“Crystal clear, Mister President.”
“So when can a second carrier group return to operations in the Pacific?” the president asked.
King pretended to do a quick mental calculation, much to FDR’s silent amusement. The president knew full well his admiral had the answer to that question long before setting foot in the Oval Office, but he allowed his fellow Navy man a moment to play-act.
His bogus deliberations done, King replied, “By the end of September, sir. Mid-October, the latest.”
FDR said, “Excellent, Admiral, excellent!” Then the president upped the ante. “In one week’s time,” he continued, “I’ll expect a detailed briefing on the offensive operation in which the Navy intends to use that carrier group.”
The president turned to his Army Chief of Staff. “Now, General Marshall…what good news do we have from Australia? Have we bombed any Japanese airfields on New Guinea? The Torres Strait islands? The Solomons?”
In his usual, measured tones, Marshall said, “No, Mister President…we have not been successful in doing so. Not yet…but the strength of our air force continues to grow on Australia, slowly but—”
FDR cut him off coldly, asking, “Grow? In what way? Have our pilots downed any Japanese planes?”
“We have several unconfirmed kills reported, sir.”
“Nothing confirmed?” Roosevelt asked.
“No, sir. Not to my knowledge.”
“Are you telling me your squadrons…few in number as they are…are still short fuel? Hasn’t the Navy’s resupply rate for aviation gasoline improved yet?”
“Negative, Mister President. We continue to receive only the minimum allotment.”
Admiral King came to the defense of his navy. “It’s like blood from a stone, Mister President. We burn fuel just to transport fuel. It’s a delicate balance…the Navy’s doing all it can.”
Roosevelt cast a scowl in Admiral King’s direction and then let out a sigh of exasperation. Turning his wheelchair so he could gaze out the window, he said, “Fuel…it’s always about the damned fuel, isn’t it?”
Grasping for anything that could be considered positive news, FDR looked to his Army chief and asked, “The Japanese interlopers on Cape York…are your boys dealing with them yet?”
“Yes, sir, they are. The mission to locate and target the Japanese landing party will kick off within the next two days. We’ve selected a crack recon unit to do the job.”
The president raised an eyebrow skeptically. “A crack unit, you say? Didn’t you tell me last week the readiness level of our ground units was still marginal?”
“Yes, sir, I did. But in the weeks since MacArthur has assumed command of the Allied effort in the Southwest Pacific, signs of great progress are beginning to emerge.”
FDR believed he had found a ray of hope after all. “Very good,” he said. “I look forward to hearing of our first victory over Japanese forces very soon, General Marshall. Just do me a favor and make sure the Australians don’t feel like they’re playing second fiddle in their own country.”
Confidently, Marshall replied, “I understand, Mister President. If anyone can bring about understanding and cooperation between our forces and the Australians, it’s Douglas MacArthur.”
On the other side of the world, some of that understanding and cooperation with the Australians was being inflicted on Jock Miles. In a meeting meant to iron out the details of moving his task force by air the 1400 miles from Brisbane to Temple Bay, the Royal Australian Air Force pilot leading the briefing had just thrown a big monkey wrench into Jock’s schedule. Rather than the 24-hour movement—with one stop—Jock had envisioned, the RAAF flight lieutenant had just announced the flight would take four days, with three overnight stopovers.
“That’s just piss-poor execution,” Jock said, not caring if his snide tone offended the collection of pilots in the room. “My men need to be on the ground and moving across Cape York a whole lot faster than that. Every day they rot while sitting in an airplane takes away another big chunk of their combat effectiveness.”
The indignant RAAF pilots seemed to puff out their chests, as if presenting the pilot wings residing there was all the justification needed. Jock ignored their studied arrogance and pressed his case.
“Look, my time in Hawaii made me pretty familiar with the capabilities of the Catalina flying boat. You fly the same ones the US Navy does, and they can keep them in the air for over twenty hours at a stretch—”
“As can the Royal Australian Air Force,” the flight lieutenant interrupted. “But our hands are tied here, Captain Miles.”
