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

by William Peter Grasso

  The latest radio communication with Charlie Company had brought a piece of good news: they had left behind an OP at The Notch—named OP Charlie Baker—with which they had wire communication. Jock had been thrilled and proud to redraw that triangle—symbolizing an observation post—on the map. My boys are on the ball, he told himself as the grease pencil squeaked against the map’s acetate overlay. They’re way ahead of me. I’m not sure how they pulled that off, but I’m grateful they did.

  Colonel Hailey entered the tent and sauntered up to the map. He still had crumbs from supper on his shirtfront and web gear.

  At least he got to eat, Jock thought. I hope the rest of the regiment is so lucky tonight.

  Hailey ran his finger along the map, right down Astrolabe’s spine. A look of smug satisfaction came over his face as his fingertip tapped on the rectangle marking Charlie Company’s new position at OP Charlie Able.

  “You see, Miles,” the colonel said, “if I hadn’t told you to move that company, the Japs would be swarming down on us from Astrolabe right now. Of course, if they’d been doing their job up here”—his finger tapped on the map at The Notch—“those Japs would have never gotten this far in the first place.”

  The suicidal urge to punch Colonel Hailey right in the mouth rose up within Jock Miles. He had to jam his hands into his pockets for a moment until the urge passed: There’s no point explaining to this pompous imbecile now how Charlie Company came to be where they are. And I don’t plan to spend the rest of my life in Leavenworth.

  “Those Japs didn’t come through The Notch, Colonel,” Jock said, struggling to keep a civil tone.

  “Nonsense, Major. Where else could they have come from? We know there are no other Japs within a hundred miles of Port Moresby.”

  “They came over the Owen Stanleys, sir. I could see their column coming from the east when I was airborne.”

  Rolling his eyes, Hailey said, “I’m beginning to question your sanity, Major Miles. MacArthur says the Owen Stanleys are the best flank defense we could ask for. It would have taken them a month, maybe more, to walk over those mountains.”

  “They’ve got plenty of time, sir,” Jock replied. “And they’ve done it before. So have the Aussies. And with our Navy and Air Force finally showing some muscle against Jap shipping, it would be the safest way for them to move more troops to Port Moresby.”

  Colonel Hailey threw up his hands. He was finished with this discussion. Pointing to the big red rectangle marking the Japanese position on Astrolabe, he said, “Just keep the artillery blowing the shit out of them and we’ll be fine. The Aussies will be here before you know it, Major.”

  “Sir,” Jock said, “we need to reinforce Charlie Company. I know that part of the mountain well. The backslope is more of a plateau. It doesn’t favor the defender on the peak all that much. We need at least two more companies—”

  “ENOUGH, MAJOR,” Hailey said, his volume ruffling the tent’s canvas. “You are forbidden from moving any more of my soldiers up that damned mountain. That’s all I need…pull troops from the line down here and watch the Japs flow through like it’s an open spigot. Artillery, man! Trust your artillery! And get that fucking Air Force of ours over the target at first light tomorrow.”

  Colonel Hailey stormed from the tent. With the old operations sergeant by his side, Jock went back to studying the situation map.

  “The man don’t tolerate much back-talk, sir,” the sergeant said to Jock. “He ain’t near as open to suggestion as Colonel Murdock was.” His voice took on a tone of reverence when he spoke the name of their missing—probably KIA—ex-commander.

  “Yeah, I noticed,” Jock replied, “but tell me, Sarge…are the locations of our artillery batteries up to date?”

  “Yessir.”

  The old sergeant watched as Jock measured the range arcs of each battery. “You got a better place for some of them guns, sir?”

  “I’m just making sure we can pour fire on both the backslope of Astrolabe and The Notch at the same time, if necessary. If we can’t support Charlie Company, they’re in big trouble. And if they get pushed off Astrolabe, so are we.”

  The sergeant did a little measuring of his own. “If that’s what you’re wanting, sir…how about we move this one-oh-five battery inland about three miles…to here?” His fingertip landed at a spot on the map; he drew a goose egg around it. “They can’t hit either place you want from where they’re at right now.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, Sarge. Cut the order, quick. Let’s get them moving before it gets dark and they get themselves lost.”

