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

by William Peter Grasso

  Don’t do us any favors, she silently begged those anonymous warriors. We don’t need your bleedin’ war here. You never pretended to care about the Cape before. Please don’t start caring now…and get us all bloody killed in the process.

  Chapter Eleven

  June 1942

  Standing ramrod straight, not even breathing hard from the 10-mile run in the sweltering midday sun, First Sergeant Melvin Patchett pulled off his steel helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. And they call this winter down here, he thought. On the dusty track before him, the weary men of his company jogged past in a column of twos, their bodies bending but no longer breaking under the weight of packs and weapons. Slowly but surely, Melvin Patchett felt certain, these doggies are getting whipped into shape. They’re running ten miles like it’s nothing now.

  He thought of what an old drill sergeant had told him many years ago: If you can run ten miles, you can walk a hundred.

  The first sergeant bellowed, “COMPANY…HALT!” One hundred marching men stopped on a dime simultaneously. “FALL OUT,” Patchett commanded, and then added, “Take five, ladies…and there’s no smoking out here on the range. We don’t need no more fucking brush fires.” He ignored the widespread grumbling that followed.

  A jeep crammed full with the company’s officers approached and came to a stop. With a smirk, Patchett said, “Grenade gets you all, gentlemen.”

  Jock Miles smiled as he hopped from the jeep. “Very funny, First Sergeant,” he said. “How’d the live fire exercises go?”

  “Another circle jerk, sir. Shot up a lot of ammo, but they still maneuver like a goddamn Chinese fire drill. I’m telling you, sir…no matter how many posters the Army puts it on, that old saw kill or be killed won’t sink into their thick heads until they have to cart away some of their buddies in mattress covers. But I’ll bet watching them fuck up was more inspiring than y’all’s dog and pony show up at Division. Did you find out anything good?”

  “Same old bullshit, Top. The Aussies keep promising to pick up the pace unloading our supply ships, the Air Force swears it’s going to get its shit together any day now and start hitting New Guinea and the Solomons…but they still can’t stop the Japs from knocking out the airfields we’re trying to build up in northern Queensland.”

  Patchett nodded knowingly. “Any news from back home, sir?”

  Jock’s face became grim. “Ever hear of Midway Island?” he asked.

  Patchett shook his head.

  “Well, it’s a little spit of an island way out west of Hawaii,” Jock continued. “If I hadn’t spent all that time in Hawaii, I might not have heard of it either. Anyway, we abandoned it to the Japs last week. Wasn’t worth fighting over, I guess. Hawaii’s like a powder keg now, just waiting for the Japs to come and light the fuse. And they’re still all panicky on the West Coast…blackouts every night…rumor has it a TWA plane got shot down by accident near Sacramento.”

  “Anything about the Aleutians, sir? I think I’ve got me a kid brother up there.”

  “Well, Top, Washington thinks that’s just a feint, to draw the Navy away from Hawaii. Apparently, the Japs dumped a couple of thousand troops on a few of the islands and left them there, sitting on their hands, freezing their balls off.”

  That brought a smile to Melvin Patchett’s weathered face as he scanned the desolate Australian countryside before him. “Sounds kinda like our situation, don’t it, sir? At least we ain’t cold. Hell of a war, ain’t it?”

  Miles nodded in agreement. “Did the men eat, Top?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. The cooks trucked out a good, hot meal. None of that Vegemite shit the Aussies think is so goddamned wonderful.”

  “Outstanding,” Jock replied. “But listen…I’ve been ordered to meet with Colonel Snow up at Regiment at fourteen hundred hours. Lord only knows why. With all the traffic jams in Brisbane these days, I’d better be heading back pretty soon. Lieutenant Brewster and the platoon leaders will stay with the company for the rest of the exercise.”

  “Very good, sir,” Patchett replied. “I believe we can handle it.”

  Colonel Snow had the annoying habit of knocking his West Point class ring on the desk as he spoke. So many grads from the Academy had that same habit; those in the Army not blessed with its diploma derisively called them ring knockers. The tap-tap-tap was meant as a subtle reminder the wearer of the ring was a vested member of the military profession’s premier fraternity, and as such, no harm could come to him from those without the ring.