With an incredulous laugh, Jock asked, “Yeah? By who?”
“Your General MacArthur, our Supreme Allied Commander,” the lieutenant replied, emphasizing the our with a tone that implied MacArthur’s authority over the Aussies was most unwelcome. “He has ordered that no long-range combat missions be flown by any of the allied forces until further notice. Too much precious fuel wasted, he says, with little in the way of results. We’re only to fly close-range, defensive missions until the fuel situation improves. Unfortunately, the flight leg you suggest…Brisbane to Cairns…violates your general’s order by a sizeable percentage.”
Jock thought he had heard it all in his army career, but this took the cake. “That’s bullshit,” he said. “I might as well take the fucking train to Cairns.”
Looking smug, the flight lieutenant said, “Feel free to do so, Captain.”
Jock knew the attitude well; the US military had been putting up with it ever since it landed in Australia: Typical bloody Yanks…they want everything, and they want it yesterday. And now, his own commanding general was giving the Aussies another excuse to drag their feet. But he tried to reason with this collection of intransigent pilots one more time. “Look, I’m pretty sure you’re misreading the order. The only combat part of this mission looks to be the last leg…the flight from Cairns to Temple Bay. That’s only four hundred miles. The thousand miles before that is just a straight transport flight, something I’ll bet you guys do every day.”
His assertion must have been close enough to correct, because the RAAF pilots shifted uncomfortably in their seats. But Jock could tell from their faces none of them were willing to make the distinction he had just suggested. “Well, then,” Jock said, “I’m wasting my time here. I’m taking this matter up the chain.” As he shuffled his mission papers back into their folder and prepared to take his leave, an authoritative voice spoke from the doorway.
“No need for that, Captain Miles,” the voice said in a mild but unmistakable Australian accent. “The chain, as you call it, has come to you…and I’m inclined to agree with you.”
Jock turned to see the speaker, a smiling Royal Australian Air Force wing commander whose embroidered pilot’s wings seemed to glisten like spun silver against the khaki of his shirt. The other pilots in the room shot from their chairs and snapped to attention.
“I’m Wing Commander Tim Wells,” he said as he extended his hand to Jock. Wells did not bother to tell his braced pilots they could relax and take their seats until the handshake was done and they had both settled into chairs at the briefing table.
Tim Wells’s manner was relaxed and confident. Turning to a junior pilot officer, he said, “Do we have a kettle on? I could use a cup. Bring one for our guest, too.”
Turning back to Jock, the wing commander said, “Sorry to have not joined you sooner, but contrary to the impression these lads might have given you, some of us do actually fly from time to time. I heard the tail end of your discussion. I’m afraid my lads may be more intent on having a naughty or two with girlfriends along the route than getting you to your destination in a timely fashion. Perhaps we can arrive at a more equitable solution.”
“That would be great, sir,” Jock said, fumbling over the sir. He was not quite sure how to address Tim Wells. To an American, wing commander sounded almost silly, like something out of a Buck Rogers comic book. If Wells had been a US
officer, he would simply be called colonel. Since the wing commander did not correct him, Jock assumed sir would be just fine. As laid back as Wells seemed to be, though, Jock half-expected him to say, Call me Tim.
Wells’s pilots, so haughty and unyielding just a few moments ago, sunk glumly into their seats like schoolboys caught cheating by their headmaster. They could only watch silently as their wing commander took center stage.
Studying the aviation chart sprawled across the table, Tim Wells said, “My lads seem to have overlooked one thing. If your General MacArthur is really so keen on conserving fuel…and he really wants us to fly you and your men to Temple Bay…making all those unnecessary stops along the way would actually cost us more fuel. Nothing burns petrol like taking off and climbing to altitude. Why do it four times when we only need to do it twice? And why would I want to tie up two of my Catalinas for four bloody days…not even counting the trip back?”
Jock nodded in eager agreement as he thought, Finally...a brass hat with some common sense!
