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

by William Peter Grasso

  The 83rd Regiment—between the 82nd and the sea—wasn’t finding the going quite so easy. They thought they had identified a corridor along the shore where the Japanese offered no resistance, but this was, in fact, a trap. One of the regiment’s three battalions was stalled there, pinned down by murderous heavy machine gun fire. Worse, they weren’t sure exactly where the machine gun nests cutting them to ribbons were located. An artillery observer on the ground was blindly adjusting the cannon fire by sound. The impacts of his adjustment rounds weren’t even showering dirt on the Japanese gunners, let alone steel.

  On board the L4, Jock broke into the radio traffic, telling the artillery observer, “This is Slowbird Three-Two. I have your target and your battery in sight. Switch to gun-target line adjust…Left four-zero, add two hundred.”

  The next adjustment round got the Japanese more than dirty. “That’s better,” Jock reported. “Drop five-zero, fire for effect.”

  The volley was on target in less than 30 seconds. It silenced the machine guns.

  The 83rd Regiment streamed through the now-open corridor and enveloped the Japanese positions along their segment of the line in short order. Within two hours, they, too, had vanquished the Japanese left behind to halt their advance. The regiment’s commander marveled at how few of the enemy there had been to kill while agonizing over the staggering toll this small number had taken of his own men. Heeding the division commander’s directive to be cautious, the 83rd licked its wounds, took its place on the left flank of the 82nd, and joined the snail-paced advance toward the airfield.

  On the right flank of the 82nd, a far more pessimistic picture had emerged. There, the 81st Regiment—smaller than the other two regiments by the loss of nearly a battalion at sea—sat wedged between its sister regiment and Astrolabe. Sat was a very descriptive word, as the regiment had not moved an inch since daybreak. In his communications with Division HQ, Lieutenant Colonel Hailey, the commander of the 81st, had offered nothing but a litany of excuses for his unit’s lack of forward progress.

  “To hear Hailey talk,” Jock said as the L4 turned toward the stalled regiment, “he’s up against the bulk of the Imperial Japanese Army. Again.”

  Jock looked to the ground below; all along the lowlands, streams of Japanese soldiers—looking so much like lines of ants—were heading west, away from the Americans. If anything, Hailey and his regiment—the one in which Jock had served until two days ago—was facing greatly diminished opposition.

  Worth asked, “That used to be your regiment, right, sir?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what’s wrong with it?”

  Jock knew exactly how he wanted to answer that question: What’s wrong with it? Simple—a poor commander.

  Instead, he replied, “That isn’t my call to make, John.”

  As they got closer to the battle line of the 81st, Jock said, “Let’s get low, John…real low. Come up on the Japs from behind, and let’s get a good look at them.”

  “You going to get our artillery to stop shooting first, sir?”

  Jock laughed. “What artillery? It’s dead quiet down there, like everyone’s got his head in the ground…or up his ass.”

  Jock could tell he had not calmed his pilot. “You’re right, John…I should make it formal.” He was sure he could see the tension flow from Worth’s shoulders as he broadcast the cease-fire order.

  As the L4 descended in a tight turn, Jock could see more of the ant-like columns of Japanese troops, heading away from the 81st Regiment. A few hurriedly raised rifles toward the plane; neither Jock nor Worth felt anything hit their ship.

  “Dammit!” Jock said. “Looks like there’s no more than a company of Japs facing the whole regiment. Head toward the coast again, John…I’m betting there’s a gap a mile wide on their left flank, where the 82nd used to be.”

  For over a minute, they flew low along the battle line, the Americans to their left, the Japanese to their right.

  “You’d think the Japs down there would be shooting at us,” Worth said, sounding surprisingly unconcerned.

  “You’d think.”

  In the blink of an eye, there was a single, metallic THUNK—like a manhole cover being dropped into place—as the left side window shattered. Simultaneously, the guts of the radio hanging from the cabin ceiling exploded from its case in a shower of sparks, metal fragments, and glass.

