“You’re kidding, right? He wants you to give up one of the biggest advantages we’ve got? What did Lieutenant Grossman say about that, Top?”
“He thanked him for the advice.”
That brought a grin to Jock’s face. “So, you didn’t do it?”
“Hell, no, sir. You know me better than that. Me and the lieutenant are still shaking our heads over that one. Where does Uncle Sam get these morons? He ain’t one of you West Point ring knockers, is he?”
Jock hated to admit it: Pryor did wear the ring.
Three hours of sleep felt like a gift from heaven, but all good things come to an end. An hour before dawn, Jock Miles and John Worth were wide awake at Twenty Mile Airfield, readying the L4—still the field’s only airworthy machine—for the day’s mission.
“Here are the radio frequencies and call signs,” Jock said, handing a sheet of paper to Worth. He read it in his flashlight’s glow and then began to write the data on his plane’s side windows in grease pencil.
“So, we’re Slowbird Three-Two,” Worth said, not sounding very amused. “How appropriate. I see they gave the flashier call signs to the planes with the guns and bombs.”
“Yeah,” Jock agreed, “Whiplash and Spitball do have a certain charm, don’t they?”
“It would be charming as all hell, sir, if they actually drop the stuff where we tell them to.”
Worth watched as Jock placed the steel baking tray on the cabin floor between his feet and said, “Hand me one of those mortar rounds, John.”
The round in hand, Jock explained, “This is how it’s going to work. When I’m ready to drop, I’ll pull this safety pin from the fuze”—he mimed doing so—“and then slam the base straight down on the tray.” He thrust the round down but stopped short of contact. “We needed something solid to strike it against. Otherwise, I’d probably drive it right through this flimsy floorboard.”
Worth nodded; it probably would go right through the floorboard—and into the control cables below.
“By doing that,” Jock continued, “and doing it hard, we trip the setback safety in the fuze, just like if it got fired out of a mortar tube. Now, the round is armed. As soon as the fuze hits something”—he tapped the point at the top of the round—“it goes off.”
Worth was still worried about something, though. “I know you got rid of the propellant charge in that little bonfire last night, sir, but what about the primer? Isn’t that still in the base of the round?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Any chance of that going off when you smack the round down…and shooting sparks all around the cabin?”
“If I don’t hit it squarely on the tray—like catch a corner or something—there’s a small chance I might set the primer off. But have you ever used a spark lighter for a welding torch?”
“Sure,” Worth replied. “We welded stuff back on the farm all the time.”
“Well, the sparks will look just like that. They don’t go far and they burn out real quick. So don’t worry, John…we won’t blow up your airplane.”
John Worth smiled; the possibilities of this scheme had begun to outweigh his doubts. “Sounds like a plan, sir. Let’s do it.”
Chapter Forty-One
Day 15
They took off as soon as there was enough light to see the dirt runway’s far end. Even from the air, they couldn’t see the ships bringing the Aussies yet; it would take a few more minutes for dawn’s light to creep far enough west and illuminate them. Until then, the gray ships were camouflaged by the equally gray sea and sky. The radio traffic left no doubt, though: the ships were there, a few miles offshore, getting ready to launch their landing craft.
Their flight path would take the L4 across Astrolabe’s backslope. “That’s the safest way, I think,” Jock said. “We’d be an easy target flying in off the water. As long as we stay low, the Japs won’t get much of a look at us until we’re right on top of them.”
John Worth couldn’t agree more.
It took 35 minutes of flying to get around Astrolabe, through The Notch, and enter the airspace behind the Japanese lines. “That’s about a quarter of our fuel load gone already,” Worth said. He had meant it merely as an observation, but the words came out like a dire warning. Jock checked his watch and dismissed any concern, telling himself, We’ve still got plenty of time…and gas. The flight leg from The Notch to the target area—the hills overlooking the Aussie landing beaches at Boera—would take another 15 minutes. Now clear of Astrolabe, Worth brought the L4 down to 200 feet, tucking the little plane into the long shadow the mountain cast in the low sunlight of early morning.
