But which way is “back?”
Where the hell is my helmet?
And where is First Sergeant Hadley and Sergeant McMillen?
He started walking and, blundering from the concealment of the jungle, stopped cold when he saw the horror at the bridge. Smashed and useless now, its approach was littered with dozens of dead Japanese and their shot-up bicycles. His stomach heaved with the sickening feeling that some, perhaps many, of them had died at his hands…
Bad idea. I’m going the wrong way.
He about-faced and headed back into the jungle.
In a few quick steps, he came to a helmet lying on the ground.
But it wasn’t his. The name written inside was Hadley, T.
They didn’t leave me behind, did they?
That question was answered as Tom Hadley suddenly reappeared, struggling to sit up in the undergrowth not ten feet away.
He seemed in a daze. Seeing the Nisei, Hadley leveled his Thompson without a moment’s hesitation and squeezed the trigger.
An instinct…
But nothing happened. The weapon’s magazine was empty.
Deuce was flat on the ground at Hadley’s feet, screaming, “IT’S ME, FIRST SERGEANT! DEUCE! DON’T SHOOT! DON’T SHOOT!”
“Deuce? What the hell…who the hell…”
Hadley’s memory stabbed its way back into his consciousness. He stopped short of slamming home the fresh magazine. His hands grabbed his noise-damaged ears instead, trying to rub away the maddening shriek within them.
“Deuce…what the hell happened?”
“We got hit with a grenade…or mortar…or something. Hey, your ears are bleeding.”
Hadley swiped a finger through the blood and stared at it.
“No shit,” he said. “They’re ringing like a bastard, too. It must’ve been real close.”
He shifted to get a better look at himself.
“At least the family jewels are still there.”
Those nurses definitely weren’t kidding, Deuce thought.
McMillen stumbled into view and came closer. Although the smoke of the battle had drifted away, a thick cloud still swirled around him.
The pack on his back was on fire, burning from within. He seemed oblivious as Deuce struggled frantically to pull the pack off him.
His words as rushed as his movements, Deuce blurted, “ANY AMMO IN HERE, SARGE?”
“Hell…yeah,” McMillen answered, his speech slow and slurred as if he was drunk.
Once the burning pack was on the ground, Deuce realized the back of McMillen’s shirt was burning, too.
He knocked the sergeant flat on his back to smother the flames. McMillen was still too dazed to resist. Or be of any help.
Then Deuce dumped the contents of the pack on the ground, pouring what was left of the water in his canteen on the burning K ration cartons. The boxes of .45-caliber ammo hadn’t been taken by the flames yet. He kicked them clear.
The water sizzled and steamed when it hit the hot chunk of mortar fragment that had pierced the pack and started the fire inside.
Hadley was fast overcoming the effects of his concussion. He began sorting out McMillen’s various injuries while watching Deuce in quiet amazement.
Look at this guy! He was the one Patchett had written off—said he’d never make a combat soldier. Well, I’d say he’s made the grade on this mission, for sure, Sergeant Major. I’m proud to serve with this guy.
Just then, a bullet they never heard fired struck Deuce’s head and tore off half his face.
It didn’t take long for Jock to find the rest of his men. All he had to do was home in on the intermittent bursts of Thompsons answering the chatter of Japanese weapons somewhere deep in the jungle. When Jock’s team intercepted Hadley and McMillen, the two wild-eyed sergeants were on the dead run, fleeing for their lives.
“Deuce is dead,” Hadley blurted. “A sniper got him. We tried to bring his body out but they were all over us like stink on shit. We’ve been playing jungle hide-and-seek ever since.”
“Shit,” Jock said. But there was no time to mourn. “Any idea how many are chasing you, Tom?”
“No, sir. Only caught a glimpse of one or two coming through the jungle. Feels like a whole lot more, though.”
Joe Youngblood popped off two quick rounds from his M1. “There,” he said. “That’s two less chasing you now.”
Jock asked, “Did you see any besides those two, Youngblood?”
“Yes, sir. A whole lot more…but they dropped out of sight real quick.”
