Long Walk To The Sun (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 1)

by William Peter Grasso

  It was early afternoon before Jock Miles got back to Fort Shafter. The Japanese cabbie he’d been lucky enough to flag down outside Pearl’s main gate shook his head violently when told the destination.

  “I’m not going near any military base,” the cabbie said, obviously terrified at the prospect. “I’m a US citizen, dammit, but you white people think I’m some kind of spy. I’ve had all kinds of crap thrown at me and my cab today, especially on those shot-up streets where all that anti-aircraft fire came back down. I’d probably get my ass riddled on sight if I got near Shafter.”

  “Then why’d you stop for me?” Jock asked, already in the cab’s back seat.

  The cabbie gave him an incredulous once-over. “Because it didn’t look like you were wearing a military uniform at first. I thought you were a waiter or something…and you looked like you needed help.”

  Jock had to agree with him. In his filthy and blood-spattered dress whites, his cap long gone, he didn’t look like much of a soldier anymore. He checked the cash in his wallet.

  “Well, I sure do need some help. Tell you what…you can double your fare. Just drop me off near the gate, okay?”

  “You’re not wounded, are you? You aren’t going to bleed all over my cab?”

  Nodding in the direction of Pearl Harbor, Jock said, “No, this isn’t my blood.”

  Hesitantly, the cabbie agreed. He nervously ground the gears as they drove off toward the empty streets of Honolulu, a city usually vibrant and bright but now cowering in a colorless limbo as the smoke from Pearl darkened the afternoon sun and cast the city in gray-filtered light.

  Jock thought it prudent to change from the ruined dress whites to regular duty khakis before reporting to General Short. A shave was in order, as well. The grooming mattered little, though; the general was livid when Jock entered the chaos of the cavernous room that was the command post. Keyed-up staff officers were either shouting into telephones or shuttling reports on the double to their frazzled general. Turning from the giant map of Oahu pinned to a wall, Short fixed his gaze on his tardy aide.

  “Sorry, sir,” Jock said. “I’ve been stuck at Pearl, helping out the Navy—”

  General Short cut him off. “I consider you AWOL, Captain. The world is falling apart, and my aide is shacked up somewhere when he should have been right here.”

  “Negative, sir! My car was destroyed in the attack. I tried to call, but the phones…”

  The general wasn’t buying it. “I’m far too busy right now to care about your piddling little problems, Captain.” Shifting to an almost fatherly tone, Short continued, “I had great hopes for you, Maynard. You would have had a fine career, but you’ve let me down. You’ve let the Army down.” The fatherly tone disappeared, replaced by the stern voice of a displeased superior. “You’ll be reassigned out of my command before the day is over.”

  Short turned his back to Jock as a major timidly approached and handed the general a sheaf of reports. They did not contain good news. Short grew more agitated as he flipped through the pages, seemingly unaware Jock Miles was still braced at parade rest behind him. The words of a naval captain still rang in Jock’s ears, spoken as he left Pearl just an hour ago:

  Damn fine job you did here today, Captain Miles. Those gunners you whipped together shot down at least two Japs, probably more! You should be damned proud…I’ll be putting you in for the Distinguished Service Cross.

  Proud wasn’t the word that described what Jock felt; relieved came much closer. His country was suddenly at war and, much to his relief, he had finally done what he was supposed to do—what he was trained to do—without hesitation: led men in combat. He had done it brilliantly, too. It mattered not at all those he had led were Navy men. He now joined the ranks of those who had been under fire and drawn enemy blood. His boss would probably never know about it, though, consumed as he was with humiliation for being caught with his pants down by this Japanese attack. Rather than reveling in his newfound status as a decorated combat veteran, Jock Miles was trying to come to grips with being fired. He could forget about that Distinguished Service Cross.

  The general seemed oblivious to Jock’s continued presence. “Sir,” Jock said, “am I—”

  Without looking up from the reports, the general cut him off again. “Dismissed, Captain? Yes, you most certainly are. Get out of my sight.”

