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

by William Peter Grasso

  “Yeah, let’s get out over the water.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  Worth banked the L4 tight between two hills, tucked her low into a treeless corridor—a crudely cut road, perhaps—and aimed straight for the beach. The ground, only a foot or two below, whizzed by in a blur of green and brown. Jock felt sure the plane’s tires had actually brushed terra firma once or twice as she raced out of danger.

  “WHOA!” Worth yelled as he jerked back hard on the stick. The L4 shot up and then settled back toward the ground as he eased the stick forward.

  “Holy shit,” Worth said, like he had just seen a ghost. “Ho-lee shit!”

  “What the hell, John? What happened?”

  “There was a vehicle…like a jeep…or whatever Japs call it. Two guys in it, I think. Flew right over them. Would’ve hit them, for sure.”

  Visions of decapitated Japanese soldiers, shattered wooden propellers, and an airplane splattered on the ground flashed through Jock’s mind.

  “Ho-lee shit,” he said, in total agreement.

  They held their collective breath as Worth kept up the low-level dash to the water’s edge and safety. In a few uneventful minutes, they were over the sea. Worth eased the little plane higher as Jock coded their findings for radio transmission. As he grabbed the microphone from its hanger, Jock noticed several small, neat holes in the lower skin of the L4’s olive drab wing. He hoped there were matching holes in the wing’s unseen upper surface, made as the bullets passed cleanly through the fabric. That would leave the wing’s structural integrity intact. Otherwise, if the bullets damaged some ribs or the spar, the wing might buckle—and they’d plummet to their deaths.

  John Worth had noticed the bullet holes, too, but they didn’t worry him. He was pretty sure they’d gone right through an open bay and hadn’t done any serious damage.

  He was far more concerned about holes he couldn’t see.

  Once Jock’s transmission was done, Worth asked, “Is this going to change the invasion plans any, sir?”

  “Nope. It just gives the Air Force and Navy more stuff to hit.”

  Jock knew that was far from a done deal, though. “I’ve just got to figure out a way to make sure they actually get hit,” he added.

  Thirty minutes later, the L4 touched down gently at Twenty Mile Airfield. “See?” John Worth said as he switched off her engine, “I told you we’d make it.”

  He didn’t waste any time jumping out to check for additional damage, though.

  Jock extricated himself from the back seat and asked, “How bad is she?”

  “I think she’s okay, sir,” Worth replied as he gave the tail surfaces a thorough examination.

  Jock asked, “So, she can fly tomorrow?”

  “She could fly right now, if you wanted to.”

  “No, at first light tomorrow will be soon enough,” Jock said. “I’ve got a question, though…how much more weight can she carry?”

  Worth gave him a quizzical look. “Besides you, me, and all our stuff…not a lot. How much extra weight did you have in mind, sir?”

  “Maybe a hundred pounds?”

  Worth shook his head: “No way, sir.”

  “How about fifty?”

  The pilot thought that one over a moment before answering, “Maybe.”

  “Good enough.”

  Back at Division HQ, Jock had time for a quick supper before the briefing started. As the sun began its nightly descent behind the far peaks of the Owen Stanleys, every high-ranking officer in 32nd Division had assembled in the HQ tent.

  This would be a hell of a time for the Japanese bombers to make a reappearance, Jock thought, remembering what happened on Cape York when an errant but lucky American bombing raid managed to wipe out the officers of a Japanese regiment in one stroke. Their leaderless troops degenerated into an aimless rabble almost immediately. He had no reason to doubt American troops would react in the same manner if their officers were suddenly obliterated en masse.

  Another thought crossed his mind, too: We still have no idea where the Japanese HQ at Port Moresby is located. It’s got to be hidden in the town somewhere…that’s where their radio transmissions are coming from. The Air Force is dying to bomb the shit out of it.