  It was strangely quiet when Charlie Company got to OP Charlie Able. The artillery barrage they called in was long over. In the twilight, they could see no Japanese coming up the backslope. Only smoke and dust were visible, drifting slowly away.

  The Morgue still stood, like a monument to the Japs who died there 10 days ago. The GIs avoided it now as they had then. Even though it had a roof to provide shelter from sun and rain, it was a place of certain death: a slaughterhouse.

  “I guess that artillery kicked them in the ass pretty good,” Melvin Patchett said. “I was figuring we’d have to fight them for this ground…again.”

  Lee Grossman’s wariness showed: “Top, you don’t suppose they’ve already crossed over the peak farther south?”

  Patchett shook his head. “Nah, they know as well as we do that the only trail down the front face starts right here. They may well be farther south on the peak, but to get down to the lowlands, they’re gonna have to walk right into us…and we’d better be ready for them.”

  Patchett’s words worked their magic; Grossman felt his confidence growing. “You’re right, Top,” he said. “I think we’re going to need to set out listening posts…a couple down on the backslope, for sure.”

  “You bet your sweet ass we need them LPs, sir, and we’d better be damn quick about it, too. We got about fifteen minutes before dark…and I smell rain coming.”

  Grossman asked, “You think they’ll come at us in the rain, Top? At night?”

  “They done it before, Lieutenant. Just depends what kind of Bushido bastard with a sword is prodding them in the ass.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Day 12/Day 13

  The night rain fell on Astrolabe in invisible sheets, soaking Charlie Company to the bone. Fighting holes filled with water so fast that constant helmet-bailing was necessary. It was only for the sake of keeping the ammunition dry, though; the men were already wet beyond remedy.

  Trevor Shaw sought refuge with his radio inside The Morgue. He had no choice: there had been no time to set up the usual canvas shelter before the deluge began. Good as his radio had proven to be, its case wasn’t hardened and sealed like the GI field units. A soaking wet radio was useless as a communications tool and dangerous to its operators. The ghosts of all those Japanese killed under The Morgue’s roof would have to make temporary accommodations for Shaw and his equipment.

  It was raining buckets across the lowlands, too, all the way from Astrolabe’s base down to the sea. Rivers of mud flowed through Regimental Headquarters. To Colonel Hailey, the bad weather was good news. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “Mother Nature has blessed us with a quiet night. The rain will keep the Japs in line for us, mark my words.”

  The Japanese, however, seemed intent on proving Hailey wrong. When the first radio reports began to come in—reports by screeching, panicky men—of Japanese attacks all along the division’s line, Hailey was the first to doubt their accuracy. “Can’t be,” the colonel said. “No Jap in his right mind would attack now. It’s not like them to do that…they’ve got no advantage.”

  The reports kept coming. In the 81st Regiment—Hailey’s regiment—Second Battalion was reporting an attack in force against its line. The battalion commander himself was on the radio. He seemed calm—his voice hadn’t climbed as high in pitch as some other frightened men on the net—but he was insistent: his unit needed supporting artillery fire a
nd illumination rounds immediately, if not sooner.

  “I don’t give a shit how hard it’s raining,” the battalion commander told the fire direction center. “Keep the fucking powder dry and shoot, dammit. I need that artillery and I need it now.”

  Grabbing his gear, Jock said, “I’d better get over there and see what’s going on.”

  He was surprised when Colonel Hailey remained glued to his camp chair. Jock had assumed the colonel, too, would wish to be at the most critical point of contact, maybe even influencing the situation with sheer command presence. It seemed obvious, though, Colonel Hailey had no intention of going anywhere.

  “You’ll never make it, Major,” Hailey said. “Your jeep will get stuck in all that mud.”

  “Then I’ll walk, sir. This is still the infantry, right?”

  Hailey just shrugged. “Suit yourself, young man…but you’re playing a fool’s game. This regiment has already lost one commander who decided to go on a glory hunt.”

