“This is how we will proceed,” MacArthur continued. “The US Thirty-Second Division will be responsible for securing the Port Moresby area. All airfields and harbor facilities will fall under its control.”
Blamey’s face soured as quickly as it had brightened. He braced for the blow.
MacArthur shifted his gaze to the Owen Stanleys in the distance. “Blamey’s Australians,” he said, “due to their great familiarity and experience in Papua, will pursue and destroy the Japanese as they attempt to withdraw along the Kokoda Track.”
Blamey’s ruddy face reddened a few shades deeper, but he offered no response in word or gesture. Hartman appeared visibly relieved.
From Jock’s vantage point at the rear of the crowd, he watched as scores of Australian soldiers began to flick the “V” sign: two fingers extended, knuckles down; the equivalent of the American raised middle finger. They kept the gestures low—below waist level—so neither MacArthur nor members of his staff could see them. But they were obviously not making gestures of thanks to the supreme commander.
One Australian officer near Jock was far more demonstrative: he flung his slouch hat to the ground and began to stomp on it. “The bloody son of a bitch just fucked us diggers right up the arse,” the officer said.
The snarl of MacArthur’s aerial entourage faded and died as it winged its way back to Australia. Along Astrolabe’s peak, Sergeant Tom Hadley could hear something else now: slow, shuffling footsteps of approaching men. With a brisk hand signal, Hadley halted his patrol. Silently, they dropped to prone firing positions.
A few seconds later, those men making the footsteps came into view. They weren’t enemy at all. Struggling down the trail was a battered and limping Bogater Boudreau, who, despite his wounds, still managed to act as a crutch for Teddy Mukasic, who looked in even worse shape.
“Thought you guys were never coming,” Bogater mumbled as his legs suddenly buckled. Two of Hadley’s men raced in to catch his fall. They eased both wounded GIs to the ground.
Hadley asked, “What the hell happened to you guys? And where’s Fanning?”
“Dead and buried,” Bogater replied, his voice a parched croak. “We got hit by artillery, I’m pretty sure. Might have been ours.”
“All right, take it easy,” Hadley said. “Here, drink this.” He offered his canteen to Bogater. One of his men did the same for Mukasic.
As his men rigged two stretchers from M1s and GI shirts, Hadley said, “It’d be a shame to leave you guys behind. We’re finally getting off this damned mountain.”
A weak smile came over Boudreau’s face. “You mean we’re finally gonna get us some real chow again, Sarge?”
Within minutes of MacArthur’s departure, Seven Mile Airfield turned into a beehive of activity. The P-39s arrived from Twenty Mile thirsty for fuel. A flight of A-20 attack bombers arrived from Queensland and joined the line for the gas truck.
John Worth huddled with the A-20 pilots. Their flight leader was an apprehensive captain. “Our guys who went in this morning,” the captain said, “they couldn’t even tell where the damned Kokoda Track was. They have no idea what they bombed.”
“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll steer you right to the Japs,” Worth replied. “Even mark them with white smoke for you.”
Jock was waiting at the L4, ready to fly, when his pilot returned. “It’ll be a while before the A-20s all get fueled up,” Worth said. “How about we get airborne and take us a little sightseeing trip first?”
“You mean around the harbor, John?”
“That’s exactly what I mean, sir.”
In the air again, they couldn’t help but reminisce about what happened the last time they flew over Fairfax Harbor. The brush with the stubborn Zero had been nerve wracking but ultimately not much of a contest: “Fighters just can’t fly slow real good,” Worth said as they skimmed around docked and anchored ships, low enough to read the names on their bows and sterns.
They counted eight freighters in the harbor. Esme was not among them.
Worth pulled the L4 into a gentle climb. Once they were higher than the hills surrounding the harbor, they could see several freighters at anchor, dotting the water out to the barrier reef, awaiting their turn to unload. A few miles down the coast, several more had dropped anchor in the shelter of Bootless Bay.
“Let’s check the offshore ones first,” Worth said.
“Sure,” Jock replied as the knot in his stomach tightened.
