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

by William Peter Grasso

  “But that’s what he believes, Jill.”

  She paced back and forth a few moments, deep in thought, before saying, “Let me talk to him.”

  “Okay, I’ll have him brought over here and we can all have a chat.”

  “No, Jock. Let me talk to him alone. I know where he is.”

  Joe Youngblood was cleaning his rifle in the glow of the cook fire when he was startled by Jillian looming out of the darkness. He lurched as if wanting to run away, but seemed fastened in place by the need to scoop up the parts of the M1 spread on a towel before him.

  “Wait, Joe,” she called out, “I need to talk to you.”

  He said nothing, just stopped his frantic reassembling of the rifle and sat still, resigned to this chat with death herself.

  “Can I sit with you?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, sounding as if he didn’t think he had any choice in the matter.

  “You know,” she began, “I understand what you’re feeling. I’ve spent my whole life around aboriginals quite like you. I know how powerful their belief in the storylines can be.”

  “That’s funny,” Joe said. “I’ve never heard anyone come right out and say that I, or any other American Indian, was an aboriginal before.” He mulled it over a few moments more as he slipped the rifle’s parts back into place. “But I suppose we do fit the proper definition of the word.”

  “Yes, you do, Joe. It’s something to be proud of…and I meant no offense.”

  “I know that, Miss Forbes. No offense taken. None at all. But those storylines you talk about…do you believe in them?”

  “Some of them…yes.”

  “Do you believe in my story, Miss Forbes?”

  “Joe, how can I? I’m not some spirit. I’m just an ordinary, mortal woman.”

  “No, Miss Forbes, you’re not ordinary at all. I’ve heard the things you’ve done—how you’ve made miracles happen for these guys before. That’s what spirits do.”

  The fire’s light cast deep shadows across the hollows of his face, making the pleading look in his eyes all the more desperate. “I don’t want to believe in this story,” he said, “but the dream…I can’t get that dream out of my head…”

  “Joe, you don’t have to believe in anything you don’t want to.”

  A sad but earnest look came over his face. It broke her heart as he replied, with all the certainty in the world, “Yes, Miss Forbes, I do. I have no choice.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  They’d been too exhausted to even think about making love. It was enough for Jock and Jillian just to lie in each other’s arms, thoughts churning with the uncertainties the new day would bring, while their battered bodies cried for the deep, healing slumber that would never come—not here, not now.

  When they heard the heavy, urgent footsteps coming straight for their hut, they were on their feet before Patchett’s voice pierced the darkness: “We got trouble coming, sir. You gotta come see this right now.”

  “Japs?”

  “Who else?”

  “Jill,” Jock said, “get everybody up and ready to move.” Then he turned to Patchett. “Do the villagers know what’s going on?”

  “They showed us, sir.”

  “Okay…now show me.”

  Patchett led Jock clear of the huts for a better view. Deep in the blackness of the rainforest at night, clustered points of light—a hundred, maybe more—blinked on and off like fireflies, still some indefinite distance away but moving en masse toward the village.

  “What do you make of that, Top?”

  “Bicyclists—with lanterns swinging from the handlebars, sir. Sight in on one with your binoculars and you’ll see what I mean. They’re on the trail, for sure.”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Jock said. “Every time one of them passes behind a tree, you lose its light for a second…and there must be a million trees between them and us. That’s why they look like they’re blinking.”

  “They’re between us and the boats, too, sir. If we let ’em stay there, we’re in deep shit.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t want a fight right here in Buyang, either, Top. These villagers don’t deserve that.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about them, sir. I reckon they learned the drill back when the Aussies got kicked out—they’re already packing up and heading into the woods to get the hell out of the way.”

  “Good,” Jock said. “One less thing to worry about right now.” He took an azimuth with his compass, then pulled the map from his helmet. “You’re right, Top. They’ve got to be on the trail—and they’ve got to be up on the plateau, too, or we wouldn’t be able to see them at all.” He drew a line on the map. “But at this azimuth, they’re still about eight hundred yards away, give or take.”