  Chapter Three

  Admiral Nagumo watched anxiously from the bridge of the carrier Akagi as the last of his planes touched down and jerked to a halt on the deck. The first wave of Pearl Harbor attackers had finally returned, with very few aircraft missing. The deck immediately became a beehive of activity as refueling and rearming of the squadrons commenced. Speed was essential: within an hour, the planes of the second wave would return, and until Nagumo’s planes could fly and fight again, the entire attack force he commanded—six carriers and their escort ships—was vulnerable to American aircraft from Hawaii.

  Nagumo already knew the first wave’s attack had been a success; radio reports sent when the planes were still over Oahu made that clear. The returning pilots, however, were excitedly reported a success Nagumo had not expected to hear: in addition to the battleships sunk at Pearl and row after row of parked aircraft devastated all across the island, the US Navy’s fuel storage facility had been inadvertently destroyed.

  “The fuel facility…how could that have happened?” Nagumo asked a flight leader.

  “One of our planes…probably a dive bomber…crashed into the tanks and started a blaze,” the flight leader replied. “A flight of fighters that had just strafed Hickam Field reported they were taking the initiative to strafe the tanks as well. It was quite an inferno by the time we left the area. A target of opportunity, Admiral!”

  Target of opportunity, indeed, Nagumo thought. In his attack plan, the fuel storage facility was a designated target of the third wave, which would be launched—at his option—only after the first two waves had returned to their carriers and the situation assessed. The entire premise of a third wave had troubled Nagumo from the very beginning. The first two waves would have already crippled the American fleet by neutralizing its battleships. American defenders who had initially been caught with their guard down would be on high alert. Japanese aircrews that had already flown the 500-mile round trip and braved enemy fire once that day would have to do it all over again. Fatigue would become an issue, and fatigue caused accidents. By the time the third wave returned to the carriers, it would be dark. The now-exhausted pilots were not well trained in night landings. A day of jubilant victory could easily turn into a debacle of needlessly lost airplanes and drowned aviators.

  There is no point considering it further, Nagumo thought. We have been successful enough today. There will be no third wave.

  Once the second-wave planes were back on board ship, Nagumo’s attack fleet would set a course for home.

  Chapter Four

  Despite its cheerful Christmas decorations, the White House was anything but a joyous place. The events of December 7, 1941, had seen to that, casting a pall over that proud edifice that promised to stretch into 1942 and beyond. Nothing being said in the Oval Office at the moment was improving Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s mood, either. A cigarette in its elegant holder dangled from his lips, completing the president’s pessimistic aura.

  Admiral Ernest King, the Chief of Naval Operations—CNO in naval and Washington parlance—had just finished his briefing. It had summarized the devastation brought to the US Pacific fleet by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Neither General George Marshall, the Army Chief of Staff, nor Henry Stimson, the Secretary of War, had uttered a word since taking their seats. The president remained silent, his steady gaze boring uncomfortably into King, as if the bleak assessment the admiral had just delivered could be improved by sheer force of will.

  Stimson began to fidget nervously in his chair. “Relax, Henry,” the President said without averting his gaze from King. “I need a minute to think. I’ve never gotten a
lump of coal in my Christmas stocking before.” The room fell silent once again; no one dared speak until requested to by the president. After several long drags on the cigarette, Roosevelt perked up and propelled his wheelchair out from behind his desk. He was ready to cross-examine his military leaders. Even his cigarette holder suddenly seemed upbeat, now pointing skyward at a jaunty angle.

  “So, Admiral King,” the president began as he rolled to a stop before the CNO’s armchair, “it’s all about the oil, you say. Other than the battleships, the fleet’s intact…but we can’t fuel it? That is what you’re saying, is it not?”

  King took a long drink of water before answering. His throat was dry; he had been talking a long time. Masking his impatience behind a toothy grin, the president said, “Take your time, Admiral. I’m sure the Japanese aren’t expecting us anytime soon.”

  Ernest King was annoyed by the president’s crack, and he wasn’t a man who masked his annoyance easily. This wasn’t the time or the place, however, to show his notorious temper. The Navy—his Navy—had been caught dead asleep by the Japanese; so had Marshall’s Army. The Navy, though, had paid the dearest price.