They couldn’t see them yet, but the fighters and bombers of the Fifth Air Force were all over the radio. Jock made contact with Whiplash Zero Six, the leader of the bomber force, while the L4 was still five minutes from its objective. Whiplash Zero Six reported the bombers were still 10 minutes out from the box: the designated target area.
“That’s perfect,” Jock called to Worth in the front seat. “Everybody’s right on schedule,” he added as he picked up the first of the four white phosphorous rounds. He started to pull the safety pin from its fuze but stopped himself: Calm down, Miles…Plenty of time yet. Don’t get ahead of yourself.
The morning sun had risen higher; the ground below was no longer wrapped in shadow. Neither were the startled faces of Japanese soldiers, looking up through the trees as the L4 appeared and then quickly disappeared right above their heads, the sound of its engine just a dull murmur, lost in the noise of scurrying vehicles.
They were close to the box now, no more than half a mile away. “Turn right and fly parallel to their gun line,” Jock said. “Let’s make sure the batteries are still in the same places.”
Worth asked, “Two passes, then? One to take a look, the other to mark with smoke?”
“Affirmative.”
That’s just swell, John Worth thought. Give them two chances to knock us down.
The first pass revealed no surprises: the Japanese batteries were still in place, set back behind the cover of the hills. They’d be safe there from everything but heavy naval gunfire and airplanes. And we know the Aussies didn’t bring any heavy naval gunfire, Jock reminded himself.
The radio came alive with the voice of Spitball One Two, the leader of the fighter squadron escorting the bombers: “Whiplash, Whiplash, be advised. Bogies in the box. Repeat, bogies in the box.”
“Oh, shit,” John Worth yelled over his shoulder to Jock. “The Jap fighters are coming out to play, too.”
Jock looked up through the plexiglass glazing of the cabin ceiling. He saw single-engined planes—in several groups of three and four—high above them. He knew from their silhouettes they weren’t Allied aircraft. The planes began to roll on their backs and dive straight down. They looked like they were coming straight for the L4.
“They’re not after us,” Worth said, casting a quick, wary glance upward. “They can’t even see us…not an olive drab plane like this, flying right over green trees. Not from that distance.”
Jock wished Worth had said that with a little more confidence. But the pilot was right: the Japanese planes flashed overhead and out to sea, straight for the invasion fleet.
The voice of the bomber leader sounded surprisingly unconcerned. “Spitball, this is Whiplash Zero Six. Roger. Keep them off our ass. We’re busy.” Then he turned his attention to the spotter plane. “Slowbird Three-Two, this is Whiplash Zero Six. You got targets for me? I’m four minutes out.”
“Affirmative, Whiplash,” Jock replied, “Use Box Able. Target line in box identified by white smoke.”
Worth banked sharply, reversing direction and setting up the L4 for her second pass—and dropping the smoke rounds. “Showtime, sir,” he called over his shoulder.
Jock pulled the pin on the first round, took a deep breath, and slammed its base against the metal tray. It made a loud CLANK—and nothing else.
Over the noise of the engine, he couldn’t h
ear John Worth’s great sigh of relief but he was sure he felt it.
“You never did that before, did you, sir?” Worth asked.
“Nope. First time.” Then Jock fibbed a little: “But I knew we wouldn’t blow up.”
It seemed almost anticlimactic when Jock dropped the round onto the first battery. He kept his head out the window to look behind and see what happened.
He wasn’t disappointed. The mortar round exploded and spewed a dense plume of white smoke skyward. Transfixed, he almost forgot to get his head back inside and prep the second round. He rushed through the process and dropped it on Worth’s command.
It, too, exploded in a white plume halfway down the target line.
“Last battery coming up,” Worth called and began the countdown to drop: “On my mark…three, two, one, DROP.”