  “So what do you got in mind, sir?”

  “Let them keep coming until they’re in range of that little mortar we’ve got—about a hundred and fifty yards or so. Then we drop a round or two on them and get the hell out of here.”

  “I like that, sir. Outnumbered bad as we are, we can’t be getting in no gun fights in the dark if we don’t have to. A little mortar fire oughta shake ’em up long enough for us to get around and behind them.”

  “And when the sun comes up, we run south like hell for the boats…and then hide out until we hit the water at sundown.”

  “Good plan, sir…but who’s gonna do the honors with that knee mortar? I don’t reckon any of us are good enough to be dead on with that thing in the dark.”

  “I’ll do it, Top. I had some pretty good luck the last time we used it. When the azimuth to those lights gets to one two zero degrees, I’ll let her rip. How about you and Bogater spotting the rounds for me?”

  “Affirmative, sir. But just one thing…if there’s any more of them coming down that trail behind this bunch, we’re fucked.”

  The lights grew closer, blinking less now that fewer trees blocked their glow as the trail straightened toward the village. The mortar, positioned in the small clearing Bogater Boudreau had picked out, was manned by Jock and Sergeant Botkin. Boudreau and Patchett, acting as forward observers, were set up at the edge of the village, closest to the trail and the approaching Japanese. Jillian and Anne Marie strung themselves between those two points to be voice relays for the mortar fire commands.

  Nervous about her role, Anne Marie asked Jillian, “Why can’t they use radios to talk to each other?”

  “Because they’ve only got one.”

  “But what if I misunderstand and say something wrong?”

  “There’s nothing to understand, sweetie,” Jillian replied. “Just repeat exactly what the Yanks say.”

  Patchett swung his compass toward the lights, waiting a moment for the floating dial to settle before reading the phosphorescent numerals on its face. “I got one one five degrees, Bogater. Check or hold?”

  “Check. Right on the money.”

  Patchett muttered, “C’mon, you bastards…get a little bit closer now.”

  At the mortar, Botkin was trying to come to grips with the gunnery. “How the hell are you going to aim this thing, sir?”

  “It’s pretty crude, I know,” Jock replied, “but I’ve got the tube’s direction of fire lined up with that hut over there. That’ll lob the round over the village and straight down the trail. Setting the range is a little trickier. The last time I shot this thing, I was aiming for about a hundred fifty yards out, just like now. I tilted the tube at a forty-five degree angle—just like this—set this knob about midway—that varies the range by changing the chamber size—and the round landed right where I wanted it.”

  “I think I’ve got it, sir,” Botkin replied, ready to drop the round in his hands into the tube. “Just tell me when to load this thing.”

  Patchett steadied his compass again. “What you got, Bogater?”

  “One two zero. Check or hold?”

  “Check,” Patchett replied. He turned toward Anne Marie and said, “Miss Smits…Fire.”

&n
bsp; “Fire,” she repeated to Jillian, telling herself, That was easy enough.

  Two seconds later, when Jillian’s relay reached the mortar crew, Jock told Botkin, “Drop it in.”

  With a jerk of the firing lanyard—and a THUMP that seemed loud enough to be heard across the entire island—the round was on its way.

  His voice on edge, Botkin asked, “You think the Japs heard that shot, sir?”

  “Depends on how much noise their bicycles make, I guess.”

  Eight seconds passed before there was the CRUMP of impact far down the trail…

  “Where the hell did it hit?” Bogater asked. “I didn’t see it.”

  The bicycles kept coming. They seemed to be moving faster now and close enough to make out the faint silhouettes of the riders in the glow of their lanterns.

  “It had to go long,” Patchett said. “It had to be.” He turned into the darkness concealing Anne Marie and said, “Miss Smits…Drop Fifty.”

  Passing the command to Jillian, Anne Marie felt buoyed, telling herself, I’m doing this! I can do this!