  What’s with that damned tapping? Jock Miles brooded. I’m the only other son of a bitch in this office, and I know he’s got a ring. I’ve got one, too…not that it’s done me a whole lot of good lately.

  “I’ve got to be frank, Captain,” the colonel began, “I’m a bit disappointed with you at the moment. On paper, you’re my most experienced company commander and my most senior captain from the Point…yet your company’s performance in training has been merely average, no better than any of the others. It seems to me like you’re just coasting…not pushing yourself or your men. We’re at a crucial juncture in history, and no man from West Point can be seen as losing his fire in times like these. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  What Jock wanted to say was, Cut the crap, sir. You didn’t call me here for a career pep talk. Get to the point. But he knew better. Just shut up and roll with the punches, he told himself. He’s not interested in what you have to say, anyway. They never are. Just play it by the book.

  “No excuse, sir,” Jock said. “I take full responsibility for my company’s performance.”

  “Damned right you do,” Snow said. He rose from behind the desk and began to pace the small room.

  A cynical voice in Jock’s head began to speculate on the colonel’s motivation: But what the hell’s going on here? If he wanted to relieve you, he’d just get your battalion commander to do that over the phone. He wants something from you…maybe this is the setup for some shit detail? You know how it works…he gives you the Dutch uncle act, gets you all shaky, then offers you a chance to be his number one boy again. If he starts pretending to be your buddy now and calls you by your first name, you’re screwed.

  Colonel Snow stopped at a window and looked out. Like some serene visionary beholding some new reality only he could imagine, he fixed his gaze far in the distance and said, “Jock, I’m going to give you a chance to redeem yourself. Despite all your fiddly-fucking lately, I believe you’re just the man for this job.”

  The cynical voice in Jock’s head spoke again: There it is, pal...the first name bullshit. Bend over and prepare to take it up the ass.

  Turning to a faded map of eastern Australia on the far wall, the colonel said, “Almost two weeks ago, a small force of Japanese infantry…we reckon no more than a battalion’s worth…landed near here.” He pointed to a spot on the map in the northwest corner of the Cape York Peninsula. “A little place called Weipa. It’s spelled like wee-pa but the locals say it way-pa. There was a Presbyterian mission there, but all the whites have been evacuated so there’s nothing left up there but some abos running around bare-assed naked. The Aussies didn’t have any troops up that way, so the landing was unopposed. It’s very rough terrain, with no roads to speak of. The usual way in and out is by boat. The Aussies talk about it like it’s part of some other world. MacArthur’s put a news blackout on the Jap landing but, of course, anyone with a short-wave receiver tuned to Radio Tokyo will figure it out eventually, no matter how MacArthur tries to deny it.”

  “Just a battalion, sir?” Jock asked.

  “Yep. A couple of hundred men, give or take,” Snow replied. “We figure they’re some kind of reconnaissance in force. There’s not enough of them to do anything else. But they’re not likely to find much up there except a whole lot of nothing. Like I said, that peninsula is one big wilderness.”

  Jock listened in silence. He had no idea yet where all this was going.

  “Now we’ve got ourselves a couple of
problems. The Aussies are afraid the Japs are trying to recruit the Aborigines…maybe trying to turn them into a partisan force to fight against us. It’s no secret the abos have no love for the white man. And Washington’s got its tit in a wringer because the Japs just strolled right on in.” The colonel paused for dramatic effect. “That makes our mission here look ineffective…like some paper tiger.”

  Jock might have seemed serious and attentive on the outside, but inwardly he was laughing at the terms ineffective and paper tiger. That seemed to describe the Americans’ presence in Australia quite well—at least, so far.