“All right, then,” Jock said, “let’s get moving back to the trail, on the double.”
“Wait a bloody minute, Jock,” Jillian said, blocking his path. “That poor boy…aren’t you going to go get him?”
“Ordinarily…hell yeah we would, Jill. But we’re in kind of deep shit right now.”
“That’s the thanks he gets?” she replied. “You’re just going to leave him there? Not even try to bury him?”
“Jill, listen to me, dammit. I’ve got no choice.”
“Bullshit,” she replied, standing her ground, spitting fire. “It’s not bloody fair, Jock. You know what they’ll do to him, especially since he’s…you know…”
“Knock this shit off, Jill. I can’t lose anyone else over a dead man. Now get moving.”
He tried to grab her waist and steer her toward the others. She batted his hands away. As she did, the pain from her shoulders made her wince.
She joined the column without saying another word.
You know what they’ll do to him…Jillian’s words kept ringing in the ears of Jock and his men. They had very clear memories of how the Japanese could desecrate a body. They’d seen it with their own eyes at Buna. The horror of finding those cannibalized bodies—both American and Japanese—was burned into their souls forever.
Let’s hope them sumbitches ain’t real hungry, Bogater Boudreau told himself.
Hadley unslung the extra Thompson he was carrying—Deuce’s Thompson—and offered it to Jock, asking, “What do you want to do with this weapon, sir?”
Jock took the Thompson and passed it to Jillian. “Jill,” he said, “you remember how to use one of these, right?”
“Of course I bloody remember.”
“Good. You carry it, then. Give Anne Marie that pistol and show her how it works. Don’t actually fire it, though. Don’t give our position away…until we have no choice.”
She gave him a dirty look and replied, “You don’t think I’m that bloody stupid, do you, Yank?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was almost high noon—1200 hours—when Jock’s team reached a ridge overlooking the trail to Mount Dremsel. As they had moved west, the jungle yielded to rainforest. They could make faster progress now—they didn’t need to hack through dense curtains of green anymore. One thing hadn’t changed, though: just like in the jungle, little sunlight reached the forest floor through the dense canopy of treetops. Their world was still as dreary as a crypt.
The ridge was a good place for a brief rest, affording the protection and advantage of high ground above the trail. From there, they could see the tail end of the Japanese column slogging its way toward the mountain on foot. The few bicycles visible were being pushed rather than ridden. No longer a rapid means of mobility for the troops, they functioned now as improvised cargo carriers. “Well,” Jock said, “the good news is we slowed them down quite a bit…”
He didn’t need to announce the bad news, though. Everyone knew it: there was no way they could shield Patchett and his boys on the mountain now.
As Jock hunched over the map, Hadley asked, “You think Patchett’s still even at the OP? I thought the fleet was supposed to be out of sight around 1000 hours. Maybe they’re on their way back to the boats already.”
They took a look at Dremsel in the distance, its peak shrouded in storm clouds. “We don’t know how long that storm’s been up there,” Jock said, “but you can bet they can’t see a da
mn thing from the OP right now. You know as well as I do that Patch won’t pull up stakes until he’s sure the fleet’s out of sight.”
Or the Japs kick him off, Hadley thought, but decided not to say out loud.
The map study revealed something interesting. “We’re only about three miles as the crow flies from the peak,” Jock said. “With the height of their antenna up on that mountain, you don’t suppose we could raise them on the walkie-talkie, do you?”
Hadley replied, “Sir, the book says the transmitters in these things have a range of one mile in optimum conditions. Besides, I’m not even sure it’s still working. We didn’t get to monitor them last night at 2200, remember? We were busy with our little jailbreak.”
“Yeah, Tom…but the book doesn’t cover every little thing. It can’t hurt to try. If we can’t block the Japs, at least we can let Patch know they’re coming.”
Hadley wasn’t convinced. “Well, all right, sir. Just give me a minute to put in fresh batteries. I’ve got one set left.”
“Only one, Tom? What happened to the rest of them?”
“Got torched in McMillen’s pack. Probably why his back got burned so bad.”
