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

by William Peter Grasso

  “Perhaps he was waylaid by thieves…or blacks?”

  “Nah,” she replied with a shake of her head, “thieves don’t clean up after their dirty work as well as crocs do. And blacks? Not possible. They loved my father.”

  “Just like they love you, Jillian?”

  A coy smile was her only reply.

  Sato asked, “And your mother?”

  Just for a moment, her expression became one of deep pain. The tone of her answer, though, was very matter-of-fact: “Never knew her. She died giving birth to me.”

  That stopped the conversation dead in its tracks. Sato floundered, trying to think of a graceful way to get it rolling again. Several long, awkward moments passed before he asked, “Your father…when did that happen?”

  “Nineteen thirty-seven.”

  “And you’ve been running his business ever since?”

  Jillian nodded. Her glass of saké was still half-full. Whether the conversation had made her uncomfortable, or just thirsty, she was not sure. The half-glass did not go into the vase. She downed it in one swallow.

  Sato made a mental calculation, no doubt slowed a bit by the saké. “But that was five years ago. You would have only been—”

  “Nineteen, Bob. Nineteen years old. Plenty old enough to run a business I’ve known all my life.”

  “We are closer in age than you might realize,” he said. “I’m only thirty one.”

  Neither spoke as she refilled their glasses. The bottle was now nearly empty. Jillian returned to the far end of the couch, tucking her bare legs beneath her as she sat, and fearlessly took another sip. The alcohol would pose no problems. She knew from last night’s experience she could hold her liquor far better than her guest.

  Sato broke the silence; he began to wax philosophical. “This is truly a very generous thing we Japanese are doing for Australia,” he said.

  “Generous? How’s that, Bob?”

  “We’re allowing you to become part of a new era…with very little sacrifice on your part.”

  “Maybe you should define ‘very little sacrifice,’ Bob. Those airplanes that fly from your airfield…I don’t suppose they’re dropping candy and biscuits on the lucky people of Australia.”

  Sato chuckled and shook his head. “No, of course not. It will be necessary to make a show of force against a few of your cities…Cairns, Townsville, Cooktown, Mackay, Brisbane, even Sydney…to drive home how foolish it would be to resist.”

  Jillian leveled him a skeptical look. “Your planes can reach all those cities from here? Mackay, Brisbane, Sydney…they’re all bloody far away.”

  “No, not yet,” Sato replied. “But our enterprise here on Cape York has gone swimmingly. In a few months, before the wet season begins again, we’ll have airfields far to the south, right down to the Gregory Range. Those cities will then become much closer. All for a very small investment in men and equipment. When faced with that threat, we will expect to receive Canberra’s full cooperation with the Empire.”

  “You really think it’s going to happen just like that?”

  “We’ve never had any doubt, Jillian. Australia is simply too vast to be defended by its meager forces. The Imperial Japanese Navy’s brilliant stroke at Pearl Harbor has rendered the Americans barely able to help themselves, let alone Australia.”

  Jillian pondered his words for a few moments. Suddenly, her face brightened like a schoolgirl who had just solved the teacher’s riddle. “Wait a bloody minute,” she said. “If Australia is such a pushover, why don’t you just march in right now with a whole bloody army and take whatever you want?”

  “There’s nothing in this place we want, Jillian. We already control all the vital resources in the Southwest Pacific.”

  “Bullshit,” she replied. “That’s not it at all. You’re spread too thin now, aren’t you? Your bloody army and navy are trying to hold down half of Asia, the Philippines, the East Indies…You don’t have the men or equipment for any more conquests, do you? That’s why there’s only a tidy handful of you walking around on Cape York.”

  He tried to put that tone in his voice—the one he had used before to assert superiority and imply a threat of destruction—but the saké had thickened his tongue. His rebuttal sounded more like that of a whining ideologue, trying to refute an obvious truth. “The forces of the Empire have proved invincible so far, my dear young lady.”