  “SON OF A BITCH,” John Worth said as he banked her hard right to escape. “THAT HAD TO COME FROM OUR SIDE OF THE FUCKING LINE!”

  Jock knew his pilot was right; a shot with that trajectory could have only come from the American lines. He found it ironic—and smart—that his pilot had sought safety by steering their plane over enemy territory. He did a quick check of his body and found he wasn’t wounded. But what about his pilot?

  “YOU OKAY, JOHN?”

  “Yeah…got something sticking out of my arm, though…a piece of metal or something. Take the controls a minute, will you? I’ve gotta pull it out…it’s hot....and it stings like a bastard. Wait…let me get her straight and level for you.”

  Worth leveled the L4’s wings and set up a gentle climb. “Okay, sir…your airplane.”

  Jock wrapped his hand around the stick as if expecting an electric shock. He slapped his feet clumsily onto the rudder pedals; Worth could feel the pressure of Jock’s feet in his own pedals.

  “Don’t worry about the rudder, sir,” Worth said as he tore open his sleeve for better access to the wound. “Just keep the wings level and the nose a little bit up.”

  That’s easy for you to say, Jock thought. Bouncing on the air currents flowing around Astrolabe, she seemed to have a mind of her own. Suddenly, her left wing dropped and her nose dipped—or at least that’s what the seat of his pants was telling him. No sooner did he ease the stick right, leveling the wings, her right wing suddenly dropped and the descent steepened.

  “Better pull back a little, sir,” Worth said, preoccupied with getting the packet of sulfa powder into his wound. “We’re a little low to be trying aerobatics.”

  Jock pulled back on the stick and the L4 shot upward, as if wanting to stand on her tail. He glanced through the shattered left window and cringed: the horizon was at a crazy tilt, and the plane didn’t seem to be moving at all.

  “Better goose up the power, sir,” Worth said, “and be a little gentler with the stick. This girl doesn’t like the rough stuff. Gotta coax her.”

  As far as Jock was concerned, the sooner this flying lesson ended, the better. “You going to be much longer, John?” he asked, wishing he didn’t sound as flustered as he felt.

  “Almost there, sir. Tying this bandage on with only one hand is really tough. I’m going to have to use my teeth to hold the other end. Don’t worry…you’re doing okay.”

  Doing okay was a lot different than doing great, though, and the inflection of Worth’s comment confirmed it. Sure, Jock was doing okay in the sense he hadn’t crashed the airplane yet, but he definitely didn’t have the feel of her controls. If you got points for simulating a gut-wrenching thrill ride, he’d have a very high score.

  He didn’t dare think about turning her in a different direction; flying straight and level was proving enough of a challenge. Worse, every minute of flight brought them a mile deeper into Japanese territory, just hanging in the sky, a slow-moving target well in range of anything bigger than a pistol. They were a gunner’s dream: even a green GI could—and had—hit them.

  Finally satisfied with the bandage, Worth said, “There…all done. I’ll take her back now, sir.” He gripped the control stick and felt the pressure of Jock’s hands on it disappear. “We aren’t much good to anyone without the radio. Should we head for home? See if we can get her fixed up?”

  “Might as well.”

  Worth began a broad turn toward the sea. Halfway around, Jock saw them: “Hey, look, John! Those trucks…two of them. I think they’re radio vans.”

  “The same ones from inside the town?”

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nbsp; “Who knows? But I’ve got an idea. Swing around and get low. Come up right behind them.”

  John Worth heard the unmistakable sound of a mortar round being armed as it slammed against the baking tray between Jock’s feet. And then he heard it again. More than a little surprised, he asked, “We’re going to try and bomb them, sir?”

  “Yep. Ever see what white phosphorous does to a vehicle, John?”

  Worth hadn’t. Maybe he was about to find out.

  “Just go right over the top of them from back to front,” Jock said. “I’ll try to drop these babies so they’ll drive right into them.”

  “They’re kicking up a load of dust, sir. I’m going to have to stay off to the side until the very last second. Don’t like being blind so near the ground.”

