dull THUMP, the grenade was on its way.

  Six seconds later, after arcing
high through the air, it impacted in the midst of the soldiers on the bridge, sending torn bodies, bicycles, and wooden boards flying in all directions.

  Jillian patted him on the back. “Brilliant! Great shot, Jock.”

  “Beginner’s luck,” he replied.

  Bogater asked, “Still think it was a dumb idea to snatch that thing, sir?”

  “I never said it was a dumb idea, Bogater. Just that I needed you more than it…and I still do.”

  As they started their trek through the jungle, Jillian asked, “Your leg, baby…does it hurt?”

  “Not yet, Jill.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I must’ve only been out for a second or two, Deuce Hashimoto told himself. The stench of explosives was still heavy in the air. Leaves sliced from high branches by flying steel fluttered to the ground like dazed butterflies.

  Though knocked flat on his back, his Thompson had stayed in his hand, still hot and smoking from the torrent of bullets it had delivered only moments ago. His other hand flew to his crotch to take inventory: All there.

  A strange memory floated into his head: how the nurses in the field hospital back on Papua would say, with great certainty, The first thing a guy checks is the family jewels, without fail.

  All the GIs thought those nurses were pulling their legs…

  Maybe they weren’t.

  He stood up, filled with the dreaded sense he was suddenly alone, caught in the cruel and incomprehensible shift from living and breathing to bleeding and dying…

  But I’m not dying. Just this siren screaming in my ears.

  Time’s all fouled up, though…

  Events that had happened just moments ago seemed like ancient history: First Sergeant Hadley had given the order to disengage and pull back. They turned, ran…and everything went dark.

  But Deuce was back in the light now, in a tranquil jungle that had been a swirling storm of violence and death just a few, rapid heartbeats ago…

  He told me to pull back…