  Jillian knew she had opened a door Sato meant to keep closed. She had nothing to lose now by plunging ahead; her debating skills were far less impaired by drink than his. The saké had done nothing but jack up her courage, and she was enjoying this feeling of having the advantage very much.

  “No, Bob,” she said, moving in for the kill, “there is something you want here. You want to make sure that nobody, like the Yanks, for instance, can get strong in Australia and use it as a base against you…because you couldn’t lift a bloody finger to stop them if they did. So you’re going to try to bluff Canberra into surrendering.”

  She leaned back against the cushion, very satisfied with herself. Sato looked so pitiful, not saying a word, like a crestfallen child who had been caught telling tall tales. But Jillian could not resist rubbing salt in his wound.

  “If I”—she made a grand, theatrical gesture of pointing to herself—“could figure that out, Bob, don’t you suppose those bloody wankers down in the capital have already done the same? Whose brilliant idea was this, anyway?”

  His silence was all the answer she needed. Trying not to sound too giddy, she asked, “Oh, goodness…it was yours, wasn’t it, Bob?”

  Now she thought he might actually break down and cry. To her great surprise, she found herself feeling sorry for Bob Sato. She was still fully aware that Colonel Najima’s troops could, at their whim, slaughter every last man, woman, and child in and around Weipa. But Jillian now knew their presence was just a ruse—a sideshow playing to a meager captive audience, removed from the far bigger stage of a world at war—that could collapse like a house of cards with the slightest puff of wind. Somehow, bullets and bayonets aside, they suddenly seemed irrelevant and ridiculous.

  Just humor them a little longer, she thought, and they’ll be gone.

  The saké had dimmed Sato’s mind but bolstered his courage. With a speed and deftness that belied his advanced state of inebriation, he slid across the couch to Jillian. One hand began to caress her neck, the other the smooth skin on the inside of her thigh.

  “You’re a very perceptive woman, Jillian,” he said, his face hovering closer, his words slurred.

  She was startled but not repulsed, despite her reflex to retreat. But there was nowhere to go—she was already wedged against the armrest. He was not an enemy because she did not consider herself at war, and the touch of his soft hands was gentle and comforting. Bob Sato would probably make a very suitable lover, she thought, someone with whom you could discuss music and politics when the bed play was done—if it was not for that one thing…

  “Bob, I won’t sleep with you.”

  My goodness, she is painfully direct! Please don’t tell me she believes that nonsense that all Japanese men are poorly endowed.

  “Why?” he asked, the pain of a fresh wound on his face. “Is it because I am…Japanese?”

  “No, Bob, it’s not that. Not at all. I won’t sleep with you because…because I can’t sleep with any man.”

  Confusion kept Sato silent for a few moments. When he finally did speak, his words were cautious and fumbling: “You’re not…not a…”

  Her laughter shook the room. “A virgin? No, Bob, I’m definitely not a virgin.”

  Seeing the hurt on Sato’s face was now mixed with confusion, she added, “And no…I’m not a lesbian, either.”

  Again, he asked, “But why?”

  “Because it will hurt. Unbearably.”

  His hands returned to his lap. He considered asking her to clarify, but not knowing what or how to ask, thought better of it.

  “Maybe you should go join your fri
ends at the Mission House,” she said.

  Sato shook his head dismissively. “Those women are for the soldiers.” The way he slurred those women made the words sound dirty and repulsive.

  Drunk or not, he knew a rejection when he heard one. This didn’t seem like one you could reverse with some smooth talking, either. Assuming, of course, he was even capable of smooth talk with so much saké in his belly. He rose to collect his records.

  “Thank you for a most enlightening evening, Jillian.” His words sounded sincere, almost too formal.