With his finger, the wing commander traced a line on the chart up the east coast of Australia, from Brisbane to Cairns. “That’s a leisurely day’s flying. About a thousand miles…we’d be airborne a little over nine hours. Is that more what you had in mind for the first leg, Captain Miles?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Good,” Wells said. “And the chance of running into Japanese aircraft between here and there is pretty slim. North of Cairns, though…not so slim, I’m afraid.”
“I understand, sir,” Jock said. “And I understand you need daylight for the water landing at Temple Bay.”
“Absolutely, Captain…landing at first light will be best, after we’ve flown that last four hundred miles in darkness. Much safer that way. If there are any Japs about, they’ll have a much harder time finding us.” Wells jotted a quick calculation on the edge of the chart. “Let’s say we depart Cairns at oh two thirty? I don’t fancy water takeoffs in the dark, but the weather looks good and we should have decent moonlight. It’s a risk we’ll have to take to keep you on schedule.”
Jock could feel a wave of relief sweeping over him. It would be a piece of cake working with Tim Wells.
“Yes sir, that would work fine,” Jock said, and then added, “Unfortunately, you’ll still have to fly out of Temple Bay in broad daylight after you drop us off.”
Tim Wells just smiled and said, “Can’t have everything we want now, can we, Yank?”
The hot tea Wells had requested was placed in brimming cups before them. After a sip, Jock held his mug high and said, “Well, sir, here’s to a great plan.”
As they clinked mugs to toast their venture, Tim Wells replied, “A great plan, indeed. I like it so much, in fact, I think I’ll fly the lead ship myself.”
Chapter Seventeen
As she rode through the Mission, Jillian could not decide which was the more humorous sight: the line of several dozen Japanese soldiers at the door of the Mission House, impatiently waiting to avail themselves of the comfort women’s talents, or Nathan Gooreng pacing the veranda of the icehouse like some crazed wind-up toy, gesturing wildly as Old Robert sat and listened, looking for all the world like he would rather be someplace else.
The image of Nathan that seemed so comical from a distance, though, grew more serious the closer she came. When Nathan noticed her approaching, his pacing stopped suddenly, as if this large, imposing man was embarrassed she had seen him so upset. His arms, which a moment ago had been flailing to make some point, were now held open in a gesture of welcome to her.
“Got your knickers in a twist, Nathan?” Jillian asked as she dismounted and hitched Franz to the veranda rail.
She had never before seen Nathan Gooreng upset. Even though he did not work for her on the boats, she knew him well. Everyone in Weipa did. He was the finest carpenter in the Mission and a natural leader. It came as no surprise when Sato made him foreman of the Aborigine laborers. But now, after unburdening his troubled soul to Old Robert, Jillian was sure Nathan was fighting back tears.
His deep voice trembling, Nathan said, “Mister Sato does not keep his word, Miss Jilly.”
She felt a knot tighten in her stomach as she thought: Is this the moment when it all falls apart? Is this when our coexisting with the Japanese starts to unravel…and we start to become their slaves?
She tried her best to hide her anxiety, but her voice trembled just like Nathan’s as she asked, “What happened?”
“The airfield…it is nearly done,” Nathan began. “They say airplanes can come tomorrow. We set many fires…burned away many trees.”
“Yeah, we know. We’ve been gagging on the smoke for days,” Jillian said. “But you weren’t supposed to be done for another week. How many workers did you have?”
“About one hundred…from Weipa and Aurukun. We thought the Japanese would be very happy…”
Old Robert had been gently stroking Franz’s neck, letting Nathan do the talking. He had always been a hard man to read, but Jillian could tell her captain was deeply agitated, as well. Still gazing into the eye of the contented horse, Old Robert said, “Tell Miss Jilly what they did to my son.”
Jillian felt the knot in her stomach take another twist: He didn’t say his son’s name! Blacks never speak the names of the dead. She wouldn’t speak the young man’s name, either, pleading with her eyes instead: What happened to Old Robert’s son? What happened to Jonathan?
