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

by William Peter Grasso

  An amused voice in Jillian’s head spoke: He looks positively ropeable.

  But Mick’s tremors subsided; a calm resignation settled over him. The abo’s right, he thought. Once I’m gone, it’ll be the law of the bleedin’ jungle around here. Bloody hell…let the Japs figure it all out. And this balmy sheila wants to stay!

  “Just have those boats ready to sail in the morning, Jilly,” Mick said, before striding off.

  The sun had been up two hours already when the Royal Australian Navy patrol boat approached the Weipa Mission dock. Jillian had been waiting for it, seated serenely on the veranda of the icehouse. Her rifle stood on its butt end against the wall behind her. Her boats’ Aborigine crewmen lined the veranda rail, trying to hide their smiles.

  As the patrol boat got close enough to the dock to read faces, the Aborigines broke into giggles; they found the astonished looks of the Navy men very funny. So did Jillian, but she remained poker-faced. All six of Jillian’s boats were there at the dock, but only Mangrove Queen was still afloat. The other five were awash to their gunwales, their keels resting on the bottom.

  While his crew manned their mounted machine guns and nervously scanned the sky, the lieutenant in charge jumped to the dock and approached the icehouse. “Who’s the owner of these boats?” the lieutenant asked, while stealing his own anxious glance at the sky.

  “I am,” Jillian replied, without rising from her seat.

  The lieutenant produced some papers from his pocket and sifted through them. “It says here I am to procure six vessels,” he said. “You are Miss Forbes?”

  “Yes, I’m Jillian Forbes. But you’re a day late, I’m afraid. We must have had quite a blow last night. Five of the little buggers went down.”

  The Aborigines were snickering loudly now. The lieutenant’s face reddened; he knew he was being had. But he could not stop looking up at the sky nervously.

  “Expecting rain?” Jillian asked, eyeing the puffy clouds in the fair sky.

  “No, ma’am. I’m expecting Japs. There’s been a lot of enemy air activity reported in this sector.”

  “I’d be more worried about a storm coming,” Jillian said. “This is still the wet…and I’ve yet to see any Jap planes around here.”

  As the confused lieutenant was trying to figure out what his next move would be, a parade of Mission people came down the path to the dock, led by Mick Murray. Mick’s two “special constables” were supervising the Aborigine men pulling a wagon loaded with suitcases and steamer trunks.

  Let’s see, Jillian thought. Ten Mission folk, six half-black children, the three diggers, Mick and those two whackers of his, and all their kit…Seems just about a right load for the Queen. Figured that real good, didn’t I?

  Mick Murray’s face was redder than Jillian had ever seen before. She rose to greet him with a smile as he stomped to the veranda.

  “Just what do you think you’re trying to pull, Jilly?” Mick said. “You’ve interfered with government business.” He turned to the lieutenant. “This is your show, mate. Are you going to arrest her?”

  Shaking his head vigorously, the lieutenant said, “I don’t have time for this nonsense out here in the middle of nowhere, Constable. We really need to be leaving.” He surveyed the crowd of eager voyagers. “Is this all that’s going?”

  Mick threw up his hands in exasperation as he replied, “Yeah…that’s it.”

  “Good,” the lieutenant said. “Everybody will fit on the one boat that’s left. They’ll only be on board two days, anyway.” Then, he hurried back to the dock, barking orders to his men. Two of his sailors jumped on Mangrove Queen and fired up her engine.

  As Mick and the other passengers clambered on board the Queen, one of the “special constables,” known around the Mission as Jacko, lagged behind. He swaggered toward Jillian as she stood, hands on hips, feet apart, at the top of the veranda steps. His demented smile displayed the few, discolored teeth he had left. Special constables, my sweet arse, Jillian thought. The only “special” duties these bloody thugs ever had was harassing the blacks.

  Jacko stopped at the foot of the steps. He lowered his rifle so the muzzle rested on the veranda’s deck between her feet. His eyes followed the muzzle as he slid it slowly up between her boots, stopping for a moment at her knees, and then continued upward, lifting the hem of her dress to mid thigh and beyond. “Maybe next time around, Miss Jilly,” he said as he lifted his grinning face to look up at hers.

