Operation Long Jump (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 2)

by William Peter Grasso

  “Yeah,” Jock replied, “I believe it was.”

  “And what happened to the aircraft carrier that was with us?”

  “Wish I knew, Top.”

  Trevor Shaw put down his telescope and shook his head. “I had been told MacArthur’s Seventh Fleet was a modest force, but I was expecting much more than this.” He paused before adding, “Perhaps that sea battle we witnessed took a great toll of the Japanese, as well.”

  Jock replied, “It better have.”

  By 0700, the planes of the Japanese Army and Navy that managed to escape the bombardment of their airfield had joined the battle. Some aircraft went for the American warships, the rest for the landing craft. They had their way for a few minutes, until the sky to the south blackened with fleets of aircraft from the US Fifth Air Force. P-38 and P-40 fighters dropped to low altitude and scattered the Japanese planes.

  The American heavy bombers—B-17s and B-24s—stayed high and barely visible, scattering their loads on Fairfax Harbor and the airfield beyond the town. When they were done, the B-25 medium bombers attacked at low level what little Japanese shipping they could find. All three of the Japanese destroyers still in harbor were heavily damaged, one exploding from a direct hit as it tried to pass through the narrow harbor entrance. The other two escaped, limping off to the west. They were trailing so much thick, black smoke it seemed unlikely they’d be fit for combat anytime soon.

  Jock said, “Those damned hills ringing the harbor are blocking our view of the near-side docks. I see a lot of smoke over there, but I don’t know what it’s coming from.”

  “Don’t worry, Captain,” Shaw replied, “If there had been capital ships at anchor there, we’d still see their masts. Some smaller vessels have definitely been hit, though. Transports and troop barges, perhaps.”

  Radio communication with the OP had switched to a voice channel, and it was now in direct contact with the invasion’s Fire Support Center. Jock smiled as he announced, “Men, we can finally do the job we were sent here to do.”

  The first wave of American planes couldn’t stay around very long, especially the shorter-ranged P-40s. They had flown over 300 miles from the tip of Australia and needed to keep enough fuel in reserve to fly back. That gave the fighters 10 minutes or less over the invasion beach, and once that time was up, they turned south for home. The second wave was nowhere on the horizon.

  While gazing through binoculars, Jock said, “Looks like our Navy’s knocked out that coastal battery at the harbor entrance. Let’s get their big guns back on the airfield…nobody’s damaged it much, and it looks like the Jap planes are trying to land and lick their wounds. Here’s the coordinates…”

  Trevor Shaw, now manning the radio, called in the fire mission. The link from ground observer to guns was surprisingly fast. Within a minute, a cruiser’s eight-inch guns belched smoke. Fifteen seconds later, the rounds impacted on the northern edge of the airfield, tearing up nothing but the ground.

  “Okay, let’s adjust fire,” Jock called to Shaw, “left four hundred, drop two hundred.”

  Shaw asked, “We are talking yards, are we not?”

  “Yes, Commander. Yards. But you don’t have to say it. They’ll know. It’s procedure.”

  A minute later, six shells tore a parking ramp apart and several airplanes with it.

  “Outstanding,” Jock said, “Now, left one hundred.”

  After another 60 seconds, several more parked aircraft were reduced to rubble.

  “All right,” Jock said, inching his binoculars to a new target. “Let’s move on to the other side of the airfield.”

  The GIs on the perimeter passed around their squad leaders’ binoculars to watch the show unfolding before them. They wanted to cheer every time a round from the ships’ guns blew something apart, but they dared not make a sound. The Japanese infantry they had skirmished with last evening were probably still out there, somewhere.

  Patchett scanned the terrain below the mountain—the lowlands—the very ground the invasion troops would occupy once they hit the beach. The landing craft were still a mile offshore; it would be almost 10 minutes before the first GI boots set foot on Papuan soil.

  “Hard to believe,” Patchett said, “but I don’t see any Nips coming out of Port Moresby to take our guys on. Maybe all that stuff about the Japs not wanting to fight on the beaches is right, after all.”