Worth banked the L4 sharply away from the hills, giving them the first look at their handiwork: a mile-long straight line defined by three towering smoke columns marked the target line for the fast-approaching bombers. The L4 had cleared the target area just in time: within seconds, a flight of six B-25s streaked in at low level, dispensing their load of high-explosive bombs along the target line.
“YEAH,” Worth yelled, exuberantly pounding a fist against his thigh. “DEAD ON THE MONEY!”
The only emotion Jock felt was gratitude: his plan had worked. It was as simple as that. He found nothing to celebrate in this business of war. Kill or be killed, the slogan beaten into every recruit from the first day he was handed a rifle, echoed once more in his head without a hint of emotion.
His voice dry and businesslike, Jock said, “Don’t get carried away, John. Keep your eye on the ball.”
Then he keyed the mic and said, with an equal lack of passion, “Bingo, Whiplash. Right on target. Good job.”
“Roger, Slowbird,” the bomber leader replied, as he took his planes out over the sea, back to Australia. “Second flight is five minutes behind us. We’re done here.”
Five minutes. That didn’t give them much time to mark the Japanese bunkers on the seaward side of the hills…and they had only one smoke round left to do it.
“You want to stick to the plan, sir?” Worth asked.
“Affirmative.”
On paper, the plan was simple. Flying across the front of the hills would be suicidal; they’d done it on their first flight together and came away lucky: the Japanese had been caught by surprise. But that was six days ago. There would be no surprise this time. Not with all those Aussies headed toward the beach.
Jock and his pilot had devised in advance another way to get a smoke round on the target, one that would hopefully give them the least exposure to enemy fire.
Worth guided the L4 farther inland, her throttle wide open and gulping fuel while climbing to 500 feet. Reaching that altitude, he banked her hard, reversing direction. Now flying straight at the backslope of the most prominent hill—the one centered on the Aussie landing beaches—she dove back to the treetops, gathering all the speed she could.
“Ready for a roller coaster ride, sir?” Worth asked.
“Let’s do it,” Jock said, checking his watch. They had less than three minutes before the second flight of bombers were in their box.
Whiplash Two-Six—the second flight’s leader—came up on the frequency.
Whiplash, this is Slowbird,” Jock replied. “Box Able destroyed. Confirming your target is Box Baker.”
“Affirmative, Slowbird. You got a good marker for us? Looks like a whole lotta smoke up your way. Positive target acquisition might be tough.”
He called to Worth, “How long to drop, John?”
“About six-zero seconds.”
“Whiplash,” Jock said, “new white smoke at Box Baker in six-zero seconds. Repeat, new white smoke at Box Baker in six-zero seconds.”
The new smoke shouldn’t be too hard to pick out, Jock thought. With so much burning from the first bomber strike, all the smoke from Box Able was a broad palette of gray and black. The new smoke would be bright white—and on the opposite face of a thousand-foot-tall hill.
But just like any other warrior, a pilot could make mistakes under pressure. If the leader struck the wrong target, his whole flight would, too.
The roller coaster ride began. At the base of the hill, amidst that gray and black smoke of the first strike, John Worth pulled the stick back into his lap. The L4 began a steep climb, hugging the hill’s backslope as she reached for the peak. She’d be trading airspeed for altitude—rapidly. If she ran out of flying speed before cresting the hill, it would all be for nothing.
Jock’s gut, already wrenched out of place by the vertical acceleration, was telling him they’d never make it. She seemed to have lost too much speed already—and they were only halfway up the hill.
“One little change of plans, sir,” Worth called out, his voice surprisingly calm despite having to shout over the roar of her straining engine.
“What do you mean?”
“At the top…I’m going to have to turn left instead of right.”
Surprised, Jock replied, “You really think we’re going to make it to the top?”
“Yeah…but a chandelle to the right ain’t gonna work. I’ll need to use the prop torque and snap left. Sorry…”
Snapping around to the left would make it much harder for Jock to get the smoke round out of the airplane and on target. The open cabin door—really just a hatch that folded down—was on the right side, forward of Jock’s back seat. He’d planned to drop the smoke round as the plane reversed direction in the graceful chandelle and started down. Turning right, it would be easy: the door opening would be pointed toward the ground. It was just a matter of letting the round fall from the plane during the turn. But you needed some airspeed to pull off a chandelle, and the pilot sensed there wouldn’t be enough.
