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

by William Peter Grasso

  “Them GIs look like they’re on a goddamn admin bivouac,” Melvin Patchett said.

  The Fire Support Center had finally—and reluctantly—agreed to a fire mission against one of the batteries, detailing the mission to a cruiser lurking several miles offshore. The adjustments of fire Jock called for, though, were so slow in coming the battery picked up stakes and relocated, vanishing into the rainforest for the time being. Its new position wouldn’t be revealed until it decided to fire again.

  Just before 1700, there was a shout from the perimeter: “Sergeant Hadley’s coming back…and he brought company.”

  To the men on the OP, it was more than just company coming: it was a welcome parade. “Look who I found,” Hadley called once inside the perimeter. Emerging from the woods behind him, in twos and threes, was the rest of Company C—Charlie Company. The column of over 70 men wound its way up the slope, each man lugging a resupply of rations or ammo. The native porters Hadley had led to the casualty collection point were loaded with even more supplies.

  Lieutenant Leon Grossman, Jock’s XO, dropped the heavy box of radio batteries he brought up the mountain, snapped to attention, and saluted Jock. With a big smile on his face, he said, “Charlie Company Minus reporting for duty, sir.”

  Jock returned the salute and shook Grossman’s hand. “Good to see you, Lee. Did you lose anyone?”

  “No, sir. All present.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” Jock said.

  “Yeah…Sergeant Hadley filled me in on our casualties. Damn shame…”

  Jock watched in amazement as the pile of supplies the men carried up the mountain grew. “How’d you lay hands on all this stuff, Lee?” Jock asked.

  “You wouldn’t believe how disorganized it is on the beach, sir, like no one knows what the hell’s going on. When we ran into Hadley, we didn’t see any point hanging around, waiting to get handed some shit detail. He said you guys were low on everything…and all this stuff was just sitting there. So we grabbed it and started walking. Oh, one other thing, sir…we brought a visitor. He’s bringing up the rear, if he doesn’t keel over from exhaustion first. I’m really sorry, but it couldn’t be helped.”

  It took another 10 minutes before the visitor made it to the OP. Once there, the man—a corpulent, red-faced major—bent deep from the waist and struggled to catch his breath after the long climb. The major carried his .45 pistol in a spit-shined holster, hanging from the too-tight web belt trying—and failing—to cinch his girth. He had two men with him: an old tech sergeant who looked almost as exhausted as the major and a young artillery lieutenant, barely out of his teens, who still looked fit.

  Jock stood next to the doubled-over major, listening to him wheeze, waiting for an opportunity to introduce himself. He decided to take a step back, in case the fat man had to vomit: I’m filthy enough right now. I don’t need some desk jockey’s puke on me, too.

  With a magisterial flourish, the major finally rose and stood ramrod straight. His face registered nothing but displeasure as he surveyed the OP and the grimy, exhausted GIs manning it. “Your men are a disgraceful looking bunch, Captain…and I’m going to court-martial that Sergeant Hadley,” the major said.

  “What are the charges, sir?” Jock asked.

  “Willfully disobeying a superior officer, plain and simple. I told that man none of his niggers were to touch any of my gear”—he pointed to a confused native holding a duffel bag—“but what does that look like to you, my young captain?”

  Jock noticed the look of terror on Gabriel Lakai’s face as he tried to hide behind Ginny Beech. “Very well, Major,” Jock said. “Feel free to file any charges you like. But allow me to introduce myself, sir. I’m Captain Jock Miles. This is Charlie Company, First of the Eighty-First, and I’m its commander. May I ask who you are and what you’re doing in my position?”

  “I’d mind my tone, Captain, or I’ll be adding charges against you, as well. Now, for your information, my name is Major B. Jefferson Conwell. I’m the S2 for Regiment.”

  “What happened to Major Foster, sir? I thought he was the intelligence officer.”

  “He’s missing, presumed dead, my young captain, along with Colonel Snow, his whole damn regimental staff, and a lot of other fine men, too. Their ships got blown up.”

  “In that sea battle a couple of nights ago, sir?”

  “Oh, you’re very well informed, aren’t you, Captain?”