  Jock laughed and said, “I’m glad the G2 was finally right about something. Any sign of our friends from last night?”

  “Can’t see any infantry. They could still be hiding down there in the trees…or not. That artillery ain’t there anymore, though.” He scanned the terrain with binoculars again. “Hey, wait a minute…I see some cannon on the move…three, maybe four, with horses, down closer to the beach. They could be the ones from last night.”

  “I don’t see them,” Jock said.

  Patchett held his hand out before his face, with two fingers extended straight up: a makeshift distance scale. “See the knob at about one o’clock, sir? Go two fingers to the right…”

  Jock did the same with his hand. “Oh, yeah, there they are. Good eyes, Top.”

  Patchett checked his map. “I believe I’ll introduce those Nip cannon-cockers to some naval gunfire.” He reeled off the fire mission particulars for Shaw to relay.

  Two minutes later, the first round from a destroyer landed wide of the Japanese battery.

  Patchett fumed over the Navy’s slow response. “Gotta be a little quicker than that, swabbies,” he said. “Fucking target ain’t gonna stand still for you. I’ll lead ’em a little bit…Left two hundred, add one hundred.”

  The second round came faster and hit closer, bringing the Japanese column to a halt.

  “Now that’s more like it,” Patchett said. “Tell ’em to fire for effect, three salvos, if you please.” Shaw relayed the corrections, and they all paused to watch the results of their handiwork.

  They never got to see the deadly impact of those rounds. Their heads were down—volleys of rifle and machine gun fire were ripping across the perimeter from all directions. Those bullets that didn’t splash around the GIs struck high in the trees, pruning them like some crazed arborist. The screaming voices from the walkie-talkie confirmed it: a large number of troops were attacking the perimeter on all sides.

  Both platoons were begging for mortar fire around the entire perimeter, a demand the two-tube mortar section could never fulfill.

  With a calmness belying the chaos around them, Jock commanded, “Put the mortars on Wharton’s sector.”

  Patchett wasn’t sure he agreed. “Why’s that, sir?” he asked.

  “Wharton needs it more. The Greek’s side of the mountain isn’t so steep…he’s got better fields of fire for the automatic weapons.”

  The noise of a hundred weapons firing at once could scare a man to death all by itself. Lieutenant Bob Wharton was almost there—with the first thunderous volley he had pissed himself and crapped his pants. The woods seemed to be full of Japanese, screaming unintelligible taunts at the GIs as they ran and fired. As soon as one attacker fell, another seemed to take his place.

  Bob Wharton’s mind snapped to a conclusion: We’re going to be overrun.

  Fight or flight became a very easy choice. Wharton slithered from his hole and low-crawled up the slope like his life depended on it, because at that moment he truly believed it did.

  He hadn’t crawled far before remembering, just for a second, he was a platoon leader. Without slowing down, he began to scream, “FIRST PLATOON, PULL BACK, PULL BACK.”

  Most of his men couldn’t hear him—they were making much too much noise firing their weapons and screaming back at the attackers. Or perhaps they just had the good sense to stay safe in their holes.

  A few of his men, wild with fear, did hear their lieutenant. They left their holes and fled up the hill on the dead run, not even bothering to crawl. They only made it a few steps before Japanese bullets cut them down.

  A p
rivate from Sergeant Mike McMillen’s squad tried to run. He couldn’t get out of his hole, though—McMillen was sitting on the ledge, his foot on the GI’s helmet, pinning him in place. “Any one of you assholes run, I’ll kill you myself,” the sergeant said. “Now keep fucking firing. This is a goddamn turkey shoot.”

  Just then, as if to punctuate his comment, two American mortar rounds landed just down the slope, shredding a cluster of Japanese like they were paper. Farther down the perimeter, a Japanese soldier tried to hurl a grenade, only to have it rebound off a tree and erase him and his squad. The GIs employed their grenades differently. What Patchett had told them that first day on the mountain suddenly made a world of sense: Don’t throw ’em…let ’em roll downhill into the Japs.