  Jillian stood and waved goodbye as he walked out the door, stumbling twice along the way. Then she sat back down on the couch and breathed a deep sigh of relief. She smiled, reveling in the verbal thrashing she had just dished out, but her joy quickly turned bittersweet as she thought, Why does sex have to hurt so bloody bad?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sleep proved an elusive refuge for the men of Task Force Miles. Melvin Patchett had little trouble rousing his edgy troopers at the designated 0100 wake-up. Two US Navy cooks had been detailed to serve them a hot breakfast at 0130: eggs to order, bacon, toast and jam, and coffee. The food was delicious and therapeutic to everyone’s tense nerves. The knowledge that it was the last hot meal they would enjoy for the immediate future made it taste even better. From this point on, they would be eating nothing but the newly developed K rations and D bars they carried with them. Designed to provide the combat soldier just enough calories to maintain normal physical activity, they were certainly no taste treat, especially the D bars. Although resembling a thick candy bar, D bars had a bitter taste akin to baker’s chocolate. As Melvin Patchett had told his complaining troopers when they first sampled them, They made it taste like shit so you touch-holes don’t eat it like candy. The rations were compact and light, though; each man carried 14 days’ worth of sustenance in his pack, with room to spare.

  Tim Wells and his crew looked refreshed and ready to go. They were used to catching sleep whenever and wherever they could, even onboard the droning Cat in flight. The weather forecast had held. The sea breezes were light, the surface of Trinity Inlet placid. A few wispy clouds proved no impediment to the moonlight illuminating the flying boats’ watery runway. Even L for Love’s wounds had been healed with more patches and rivets. She and her sister ship stood poised on their beaching gear, noses to the water, looking as eager to fly as the ungainly aircraft possibly could.

  Not everything had gone so well during the stopover at Cairns. The search for up-to-date maps had proved fruitless. The only ones Jock Miles could find were at least as ancient as the ones he carried. He’d have to make do with the maps he had.

  Another problem: the burn to PFC Marcel “Bogater” Boudreau’s shoulder looked more serious once they were back on the ground. “It’s a second-degree burn,” Doc Green said as he examined the wound closely. “Small area…but still, it’s blistered and sensitive. Even bandaged, there’s a risk of infection. You shouldn’t carry anything like a weapon or a pack strap on that shoulder. Not until it heals.”

  “How long will that take?” Jock asked.

  “About two weeks.”

  Jock and First Sergeant Patchett exchanged worried glances. The last thing they needed was a man who could not carry his weight. Without the need to speak a word, they had come to a decision.

  Bogater Boudreau had seen this moment coming. Ever since Doc Green had started fussing with his wound, he knew they would want to leave him behind. But he would have none of it. Before Jock Miles could say anything, Boudreau laid out his case.

  “It’s no problem, sir,” he said. “Look…”

  Bogater hoisted his horseshoe pack into position, one strap over his good shoulder. He had modified the other shoulder strap so, instead of going over the top of the shoulder, it would now loop under his armpit and across his chest before hooking to the other strap. The pack hung crookedly on his back, but it wouldn’t fall off and did not impede his movement in any way. Most importantly, no weight was hanging from his burned shoulder.

  Patchett was the first to change his mind. “Looks like a little Cajun ingenuity there, Bogater. I’m impressed.”

  “And it ain’t even my shooting shoulder that’s wounded,” Boudreau said.

  Jock was still not convinced. Even without the irritation of the pack’s strap, the wound could fester in the bush. Infection would rob Boudreau of his energy and impose another burden on the team. We might have our hands full with sick and wounded men once we’re out there. Let’s not start off bringing a liability with us. We can manage with one less man.

  “That looks fine,” Jock said, “if we were just going on an admin march for a couple of hours. But we’re going to be walking through the bush for days. With all that weight on one shoulder, you’ll wear out fast.”

  “I can handle it, sir,” Boudreau replied. “I’m damn sure tougher than that.”

  Jock wanted to believe him. But there were the lives of 14 other men to consider, too. He shook his head: No.

  Bogater screwed up his face in protest, but the first sergeant cut him off with a terse, “At ease, son.” Turning to Jock, Patchett asked, “If I may, sir?”

  Jock nodded, yielding the floor to his top sergeant.