  And those incompetent fools Kimmel and Short had been warned! It’s all their fault, King reassured himself as he drained the water glass. If anyone put coal in the president’s stocking, it was them, not me.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President,” King said, his tone perfunctory rather than truly apologetic. “We’ve lost over one hundred million gallons of fuel oil. That’s about a year’s supply of fuel for the Pacific fleet. But we’ve managed to salvage some—”

  The president interrupted, asking, “How much?”

  “Enough to keep one carrier with a minimal screening force at sea.”

  “Only one, Admiral?” Roosevelt asked. “And what do you plan to do with the other two carriers?”

  “Pull them back to the West Coast, Mr. President. We can’t leave them as sitting ducks at Pearl. Thank God all of the carriers were at sea during the attack.”

  The president bristled. “I don’t think God deserves our thanks right now, Admiral King. For all practical purposes, the Japanese sunk our entire Pacific fleet just by hitting that damned oil. How long will it take you to replenish our oil reserves at Pearl? And where the hell do you plan to store it now?”

  King knew better than to put forth a too-optimistic estimate. The president had a special fondness for the Navy, having served as its Assistant Secretary during the First World War, and understood the workings of that service down to brass tacks; he would sniff out hogwash immediately. The admiral swallowed hard before answering, “With our current tankering capability, twelve to eighteen months, Mr. President.”

  Roosevelt didn’t look at all surprised by the estimate. He waited impatiently for the rest of the answer.

  “Regarding storage, as we can clearly see, Admiral Nimitz was correct. Our above-ground tanks at Pearl were extremely vulnerable, even to bullets.”

  Roosevelt harrumphed at the word vulnerable, then asked, “Nimitz…the chap you’re replacing Kimmel with?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. Chester Nimitz. A most capable flag officer, and he’s the man responsible for the Red Hill project…the underground storage tanks that are under construction in the hills above Pearl.”

  “And when will this underground storage be ready?” the president asked.

  “We’ve accelerated construction as much as humanly possible, Mr. President. It should have partial storage capability in six to eight months and full capacity by early nineteen forty-three.”

  Roosevelt seemed neither pleased nor displeased by the answer. He asked, “What can the Navy do in the Pacific until then?”

  “We can defend Hawaii and the West Coast by the skin of our teeth, Mr. President. And that’s all.”

  Now the President was decidedly displeased. “What about offensive operations?” he asked. “Do you expect me to tell the American people we can’t strike back against the Japs for a year or more?”

  “Unfortunately, yes, Mr. President,” King replied. “The Pacific will be a naval war, and we won’t be a serious player in that realm for a while. The British, Australians, and Dutch, weak as they are, are completely on their own for the time being.”

  Scowling, Roosevelt turned to his Secretary of War, Henry Stimson, asking, “What do you think about that assessment, Henry?”

  “I think we should consider transferring some of our Atlantic tankers to the Pacific immediately, Mr. President,” Stimson replied.

  Without a word being said, it was clear Admiral King thought little of the secretary’s suggestion. The president was not impressed, either. Shaking his head, he said, “No, Henry, that won’t do. We’ve pledged our support to the Brits…to Europe first. You know as well as I they’re in worse shape than we are at the moment. We can’t cut back on them.”

  King added another reason. “We could send every tanker we own to Pearl tomorrow, but they’d have to tie up there as temporary gas stations for weeks or months on end. That would slow our replenishment rate to a trickle. Nobody would get enough oil…not the Atlantic, not the Pacific. And you don’t build a new tanker overnight, either.”

  Roosevelt pivoted his wheelchair to face George Marshall. “General Marshall, how does the Army see all this?”

  Marshall had waited to speak with his usual calm and reserve. At last, the floor was his. He began to state his case with purpose and precision.

  “Naturally, Mr. President,” Marshall said, “the Navy’s diminished capabilities to transport, provide fire support, and resupply the Army will have a tremendous impact. For the moment, however, we must continue to garrison and defend Hawaii. As to the Philippines, MacArthur’s grasp is tenuous, at best, and there is precious little we can do to help him now.”

  “So you’re saying we’ll lose the Philippines?” Roosevelt asked.