The rest stop finally allowed Anne Marie the chance to improve on the improvised first aid the GIs had applied. She was putting the finishing touches on McMillen’s dressing; it looked like she had used a mile of rolled bandage, expertly wrapped like a garment around his torso to cover the burns on his back. “Just as well,” McMillen said, smiling as he surveyed her handiwork. “I needed a new shirt, anyway.”
Anne Marie replied, “We’ll have to change those dressings frequently, Sergeant. You know how quickly infections can fester in the jungle.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Miss Smits,” McMillen replied. “By tomorrow night, we’re all gonna be outta this sewer. We’ll be the US Navy’s problem then.” He looked at Joe Youngblood and added, “Hey, chief…you’re the only guy here who doesn’t need patching up. You must lead a charmed life, pal.”
Youngblood had nothing to say. He took a pained glance at Jillian and thought, Don’t bet on it, Sarge. I believe my time’s coming.
The walkie-talkie had its new batteries. Hadley keyed the transmitter: “Lost Boy Eight, this is Lost Boy Six, over.”
He waited for a reply he felt certain wouldn’t come…
And it didn’t.
“Call them again,” Jock said.
“You sure, sir? We’re too far away. We’re just going to waste our juice.”
“Do it, Tom. Now.”
Hadley repeated the call. Again there was no answer. He shrugged, as if telling Jock, See? I told you.
“Call them one more time.”
“But, sir, it’s not—”
Jock cut him off. “Was I not clear enough, First Sergeant?”
Hadley transmitted once again…and nearly dropped the walkie-talkie with surprise when the reply came. A voice—Stu Botkin’s voice—was banging in loud and clear, saying:
“Lost Boy Six, this is Lost Boy Eight. You’re weak but readable, over.”
Hadley asked Jock, “What do I tell him, sir?”
“Ask him where the rubber ducks are.”
Rubber ducks: code for the fleet.
Hadley didn’t need to relay the reply. Botkin’s voice boomed from the walkie-talkie’s earpiece: “Hidden right now, but possible ducks could be around for one to two hours more, over.”
“Shit,” Jock said. “The fucking Navy’s behind schedule. Japs could be all over that OP in two hours.”
It didn’t take him more than a few seconds to come to a decision. “Tell them they’ve got trouble coming, so burn down the mission.”
Burn down the mission: code for destroy the tower…and get the hell out of there.
“We’d better get our asses moving, too,” Jock said, “just in case those cyclists happen to have a direction finder with them.”
Melvin Patchett smiled as the radio exchange with Jock’s team came to an end. “As I live and breathe,” he said, “the major didn’t go and get hisself killed after all…and he ain’t forgot about our sorry asses, neither.”
Walking through the wind-driven rain pelting the mountain top, he found Cotton Allred right where he was supposed to be, covering the final, skyward twist of the spiral staircase.
“When them Japs come,” Allred said, “I sure ain’t gonna be able to see much of ’em in this pea soup.”
“Don’t worry yourself none about it, son,” Patchett replied. “Good as you shoot, you don’t need to see much. And they won’t be seeing much of you, neither, ’cause you probably ain’t even gonna be here when they show up.”
“What do you mean, Sergeant Major?”
“It means Botkin and Ace are gonna cut down that li’l ol’ tower, son, and then all of us are gonna get the fuck outta here.”
When Patchett got back to the base of the tower, Botkin and Ace were tying hand grenades to two of its rickety wooden legs. Unimpressed, he roared, “THAT AIN’T WHAT I TOLD YOU TO DO NOW, IS IT?”
“But Sergeant Major,” Botkin replied, “this ought to bring it down real easy.”
“Sure it will, Sergeant Botkin…but it also wastes four grenades we just might need for their usual purpose before we get off this rock. Now do what I told you to. Pick up them axes them Jap bastards were nice enough to leave behind and hack through that leg on the leeward side. Strong as that wind’s blowing, this thing’ll crumble like a house of cards in no time flat.”
“But it might fall on us,” Ace Nishimoto said.
