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

by William Peter Grasso

  He was about to say how worried he was she’d get hurt, maybe killed, but he didn’t bother. She’d just laugh it off. Or maybe kick him.

  Hell…she’s braver than I am, anyway.

  He kissed her forehead. “Sorry I doubted you, Jill.”

  Jillian and Jock were back at the Mission House long before MacArthur’s entourage arrived. Slipping off her Wellington boots, she told him, “Better clean the mud off those shoes. They’ll want the whole kit you’re wearing back when this little get-together is done. All this spit and polish is just for MacArthur’s benefit.”

  “Are you serious, Jill?” He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. The clean clothes felt wonderful. He wasn’t ready to give them up just yet.

  “Dead serious, laddie. Your Army wouldn’t even bother to launder your filthy combat clothes before they gave them back, either. But don’t worry…I’m having that done, just for you.”

  The other American officers were busy setting up a meeting room, its walls steadily being papered with more and more maps. General Hartman nervously paced the floor. He kept glancing at a telephone, a direct line to the communications center. It sat on a side table, silent and indifferent to the general’s pleading looks, like a watched pot refusing to boil.

  A sergeant stationed on the veranda with a walkie-talkie gave the news: MacArthur’s plane had landed. He’d be here within minutes. On the road from the airfield, MPs brought traffic to a stop, clearing the way for the supreme commander’s motorcade. The preparations in the meeting room reached a frantic intensity as the last items were set into place.

  “Good heavens, we’ve forgotten the brass band,” Jillian mumbled as the lead jeep, with its four-star flag flying, rolled up to the Mission House. Two colonels standing nearby overheard and were not amused. They turned and gave her withering looks.

  She thought about flipping them off, but decided against it: The old wankers will probably take it out on my Jock.

  The lead jeep stopped so close to the veranda’s steps that MacArthur—unmistakable in aviator sunglasses, corn cob pipe, and gold-braided crusher cap—could exit without having to dirty his feet on the sodden ground. The lesser-starred generals in the four jeeps that followed were not so lucky. They had to dismount and walk along the mucky track to the veranda. Last—and evidently least—in that underprivileged line was General Blamey, the top Australian commander. Short and portly, wearing a rumpled, green field uniform in startling contrast to the gleaming Yanks in crisp khakis, Blamey had the longest slog to the steps.

  Jillian wasn’t surprised as she watched the American officers bow and scrape before MacArthur. It wouldn’t startle her at all if they began to genuflect and kiss his ring. She had seen it all before in Brisbane. That time, she had shocked him—as recorded by the newspapers for the world to see—by actually demanding restitution for the people of Weipa. This time, she decided she’d be polite and friendly. After all, he was now her guest.

  Maybe he won’t even remember me…

  But he did remember. After dispensing with his underlings’ attentions, MacArthur came straight to her. She couldn’t tell if the look on his face was a smile of greeting or the grimace of some painful memory resurfacing.

  “Miss Forbes…so good to see you again. I look forward to my stay in your little empire.”

  She offered her hand. He took it with a limp grip, in a hand that felt to her like a cold, dead fish.

  “We’re very pleased to have you, General,” she said.

  He swept his free hand grandly as he took in the spectacle of tropical beauty, wartime industry, and mud. “I see you’re as enterprising as ever, young lady. It looks like you’ve done very well for this community.”

  “I’ve had a lot of help, General.”

  “I should say you have, Miss Forbes,” MacArthur replied, as he turned abruptly and entered the Mission House.

  The meeting’s first session dragged on. After several tedious hours of battle statistics and situation reports—reports pretending to find silver linings in the ongoing disasters—the assembled officers were more than ready for a break. They just had to endure the summation of General Hartman’s briefing.

  “As I’ve shown, the Japanese are cagey and well dug-in,” Hartman said, “but we’ve figured out how to break their line. By pushing here…here…and here”—he thrust the pointer to a different spot on the map with each here—“we will break the Japanese line. The operation to finally do just that is being executed as we speak. I expect the Thirty-Second Division will be in Port Moresby by this time tomorrow. Your questions or comments, sir?”