  “We watched it, sir,” Jock said, pointing out over the Coral Sea.

  “Well, goody for you. And now for the reason I’m here. I’m taking over your little observation post, Captain. It’ll make a cozy little eye in the sky for my little shop, won’t it?” He pointed to Ginny and Commander Shaw. “These civilians”—he made the word sound dirty—“I want them out of here before nightfall. And take all these niggers with you, too.”

  Trevor Shaw seemed far too polite as he asked, “I beg your pardon, sir? I believe our presence was requested by your command.”

  “Makes no nevermind what you people believe. You’ll be gone from here or I’ll place you under arrest.”

  Ginny Beech didn’t bother acting polite. With fire in her eyes, she started toward the major. Patchett intercepted her before she had taken three steps. “Let us handle this, Ginny,” he whispered as she tried to struggle out of his grasp. “You and the commander ain’t going nowhere. We’ll take care of this joker. Just hush your mouth, okay?”

  Unseen by the major, Patchett winked to Jock, flashed a thumbs up, and set off toward the north side of the perimeter: Papadakis’s territory.

  A smug smile on his florid face, Major Conwell pulled out a map and began a tutorial on Operation Long Jump. “This is Douglas’s new plan, Captain.”

  “Douglas, sir?” Jock asked. “You mean General MacArthur?”

  “Of course that’s who I mean. Now don’t interrupt me again, young man.” Conwell began to make sweeping motions across the map with his hand. “The Thirty-Second Division, minus the several battalions of infantry and artillery lost at sea, will push into Port Moresby and secure the airfield and harbor—”

  Conwell stopped talking. He could see the look of confusion on Jock’s face. “You’re just begging to ask me a question, aren’t you, Captain Miles?”

  “What happened to the Australians, Major? Wasn’t this supposed to be a double envelopment, with us as the eastern pincer and the Aussies on the west?”

  “It’ll be weeks before we have the tonnage to land any Aussie troops, Captain. We lost too many ships out there in the Coral Sea.”

  “So we’re throwing in one weakened division that’s short on artillery against a well dug-in Japanese division?”

  Conwell snickered. “You catch on fast, young captain. But Douglas believes one American is worth three of them Jap sumbitches. Our boys are going to drive them out of Port Moresby and pin them against the swamps to the west, the sea to the south, and the mountains to the north.”

  Jock couldn’t believe the nonsense he was hearing. “More than likely, sir, the Japanese will just pump in reinforcements from over those mountains and flank—”

  Major Conwell interrupted with a roar of laughter. “Nobody’s coming over those mountains, Captain Miles. Douglas calls the Owen Stanleys an impenetrable barrier.”

  “Sir, that’s going to come as quite a shock to the Australians who evacuated over those mountains, with the Japs on their heels every step of the way.”

  “Nonsense, young captain. Nonsense. These Aussies still haven’t learned the difference between fighting and running. They talk about that Kokoda Track like it’s some major thoroughfare. It’s a dirt trail, Captain, a li’l ol’ dirt—”

  The major’s words were cut off by the frightening chatter of outgoing machine gun fire from Papadakis’s side of the perimeter. A score of rifles quickly joined the nerve-shattering racket. There was a shout of Fire in the hole!—Hadley’s voice—and a few seconds later, several grenades exploded down the slope beyond the per
imeter. Through the orgy of gunfire, those on the OP—now face down in the dirt—could hear the dull plumff of mortars firing. They could hear more boisterous shouts, too: GIs yelling things like Die, Jap! and Take that, you Nip bastard!

  It took the mortar rounds about 10 seconds to come back to earth, the dull crump of their explosions sounding a bit too close for comfort. The rifle and machine gun fire dwindled and, with the sound of the last few rounds still echoing, finally died.

  When Jock lifted his head, he saw Patchett calmly walking his way. When he got close, the first sergeant winked again and flashed a quick smile.

  “We gave them yellow bastards a right whipping, sir,” Patchett said, testifying like a hellfire and brimstone preacher. “But they’ll be back. Them little sons of bitches always come back.”