“Not if you keep your head out of your ass, son. Now let’s see you two make like Paul Bunyan. We ain’t got all fucking day.”
It didn’t take many swings of the axes. As soon as the slow, mournful groan of wood rending itself began, Botkin and Ace fled from beneath the mass of lumber swaying above them. The leg they had hacked almost all the way through flexed, twisted, bowed, and finally snapped. The tower tottered for an agonizing moment as if thinking whether it could still stand on its three unscathed legs—and decided it couldn’t. With ear-splitting CRACKS sounding like gunshots, those legs failed, too. The tower collapsed, transforming itself from a tall, once proud structure to a jagged line of timber scattered among the downwind trees.
Ace seemed stunned by the whole affair. As he picked wood splinters the size of daggers out of his clothing and web gear, he asked Patchett, “Why’d we just do that, Sergeant Major?”
“Why, son? Take a look around you. What do you see?”
“Just trees.”
“And that’s all them Japs are gonna see when they get up here. Now let’s get a move on, boys. It’s time to get The Squad all together again. Oh, and one more thing…Sergeant Botkin, rip something critical outta that Jap radio before we go so it ain’t never gonna work again.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Patchett and his three men raced through the pouring rain down the spiral staircase, doing their best to keep their footing on the muddy, tractionless trail. To slip could mean a deadly plunge down the mountainside—but being beaten to the mountain’s base by the Japanese coming from Lorengau could prove just as deadly.
They were almost to the bottom. Rounding the last curve, Patchett said, “All right…slow it down and get into them trees. If them Nips are already down there, let’s not fuck up and run right into their arms.”
The base of the trail was in view now. The truck was still there, less than a hundred yards away. So were the bodies of the four men Patchett and Allred had killed early that morning…
And so were three more Japanese soldiers, very much alive and bewildered by the scene of death before them.
“They can’t hear us coming in this rain,” Patchett said. “Allred, you got a clear shot at all of ’em?”
“Yeah…but I better take out the one on the other side of the truck first, so he don’t use it for cover.”
“Good plan, son. Do it quick but don’t shoot up the fucking truck. I’m thin
king we just might need it all of a sudden.”
It took two seconds—and two bullets—for Allred to drop the first two Japanese in their tracks. The third man slipped in the mud as he tried to run away. That slip prolonged his life one more second as the third shot splattered harmlessly beside him.
But the fourth bullet was dead on target.
“Let’s move it,” Patchett said. “Y’all get in that vee-hickle.”
As they closed the distance to the truck on the dead run, Botkin asked, “How do we know it’s even going to start?”
“It ran just fine yesterday, son,” Patchett replied. “How the fuck do you think it got here?”
“But it’s a Japanese truck, Sergeant Major.”
“It looks like a li’l ol’ Dodge to me,” Patchett replied as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Get in…the whole damn Imperial Japanese Army can’t be too far off.”
Patchett hit the starter button and the engine rumbled to life. With a growl of gears, the truck lurched forward—and they were on their way, careening down the narrow trail.
Botkin, in the cab with Patchett, asked, “Aren’t we headed straight toward the Japs coming to the OP?”
“Yep,” Patchett replied, flooring the accelerator. “Tell the boys in the back to get their asses down in that bed. See if you can raise the major on that walkie-talkie. He can’t be far from here.”
Botkin stuck the short whip antenna out his side window and called Lost Boy Six. Hadley’s voice answered immediately.
Patchett asked Botkin, “So what does the major want us to do?”
“He wants to know if we can be at Rally Point Charlie within an hour.”
Patchett laughed as he navigated a sharp curve at breakneck speed, the truck’s wheels spinning and sliding through the mud. “Shit, son…tell the man we’ll be there in five minutes, if the Good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise.”
They wheeled around another curve—and drove straight into the Japanese column. The truck mowed down—and then jolted over—a dozen screaming men and a handful of bicycles.
Those farther back in the column flung themselves to safety off the trail. They hit the ground and came up firing.
Operation Blind Spot (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 4) Page 14