  “Neither Washington nor Canberra wants those Japs getting too comfortable up there,” Colonel Snow continued, “and we can’t tolerate any more of them coming ashore. Now here’s the thing…we sent a few photo recon planes up there right away, and none of them came back. So…a couple of days after those Japs landed, the Aussies sent in a small force of scouts on horseback…Nackeroos, they call them. Pretty stupid name, eh?” He pointed to a spot on the map. “Anyway, they dropped them off by boat here, at Archer Bay, about sixty miles south of Weipa. Their mission was to find the Jap command post and direct a bombing raid against it. Trouble is, they were never heard from again.”

  Jock asked, “Why’d they land so far away, sir?”

  “Remember what I said about those recon planes not coming back? Jap air and sea power from Papua and the Torres Strait are mighty strong up that way, Jock. Those Nackeroos had to sneak in at night.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir…but with the Jap airpower that strong, how does anyone plan to mount an effective bombing raid?”

  “Don’t you worry your head about that, Captain Miles. Give those flyboys the map coordinates of the target and they’ll do it at night. The Japs can’t do shit against them in the dark. We’ll cut the head off the snake and the rest of it will just wither and die. But they’ve got to have exact coordinates to bomb a target that small.”

  Jock searched the map for landmarks. Aside from a river or two—thin blue lines etched in the faded green denoting vast, flat woodlands—and the settlement at Weipa, there didn’t seem to be any geographic point of reference for over 100 miles in any direction. He noticed the date on the map legend was 1910. He couldn’t help but wonder how accurate its features were after 32 years.

  “Maybe the Aussies just had radio trouble?” Jock asked.

  “Afraid not,” Snow replied, “Radio or not, the boat was supposed to pick them up at Archer Bay on the eighth day. The boat was there. They weren’t.”

  Jock got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was beginning to understand why he was sitting in Colonel Snow’s office. Getting right to the point, he said, “Now, I suppose, it’s our turn to find the Japs, sir?”

  Colonel Snow was beaming from ear to ear as he patted Jock on the back. “You catch on real fast, Jock my boy. I knew you were the man for this job! Since it’s an American mission now, with our planes doing the bombing, the big brass want it to be our boys on the ground calling the shots. And Jock, you’re going to have the honor of leading those boys.”

  Honor…there was that word again. The centerpiece of that holy triplet Duty, Honor, Country that had shaped Jock Miles’s life and somehow managed to derail his army career at Pearl Harbor. The words that had seemed so straightforward and worshipped with easy conviction on the parade fields at West Point now, in the face of actual combat, took on a variety of murky meanings. The way Colonel Snow said honor had the distinct tone of something to be bestowed posthumously.

  Yet, as if seized by some involuntary reflex, Jock snapped to attention and said, “Yessir!” with great enthusiasm. He was not sure from what depth of his being this sudden enthusiasm had emerged. Perhaps some small part of him desperately wanted to believe the colonel was offering a chance at redemption, even though that chance came with the odds stacked squarely against success and survival. Perhaps it was the chance to do the job for which he had so diligently trained—a job he, and he alone, believed he had done splendidly at Pearl Harbor—but this time in an arena sanctioned by the starry gods in green. Or perhaps the inviolable motto of the parade ground was more deeply ingrained in Jock’s soul than even he realized. Whatever the reason, Jock Miles found himself nearly giddy with eagerness.

  The burst of enthusiasm drained quickly as practical considerations began to flood Jock’s mind. He studied the old map closely, using spread fingers like dividers to measure distance: from Brisbane to Weipa was 1200 miles as the crow flies. For a soldier on foot, it was a hell of a lot farther.

  “When are we planning on doing this, sir?” Jock asked.

  Still beaming that smile, the Colonel replied, “You move out in three days, Captain.” Undaunted by the stunned, disbelieving look on Jock’s face his answer had caused, Snow continued, “Don’t worry, three days is plenty of time. Let me give you a brief overview of how you’re going to do this thing...”

  Chapter Twelve

  The dusty streets of Brisbane were so thick with military vehicles, he might as well have been driving in convoy. Jock Miles was paying the slow-moving traffic no mind, though. His thoughts were elsewhere as he drove the jeep back to his company area. There were so many unanswered questions about the mission he had just been handed—questions that were now up to him to solve.