  As soon as Jillian’s relay reached the mortar crew, Jock was cranking the range knob. “For less range, dial in a bigger chamber,” he told Botkin. “Okay, drop it in.”

  The second round went flying toward the advancing Japanese.

  “We’ve only got one round left, sir,” Botkin said.

  “I know, Stu…I know.”

  The CRUMP of impact was closer this time—and more effective.

  When it struck, some of the lights streaked skyward like sparks off a grinding wheel. They faded quickly to nothing in the night sky.

  The relentless advance of the lead ranks stopped. There was much shouting in Japanese.

  A few small fires flared where shattered lanterns had spilled flaming oil. They illuminated the confused scene better than any parachute flare overhead could.

  Soldiers who survived the blast were abandoning their bicycles on the trail and seeking cover behind sturdy tree trunks.

  But lights still well down the trail hadn’t stopped coming.

  “I reckon them Nips farther back ain’t figured out what happened yet,” Patchett said. “Let’s drop that last round in the same damn place. They’ll ride right into it.”

  “Roger,” Bogater replied.

  “Miss Smits,” Patchett said, “Repeat!”

  In a few seconds, their final round was on its way.

  As that round impacted, Patchett and Bogater once again saw lanterns streak away like sparks into the air.

  But this time, the glow of the fires showed them something more: the bodies of cyclists caught in the blast flung away like rag dolls…there one second, gone the next.

  The Japanese weren’t all dead, though—not by a long shot.

  A Nambu machine gun opened up from well down the trail, its yellow tracers arcing blindly through the night sky…

  Aimed at nothing but the gunner’s fear...

  And hitting no one.

  Throughout the village, they could hear Jock’s shouted command: “RAINBOW, RAINBOW, RAINBOW,” the signal to escape the village and regroup at Rally Point Charlie.

  The Squad moved quickly through the forest, each member seeing nothing in this opaque box of night but the faint outline of the man—or woman—ahead.

  Leading the column, Tom Hadley said, “Weapons on safe, pass it down.”

  Private Allred, the man right behind Hadley, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I ain’t putting no damn weapon on safe,” he muttered. “We got Japs up our ass.”

  Hadley replied, “In case you missed my drift, Private, it’s so you don’t fall down and shoot yourself or the poor bastard in front of you by accident. Do what I tell you and do it right fucking now.”

  Just a few steps later, Allred tripped over some invisible obstacle and went sprawling. He thanked his lucky stars his M1 was on safe because it came out of his hands as he fell and bounced along the ground—an accidental discharge begging to happen.

  “Good way to illustrate my point, Private,” Hadley said as he helped the man to his feet. “And by the way, you just made my permanent shit list.”

  They walked uphill—but didn’t dare run—until Hadley guessed they’d covered the right distance. The terrain seemed to be leveling out, too, just like it should if they had actually reached the high ground of Rally Point Charlie. He brought the column to a halt and waited for Jock to catch up.

  “I think we’re here, sir,” Hadley said. “I just can’t tell if we’ve actually climbed high enough, though. If there’s still some terrain looking down on us, and the Japs are on it…”

  “Let’s get organized first,” Jock replied, “then we’ll worry about where we are. Get a perimeter set up while we wait for Boudreau and the sergeant major to show up.”

  Patchett’s voice floated out of the shadows: “Already here, sir. We should be the tail end. I’ll get a headcount going…see if we’re missing anyone. Miss Forbes and Miss Smits…are they here?”

  Jock replied, “Yeah, got them both.”

  The Japanese down on the trail had tired of firing their machine gun at phantoms. They’d doused the lantern lights. The fires had burned out, too.

  I think we got around them, Jock told himself, but they’re still out there…somewhere…and they’re not going to stand still, either.

  He took a long look around, trying to get his bearings. All he saw was the sylvan darkness. Hadley’s right. Can’t tell exactly what ground we’re standing on…not without some light.