Half down…half to go, and still no sight of her. I wish to hell I could remember what that damned ship looked like. They all seem the same to me.
Esme wasn’t among the ships anchored off the reef. There were no words to say as John Worth turned the L4 toward Bootless Bay. No matter how hard a man tried, there was no way to make this is our last chance sound optimistic.
The radio squawked to life: the A-20s were taking off. The L4 was needed elsewhere. She was already late for that appointment.
They were down to one ship left to check. Jock found himself repeating a silly cliché his mother used to say: Something lost is always in the last place you look.
The A-20 flight leader’s voice boomed from the radio: “Slowbird Three-two, are you on station? Time to target is zero-six minutes.”
“Shit,” Jock mumbled, “it’s going to take us twenty minutes to get there, at least. We’re fucking up here.”
“Tell them to keep their drawers on, sir,” Worth said as he swung the L4 around toward the last ship. “We’re kind of busy right now.”
Jock’s hands suddenly weren’t working right. They shook so badly he banged his binoculars against the bridge of his nose. He was seeing stars when he should be reading the ship’s name.
“HEY,” Worth said as the distance to the ship closed. “WE MIGHT HAVE OURSELVES A JACKPOT HERE.”
Jock tried again with the binoculars. This time he managed to get them over his eyes…
What he saw truly was a jackpot. It was Esme.
Even better, on the ship’s bridge, looking back at him through her own binoculars, was Jillian.
“That’s the one, isn’t it?” Worth asked.
Jock tried to answer but the words caught in his throat.
“Sir? You okay?” Worth spun around for a glimpse of Jock slumped over, head in hands, wiping at eyes blinded by tears of joy. The best his back-seater could muster was a nod of his head: Yes.
“Tell you what, sir,” he said. “I’ll circle, you just stick your hand out and wave.”
As they orbited Esme, Worth added, “Look, sir, she’s waving back. You can see that, can’t you?”
Chapter Fifty-One
Day 18
There was a new face in Division HQ that morning, a full colonel who had arrived with MacArthur yesterday but stayed behind. General Hartman greeted him warmly. “It’s good to see you again, Dick,” the general said. “Hailey made quite a mess at Eighty-First Regiment. You’ll have a mighty job on your hands cleaning it up.”
“I won’t let you down, sir,” Dick Molloy replied.
“Of course,” Hartman continued, “one of the biggest problems you’ll face is rebuilding the shattered First Battalion. There’s only one company left…Charlie Company, or what’s left of it. They took a mighty beating up on Astrolabe.”
While the general spoke, Colonel Molloy studied the division’s roster of officers. His steel-gray eyes brightened as they fell on one name.
“I need a favor right off the bat, General,” Molloy said. “Jock Miles…I see he’s on your staff. I’d like to make him First Battalion commander.”
“You know Major Miles?”
“He’s been under my command several times, sir. If anyone can whip a raw unit into shape, it’s Jock Miles.”
“If that’s what you need, Dick…he’s yours.”
They had been airborne at first light, guiding the day’s first sortie of attack bombers against the Kokoda Track. By 0830, Jock and Worth were back on the ground at Seven Mile.
As he taxied the L4 to the ramp, Worth said, “I’m guessing the Aussies will catch up with the Japs by tomorrow. What do you think, sir?”
“Yeah, I think you’re right, John. Then they can spot their own air strikes.”
A runner greeted them as they climbed from the plane. “You’ve got orders, Lieutenant,” the runner said, handing a piece of paper to John Worth. “That C-47 over there leaves in a half hour. You’re supposed to be on it.”
Worth unfolded the message with a mix of dread and excitement. When he read it, neither emotion took control. Instead, they blended into quiet satisfaction.
“I’m going back to Australia to pick up my brand new F-4,” he said.
“F-4…that’s your photo-recon ship? Like a P-38?”
“Yessir...a P-38 without guns.”
“But who’s going to fly Slowbird if you’re gone?”
“I heard a rumor they trained a bunch of sergeants to fly, and they’re supposed to arrive any day now.” Jock seemed hesitant to accept that new state of affairs, so Worth added, “Hey, you don’t have to be an officer to fly a plane, sir. Anyone can do it. The trick is to do it without making a mess.”