  “I eagerly await the news of your success,” MacArthur replied. He rose from his chair. “It’s eighteen-thirty, gentlemen. Let’s break for supper.”

  Jillian’s Aborigine cooks prepared the sumptuous seafood feast. There had only been one hitch in the dinner’s preparations: she had to quickly indoctrinate a last-minute detail of clueless GIs to serve as waiters. MacArthur’s chief of staff had forbidden her from using her usual cadre of black servers. “The general will not be waited on by niggers,” he said.

  No problem, she thought. She’d give the black servers the night off and pay them triple what they would have received for the night’s work. The added expense would be easy to cover. She’d simply charge the US government twice the usual rate for services rendered.

  And the stupid wankers will pay it, too.

  It was 2000 hours as the last round of coffee was poured. As the officers, sleepy from the long day and full stomachs, trudged back to the meeting room, the phone to the communications center rang. The call was for General Hartman. He broke into an anxious sweat before the receiver was in his hand.

  Blood drained from Hartman’s face as he listened to the message. It was from his headquarters on Papua. His division’s attack had failed—his troops had been thrown back, the Japanese defensive line had not been breached. Casualties were heavy.

  One combat statistic struck General Hartman a particularly heavy blow: Colonel Murdock, the commander of 81st Regiment, was missing and presumed killed in action.

  Hartman sagged into an armchair, staring at a point a million miles away. He knew his division was finished. After this disaster, its combat effectiveness was spent. A unit can only take so many failures. Then it collapses.

  And he still had to tell MacArthur.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Day 10

  The meeting that commenced after supper was a tense and awkward affair. MacArthur said little, letting his subordinates argue the matter for him as he silently weighed his options. When asked what he planned to do next to break the stalemate on Papua, General Hartman had nothing to offer except the usual commander’s plea for more troops.

  MacArthur rose, walked up to the big map of Port Moresby, and said, “I had high hopes, Hartman, that you would handle this campaign on your own. Basically, you’re up against an isolated garrison. Your troops have not been seriously threatened by sea or air…”

  Inwardly, Hartman found that comment ironic: I lost more than a battalion’s worth of officers and men, the aircraft carrier that was supposed to provide close air support, and many ships full of supplies before we ever set foot on Papua. Wouldn’t you consider that being threatened by sea?

  MacArthur moved to the bigger map covering all of Papua and New Guinea. He continued, “When General Kenney informed me his Air Force had swept the Japanese from the sky over Port Moresby, I felt confident you had everything you needed to accomplish the task by yourself.” He nodded to the smiling Kenney.

  Here we go again, Hartman thought. The flyboys are getting accolades for doing next to nothing. Maybe I should tell Kenney how grateful we are for the two times a day the Fifth Air Force appears over Port Moresby for five fucking minutes…

  The supreme commander rolled on. “With this in mind, I planned to deploy Blamey’s Australians as part of a much bigger operation here”—his finger fell on the northern tip of the island of New Brita
in—“at Rabaul. By going there, straight to the main Japanese base in the southwest Pacific, we could cut off all these annoying little enclaves in Papua, New Guinea, and the Solomons…and isolate them to starvation. We could be in the Philippines within six months.”

  The mention of the Japanese base at Rabaul stunned everyone in the room. They couldn’t believe MacArthur was contemplating a seaborne assault against the heart of the Imperial Japanese Navy with the meager naval assets under his control.

  “Of course,” MacArthur continued, “we would need Nimitz’s ships to take on Rabaul, and Washington has just informed me such a reallocation of combat resources will not be forthcoming. They’d rather let Chester Nimitz and his Marine Corps play hopscotch across the Pacific for years, one measly island at a time, than let MacArthur take a few bold leaps right into Tokyo Bay.”

