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

by William Peter Grasso

  The nurse tried to block their path but with a deft side-step, they blew past her.

  “I’m putting you on report, Sergeant. Tell me your name…that’s an order!”

  Outside the tent now, Hadley replied, “The name’s Roosevelt, Franklin D., ma’am.”

  “In a pig’s eye it is,” she said. “You’re in big trouble, both of you. I’m calling the MPs.”

  Jock was already sprawled in the jeep’s back seat. For all he knew, he was on the moon.

  “Good luck with that, ma’am,” Hadley replied. “You take care, now.”

  Bogater dropped the jeep into gear and they were gone, speeding back to Regimental HQ.

  The sergeant in charge of the hospital’s MP detachment was pretty sure his leg was being pulled. It was a captain doing the pulling, though…and he looked and talked like one tough little son of a bitch, with the battle scars to prove it.

  He asked Theo Papadakis, “You really want to take full responsibility for these four zipperheads, sir?”

  “That’s what I said, Sergeant. You got something stuck in your ears?”

  “No, sir…it’s just…I mean, we’ll be glad to lock them up for you. I’ve got a list of charges on them as long as my arm already.”

  “Oh, that would be just peachy keen, Sergeant. Lock up four jabonies in the cooler who should have shipped out on a combat assault instead. You don’t suppose they’d prefer to be in the stockade, do you? And just maybe that’s what this little performance was all about? Find a place with a lot of MPs, act up, get your ass arrested and stashed away in a nice, safe place…with no jungle…and no Japs.”

  The sergeant hesitated for a moment. If it was bullshit the captain was peddling, it was first-class bullshit…and he couldn’t help but see the logic in it. Buying into it made him feel shrewder, like he was gaining some of this combat veteran’s wisdom without having to actually put his ass on the line. Directing traffic and locking up unruly GIs was so much easier—and a hell of a lot safer—than rooting the Japs out of the rainforests and jungles of New Guinea. He could understand why a GI might do anything he could get away with to stay here, too, rather than ship out to where the shit was flying.

  “Okay, Captain,” the sergeant said, “I guess they’re all yours, then.”

  As Theo Papadakis marched his men away, he could tell they were still pumped up from the staged melee. One of the privates asked, “So what do we get for putting on that little show, Captain Pop?”

  “I’ll tell you what you get…you get to stay off my shit list for the rest of the day.”

  “I won’t try to snow you, Jock,” the chief regimental surgeon said. “It’s bad…but I don’t think it’s bad enough to amputate. We’ve cut out any trace of gangrene. If the viable tissue stays healthy for forty-eight hours, I think we’ll be out of the woods.”

  Anne Marie Smits, seated in a corner of the tent with Colonel Molloy, allowed herself a satisfied smile.

  “Go ahead and smile, young lady,” the surgeon added. “You’ve earned it. I hear this rescue mission was all your idea?”

  “A few of the doctors in that other hospital are knife-happy,” Anne Marie replied. “You should’ve seen the look of glee on that Doctor Clancy’s face as he was cleaning up Sergeant McMillen’s stump. He couldn’t wait to carve someone else up, too.”

  “It really pisses me off,” Jock said, “because Doc Lewis had no intention of amputating. But once he went off duty, things got strange real fast.”

  “Well,” the surgeon said, “under combat conditions, it’s sometimes safer just to take the limb. But we’re not in combat conditions here, so let’s not get carried away. Not yet, anyway. But I’ve got to tell you, even if you keep it—and I think you will—there will be consequences...”

  “Are any of them be as bad as losing the leg, Doc?”

  “No, of course not, Jock.” Turning his attention to Colonel Molloy and Anne Marie, he added, “Let him rest now. He’s going to need it. I’ll be back to check on him later.”

  The surgeon gone, Dick Molloy said, “We’ve got to talk, Jock.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much, sir…but first, can I ask where Jillian is?”

  “Some Aussie war correspondent heard about her story. He’s latched on to her…and he’s already dubbed her Lady Lazarus, like she’s returned from the dead.”