  Major Conwell struggled to get back to his feet, losing his helmet in the process. His holster had slid around the major’s ample belly and now hung over his crotch, like a floppy codpiece, its spit shine ruined. His sergeant and lieutenant regained their composure and began to help the flustered, fussing major put himself back together.

  If the major’s face was florid before, it was positively iridescent now. “Sergeant,” he barked to his NCO, “we’re returning to HQ on the double.” He was already making his way to the path down the mountain as he spoke.

  Still trying to suppress his laughter, Patchett called out, “Sir…your duffel bag!”

  The major’s pace did not slow. He just waved his arm over his head as if saying goodbye to his gear forever. His confused lieutenant finally picked up the duffel and hurried to follow his fleeing boss.

  Trying not to laugh, too, Jock called out, “Major, can I offer you an escort squad? The Japs are everywhere, you know.”

  Conwell didn’t bother to answer. He just kept walking as fast as the steep slope permitted. When the major was finally out of earshot, everyone on the OP collapsed in laughter.

  When he was able to speak again, Jock said, “Well done, Top.”

  “Well, sir, since we’re flush with ammo again”—he tipped a salute to Lieutenant Grossman—“I figured it couldn’t hurt to stage a training exercise, especially if it’s gonna send some chubby-assed, pencil-pushing bootlicker running home to his mama…with all due respect, of course, sir.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Day 5/Day 6

  Night fell, and the 32nd Division still had not taken a step closer to the Japanese at Port Moresby. The men on the OP heard nothing to suggest they were in the middle of a war—no gun shots, no artillery fire, no airplanes. Just the sounds of the forest and the occasional, faint grinding of gears as American vehicles lurched over difficult terrain in blackout conditions.

  Still, it was restful. Those not on watch found they could actually get some sleep. They felt more secure; it was good having the whole company back together again. They were able to expand the perimeter: Charlie Company now commanded almost half a mile of the ridge along Astrolabe’s peak.

  “Too bad this damn ridge is fifteen miles long,” Patchett said, “but at least now, covering as much ground as we do, it’ll be a lot harder for the Japs to take us by surprise.”

  The enemy wasn’t the only one capable of surprises, though. The new sunrise brought its own—a most unnerving one: the Coral Sea was empty of ships. The US 7th Fleet was gone.

  “Ain’t this just fucking dandy,” Patchett said. “Any ol’ Jap warship can sail right up and paste the living daylights out of us.”

  “And they probably will,” Jock replied.

  Shaken by the specter of an empty sea, Trevor Shaw said, “There wasn’t a word over the radio last night about any withdrawal, just this message from Javelin Six for you, Captain.”

  “Javelin Six?” Patchett said. “Ain’t that Regiment?”

  Jock glanced at the message before stuffing it in his pocket. “Yep…they want me to report there ASAP.”

  Patchett cringed. “You think you’re in for an ass-chewing over that major we scared off?”

  Jock shrugged and replied, “Wouldn’t that be hot shit?” Pulling on his field gear, he added, “Give me two guys, Top, in case I need runners.”

  The first person Jock met at Regiment—a world-weary master sergeant—gave him the first piece of bad news: First Battalion—Charlie Company’s battalion—didn’t exist anymore. Jock’s men, high up on Astrolabe, were all that was left.

  “The rest,” the sergeant said, “are missing…lost at sea…presumed dead.”

  The second piece of bad news: not only had the 7th Fleet departed, but they took tons of still-unloaded supplies—much-needed supplies—with them. The 32nd Division was not only short men, it was now short just about everything.

  There was one glimmer of good news, though: the new regimental commander, Colonel Charles Murdock, was an old friend. Chuck Murdock had been Jock’s battalion commander in the Louisiana War Games of 1940. Jock could see a few years and another promotion to full bird had done nothing to change Murdock—he was still a no-nonsense straight shooter.

  “I had to see it was you with my own eyes, Jock,” Colonel Murdock said, pumping Jock’s hand with great vigor. “I can’t believe a West Point man like you is still just a company commander. Hell, son, you were a shooting star! You should be commanding a battalion, at least.” He grimaced before adding, “I guess technically you are, at the moment, being the highest-ranking survivor of First Battalion. But what happened to you, boy?”