  What greeted Jacko’s smile was Jillian’s fist landing squarely and forcefully on his nose. His rifle clattered to the veranda steps, and he found himself seated on the ground with blood flowing down his face as the Aborigine crewmen roared with laughter. When Jacko looked up again, he was seeing stars and staring into the muzzle of Jillian’s rifle, an inch from his face. She cycled the rifle’s bolt to emphasize it was ready to fire. Her finger nestled against the trigger, she said, “Get on the boat, you bloody imbecile.”

  “All right, all right…don’t be getting all twitchy,” Jacko said as he wobbled to his feet. “I’ll just be picking up my rifle…”

  Jillian shook her head. “Not a good idea,” she said, her rifle still inches from his face.

  He tried to protest, but Jillian cut him off with the words: “On the boat…NOW!”

  Jacko stumbled toward the dock, holding a bandana to his bleeding nose. When he reached the boat, Jillian turned to Old Robert and said, “Bring him his bloody rifle. He’ll need it, stupid as he is.”

  The lieutenant’s crewmen were growing more nervous by the minute, though their machine guns tracked nothing but a sky full of fair weather clouds. As both boats prepared to cast off, Mick Murray ran to within shouting distance of the veranda and said, “You haven’t heard the last of this, Jilly,” before hurrying back and jumping onboard the Queen.

  Jillian just smiled and waved goodbye. Her Aborigine crewmen did the same.

  Oh, yes, I have heard the last of this, she thought. Look at them...they’re all too scared to come back up this way.

  As the patrol boat led Mangrove Queen out of the harbor and into Albatross Bay, Jillian turned to Old Robert and said, “Give them about an hour to get into the Gulf and out of sight…then we’ll start raising the other boats.”

  Chapter Seven

  May 1942

  A scratchy recording of Wagner’s Tannhäuser spun on the turntable, the music soothing Jock Miles’s ragged nerves. At least this old record player hasn’t given up yet, he thought, taking a moment from his mountain of paperwork to reflect on the latest dismal news. The Philippines had fallen: General Wainwright had surrendered to the Japanese. MacArthur had fled his last-ditch bastion at Corregidor, making his escape, presumably, by submarine to Australia. Suddenly, the frustrating ordeal of equipping and training his infantry company, now on Australian soil, seemed like a very small worry in a sea of Allied despair.

  Periodically, First Sergeant Melvin Patchett, busy with his own administrative duties in the adjacent dayroom, would pass the open door of Jock’s office, look in, and scowl. Unlike his commanding officer, Melvin Patchett was not a fan of opera. Especially not some Kraut opera.

  The old stone building that housed Jock’s office, as well as the offices for the battalion’s other rifle companies, used to be a Brisbane jail. A sprawling tent city had sprung up in the adjacent field to billet the troops. While the other company commanders had elected to quarter themselves in a nearby hotel. Jock Miles preferred to sleep in his command tent, erected amidst his men’s squad tents.

  First Sergeant Patchett stuck his head in the door and said, “Captain, if them heinies could stop hollering at each other for a minute, we need to talk.”

  Jock smiled and silenced the record player. “Sure. What is it, Top? The Philippines?”

  “Not much we can do about that, sir,” Patchett replied. “But here on the home front, we still ain’t got enough forty-five caliber ammo for the training you want with the Thompsons.”

  “Same
story? Still sitting on a ship somewhere, waiting for the Aussies to off-load it?”

  “That’s what battalion says, Captain. These Aussies ain’t taking this war too serious, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Shit, Top…that really screws up the training schedule for this week.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but what do they need live-fire training with a submachine gun for, anyway? It ain’t nothing but a fire hose that spits bullets. You don’t aim the damn thing. You just point it…and if you hit anything farther than fifty feet away, it’s just luck. Hell, if them guinea gangsters can use ’em, anyone can.”

  “A Thompson is the best weapon we’ve got for a jungle fight, Top. Fifty feet is about all you’ll need…and about all you’ll get. I want the men to have actually fired the thing full-auto a few times before we get shipped out.”