  The division G3—a bird colonel Jock had served with years before in the States—began the briefing. He rehashed the division’s plans and contingencies in conjunction with the Australian landings, illustrating the proposed maneuvers on the giant situation map. This was all old news; eyes began to close and heads started to bob. Many of the officers present were as sleep-deprived as Jock; staying awake through the colonel’s droning presentation was proving a challenge.

  Jock would have loved to doze off, too, but he was the briefing’s next speaker. The G3’s final point, however, made sure Jock wouldn’t be sleeping now, or perhaps anytime soon.

  “As Major Miles will elaborate in a few moments,” the G3 said, “the Japanese seem to be moving troops into position to counter the Australian landings. That brings up some burning questions: how do the Japanese know the Aussies are coming now? And how do they know where they plan to land?”

  He let those questions sink in for a moment.

  “This is what we think has happened,” the G3 continued. “The convoy carrying the Aussies from Queensland was spotted the minute it set sail. There has been Japanese submarine activity in the Gulf of Carpentaria. In fact, two Aussie coastal freighters were torpedoed and sunk yesterday…”

  Jock didn’t hear another word. A terrified voice bleated in his head, drowning out everything else: Freighters…torpedoed…the Gulf of Carpentaria…Oh, no. Not Jillian’s ship. Please.

  Lost in his fears, he didn’t hear the G3 summon him to the briefing platform. He didn’t know how many times the colonel called his name but everyone in the HQ tent was staring at him like he was some kind of shell-shocked idiot. But duty was calling and, as usual, wouldn’t be denied.

  It can’t be her, he rationalized, chasing the dark thoughts from his mind. I was just with her a few days ago…and that bucket of a freighter was nowhere near ready to go anywhere.

  Speculation was the only defense mechanism he could muster against those fears. It would have to do for now.

  Jock climbed the platform and gave his detailed overview of Japanese dispositions. He noticed no one was napping anymore. In fact, they were giving him their undivided attention. There seemed a communal sense of relief when he said there was no evidence of living Japanese troops on Astrolabe’s backslope. That relief evaporated when he discussed the Japanese troops now positioned near the Aussie landing beaches. He took the opportunity to propose an answer to one of the G3’s questions:

  “If the Australians are going to influence the situation at Port Moresby, there are only two likely places for them to come ashore. They either land at Barakau, like we did, and join the slogging match in which we’re currently engaged, or they land here, at Boera, and envelop the Japanese. Come ashore any farther west and they’re stuck in the swamps. You don’t have to be a brilliant strategist to figure that one out. The Japanese have always had a small force in the hills behind Boera, on the lookout for a landing. It’s been reinforced in the last day or two.”

  The commander of 83rd Regiment stood to ask a question. “Major Miles, do you see any possibility the Japanese near Boera have been pulled from the troops facing us on the lowlands?”

  “No, Colonel,” Jock replied, “there’s no evidence of—”

  General Hartman mounted the platform as Jock was still speaking. Thinking this was his cue to exit, Jock started to climb down.

  “No, Major,” the general said. “Stay. I’m going to need to pick your brain a little, too. Finish what you were telling the colonel.”

  “All right, sir,” Jock continued. “As I was saying, there’s no evidence the Japanese near the Aussie beaches came from the lowlands front. The most likely place they came from is The Notch. I wouldn’t expect the forces facing you on the line are an
y weaker today than they were yesterday.”

  Jock immediately wished he had phrased that differently. He hadn’t meant to imply the division’s units on the lowlands were facing a weak opponent. But the comment slipped by without any offense taken. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  The tent fell silent as an aide slipped a piece of paper to General Hartman. He took his time reading it and then took a long look at the situation map. He seemed newly worried when he said, “We’re going to do our bit to squash whatever opposition the Aussies might face, of course. But their landing area…the whole area west of Port Moresby…is out of range of our artillery. And I’ve just been handed another piece of bad news…the warship escort for the Aussies will be extremely light, a few destroyers at most. The big capital ships have been ordered east, toward the Solomons. That means the bulk of the fire support available to the Aussie landing will have to come from the Air Force…and we know how spotty and inaccurate that support can be, especially against targets not clearly visible from high-flying, fast-moving aircraft.”