  “No problem. Just get me close.”

  The truck drivers never saw them coming. Worth did just as Jock asked, slipping the L4 sideways at the last moment while she pulled ahead of the trailing truck. Jock dropped the round onto the road only feet in front of the vehicle, engulfing it in the burst of white smoke and orange flame.

  With another deft side slip, the pilot put the lead truck into Jock’s imaginary bombsight. It, too, erupted in another burst of smoke and flame.

  Worth circled the L4 to assess the damage. Their makeshift bomb run appeared to be an unqualified success. The two radio vans had shuddered to abrupt stops. They were nothing now but flaming hulks blocking the narrow dirt road.

  Watching the blaze, John Worth began to feel terribly mortal. He asked, “You think the drivers got out, sir?”

  “No idea,” Jock replied, “but I think it’s time we get the hell out of here.”

  “Couldn’t agree more, sir.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Day 16

  The repair of her shattered side window would have to wait, but John Worth’s L4 had a new radio installed by mid-afternoon. Returning from the operations tent, Jock was surprised to find her ready to go. He asked Worth, “Where the hell did they get the radio from this time?”

  “Took it out of one of the P-39s, sir. We figure there’s only enough gas to keep four of them in the air…so that gives us a few supply rooms with wings attached.”

  “How about fuel for us? Do we have a full tank?”

  “Topped off to the brim, sir. How’d the chat with Division go?”

  “They’re real worried about the 81st, John. Just like we saw from the bird, they can’t seem to get started. So, you and me are going to give them all the help we can, while still being a set of eyes for everyone else, too.”

  Worth shrugged as he said, “Sounds like we’re blessed with work, sir.”

  “That’s a good way to put it,” Jock replied, hoisting a mortar round into the L4’s cabin. “Let’s get going while we’ve still got daylight.”

  Through a series of coded radio messages between General Blamey’s headquarters, the American headquarters, and MacArthur’s staff in Queensland, a consensus had finally been reached: the Japanese were trying to pull back and consolidate at their dormant airfield, some seven miles inland from Port Moresby town. The airfield sat in the middle of a broad, dry plain quite unlike the typical Papuan topography of steep mountains, rainforests, and malarial swamps. Command wisdom dictated the enemy would be most likely to make a stand there. If the Allies could interdict the numerically inferior Japanese while still en route, in the open, and with units unable to effectively support each other, the enemy could be destroyed without much trouble.

  “Such an obvious conclusion,” General Blamey said to his staff, “yet it took almost the whole bloody day for MacArthur’s lackeys to reach it.”

  At least Blamey finally knew where to lead his Australians next: they were assigned to form the western arc of the pincers enveloping the Japanese. The Americans would comprise the eastern arc. Two of Blamey’s regiments were already closing in on the road between Port Moresby and the airfield; the third would race from Port Moresby and close the back door on the retreating Japanese.

  This should be a piece of cake, Blamey told himself, provided the Yanks don’t get it all cocked up again.

  The US 83rd Regiment—moving up the coast—met little resistance, and despite the cautious pace Division HQ had mandated, linked with the Aussies coming out of Port Moresby by 1700 hours. Together, they pushed slowly toward the airfield.

  A nervous GI of the regiment asked his lieutenant, “Are we gonna stop for the night soon or just keep walking in the dark and let the Japs jump our asses?”

  The lieutenant had been thinking the same thing, but the orders he had received were as follows: push forward until you meet serious enemy resistance. He had started to ask his captain for a clarification of the term serious but changed his mind. As far as the lieutenant was concerned, the order was ridiculous. In his mind, any resistance was serious resistance.