  “I’m afraid so, Mr. President. It’s only a matter of time. But we can’t allow ourselves to be seen as going into a shell.”

  The president’s enthusiasm returned as he said, “General, I agree with that sentiment completely.”

  “What I’m going to propose,” Marshall continued, “is this: we must position all the ground and air assets we can transport to Australia as soon as possible. The Brits and the Dutch have already drained Australia of its fighting manpower to help defend the Middle East, the Far East, and the East Indies, efforts all destined to fail, and fail quickly, without the material and manpower support we are currently unable to provide. Australia is practically defenseless now…if the Japanese just walked in and established an occupation force there, they would not only control the rich natural resources of the southwest Pacific, but we would be deprived indefinitely of the only base in the theater from which we could strike back…once we were fully ready to strike back, that is.”

  Roosevelt looked to King and asked, “How big a force could we transport with our current limitations, Admiral?”

  The CNO did a quick mental calculation and then grumbled his answer. “No more than one division every four months, Mr. President.”

  With eyebrows raised, Roosevelt gestured for his Army chief to respond. “That’s no problem,” Marshall offered. “We’ve only just begun to raise fresh divisions, and many of them are destined for Europe. One division every four months to Australia is about all we can handle for the foreseeable future.”

  “What about the Marine Corps?” the president asked Admiral King. “Are they ready to be deployed?”

  King was ready to throw cold water on that suggestion, too. “As small as the Corps is, Mr. President, it’s better to keep them as a mobile defense force for the time being. If we tied them up in Australia, they’d be swallowed up in a land that vast.”

  The president understood the subtext of King’s answer: positioning marines in Australia as part of Marshall’s plan would put them under Army control, and the Navy had no intention surrendering their marines to the Army.

  Stimson be
ckoned for Roosevelt’s attention. “If I may, Mr. President?”

  “Go ahead, Henry.”

  “That might prove to be a very risky proposition,” Stimson said. “The Australians feel betrayed by Britain and her Far East policies. They’re expected to provide manpower to defend the rest of the Commonwealth but constantly get the short end of the stick in trade policy and military hardware. If the Japanese landed on their shores, they just might be willing to cut a deal and capitulate, quite like Vichy France. Any troops we managed to send would simply be wasted…and probably end up as POWs.”

  “So you’re saying we do nothing, Henry?” the President asked.

  “For the moment…yes, Mr. President.”

  “Absolutely unacceptable,” Roosevelt said, his voice adamant as he wheeled about to return to his desk. “Enough of our friends have had to capitulate already. Admiral King, hold on to your marines as you suggest. General Marshall, you are to prepare your Pacific forces to assist in the defense of Australia. That’s the least we can do.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Marshall replied, and then added a sober assessment: “But I’m afraid it’s the most we can do.”

  Roosevelt looked to the CNO once more. “And you, Admiral King, are to provide whatever ships the Army needs.” Knowing King’s propensity for inter-service subterfuge, the President added in a stern voice, “And I’ll expect those ships to be allocated all the fuel they need to get to Australia.”

  Chapter Five

  March 1942

  A very glum thought crossed Jock Miles’s mind: We’ve been on this damned boat for two weeks but we’re still nowhere near Australia.

  He leaned against the upper deck rail and watched as the ship’s crew—sailors of the US Navy—engaged in what seemed a circus-like, but sadistic, ceremony on the main deck. This troopship, part of an armed convoy of eight ships, was crossing the Equator, and those sailors who had crossed it before—shellbacks, they called themselves—were hazing those sailors making their first crossing, called wogs, short for pollywogs. It was all part of nautical tradition, the 2000 Army troops on board had been told. The shellbacks wore costumes representing noble creatures of the sea. Presiding over the spectacle was a fat, bearded shellback wearing a long, flowing wig: King Neptune himself. Atop his wig sat a crown; in his hand he carried a trident. Both looked like they had been made for some grammar school pageant. Sitting primly next to King Neptune was a sailor in drag, portraying his queen. As the shellbacks were busy stripping the wogs to their skivvies, flogging them brutally with sections of hose and binding them together with hawsers, Jock reflected on his turn of fortune since December 7th.