  That news took Jock by surprise. “And she’s actually interested in talking to one of those hucksters, sir?”

  “Not at first…she told him to bugger off a few times…but she’s warmed to the idea now. I think she’s trying to play it up so the both of you will get a heroes’ tour back in Australia. Actually, that might not be such a bad idea, Jock. You could sure use the time off.”

  “Time off…I’m guessing that’s what you want to talk about, sir?”

  “Yeah. Miss Smits, would you excuse us for a few minutes?”

  “Certainly, Colonel.”

  Molloy pulled up a chair. He didn’t want to say the words, no more than Jock wanted to hear them. But they had to be said and it was nobody’s job but his.

  “Jock, the division’s shipping out in a week, and there’s no way you’re going to be in shape to take your battalion back into combat.”

  They both knew there was no need to spell it out.

  I’m getting relieved. Thrown on the trash heap. Unserviceable. War-weary.

  “So who’s replacing me, sir? Please tell me you’re promoting one of my guys into the job. Grossman…Papadakis…”

  The pained silence made it clear that wasn’t to be, either.

  Finally, Dick Molloy said, “I didn’t have a choice here, Jock.”

  Oh, shit…who are my men getting stuck with?

  “I’m putting Kit Billingsley in your slot,” Molloy said. “MacArthur’s got big plans for the boy, but he needs his ticket punched in a combat command if he’s going to get stars pinned on him. It’ll be least dangerous for everyone involved to put him with an experienced, savvy unit like yours.”

  Molloy expected shock, hurt, maybe even an outburst of rage. But when he summoned the courage to look Jock in the eye, he was laughing softly, with a big smile on his face.

  “Did I say something funny, Jock?”

  “No, sir. I was just thinking, though…they’ll eat that numbnuts Billingsley alive. I’d pay good money to watch that.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jillian relaxed in a deck chair on the veranda of Buna Government House, watching the sun set while she awaited the arrival of the correspondent from the Australian network. A cold Aussie beer sat on the table beside her, a long straw jutting from its neck so she could sip it even with her arms in slings. The beer wasn’t the only comfort Government House provided. Not only had she been given a cozy room for her stay at Buna—its length still undetermined—but there was a small stock of women’s clothes which, by some miracle, had survived the bitter fighting that raged around the building last year. Some of those clothes fit Jillian perfectly. She’d shed the baggy GI khakis and donned a comfortable skirt and blouse.

  A jeep pulled up and expelled a short, plump civilian in tropical whites. He swayed on his feet like a round-bottomed doll trying to settle at its point of equilibrium. Jillian found herself chuckling at his appearance, just like she had when they first met. With his portly, middle-aged body, a fringe of hair circling an otherwise bald head, and calabash pipe that hung like the letter S from his mouth, she thought him the living representation of a garden gnome. All he needed to complete the picture was a silly conical hat.

  She told herself, Ladies and gentlemen, Hugh Finchley, war correspondent and lawn ornament, has arrived.

  “Good evening, Miss Forbes,” Finchley trumpeted as he waddled up the path to the veranda. It was almost inconceivable that his voice—that lovely voice—came out of such a comical body. A sonorous baritone, you would swear its owner must be an attractive, virile man…unless you were actually looking at him. “I have a face for the wireless,” he’d
said, trying some self-deprecation to break the ice when they’d first met.

  “How are those lovely arms doing tonight, my dear?”

  “Still attached, Mister Finchley.”

  He pulled a piece of paper from his battered leather briefcase. “I’ve heard back from Sydney,” he said, waving the dispatch like a flag. “They’re captivated by the story of you and your Yank. It’s got everything—adventure, romance, a courageous Lady Lazarus fighting her way back from the dead, and of course, a happy ending.”

  “I’m glad they’re so sure it’s a happy ending, Mister Finchley. I don’t believe that’s been determined yet. And I was never actually dead, you know.”

  Her downbeat attitude surprised him but he pressed on. “There’s already quite a bit of interest in a book, too. Do you fancy writing up your story, Miss Forbes?”