  The Americans’ prisoner, Lieutenant Oshida, finally worked the gag loose from his mouth. He was still bound to a tree and blindfolded, but he didn’t need his eyes to know what was going on. He began to scream like a trumpet in Japanese, and at first the Americans thought the enemy must be inside the perimeter. But the only enemy they could see were the stacks of bodies piled in front of them and those beyond still charging up the mountain.

  He kept up his tirade for nearly 10 seconds, until there was a single pistol shot, lost in the mayhem and noise of the attack. His voice abruptly went silent.

  Just as quickly, the attack ended. Those Japanese still standing turned and fled back down the mountain like they had seen the devil. Even with naval gunfire still sounding in the distance and aircraft buzzing overhead, it had never seemed so quiet.

  The Japanese mortar fire they expected in the wake of the attack never came. Cautiously, the GIs crept from their fighting holes to have a better look at the aftermath.

  There were three Americans dead, all from Wharton’s platoon. Their bodies were sprawled close together well inside the perimeter.

  “They was running, sir,” Patchett said to Jock, his words full of distaste. “I seen it too many times before.”

  Jock almost expected his first sergeant to spit on the bodies.

  Lieutenant Wharton was standing close by, looking none the worse for wear, as the medic wrapped his wounded arm in a bandage. “I tried to make them stand and fight, sir,” Wharton said to Jock, “but they didn’t listen.”

  Mike McMillen heard every word his lieutenant said, now and during the fight. He dared not speak what he was thinking: You lying sack of bullshit.

  The prisoner, Lieutenant Oshida, was dead, a bullet wound to the chest.

  “I shot him,” Sergeant Brody said, wincing with pain from his broken collar bone. “He wouldn’t shut the fuck up. I couldn’t do anything else laid up like this.” When neither Jock nor Patchett said anything in reply, Brody suddenly seemed very worried. “Am I in trouble, sir?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

  “For what?”

  “You know…killing a prisoner.”

  “No, Sergeant,” Jock replied. “Take it easy. You’re not in any trouble.”

  Gabriel Lakai squatted next to the dead prisoner. “I think I know what he was saying, Captain Jock. It was a warning. He kept saying something about many soldiers…and then he said a number.”

  “A number? What was it?” Jock asked.

  “Two hundred, I think.”

  Patchett laughed out loud, a roar that lasted a few moments. Catching his breath, he said, “You mean he was warning his buddies that there was two hundred of us?”

  “Yes, First Sergeant,” Gabriel replied.

  “Now don’t that beat all? That blindfold had some benefits we didn’t figure on.”

  Theo Papadakis walked in from the perimeter with more information: “Speaking of counting, we stopped counting the dead Japs at fifty, sir. There’s a couple wounded pretty bad…Doc’ll take a look at ’em, but it don’t look like they’ll make it.”

  Throughout everything, Trevor Shaw had remained steadfast at the radio set. Jock walked over and asked, “You think your natives are up for burying a whole lot more Japs, Commander?”

  Without looking up from the message he copied, Shaw replied, “Nothing would please them more, Captain.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Day 5

  All through the morning, Jock and his men watched wave after anemic wave of GIs come ashore near Barakau. The landings were unopposed by Japanese infantry and, save for the early sorties by Japanese aircraft, unmolested by enemy action. The few enemy planes still in the area were driven off when a second wave of American fighters appeared just after 0800. After that, the only signs of Japanese aircraft they saw from their vantage point at the OP were the twisted metal skeletons still smoldering on the Port Moresby airfield.

  The only other menace the Japanese tried to employ was a number of field artillery batteries positioned on the east side of Port Moresby. They put up a steady curtain of fire that fell well short of the invasion beaches; they simply didn’t have the 12-mile range necessary. The large-caliber weapons that could reach that far—the fortress guns defending Fairfax Harbor—had all been rendered useless by the naval and air bombardment.

  “Maybe MacArthur picked a good spot for an invasion after all,” Patchett said before his voice turned sour, “if you can call that circle-jerk down there an invasion.”