  First, how the hell do I pull off this fool’s dream of a recon mission without getting every last one of us killed?

  We can’t go in with vehicles…there’s no way to refuel out there and hardly any roads. I’ve got to keep this small…maybe take only a dozen or so of my best men. I don’t need the whole damned company tromping around in the middle of nowhere, and we’ve got to stay concealed. We’re going to have a ton of walking to do, no matter where the Aussies drop us off.

  How am I going to figure out our exact location out there? There are no landmarks. We’ll need to navigate by radio somehow. My celestial nav skills are way too rusty, dead reckoning’s certainly not going to cut it...but the smallest radio direction finder that’s accurate enough for the job needs to be hauled around in a jeep trailer, so that’s out.

  And speaking of radios, the company’s communication radios will be useless for this mission. Their range is just a couple of miles. But the Colonel says I’m getting a team assigned to me…three men…with the newest, whiz-bang portable field radio. Without it, there’s no mission.

  The Colonel said we’re supposed to get a crash course from the Aussies on living off the land in the bush. But they won’t send a guide with us. Supposedly, they’re ticked off the job got taken out of their hands after they screwed it up.

  Lost in his thoughts, Jock didn’t notice at first the US Army truck in front of him had come to a halt at an intersection. As he stood on the brake pedal, his jeep skidded noisily to a stop, bucking like a bronco the last few feet. It stopped within a hair’s breadth of the truck’s towing hitch. Another inch and the hitch would have been rammed through the jeep’s radiator. Several wide-eyed American soldiers riding in the truck’s bed peered down over the tailgate at the flustered captain behind the jeep’s wheel.

  An American MP corporal, who had been directing the dense traffic at the intersection, was now walking quickly toward the jeep. “Hey, pal!” the MP called to the jeep’s still-anonymous driver. “What the fuck’s the matter with you? Get your head out of your—”

  The gleam of captain’s bars, now clearly visible on the jeep driver’s collar, cut the corporal’s tirade short. “Sorry, sir,” the flustered MP said, snapping a salute. “I didn’t realize—”

  “That’s okay, Corporal,” Jock interrupted. “My fault entirely. Consider my head pulled out.”

  Much relieved, the corporal said, “Very good, sir.” He turned and headed back to his duties at the intersection. “Have a good day, sir…and take it easy.”

  Take it easy…that’s easier said than done, Jock told himself.

  When he walked into the company dayroom, Jock found his first sergeant and execut
ive officer squared off in confrontation, standing nose to nose. The first words Jock heard were spoken by an exasperated Melvin Patchett: “Negative, Lieutenant! Negative. You told those men ‘you don’t want to get caught lying down in grazing fire.’ Those were your exact words. I’m living proof, sir, there ain’t nothing you can do except lay down in grazing fire! Would you rather they stand up and get chopped off at the knees?”

  Brewster, arms folded defiantly across his chest, was adamant. “As I told you before, First Sergeant, you do not contradict an officer in front of the men. Is that clear?”

  His face beet-red, Patchett replied, “With all due respect, Lieutenant, what’s clear to me is that dumbshit instructions like that will get a lot of men killed for nothing.”

  Brewster dropped his hands to his hips like a scolding school teacher. “That’s it, First Sergeant,” he said. “I’ve had enough. I’m bringing you up on charges for insubordination!” Without looking, he spun around to storm out of the dayroom, but with his first stride collided with Jock Miles.

  Jock steadied his agitated XO with a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, Lieutenant,” Jock said, his voice irritated. “Now, Brewster, would you like to explain to me just what the hell is going on here?”

  “The First Sergeant was disrespectful to me in front of the men, sir,” Scooter Brewster replied.

  Jock rubbed his chin as if deep in thought. After a moment, he said, “Let’s you and me go into my office, Lieutenant.” He turned to Patchett. “First Sergeant, I want a meeting of all company officers and NCOs at eighteen hundred hours, right after supper. I’ve got something real big I need to discuss.”

  The look of irritation on Patchett’s face had cooled to its usual indignant scowl. “Very good, sir,” he replied, and went about his business.