  The general turned to Jock and said, “Major Miles, I’m designating you air support coordinator. You’ve seen the terrain the Aussies must cross and the Japanese defenses in their way. Do you think we can keep the Air Force on target and get those Aussies ashore intact?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jock replied. “I believe I know a way.”

  Chapter Forty

  Day 14/Day 15

  In the dimly lit wardroom of a transport ship, General Thomas Blamey was bracing himself for another disaster. It wasn’t bad enough the Japanese had kicked him and his forces off Papua earlier this year. Now, on this night before his Australian Seventh Division would land on Papua, it looked more and more likely their attempt to retake it would be hurled back into the sea.

  “We’re not ready, General,” his troop commanders told him to a man. They were convinced: MacArthur’s rush to throw them into Port Moresby had resulted in hurried and haphazard loading of men and supplies. The commanders were still not completely sure where all their vital equipment was located. As a result, the schedule of when it would be unloaded and available to troops on shore was merely conjecture. Assuming, of course, the equipment had actually made it onboard some ship of the invasion fleet and wasn’t still sitting in Queensland. Blamey envisioned his troops floundering on the beach without Bren guns, artillery, and ammunition.

  Worse, the big-gunned cruisers of the US Navy would not be supporting his troops as they landed. The Imperial Japanese Navy was presenting a heightened threat farther east in the Coral Sea. If they prevailed, Allied operations in both the Solomons and Papua would be as good as finished. The entire southwest Pacific would be dominated by the Japanese indefinitely. To stave off that possibility, any Allied warship that could be spared was being committed to those waters. Such a move might not result in a decisive victory for the Allies, but anything less than a draw would be a disaster.

  That left Blamey’s invasion force with only two destroyers of WWI vintage—one American, one Australian, with a paltry handful of five-inch guns between them—for naval fire support.

  In other words, Blamey told himself, I have no naval fire support. Those bloody destroyers are only here for submarine defense…and they seem barely fit for that job, as well.

  It would be up to the planes of the US Fifth Air Force to provide fire support. Blamey found that small comfort:

  We have, at best, a small handful of radios which can even communicate directly with the Yank planes…assuming, of course, those radios are even on these bloody ships. And those planes use up most of their fuel just flying from Queensland and back. They won’t be loitering over the battle area very long.

  And when we land, our fire support coordination rests in the hands of the Yank Thirty-Second Division.

  God help us all.

  John Worth was too nervous to sleep. He wondered if Major Miles was having the same problem. It was only a short walk to the major’s tent. He decided to find out.

  When Worth got there, he was startled to see Jock sitting by a small but raging campfire. He seemed to be throwing small, rectangular pieces of Swiss cheese into the blaze one at a time. The fire roared more fiercely as each new piece joined the flames.

  Worth asked, “What’re you doing, sir?”

  “Oh, hello, Lieutenant. Got anything you need heated up?”

  Only then did Worth notice the coffee pot hanging above the fire. “No, sir, I ate already. But what is that stuff? It burns like a son of a bitch.”

  “It’s the propellant from these mortar rounds,” Jock replied. He pointed to four projectiles lined up on the ground a safe distance from the fire, each missing the propellant charges usually stuck to the fins at its base. “I don’t want it on the airplane with us. Much too flammable. This is the approved way to dispose of it.”

  John Worth stepped over to the projectiles. In the firelight, he could read the markings stenciled on each of their casings:

  WP SMOKE

  81M

  SHELL M57

  It only took a moment for him to realize what Jock was planning. Worth smiled and said, “WP…white phosphorous incendiaries. You infantry types call them Willie Petes, right? We’re going to use these as smoke rounds to mark targets, aren’t we? Drop them like bombs…”

  “You catch on quick, John.”

  “Why can’t we just use smoke grenades? They’re light…we can carry a lot of them.”

  “Because any idiot can pick up a smoke grenade and throw it someplace else. These things will start a fire no one can get near.”