  From the distant OP, the Japanese batteries were invisible, blending into the landscape until they fired. Once that happened, their location was no longer a secret. The flash and smoke gave it away, no matter how well it was camouflaged. Jock’s calls for fire on the batteries were refused by Fire Support Center: Negative, negative. We’ve got higher priority targets, they explained.

  Patchett found that maddening. “They’re gonna be pretty damn high priority once them dog-faces get a couple of miles closer,” he said, “if they ever get their asses off that beach. On the bright side, though, those batteries can’t reach us right now, neither.”

  It was impossible to count accurately from the OP, but Jock estimated in the two hours since the first landing craft dropped their ramps, no more than several thousand men were hunkered down on shore. “That’s only a few battalions,” he said. “If they’re going to drop off a whole division at this pace, it’s going to take all damned day.”

  Patchett added, “Don’t see much artillery getting off them landing craft. A couple of pack howitzers…that’s about it. I tell you what, though…they’d better be bringing some ammo for us. One more contact with the Nips and we’ll be throwing rocks.”

  “I sure hope the rest of our company is getting off one of those boats,” Jock said.

  “Amen to that, sir.”

  Jock pointed to a trail leading away from Astrolabe. “Look over there…I’ll bet that’s what’s left of that Jap company who took us on. Looks like they’re running back to Port Moresby.”

  “Wanna lob some mortar rounds at ’em, sir?”

  “Nah, let’s save those few rounds we’ve got left, Top. We still might need them real bad.”

  Patchett cast a glance at the three dead Americans wrapped in ground sheets and laid out in a neat row. He cleared his throat and asked, “You want to bury them up here, sir?”

  “No…let’s get them down to a CCP today. Sergeant Brody, too.”

  “That’s one hellacious walk, sir…and can we afford to lose a bunch of litter bearers for lord knows how long?”

  “Yeah, I know all that, Top. That’s why I’m going to ask the commander to have his natives do it. Send an NCO with them to supervise…they can bring back supplies and ammo.”

  “How about Lieutenant Wharton, sir?”

  “He’s not hurt bad. He’ll be staying.”

  Sergeant Mike McMillen had something on his mind. “Can I talk with you for a minute, Top?” he asked Patchett. “On the q.t.?”

  Once they were out of everyone else’s earshot, Patchett asked, “What’s the problem, Mike?”

  “Lieutenant Wharton, Top…he’s so full of shit. He wasn’t trying to stop them three guys from running away…They were following him! H
e was running, too.”

  “That’s a pretty serious accusation, Mike.”

  “I know what I heard, Top. And I know what I saw.”

  “Be careful here, son. Things ain’t always what they seem to be when you’re taking fire.”

  “Maybe so…but that man’s a liar. And a coward. You can smell it on him.”

  They stole a glance at Lieutenant Wharton, who was busy shuffling personnel around the perimeter. There were gaps to fill now that three of his men were dead. He wore a white bandage wrapped around his wounded upper arm. Some blood had seeped through; from a distance, it resembled a Japanese armband. Or a Japanese flag.

  Patchett seemed lost in thought for a few moments. When he was done, he put his hand on McMillen’s shoulder and said, “You said you wanted to keep this on the q.t., right?”

  “Yeah, Top.”

  “Okay then, it’s duly noted.” Patchett cast one more furtive glance at Wharton before adding, “Now, Lieutenant Hero over there’s got hisself a red badge of courage…so go slow about who you’re calling a coward, son.”

  “But, Top—”

  “Take it easy, son…I already heard what you said. I’ll keep a good eye out…and if it turns out the man ain’t worth a flip, the captain will deal with it. I guaran-damn-tee it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Day 5

  The battle lines—if they could be called that—changed little during that first day of Operation Long Jump. By late afternoon, the American and Japanese ground troops were still more than 12 miles apart. Landing craft were still shuttling men and supplies to the beach, hindered only occasionally by the brief appearances of Japanese aircraft flying in from distant bases.

  American units had finally begun to move off the beach, but only laterally, in the direction of Astrolabe. Those on the OP could see no attempt by those troops to move closer to the Japanese defenses around Port Moresby. It was as if the Japanese artillery shells landing several miles in front of them were sufficient to keep the Americans in check.