  She frowned and allowed her arms a gentle shrug within their slings. “I don’t imagine I’ll be doing much typing with these for a while.”

  “I’d be glad to provide whatever assistance you might need, Miss Forbes.”

  “I assume you’re volunteering to be my co-author and not my typist, Mister Finchley. Bloody nice pay envelope in it for you, I suppose.”

  His voice took on the tones of an actor doing Shakespeare: “Oh, Miss Forbes! You cut me to the quick! It’s not about the filthy lucre, I assure you.”

  She took a long pull on her beer, and then replied, “In a pig’s arse, it’s not.”

  He decided this was not the time to discuss business; there were journalistic matters to settle first. “Sydney is being a stickler on corroboration, though, Miss Forbes. This whole Buna adventure a year ago…your role in the fire ship attack that turned the debacle around…it’s all a bit fantastical, you must admit. Terrific drama, of course…but we must be able to document the testimony of actual witnesses. I’ve tried to talk with your Major Miles but the Yank hospital personnel won’t let me near him.”

  “Good on them. He’s got an open wound. He doesn’t need you and every other journalist in Papua traipsing around trying to infect him now, does he?”

  “But I must talk with people who were there, Miss Forbes. Can you give me some idea where I might find them?”

  “Mister Finchley, I believe this is your lucky day…”

  It was not the start of a beautiful friendship. The ink was barely dry on the orders putting Kit Billingsley in charge of 1st Battalion, but he and Melvin Patchett were already at odds.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Patchett said, “but the custom in these parts is to refer to me as sergeant major.”

  “Negative, Sergeant,” Billingsley replied. “There is no such rank in the United States Army. You wear six stripes—you are a master sergeant. You will be addressed as such. And by the way, remove that diamond from your insignia of rank. You are no longer a first sergeant, either. According to your records, you haven’t been one for some time.”

  “Don’t mean to contradict, sir, but Major Miles always felt the top sergeant of the battalion deserved—”

  “I don’t give a hot damn what Major Miles felt, Sergeant Patchett. Creating imaginary ranks out of thin air only serves to bastardize the NCO hierarchy…and I won’t have it, not in my outfit. I don’t see why you care, anyway…the pay’s the same.”

  “It ain’t about the pay, sir. It’s more important than that.”

  “Well, Sergeant, I’ve got some news for you. I’ll decide what’s important around here. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Crystal clear.”

  “Outstanding. Now what’s the next order of business?”

  How about we arrange a little “training accident” for you, sir?

  But Patchett kept such thoughts to himself. Swallowing his anger, he saved it for another day—another day that would come very soon, he was sure.

  “Very well, sir,” Master Sergeant Patchett said. “Next up, I’ve got two requests for immediate transfer into the battalion—”

  “Did you say into the battalion, Sergeant?”

  Ain’t I speaking English, you dumb shit?

  “Yes, sir…into the battalion. Two lads from Division HQ who was with us on the Manus mission want to join the flock full time. This Sergeant Botkin here is the best damn signalman I ever known in this man’s army. We sure could use him around here. And this Corporal Nishimoto is a—”

  “Just a minute, Sergeant. This man’s name is Nishimoto?”

  “Yes, sir. We call him Ace. He’s one of them Nisei troopers. Hell of a good fighter, if I may—”

  “You may not, Sergeant. There will be no Japanese in my unit. Botkin is approved, the Jap is denied. Next order of business.”

  It was just past midnight when the medic shook the surgeon awake. “It’s Major Miles,” he said. “That last debridement we did…the site’s hemorrhaging.”

  “How bad, Corporal?”

  “Real bad, Doc.”

  “Dammit. How much plasma do we have ready to go?”

  “About five units.”

  “Probably not enough. Prepare five more.”

  A minute later, standing in a growing pool of Jock’s blood, his gloved fingers deep into the leg wound feeding that pool, the surgeon asked, “How’re you holding up, Jock?”

  “I’m a little woozy, to be honest.”