  The US 82nd Regiment—farther inland on the right flank of the 83rd—encountered scattered enemy resistance as they pushed west. The Japanese, though, seemed more interested in breaking contact and slipping away than engaging in any drawn-out battle. Something didn’t feel right to the Americans: there should be the bulk of a Japanese division—perhaps 10,000 men or more—caught between them and the Australians. Yet, the men of the 82nd found themselves skirmishing with forces which seemed no bigger than squads and platoons. But every exchange of gunfire, however brief , brought the GIs to a screeching halt. Once the enemy disappeared, it took sequential ass-kicking down the chain of command—colonels kicking captains, captains kicking lieutenants, lieutenants kicking sergeants, sergeants kicking privates—before the American units would start moving again. The process resulted in an advance which could best be described as sluggish.

  Another problem loomed large for the 82nd, and its commander summed it up this way: “Goddamn Hailey and his Eighty-First can’t get off their asses. I’ll bet they haven’t moved a fucking inch. They’re so far behind us now, our right flank is wide open.”

  On Division’s tactical map, the 81st remained an isolated goose egg nestled against the base of Astrolabe, no longer part of any concerted American effort forward.

  “What the hell’s wrong with them, sir?” John Worth asked Jock as he orbited the L4 over the supposed battle line of the 81st. “I can’t even see any Japs in front of them. Can you?”

  Jock had been straining his eyes trying to answer that question, too. His conclusion: “Nothing that should be holding up a whole regiment, John. That’s for damned sure.”

  He was beginning to believe the 81st was beyond help. A handful of Japanese seemed to be stalling over a thousand GIs in their tracks. In broad daylight, yet.

  It’s not the GIs’ fault, Jock told himself. There aren’t any bad troops…just bad leaders.

  “Head toward the old Jap airfield,” he called to Worth. “Maybe somebody up that way actually wants our help. We sure as hell aren’t doing much good here…and pretty soon, it’ll be dark.”

  “You don’t want to fly right over that airfield at this altitude, do you, sir? We’re way too high. Last time I did that, the ack-ack opened up on me. You know what that stuff will do to a bag of sticks like this?”

  “Good point, John. Give the airfield a wide berth.”

  From a thousand feet in the air, they had a great vantage point to view the action below. It looked like a game of toy soldiers played in a sand box. Large numbers of Japanese troops—some in vehicles, most on foot—were moving swiftly along the road linking the town of Port Moresby and the airfield. The clouds of dust they kicked up glowed golden in the light of the setting sun.

  The Australians, easily identified by the Bren Gun carriers in their lead elements, were racing from the south and west to cut off the Japanese before they reached the airfield. The US 82nd and 83rd Regiments, still several miles from the enemy columns, were closing in from the east to do the same.

  From high above, the error in the Allied plan struck Jock like a slap in the face:

 
The Japs aren’t going to their damned airfield. Their lead elements are already past it. They’re going to the mountains…straight through The Notch.

  The blunder unfolding below was so obvious even John Worth, though busy flying the airplane, couldn’t help but see it, too. “There’s nobody blocking them from the north,” he said. “We’re going to squirt those Japs right through the Notch, just like squeezing a ripe pimple.”

  The north side of the trap was where the 81st Regiment should be, but wasn’t. With nightfall approaching—and the failure to execute the regiment had shown so far—Jock knew one thing for sure: There’s no chance that gap’s going to get plugged anytime soon.

  Worth said, “I think our guys are a day late and a dollar short again, sir.”

  Jock said nothing in reply. He was too busy trying to code the message to the commanders on the ground. Consumed by urgency, he gave up. There was simply no time to bother with coding and decoding. It might already be too late: unless the Allied commanders acted immediately, the bulk of the Japanese forces would escape to fight another day. He sent the message in the clear.

  “You think we’re going to catch hell for not coding that, sir?” Worth asked.

  “Maybe…but if that message makes any difference—if one of the other units can swing around and cut off that escape path—it’ll be worth it. Better fly west, John…I’m calling in artillery. We’ll be right in the way.”

  As he turned the L4, John Worth found himself staring into the last rays of the setting sun. “Too bad it’s so late,” he said. “Otherwise, some of the Fifth Air Force boys might’ve been hanging around. They could’ve had themselves a field day…all those Japs in the open.”