  “Let’s just say there were a few incidents since we last spoke, sir.”

  Chuck Murdock shrugged and said, “Yeah, I heard some stories. But life goes on, Jock…and so does this damned war. Step into my office.”

  Once inside the command tent, Murdock continued, “Let’s cut the bullshit…I need an S2, and I need him right now.”

  “I thought Major Conwell was S2. He came up—”

  “Save it, Jock. I know all about his little mountain climbing expedition. Damn fool wasn’t fit to walk around the block.”

  “Is he relieved, sir?”

  “Relieved? Hardly. No, Jock, he’s flat on his back at the aid station. Coronary thrombosis, the doc tells me.”

  Jock bit his lip. Oh shit…we gave that fat fuck a heart attack.

  “But anyway, Captain, I need a new intelligence officer…and I need a good one. I reckon you know more than anyone about what’s going on in this godforsaken place…and I don’t give a damn how you got on MacArthur’s shit list.”

  Jock remembered another thing about Chuck Murdock: he didn’t take no for an answer.

  “One request, Colonel?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Can I have Charlie Company as my intel and recon outfit?”

  “Good idea,” Murdock replied. “Done. But I’ve a question for you, Jock…why didn’t you ask if the job came with a major’s leaf attached? Isn’t a promotion the first thing all us ring-knockers from the Point expect when offered some hot-shit job?”

  Jock shrugged. “To be honest, sir, that’s not really important to me.”

  “So you won’t really mind if I promote you, then?”

  “That’s your prerogative, sir.”

  A large-scale map of the Port Moresby area hung from an easel. The colonel stepped to it and said, “Now show me how to not get thrown right off this rock.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Day 6

  PFC Bucky Reynolds was never so relieved to be back on Astrolabe. At least there, he found some semblance of safety in numbers: I can hide inside the platoon. Bucky had been horrified when Sergeant Hadley picked him to be one of Captain Miles’s runners. The fact that the other runner selected was Corporal Bogater Boudreau hadn’t made it any better: That crazy Cajun’ll get me killed one way or another. I just know it. The thought of the three of them plodding down the mountain all alone—with Japs everywhere!—upset his stomach so badly he couldn’t partake of the hot C rations offered at Regimental Headquarters Mess.

  “No problem,” Boudreau tol
d him, tossing a steaming can of meat and beans from hand to hand until it cooled enough to hold and open. “I’ll eat yours, too.”

  Even worse, he and Boudreau had to go back up the mountain alone. Captain Miles had some new job all of a sudden and would be staying at HQ. And it was getting dark—all Bucky could do was follow Boudreau because he had no earthly idea where they were.

  Boudreau laughed at him: “How the hell could you be lost? Just keep walking uphill. You’ll get to the top sooner or later. And what the hell’s so bad about this mountain, anyway? If we wasn’t up here, we’d be down there wrasslin’ crocs…or maybe we’d be fish food like the rest of the battalion. Just do us both a favor…try not to piss yourself, okay?”

  As they sat, eating a K ration supper, Lieutenant Bob Wharton had one question of Lee Grossman, his new company commander: “Who’s going to be the new XO?”

  “No one,” Grossman replied. “We’re not going to have an XO for the time being. There are no replacement officers available. If I move up one of you platoon leaders, I’m stuck with one platoon led by a sergeant. I don’t want to do that unless I absolutely have to. It’s not fair to that platoon’s men.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, sir,” Melvin Patchett said, much relieved.

  Wharton replied, “Well, I sure don’t agree with either of you.” He stood there, arms folded, like some tower of defiance. One thing had always been true in Bob Wharton’s tall world: elevation equaled superiority.

  In Lee Grossman’s world, only brains mattered. He stood, pulled Wharton aside, and said, “I’m really sorry, Bob, but you can’t be XO right now.”

  Wharton took a step closer, staring down at his new commander. “That’s just dumb, Grossman. Your first decision as CO and it’s stupid. About what I’d expect from an OCS man.”