  “Ahh, here it is,” the surgeon said. “Corporal, hemostat.”

  The medic slapped the instrument into the doctor’s open hand.

  “Shit…I can’t see the bleeder now with all this blood pooling again…and I can’t sew up what I can’t see. Get more sponges in here, Corporal.”

  The surgeon struggled to set the clamp for a few more moments without success. “You still with me, Jock?”

  There was no answer.

  “We’re losing him, Doc,” the medic said.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Hugh Finchley asked, “Is it too early in the morning to offer you a beer, Sergeant Major Patchett?”

  “Nah, it ain’t too early…provided it ain’t none of that Japanese piss-water.”

  “No, sir…only the finest Australian brew is served at Government House.”

  From his seat on the veranda, Patchett took in the building and meticulous gardens surrounding it. “Funny thing,” he said, “last time I saw this place, we was blowing it full of holes.”

  “Yes, a marvelous job of reconstruction, wouldn’t you say? I believe we have you Yanks to thank for that.”

  Patchett seized the cold bottle eagerly and raised it in a toast to the sunrise. “By the way, Mister Finchley, you don’t have to call me sir. In fact, you better just call me sergeant. This new C.O. we just got don’t believe in no such thing as sergeant majors.” He took a long pull on his beer, and then added, “Can’t remember the last time I had beer for breakfast. Sure tastes fine…”

  And I don’t give a shit if that jackwad commander of mine smells it on my breath, neither. What’s he gonna do? Fire me?

  Finchley got down to business. “As you can tell from my note, Sergeant Patchett, I’m looking for people who witnessed the battle that raged here last year. Miss Forbes mentioned you as a prime source of information.”

  “The lady knows what she’s talking about, Mister Finchley, believe you me. We got about fifty men in a couple-mile radius who was in the fight here, me included.”

  Finchley’s pen was poised over his notebook page. “Why don’t you tell me what happened then, Sergeant, in your own words.”

  Patchett regaled Finchley with the whole story—the stalemated campaign against the desperate but well-organized Japanese; the high command’s suicidal plan for an amphibious assault to try and break that stalemate; Jillian Forbes’ clever fire ship diversion that saved the day, making that amphibious assault unnecessary and tipping the scales to an Allied victory at Buna.

  By the time Patchett finished talking, Finchley was out of breath with excitement. This was the story that could make him the Edward R. Murrow of the Pacific Theater�
�and if he could convince Jillian to let him co-author a book with her—or better yet, write it himself—he’d be raking in the gold, too.

  He calmed himself enough to ask, “Any one of these men you mentioned can confirm Miss Forbes’ role in the battle?”

  Patchett nodded. His empty beer bottle clinked as he set it on the table.

  Finchley, still clinging to the slender shred of journalistic integrity that hadn’t yet been severed by the euphoria of impending wealth, asked, “And each and every one of these men will tell exactly the same story you just told me?”

  “Affirmative,” Patchett replied, “and they’re all gonna tell you the same thing I’m fixing to tell you now, too.”

  “What’s that, Sergeant?”

  “That every last one of us—every last swinging dick—would be buried in this fucking place, with the Japs pissing on our mass grave every damn day, if it hadn’t been for Jillian Forbes.”

  “How’s our boy doing?” Colonel Molloy asked the surgeon.

  “He gave us quite a scare last night. Damn near died on me twice. I hate to say this but taking that leg would have been a whole lot easier…and a whole lot safer for all concerned.”

  “But he’s stabilized now, Doc?”

  “Yeah…believe it or not. The only good thing I can say about hemorrhaging is that dead tissue doesn’t bleed, so I’m still confident all the necrosis has been removed.”

  “So you think he’s going to make it, Doc?”

  The exhausted doctor settled heavily into a chair. He pondered Molloy’s question, grappling for an honest answer to something best not asked. There were just too many ifs...

  He could feel Molloy’s eyes boring into him, waiting, expecting—no, demanding—a reply.

  The best the surgeon could come up with was, “Ask me that question again tomorrow, Dick.”