“They beat him, Miss Jilly,” Nathan said. “Tied him to a post and beat him. Just like those soldiers who were stealing rations.” He paused, and Jillian found herself unable to breathe until he mercifully added, “Then they made him go back to work.”
She breathed a sigh of relief, but in a moment she was scolding herself. The fact that Jonathan was still alive hardly signaled the end of anything. Jillian reminded herself: This is probably just the beginning.
Laying a comforting hand on Old Robert’s shoulder, she asked Nathan, “How did all this happen?”
“Jonathan told Mister Sato we should get more money for working so fast. I told him to hold his tongue but he did not listen to me.”
“The young ones never listen,” Old Robert said.
His voice more steady now, Nathan continued, “Mister Sato says we don’t work fast enough. He will pay us less to build the next airfield—”
“That son of a bitch,” Jillian muttered.
Nathan’s tale was not finished. “When Jonathan told Mister Sato, ‘That’s not fair,’ he answered, ‘Then go work for Miss Jilly if you don’t like it.’”
Shit! Jillian thought. I should have seen this coming. Business partners, my arse!
“So what are we going to do?” Nathan asked.
“What can we do?” Old Robert replied. “They treat us better than the whites did…at least until this. I think they want to teach my foolish son a lesson.”
Jillian slumped into a chair. Her mind wrestled with her anger over what had just happened at the airfield and her guilt for helping to cause it. Sato’s probably trying to teach me a lesson, she thought.
A young Japanese soldier scurried up to the veranda, bowed, and handed Jillian an envelope. Bowing again, he ran off, back to the Mission House. Inside the envelope was a note from Bob Sato. It invited Jillian to dine that evening with him and Colonel Najima. There was no provision for an RSVP; there was no option to refuse. She knew she had just been given an order.
Chapter Eighteen
The word about Doc Green had spread like wildfire through the ranks of Task Force Miles. All the men were now aware of his lady doctor specialty and his easy-going, decidedly unmilitary nature. A few of them decided to test just how easy-going he was at the weapons range.
Jock Miles had insisted that Doc and the three radiomen get familiar with their newly-issued Thompson submachine guns before the task force set out from Brisbane. Sergeant Tom Hadley led the detail that would conduct the live-fire training. As Doc Green arrived at the firing range, Hadley c
ommanded, “ATTEN-HUT.” Rather than snapping to attention, however, his men—all except a sullen J.T. Guess—offered a very special “salute.” They threw themselves onto their backs and raised their legs in the air as if in the stirrups for a gynecological exam. Nicky Russo shouted, “UP ON THE TABLE AND SPREAD ’EM, BOYS.”
The dumbfounded Hadley, a straight-laced fireplug of a buck sergeant, looked ready to blow a gasket until he saw Doc Green convulsed with laughter. “Very good, fellows…Very funny,” Green said after catching his breath. Waving the muzzle of his unloaded Thompson in the air, he added, “Now get up and show me how this bloody thing works.”
Hadley wasn’t sure why the doc even needed to make an appearance at the firing range. “Sir, are Aussie medics allowed to carry weapons?” he asked.
“Everyone’s entitled to a means of self-defense, Sergeant,” Doc Green replied.
Much to their surprise, the doc proved to be a natural with the submachine gun. His hands were steady and confident, not tentative and shaky like those of a novice. Calmly, he put the weapon to his shoulder and with the first burst, he ripped the heart out of the bull’s-eye at 30 yards. “Not much different than shooting a Bren,” he said. “Just a hell of a lot lighter.”
Surprised, Sergeant Hadley asked, “You’ve fired a Bren Gun, sir?”
“Sure,” Green replied, “In Papua. It bloody well saved my life a couple of times. And please…call me Doc.”
Like wide-eyed, reverent children, Hadley’s team asked in a collective voice, “You were in Papua?”
The bonding came quickly after that, the yet-to-be-blooded soldiers hanging on every word of the combat veteran. They listened in rapt attention as he told stories of the Aussies’ failed attempt to hold back the Japanese advance and the terrible human cost of that failure.
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