Jock smiled at the wisdom in that statement. As they shook hands, Worth said, “Don’t worry, sir…I’ll still be doing the same thing I did for you here. Just higher and faster.”
Stuck on the ground, Jock decided to avoid Division HQ, telling himself, They’re spending more time setting up that villa for MacArthur to live in than fight the damned war. Instead, he hopped in his jeep and drove to Fairfax Harbor.
When he got there, Esme was at quayside, being unloaded. From the ship’s bridge, Jillian saw him right away. She raced down the gangplank and leapt into his arms.
Between kisses, she asked, “Was that you in that flimsy little airplane yesterday, you bloody wanker?”
“Yeah, that was me.”
Pointing to her ship, she let out a roaring laugh. “And you worry about what I do?”
“Yes, I do.” He motioned toward the jeep. “Do you have some time to take a little ride?”
“Where to?”
“There’s a bunch of guys just dying to see you again.”
They held hands atop the jeep’s gearshift lever sprouting from the floorboard between them. As they bounced down the road out of Port Moresby, Jillian said, “I worked it so we’re the last ship to be unloaded. Takes the pressure off.”
“What pressure, Jill?”
“To clear the wharf,” she replied. “Otherwise, I’d never have time to get away for a bit, like we’re doing right now. These convoys run on a tight schedule, you know.”
“And submarines don’t knock you off schedule?”
She gave him a quizzical look. “You heard about that?”
“Yeah. I sure did,” he replied, his words clipped and laced with pain.
She had hoped this wouldn’t come up. Now that the cat was out of the bag—sailing in these convoys was as dangerous as he feared—she tried to lighten those fears.
“You only have problems with them at night, Jock. The airplanes cut them to shreds during the day.”
“Great. So it’s only twelve hours a day you’re in trouble.”
They drove past an American anti-aircraft battery that had just gotten into position. Gazing at the guns pointed skyward, she said, “Better than the round-the-clock kind of trouble you’re in, silly boy.”
She decided to change the subject. “Where the bloody hell are we going, anyway?”
Turning off the road on a well-worn trail, he said, “Funny you should ask. We’re going right here…”
A large house—you could call it a villa—popped into view. In the woods nearby, there was a small city of GI tents of all sizes. Army vehicles were in abundance, as were more anti-aircraft guns.
They pulled up to the big house. On the veranda, Trevor Shaw was waiting to greet them. “That’s Commander Shaw,” Jock told Jillian. “He’s the coast watcher we worked with. Without him, we’d probably all be dead now.”
Virginia Beech darted from the house, waving happily.
“Don’t tell me,” Jillian said. “That’s Missus Shaw?”
“Nope. That’s Ginny Beech. Patchett’s girlfriend.”
Eyes wide with surprise, Jillian said, “Bloody hell! She’s a right looker, too. Good on him, the old bugger!”
Introductions done, a native woman brought a pitcher of cold Japanese beer to the veranda. They drained it quickly.
“As you can see,” Shaw began, “my plantation has become a most convenient site to bivouac some of you Yanks. Just as well…the Japs did so much damage when they were here. It’ll be a year, at least, before we’ll have a decent coffee crop. At least they left this bloody beer behind.”
“Tell them about our special guest, Commander,” Ginny said.
“Ahh, yes…our guest. Your General MacArthur has appropriated my home to use as his residence in Port Moresby—”
With fire in her eyes, Jillian interrupted, “The wanker’s going to bloody pay you for it, right?”
Shaw chuckled softly. “Of course, my dear. Of course.”
“Bloody right,” Jillian said. “Don’t let those star-spangled punters walk all over you.”
“Hey!” Jock said, pretending he was offended.
“Not you, Yank,” she replied. “Not you.” She made those words sound sweet as honey.
“Okay,” Jock said. “So where’s Charlie Company’s bivouac?”
Ginny pointed to the closest tents. “Right over there. Got to keep my eye on Patch, now, don’t I?”