  Jock could feel his face flush with anger. In his mind, Hailey’s words amounted to blasphemy. “I’m sure Colonel Murdock wasn’t looking for glory, sir,” Jock said, perhaps too aggressively. “He was leading by example and—”

  “AT EASE, MAJOR,” Hailey interrupted. “I’ll decide how I lead this regiment…and right now, it’s best led from right here in this command post. But if you’re so intent on getting out there, just make damned sure Second Battalion doesn’t budge an inch from its position.”

  “Very well, sir,” Jock replied. He had barely stepped from the tent when the first call for fire from Astrolabe came in.

  Corporal Bogater Boudreau had waited as long as he could. It was time to pull himself and his two men back from The Notch. The Japanese were coming: even in the darkness and pouring rain, Boudreau could hear trucks down in the valley and the shouting of enemy soldiers struggling up the mountain.

  He jerked the field telephone from its wires and slung it over his shoulder. “Artillery’s on the way, mes freres,” the Cajun corporal said. “Let’s haul ass.”

  Slipping and sliding as they ran down the muddy trail along Astrolabe’s peak, they had made 50 yards when the first artillery rounds crashed into the spot they had been just a minute before. They weren’t sure whether it was the concussion from the rounds’ impact or just their own terror that sent them sprawling face-down in the mud.

  “Let’s get beaucoup farther than this,” Boudreau said, and the three were off and running again.

  Lee Grossman couldn’t hear the artillery rounds impact at The Notch. The roaring hiss of rain on the forest canopy made it hard to hear the voice of a man standing a few feet away; hearing artillery rounds impacting six miles distant was out of the question. He just hoped Bogater Boudreau and his men had gotten out from under those rounds in time.

  “Don’t be none too worried about that crazy Cajun, sir,” Melvin Patchett said. “He’s a tough son of a bitch. Clever as a fox, too. And don’t be surprised if he splices into that Jap phone line a ways down the trail and calls us up again asking for more fire.”

  A field telephone rang at the CP, but it wasn’t Bogater Boudreau’s line—it was from one of the listening posts on the backslope. Patchett picked it up.

  “We can hear ’em even in the rain, Top,” the voice from the LP said. “They’re talking real loud…but the voices stay in the same place. They’re close, but they’re not getting closer. At least not yet.”

  “All right, son,” Patchett said, “Good job. Now y’all pull back…I’m gonna call in some hellfire on those bastards.” He turned to Lee Grossman: “We got company out there, sir. Time for every swinging dick to get his head out of his ass.”

  Then he called to Trevor Shaw at the radio in The Morgue, “Got another fire mission for y’all, Commander…”

  The jeep slipped sideways and came to a stop as its wheels spun in the slick mud. Travis Spill tried the lowest gear, and then reverse, but it didn’t help. It was stuck. Time to break out the shovel and start digging again.

  “Looks like this is as far as we go, sir,” Spill said, quite disappointed with himself. He wanted to show off his foul-weather driving skills and deliver Major Miles right to Second Battalion’s command post, but it wouldn’t happen tonight. It was too dark and the rain falling too hard to see where he was going. Even though he had followed the little signs with arrows pointing the way, he wasn’t sure he was on the trail to Second Battalion anymore.

  “Don’t sweat it, Spill,” Jock said. “This is close enough. Stay with the jeep.” He hopped out and slogged into the darkness, toward the intermittent chatter of gunfire.

  It only took a few minutes to find a tent befitting a battalion CP. Dumb luck, maybe, Jock told himself, not entirely sure in the darkness it was an American and not a Japanese tent. He knew he could have just as easily blundered across enemy lines. He heard voices from inside, and to his great relief they were speaking English, even if they were doing so with the high-pitched, breathless voices of men in terror.

  Jock walked into the tent, surprised the dirt that served as its floor was just as soggy as the ground outside. Garbage was scattered everywhere. Affairs in this battalion were obviously a mess; basic items like hygiene, housekeeping, and drainage of the encampment were being ignored. This CP tent had the look and smell of weak command.

  Lieutenant Colonel Blevins—the battalion commander—was huddled over a map with a captain and a sergeant. “We’ve got to pull back, sir,” the captain said to Colonel Blevins, his voice pleading. Stabbing the map repeatedly with his finger, he continued, “They’ve broken through here…and here…and here.”