  “I see your point, sir,” Worth said. “You know, they’ve been talking about arming spotter planes with rockets. They could mark targets, take out enemy installations…”

  “Have we got any of those rockets, John?”

  “No, sir. They never showed up.”

  “Then I guess we’re back to mortar bombs.”

  Worth hefted one of the rounds. “About ten pounds, right? Maybe a little more?”

  “Yep. A little less than twelve pounds each. Four of them will just make your fifty-pound limit.”

  “But how’s that going to work, sir? I thought they had to be fired from a mortar tube before they’d arm.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Jock replied. He lifted a steel baking tray from the ground by his feet. “That’s why I borrowed this from the mess hall.”

  “I’m not following, sir.”

  “You will, John. You will.”

  Mercifully, the night before the Aussies were to land was calm and quiet. It was a few minutes past 2300, and Jock had yet to hear even one distant burst of gunfire as nervous GIs on the line shot at phantoms in the dark. It should have been the perfect time for an exhausted soldier to get some sleep. But he was still wide awake. Thoughts of Jillian kept flooding his mind.

  She’s got to be okay, he told himself again and again. That tub of hers couldn’t possibly have been at sea to get itself torpedoed. Just two days ago, it was still sitting at Weipa, empty. Hell, she hadn’t even finished putting a crew together yet.

  But no amount of logic could turn off the wild speculation in his head. Maybe this is the worst time to be alone, he thought. If I could only talk to someone.

  And then it hit him. There was someone to talk to, someone who would surely understand.

  He got up from his cot and walked to Division HQ. The switchboard operator patched him through to OP Charlie Able. On Astrolabe, Sergeant Mike McMillen picked up the phone.

  “This is Miles,” Jock said into his phone. “Is that you, Sergeant McMillen.”

  “Yeah, it’s me, sir.”

  “Good to hear your voice, Mike. Everything quiet up there?’

  “Quiet as a tomb, sir. Hope it lasts.”

  “Yeah, I hope so, too. Can you put me on with Top?”

  “Hang on a minute…I’ll get him.”

  It took a few minutes, but Melvin Patchett was finally on the line. “You’d better not have some al
l-fired circle-jerk of a mission for us,” he said, sounding more crotchety than he had in a long time. Then Jock could almost feel the smile coming through the phone line as Patchett added, “Just fooling, sir. How you been?”

  “My ass is dragging, to be honest,” Jock replied. “I’m so tired my brain’s turning to mush.”

  “Well, join the fucking club, sir. This ain’t exactly been a vacation for any of us.”

  “I know, Top, I know… Look, I didn’t mean to—”

  “No offense taken, sir. But something’s on your mind, ain’t it?”

  Jock laid out his fears for Jillian. When he was finished speaking, all he could hear was Patchett chuckling softly at the other end of the wire.

  “Jock Miles, I’m surprised at you,” Patchett said, sounding like a coach launching into a pep talk. “You and me both know that woman don’t need nobody looking after her, least of all some damn soldier boy who’s too far away to do her a bit of good. Now, I’m gonna tell you the same thing she’d be saying: you’d best get your head out of your ass, laddie, and get on with doing your bloody job. A lot of swinging dicks are depending on you. Mine included. And one more thing—”

  “Let me guess,” Jock said. “If the Army wanted you to have a woman”—they finished the sentence together—“it would have issued you one.”

  “Thanks, Top. I think that was the sleeping pill I needed.”

  “You’re welcome, sir…oh, and before you ring off, I gotta tell you one thing. We are talking private, right?”

  Jock glanced at the switchboard to make sure the operator wasn’t listening to their conversation.

  “Yeah, Top. Just you and me.”

  “That idiot who replaced you at Regiment…what’s his name?”

  “Pryor,” Jock replied. “Major Pryor.”

  “Yeah, him. When we told him Bogater and them had an OP back at The Notch again, he says, ‘No…pull them back.’ He wants us to consolidate our company’s manpower.”