As they drove into the bivouac, there was a joyous uproar. Jillian was quickly mobbed by the men who had been on Cape York. When Melvin Patchett strolled over to say hello, he stopped first to inspect the jeep.
“Looking for something, First Sergeant?” Jock asked.
“Well, sir…it’s just that every time Miss Forbes came to visit on the Cape, she always came with a cart full of chow. I guess she don’t love us no more.”
“Come here, you bloody old wanker,” she said, giving Patchett a fierce hug. “We’re not on the Cape now. It’s your turn to feed me. Where are those bloody K rations? I’ve missed those things terribly!”
In short order, the men began to fill the jeep with boxes full of K rations.
As Bogater Boudreau went back to fetch another box, a GI—one who hadn’t been on Cape York with the others—asked him, “Who’s the skirt, Corporal?”
“Watch your tone, soldier,” Boudreau replied. “That’s Jillian Forbes.”
“Hmm…I’d fuck her,” the GI said.
Bogater Boudreau decked him with one quick jab to the jaw.
It was late afternoon before they began the drive back to the harbor and Esme. Over the sea, ominous clouds were darkening the sky.
“There’s a storm brewing,” Jillian said, inching across her seat to get as far under the canvas roof of the open-sided jeep as she could.
“Yeah, maybe,” Jock replied. “So tell me…where are you sailing next?”
“It looks like we’ll be going back and forth to Papua for the foreseeable future. Where do you think you’ll be going next?”
“Who knows? Actually, I think we’re going to be stuck here for quite a while. Months…maybe longer. The division has to refit and get replacements…and they’ll all have to be trained. It’ll take time. A lot of time.”
“Are you going to keep being target practice for the Japanese in that little toy airplane?”
“Hey…I’m division staff. I do whatever the job calls for.”
“Any chance you’ll be changing jobs, Jock? Perhaps to one that entails being a less tempting target?”
“I doubt it.”
She wasn’t thrilled with that answer. She changed the topic: “What about the diggers MacArthur sent over the Track? A right fucking that is. How’s that going to work?”
“I know what you mean, Jill. It’s suicide. I hear climbing the Track is enough
to kill you all by itself…and the closer the Aussies get to Buna, the stronger the Japs will be. Crossing Kokoda’s only going to pay off if we invade Buna from the sea at the same time. I think that might be what MacArthur has in mind for us…but we’re not ready yet. Not by a long shot.”
“It’s not you chaps…it’s your bloody Navy that’s not ready. If they try to sail into the Solomon or Bismarck Seas, they’ll be on the bottom in the blink of an eye. Your Air Force is doing a great job on this side of Papua, but your flyboys can’t do the same for the other coast. It’s too far, even flying out of Port Moresby. Those bloody mountains…”
The conversation lulled for a moment as they watched the skies thicken.
“So we agree?” Jock asked. “Things are at a stalemate right now?”
“Until something changes so you can beat the Japanese Navy, they are.”
“In other words,” he said, “I’m going to be here in Port Moresby for a while…”
“Until something changes, Jock. And until it does, I’ll be here every chance I get.” Content in that thought, she asked, “Are you going to spend the night on my boat?”
“Why not? I’ve been AWOL this long…what’s a few more hours?”
Jillian eyed the storm clouds, now ominously close. “The only thing changing around here, Jock, is the weather. We’re going to get bloody soaked.”
Three hundred miles away, on the other side of Papua, a different kind of storm was brewing. Patrolling alone and vulnerable over the Solomon Sea near the island of New Britain, the crew of a Royal Australian Air Force Catalina flying boat were the first to feel it. They saw from a great distance what looked like smoke from ships’ stacks. As they ventured closer, they could see many warships, their wakes glistening in the afternoon sun as they made their way east.
They might be headed to the Solomon Islands. Or perhaps the Coral Sea—and Australia beyond.
They were a force so strong—the Aussie aviators counted four aircraft carriers and many capital ships among their number—they could decimate the American and Australian ships scattered piecemeal around the Solomon Islands…
Operation Long Jump (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 2) Page 34