Turning left at top of climb made the drop much more difficult. The door opening would be facing the sky. Jock would have to wait until the exact moment the turn was finished and the plane went into a dive. Only then would he have his chance to wrestle the gravitational and centrifugal forces, shove the round out, and actually have a chance to hit the target. If he waited a second too long, the round would impact on the backslope. The target—the Japanese dug in on the front slope’s military crest, just below the peak—would escape unmarked and unscathed.
With only one smoke round left—and no time for another pass—this drop had to be perfect.
“Slowbird, this is Whiplash. We’re getting pretty close. I don’t see the white smoke.”
Jock replied, “Standby, Whiplash…smoke on the way.”
Or at least he hoped it would be.
The L4 was almost to the peak. She seemed to be hardly moving. Jock snuck a peek around Worth’s shoulder at the airspeed indicator. It read 45 miles per hour. He didn’t believe it. They couldn’t be going even that fast.
Suddenly, they were above the peak, watching it drop away through their side windows. Out the windshield was nothing but sky.
Jock could swear the plane had stopped in midair. Worth’s hands seemed steady on the controls, though, gently nudging her over the hill’s front face.
“Prep the round, sir,” Worth said, his voice like an alarm clock jarring Jock into action.
There was a final CLANK of a round’s base striking the metal tray and then Worth’s voice: “Okay…gonna turn…left…NOW!”
The control stick and rudder pedals jammed violently left—and the uphill run of the roller coaster was over. The L4 swapped ends as if on a turntable, banging Jock’s head against the side window. At the same time, his gut felt like it shot up to his neck as she began to plummet like a rock. The downhill roller coaster run had begun.
“DROP IT, SIR. DROP IT NOW!”
At first, the round didn’t want to move. Then, as Jock managed to get it to the door, it didn’t want to leave his hands.
There was no time to ponder the physics at work. All he knew was he had to get that round ou
t the door.
Somehow, he did.
They couldn’t see the round impact. The L4 plunged behind the peak and was hugging the backslope once again, but this time she was going downhill and gaining speed. A lot of speed.
Whiplash Two-Six radioed some potentially good news: “Roger, roger,” the bomber leader said. “We’ve got the white smoke. We’re going in.”
Great, Jock thought. Let’s hope I put it in the right place.
The L4 was down to the base of the hill, pulling out of the dive, when Whiplash reported, “Bombs away.”
Worth banked sharply left, giving them a view of the hill’s backslope. The bombs of Whiplash Two-Six and company hadn’t landed there.
“They must’ve hit the front face,” Worth said.
“Let’s hope so,” Jock replied.
Still skimming the treetops, Worth turned the plane inland in a wide circle.
“You think anybody’s been shooting at us, sir?” Worth asked. “I haven’t felt a damned thing hit us.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
Worth took a look through the windshield at the fuel tank’s float gauge. “Holy shit,” he said, “we’ve been burning gas like crazy. All that full throttle stuff’s killing us. You have anything else you need to see real quick?”
“We need to loiter, John. Maybe pick out targets of opportunity.”
“For who, sir? The Air Force is high-tailing it back to Australia. Lord knows when they’ll be back. And the Navy doesn’t have any big guns out there.”
“We need to hang around, John. We’re the only eyes the Aussies have.”
“I wish we had the gas to do that, sir.”
Jock knew there was no point arguing. If they were forced down by an empty fuel tank, they were no use to anyone—and they were out of smoke rounds, anyway. Calling in targets for the Air Force without smoke markers—if they were even around to respond—would be a chancy proposition. Pilots of high-performance tactical aircraft weren’t terribly good at hitting pinpoint targets identified only by map coordinates.
Operation Long Jump (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 2) Page 27