  But we can’t sit on our asses, waiting for the sun to come up. We’ve got to keep moving.

  Patchett returned and said, “We got one man missing—your boy Oscar. McMillen says he saw him right before we pulled out of the village. Said he was setting booby traps for the Japs.”

  “Booby traps? Made from what?”

  “Beats the hell out of me, sir. We gonna wait for him?”

  After hesitating for a troubled moment, Jock said, “No, Top, we can’t. If he wanted to be evacuated with us, it’d be a different story, but…”

  “No need to explain, sir.”

  There was a dull, distant powww of a small explosion coming from the direction of the village…

  And then another.

  “Maybe ol’ Oscar’s got them booby traps of his working real good,” Patchett said. “When do you wanna move out, sir?”

  “Let’s take five more minutes to catch our breath, then we’ll go. Me and Hadley up front with McMillen’s team, you bring up the rear with Boudreau’s team. Women in the middle.”

  “Very well, sir. You got a good walking azimuth to the boats?”

  “I pray the hell I do, Top.”

  Jock checked his wristwatch. It read 0200.

  About five miles to go, he told himself, and sixteen hours to do it in.

  The Japanese major stood ramrod straight in the middle of Buyang village as if he was impervious to death itself. Two of his soldiers were on the ground, shrieking like wounded animals, each with a leg blown off below the knee. Several more had been wounded by fragments from the same explosions.

  A lieutenant scurried up with more bad news: “Major, we’ve found more booby traps. They’re using our grenades...they pulled the pins and hid them below wooden boards. When a man steps on the board—”

  “I know how grenades work,” the major interrupted. “Search the entire village, Lieutenant. Clear it of booby traps. Bring any of those savages you find to me…alive.”

  The major eyed a large hut across the village. That will be perfect for my quarters this evening, he thought as he walked briskly toward it, while my men hunt down the Yankee gangsters.

  Passing between two large trees, he felt something momentarily snag his ankle.

  All at once, there was a snap…a rustle of leaves…a sense of movement…a swish…

  The blow to the chest that knocked him backward off his feet and carried him through the air…

  And then dragged h
is impaled body forward, back to where it all started, like a pendulum drained of momentum.

  He dangled from the thick chunk of log affixed to his chest by two wooden spikes run cleanly through his body.

  Like dance partners, they twirled slowly on the rope suspending the log, the major’s feet sweeping the ground but no longer supporting his weight.

  In his last moment of life, it all came to make sense:

  I snagged a trip wire. This spiked log swung down like a wrecking ball…

  And killed me.

  The Squad’s rest period ended all too soon. Weary legs and aching backs shouldered gear once again as they set off into the black void, one behind the other like a human chain, blind beyond an arm’s length. Their sense of isolation from everything outside this little universe was complete. The only thing keeping them tethered to the reality of their mission was fear.

  They had only been walking a minute or two when a faint orange glow tinged the sky at their backs. Sergeant McMillen asked, “You think those booby traps of Oscar’s are doing that?”

  “I don’t think so, Mike,” Jock replied. “It looks more like the Japs decided to burn down the village…those miserable sons of bitches.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Two hours of cross-country walking was taking its toll on The Squad. The ache of wounds to exhausted bodies grew steadily worse. Everyone had tripped and fallen more than once. The same fallen branch or tangled vine, invisible in the darkness, had often claimed multiple victims. Each tumble sapped a few more ounces of energy from men and women already running on empty. They were nearly out of water again. Patchett’s quick inventory revealed they had, at best, one K ration meal per person left.

  It was still two hours to sunrise. Jock and his people took comfort in one simple fact: At least we haven’t run into any Japs…not yet, anyway.

  He wasn’t sure when he’d started limping. The seemingly minor leg wound he’d ignored for so many hours couldn’t be ignored anymore. The leg had stiffened and grown tender, making him wince with every step. He could sense he wasn’t the only one struggling to keep up with the snail’s pace of their march.