  Patchett shrugged. “As you wish, sir. Now, can I heap on a little more bad news?”

  “Might as well.”

  “Russo’s at it again,” Patchett said. “He wants to press charges against Guess.”

  Jock sighed, steeled himself, and asked, “What for this time?”

  “Attempted murder. Says Guess tried to poison him.”

  “Oh, for fuck sake, Top…Is there any proof?”

  “Not really…just a canteen with a little Brasso in it. Lot of ways it could have got in there.”

  Fuming, Jock examining the ceiling of the musty office as he thought, Son of a goddamn fucking son of a bitch! Isn’t it bad enough a company commander has to ask his men to fight and die? But no…he’s got to be their nursemaid, their priest…and their judge and jury, too.

  “All right, First Sergeant. Let’s get this over with.”

  To hear PFC Nicholas Russo tell it, the whole world had it in for him, especially the fed-up judge in Brooklyn, New York, who, in 1940, gave the alleged shoplifter—previously arraigned in his court for a variety of petty crimes—a choice of jail or the Army. Once in uniform, Nicky Russo began to have serious doubts on the wisdom of his choice; he really didn’t see much difference from being in prison. Now there was a war on, and he was stuck as a soldier for the duration, having to do the bidding of crackers like First Sergeant Melvin Patchett. Worse, he had to do it alongside other crackers, like that cretin J.T. Guess, who almost never spoke. When he did, it was never more than a word or two, at most.

  And now, Nicky Russo was sure J.T. Guess was trying to poison him. He stood, braced at parade rest, before Captain Miles.

  “No, sir, I didn’t actually see him do nothing,” Russo said, “but it had to be him, sir. That sneaky son of a bitch’s got it in for me.” With a sidelong glance at the stone-faced First Sergeant Patchett, he added, “All them rednecks do.”

  Jock turned to Lieutenant Brewster, his XO. “Lieutenant, did your investigation turn up any witnesses?”

  Scooter Brewster snapped to attention as he replied, “Negative, sir. No one has come forward as a witness.”

  “At ease, Lieutenant. At ease. But you confirmed the presence of the brass polish in Private Russo’s canteen?”

  “Yes, sir,” Brewster replied, still rigidly bracing his body at parade rest. “I did so personally.”

  “And how much would you say was in there, Lieutenant?”

  “Hard to say, sir.”

  “Try, Lieutenant.”

  “A significant amount, sir.”

  “A significant amount,” Jock repeated, and then said to Russo, “and nobody can tell me how this significant amount got there. How did you discover it was in your canteen, Private?”

  “I was going to fill it. I saw some dried stuff under the cap, so I looked inside. Every swinging dick knows what Brasso looks and smells like…and that it’s poison. Says so right on the can.” Like an afterthought, he added, “Sir.”

  PFC Jeremiah Theophilus Guess stood impassively at parade rest, too, right beside Nicky Russo. Guess had not said a word; he had not yet been asked any questions. It was now his turn.

  “Private Guess,” Jock said, “are you in any way responsible for the brass polish in Private Russo’s canteen?”

  In a polite, monotone drawl, in which every word seemed to be carefully considered before being spoken, Guess replied, “If I was, Captain, I would have for damn sure done a better job of it.”

  Jock Miles tried not to smile; so did Melvin Patchett. Scooter Brewster seemed somehow offended by the honesty in Guess’s answer.

  The room was silent for a moment, until Russo blurted, “SEE? THE SON OF A BITCH KNOWS ALL ABOUT IT!”

  First Sergeant Patchett was in Russo’s face in an instant. “AT EASE, PRIVATE! You’ll speak only when spoken to.”

  Jock had had enough. He rose from his chair and said, “This inquiry is closed. First Sergeant, reassign Private Russo to Weapons Platoon immediately.”

  Russo did not like that solution one bit. “HEY, WAIT A GODDAMN MINUTE! HOW COME I’M THE ONE GETTING FUCKED OVER HERE?”