  He strolled back to the Port Moresby map. “So now, Hartman, you and the fools in Washington leave me little choice. Something you said earlier has caught my interest. Tell me more about your suspicions there are no Japanese on the far side of Port Moresby. I believe you said this information came from local aerial reconnaissance?”

  “Yes, General,” Hartman replied. “In fact, sir, the officer who did the actual reconnaissance is in this room.”

  MacArthur scanned the room. “Is that so? Stand up, whoever you are.”

  Jock Miles rose to his feet.

  MacArthur gave him the once-over. “And who might you be, Major?”

  “Miles, sir. Maynard Miles. S2, Eighty-First Regiment.”

  MacArthur stared off into space for a moment, as if searching for something. “Miles, you say…Would you be the same Captain Miles who led that Cape York task force a few months back?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  The general fixed Jock in a steely gaze. Several uncomfortable seconds passed before MacArthur said, “Well, well…the prodigal son returns. Let me congratulate you on your promotion, Miles. Now, tell us what you know about the Japanese around Port Moresby.” Turning to General Blamey, he added, “Pay close attention, Blamey. I suspect we’ll be needing your Aussie tigers on Papua after all.”

  She was surprised how keyed up he was as he climbed into her bed. It wasn’t their first time together—far from it. The lovemaking of their days in Brisbane—to the tempo of the powerful melodies of Liszt and Wagner—was still fresh in Jillian’s mind. So was the delicious surprise when Jock showed up in Weipa unexpectedly before shipping out. It was only three months ago.

  But it was different this time. There was ferocity to his motion that went well beyond ardor. It seemed almost—her mind searched for the right word—desperate.

  She remembered something she read long ago, something that had made her giggle back in those days of adolescence. The passage told of how before going into battle, Napoleon’s troops often experienced persistent—sometimes painful—erections, even though there were no women for miles and lead was flying everywhere. It was explained like this: the soldiers, facing imminent death, felt an uncontrollable urge to procreate, to leave something of themselves behind after they were shattered on the battlefield.

  Is that what’s on Jock’s mind? Does he think death is finally catching up to us? Why now? We’ve always known that every time we’re together could be our last.

  There was another problem, one much more immediate.

  “Honey, you’re hurting me,” she said. It wasn’t so much a complaint as a question, a need to understand. His face was contorted in some private agony as she held it in her hands. He seemed to be gasping for breath.

  “What’s wrong, Jock? Tell me.”

  The violent thrusting slowed to a stop. His heart pounding, he fell against her. She wrapped him tight in her arms. It took a few anxious minutes, but he calmed down and said, “It’s like I’m chasing time, but I can’t grab it. It slips away so fast.”

  “Your Colonel Murdock…is that what’s got you so upset, Jock? It sounds like you two were so close.”

  He shook his head.

  “Then what is it, honey?”

  “Being here with you, Jill…In a blink of an eye, it’ll be over again. So fast…”

  “Sure, until the next time…and the time after that…and the time after that. But there’s just one thing, Jock…”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re not finished with this time, yet. Back to work now, laddie.”

  He did as he was told.

  They awoke to the racket of trucks outside the Mission House. It was still dark; Jock tried to rub the sleep from his eyes as he checked his watch. It read 0500.

  “Go back to sleep, Jock,” Jillian said. “Heaven knows you need it.”

  She was right about that. The only good sleep he had gotten in the last week and a half—since the Papuan adventure began—was the few hours on the plane flying to Weipa and the blissful hours of this night, nestled next to Jillian.

  The racket didn’t let up. He asked, “What the hell’s going on out there?”

  “That’s breakfast coming, Jock. Your Army mess whips it up and brings it here. It seems my cooks don’t do American breakfasts to your liking. Apparently, you Yanks adore this slop you call grits.”

  “What do you mean? Grits are dee-licious.”

  “And then there’s this stuff so ghastly you can only refer to it by its initials.”

  “Are you talking about S.O.S.?”