  “Nobody’s pulling back, I’m afraid,” Jock said, announcing his presence.

  The three turned and looked at the intruder from higher headquarters, their expressions a mixture of fear and loathing. “Major Miles,” Blevins said, “it’s pretty easy for someone to come down from Regiment and run his mouth without the faintest damned idea what’s going on here.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Jock replied, “I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s going on. In all likelihood, you’re being probed by no more than a company. It’s happening all across the division’s line. Nothing you shouldn’t be able to handle.”

  “You can’t know that, Miles,” Colonel Blevins said. “It looks to us like a major Japanese unit has joined the fight…and they’re pushing right through us.”

  “Not likely, sir,” Jock replied. “We can see their every move from Astrolabe. Unless this major Jap unit dropped from the sky after sunset, you’re facing the same guys since first contact.”

  “That sounds real fine, Major, but I’m still being overrun. I need to pull my men back.”

  “You can’t do that, sir. Colonel Hailey orders this position be held.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Major Miles…the Japs are already in this position.”

  “Then we need to call in your final protective fires, sir. We can’t allow a Jap breakthrough.”

  The battalion commander look shocked. “You’re asking me to call artillery on my own position? On my own men?”

  “Affirmative, sir. We’ve got no choice. If they breach our line here, the whole division can be enveloped. We’ll all be up shit’s creek.”

  Colonel Blevins looked as if the battle being waged outside this tent paled in comparison to the one raging in his soul. For a few moments, he stood frozen, looking physically ill, paralyzed by indecision.

  The sound of automatic weapons grew louder—and closer.

  “Sir,” his captain pleaded, “we need to get our asses out of here…now!”

  Blevins snapped out of his trance and looked at Jock. “Is that what Regiment wants, Major? That I kill my own men?”

  “I’ve already told you what Regiment wants, sir. I didn’t hear all of your conversation when I came in, but I think I got the gist. You’re not really sure where your men are right now, are you?”

  Reluctantly, Colonel Blevins agreed.<
br />
  “So,” Jock continued, “whether or not your own men are endangered by an FPF is something of a crap shoot.”

  Again, Blevins agreed. Reluctantly.

  Jock swept his hand across the situation map. “And if they’re still in the positions on this map, where they’re supposed to be…and they’re dug in properly…they at least have a chance of surviving the FPF. Any Japs running around get decimated, though.”

  Jock’s words had turned Blevins pensive. The colonel turned to the map, studied it for a minute, and then asked, “Major, I suspect you’ll be hauling ass back to Regiment before I call this FPF, am I right?”

  “Negative, sir. I’m here to help. Just point me to the nearest hole. I’ll take my chances with you and your men.”

  Blevins thought that over for a moment. “Fuck it,” he said, his deliberation done. “Major Miles, you’re sure there’s not some Jap division knocking at my door?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure.”

  “Okay, then,” Colonel Blevins said, seeming very much like a confident commander again. “Let’s stay put and fight the bastards nose to nose. Forget about the FPF.” He picked up his rifle. “I’m going to Dog Company,” he told his sergeant. “They seem to be taking the worst of it. You coming, Major Miles?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  Travis Spill drove up in the jeep just as Jock and Colonel Blevins stepped outside. Jock was surprised—and pleased—to see his driver again so soon. “Nice job getting unstuck, Spill,” Jock said. “Report to the sergeant inside. Give him the use of our radio. I’m going forward on foot with the colonel.”

  “Will do, sir,” Spill replied. “Y’all be careful out there.”

  D Company—Dog Company—was conspicuous only in its absence. Jock and Colonel Blevins found what they supposed was the company command post—a makeshift bunker of earth and timber, complete with a bank of field telephones—but nobody was there. Jock grabbed the phone marked 1st Platoon and spun the crank a few vigorous turns. No one answered. He cranked the phone marked 2nd Platoon. This time, someone answered. The man’s voice was intense but direct, with the inflection of someone attending to some minor duty—like answering this telephone—that distracted him from truly important tasks. He identified himself as the platoon sergeant.