  Jock held up his hand, which stopped Melvin Patchett from the verbal assault he was about to unleash on the insubordinate private. Then, his face inches from Russo’s, Miles said, “You’re not getting fucked over, Private Russo. In fact, I’m doing you a favor by giving you a fresh start. Just try not to piss anybody off so badly in your new platoon that they want to kill you.” Jock turned to Patchett and said, “First Sergeant, return these men to their duties.”

  Melvin Patchett snapped the two privates to attention and marched them out of Jock’s office. Alone with his commanding officer, Scooter Brewster asked, “Can I have a minute, sir?”

  “Yeah. What’s on your mind, Scooter?”

  “It’s the men’s morale, sir,” Brewster said. “Obviously, it needs some serious improvement. I suggest we institute close order drill periods before breakfast and after supper.”

  “In other words, Lieutenant, the floggings will continue until morale improves?”

  “Isn’t that how it worked at the Point, sir?”

  Jock decided it was time to play big brother. “Sit down, Scooter,” he said. Once Brewster took a seat, Jock rose from behind his desk, moved next to his XO’s chair and squatted beside it, so his head came only to Brewster’s shoulder. A wise old sergeant had once told him, When you want to pull someone’s head out of their ass gently, don’t try to do it from above.

  “Scooter,” Jock began, “this isn’t West Point, and the men we lead are not cadets. They were already in this Army before the war, but aside from the first sergeant, there’s not an enlisted man out there whose dream was to become a career soldier. They wouldn’t have joined if they could’ve found a job in civilian life…but the Depression, you know? It’s going to get even more interesting when our ranks start to fill up with draftees.”

  “But they have to be made to accept that they’re soldiers, sir,” Brewster said.

  “Right. But the way we’re going to do that is by giving them the training and confidence they sorely need, not more punishment. Nobody knows better than me that everything is all screwed up right now…we can’t even get our hands on the right bullets, for crying out loud…but we’re going to figure this out and get it right.”

  Brewster shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He did not look convinced, but he offered nothing in protest.

  “I need to know that I can count on your complete support, Scooter.”

  “Yes, sir…of course you can,” Brewster replied with a hint of surprise that his captain might doubt his commitment.

  “Good,” Jock said as he rose to his feet. “Anything else you want to talk about?”

  “Well, sir, there is. Any word on where we’re getting shipped to? I hear some scuttlebutt we’re planning a major offensive in the Solomons.”

  Jock found that amusing, but he kept his laugh to himself. In his closing minutes as a member of General Short’s staff, he discerned quite clearly just how punchless the US military had been rendered. Offensives across vast seas were out of the question and would be for a while. As he wa
lked back to his desk chair, he said, “I don’t think we have to worry about shipping out, Scooter. I think this war is going to come to us.”

  Chapter Eight

  Colonel Masaharu Najima hated being onboard ships of the Japanese Imperial Navy. Despite his rank, which sometimes exceeded that of the ship’s captain, he believed army men like him never received the proper level of respect when they intruded in the nautical world. He could see it in the eyes of even common sailors: those who fought on land were inferior to those who fought on sea.

  Things were better in China, Colonel Najima thought, where the land-based campaigns made the Navy largely irrelevant. The Japanese Army’s lightning-fast victories in Malaya, the Dutch East Indies, and the Solomons that crushed the British, Australian, and Dutch forces standing feebly in their way had all been made possible by the brilliant tactics of the Navy. The devastating strike at Pearl Harbor, rendering the Americans powerless to reverse Japan’s conquests, had been the Navy’s doing entirely. But the Navy is basking in far more than its share of the glory, Najima felt sure.

  The conversation in the wardroom of the heavy cruiser Myoko did little to comfort Colonel Najima. His dinner companion, Mister Saburo Sato, was a great fan of the Navy and had insisted they dine on board; a ludicrous demand, Najima thought, as the ship was at anchor in Port Moresby harbor. Excellent and far more convenient mess facilities were available on dry land. Tomorrow, Myoko and her supporting warships would depart that harbor, escorting barges loaded with troops of Najima’s regiment to the northern coast of Australia under the protective umbrella of Japanese Imperial Navy air power flying out of airfields on Papua and islands in the Torres Strait.

  “Admiral Yamamoto expects little, if any, resistance to my plan,” Mister Sato said.