  “Yes, Jock…shit on a shingle. What a fitting name for something we wouldn’t feed to dogs.”

  He slid closer and spooned against her back. “I’m a little surprised to hear this, Jill…considering it’s coming from a girl who thinks K rations taste wonderful.”

  There was no point trying to sleep anymore. They weren’t tired, and every moment of sleep was a moment they couldn’t feel the comfort and thrill of each other’s arms. There was plenty of time to linger in bed; the morning session with MacArthur wasn’t scheduled to begin until 0800, and MacArthur stuck to his schedules like glue.

  “You want to hear something funny, Jill?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Melvin Patchett’s got a girlfriend, I think.”

  Jillian sat bolt upright. Even in the dark, Jock could make out the incredulous look on her face.

  “Who? Where?” she asked.

  “In Papua. An Aussie lady. A sheila.”

  Her look grew even more incredulous. “What kind of sheila, Jock?”

  “A widow-woman. She works with the old coast watcher who’s been helping us. Been a pretty big help herself. Terrific with the natives. Speaks pidgin and everything. She’s got a big bone to pick with the Japs, too. They killed her husband.”

  Jillian was doubled over with laughter. Between gasps for breath, she managed to say, “Oh, a widow…Thank God…”

  “What’s so damned funny about that, Jill?”

  “Oh, Jock…I’m sorry, but Papua was bloody overrun with Catholic missionaries before the Japs came. I had this picture of Patchett having it off with a nun.”

  “Yeah, that would be pretty funny. But I don’t think they’re having it off…I don’t see where they’d get the opportunity.”

  She snuggled back into his arms. “Oh, come now, Jock. Give the old boy a little more credit than that.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Day 11

  MacArthur made his proclamation at the morning meeting: Blamey and his Australian Seventh Division would land on Papua, to the north of Port Moresby, on the beaches Jock had identified. “That, gentlemen,” he said, “will almost double our manpower, envelop the Japanese, and end this stalemate.”

  Blamey gulped hard at the timetable: his troops would hit the beach in 96 hours. He asked MacArthur, “Cutting it a bit close, wouldn’t you say, General?”

  “Why, Blamey? Are your men not ready?”

  “No, sir. Of course they are. But it takes a day just to sail there from here.”

  “Then that gives you three whole days to get squared away, doesn’t it?”


  Blamey knew there was no point in arguing further. All he could do now was put his hope in two assumptions. First: the Yanks hadn’t made an even bigger cock-up on Papua than it seemed. Second: the Japanese were really as unprepared as the Yanks wanted him to believe.

  We’ve already been kicked off Papua once, he told himself. I don’t bloody fancy it happening again.

  Gritting his teeth, Blamey accepted his fate: Shit runs downhill…and me and my men are all alone at the bottom of that hill. He settled in to spend the rest of the day bashing out the details of the Aussie landing.

  MacArthur was feeling optimistic, even triumphant. “Gentlemen, the Japanese have played right into MacArthur’s hands.”

  No one in the room had any idea what their supreme commander was talking about.

  The Japanese artillery barrages had been brutal, but Astrolabe’s front face had proven an effective shield for the men of Charlie Company. Along with Ginny Beech and her contingent of native porters, they were out of harm’s way on the backslope. The four men manning the OP at The Notch—in the line of fire but deeply dug in—had a field day directing the American artillery in counter-battery fire. The Japanese guns were silenced by mid-morning—some destroyed, some fleeing to new positions—but silenced for now nonetheless.

  There was only one casualty. “Damn shame,” Melvin Patchett said as he helped carry the wounded corporal back from the OP. “Y’all picked yourself a hell of a time to stand up and take a piss, son. But don’t worry…you’re getting a ticket back to Australia. Good thing you had your hands wrapped around that pecker, though, ’cause y’all mighta lost that, too.”

  Lee Grossman took a long look at the bright, sunny sky. “Dammit,” he said, “we need some rain. How much water you figure we’ve got left, Top?”