  “Show him the leg, son,” Patchett said to Boudreau.

  Bogater Boudreau quickly dropped his pack to the floor, undid his right legging and pulled up his trouser leg to the knee. His shin and calf were a mass of purple scars. A few of the scars had a nasty concavity where flesh had been carved out. Once upon a time, something had taken quite a bite out of Bogater Boudreau.

  He began to tell the story behind the wound. “When I was fifteen, my kid brother and me…we was fishing. Gator got a hold of my brother. I wrassled him, got my brother free, but he was bit up real bad.” He pointed to his leg. “He got an itty-bitty piece of me, too…before I stuck my knife through his eye.”

  Boudreau ran his hands through his blond, close-cropped hair before continuing. “I carried my brother all the way to the doc in town…some twelve miles…and we both come out okay.”

  Melvin Patchett smiled. He could see the story was having the desired effect on Jock Miles.

  “So if you think I ain’t man enough to carry this little ol’ pack, Captain, I gotta beg to differ with you.”

  Jock’s resolve had softened halfway through Boudreau’s story. If he insisted on dropping Boudreau, he knew what the first sergeant would say next: If we start leaving men behind for every little scratch, in no time flat it’ll be just you and me, sir. And he’d be right, as usual.

  “All right, Private Boudreau. Welcome back to the team,” Jock said.

  Doc Green had watched Boudreau’s display in quiet amazement. He had remembered the young private as being especially unimpressed during his briefing on the hazards posed by crocodiles and other Australian wildlife. Now he knew why. He lingered to speak with Bogater Boudreau after Miles and Patchett had moved on to other business.

  “So tell me, Private,” Green said, “did you get that nickname bogater because of that incident you just described?”

  “No, sir. In Loosiana, a blond boy is just about always called bogater. It’s short for albino alligator…and both are rarer than a virgin in Brisbane.”

  With a delighted laugh, Doc Green said, “A man of the world, I see…but just the same, we’ll have to keep a very close watch on that burn.”

  Boudreau still seemed unimpressed as he said, “Suit yourself, sir.”

  Her engines were already running as L for Love rolled slowly down the ramp toward the water, restrained by the tractor’s towline hooked to the beaching gear beneath her tail. Once afloat in the water, the towline held her fast as the ground crew, working only by the dim light of their torches, performed the ritual of removing her beaching wheels. Tim Wells waited for them to finish, his fingers thrumming impatiently on the control column as he and his co-pilot scanned the surface of Trinity Inlet.

  “It looks clear, sir,” the c
o-pilot said.

  “Yeah,” Wells replied, and then turned to Jock Miles, seated on a milk crate between the pilots’ seats. “A water takeoff at night is the same as one during the day, except you can’t see a bloody thing, of course.”

  Jock hoped he was just trying to be funny. Judging by the tense faces of all the crew, though, that didn’t seem to be the case.

  “The real problem is debris in the water,” Wells continued. “There could be a log floating along and you wouldn’t know it…until it tore the bottom out of her hull.”

  Okay, he’s definitely not joking, Jock thought. But this was the trade-off…the shortest flight so my men aren’t too fatigued, plus that flight had to be made in darkness, yet arrive at dawn…So how come it doesn’t sound like such a hot idea all of a sudden?

  “I wish we had the bloody Mark Three already,” Wells said, to no one in particular.

  “What’s a Mark Three?” Jock asked.

  “A Catalina amphibian…flies off land or sea. We’ve only got a handful right now. Obviously not in this squadron. Your Navy seems reluctant to let go of them.”

  A waist gunner’s voice came over the interphone, reporting the ground crew was done removing the beaching gear. They were clear to taxi. Wells advanced the throttles and L for Love pushed forward, into the darkened void that was Trinity Inlet. Aside from the blackout lights of vehicles on the shore—tiny pinpoints of white and red vanishing and reappearing with each twist in the road—the moon was their only source of illumination. The city of Cairns, flanking the inlet’s north bank, was as dark as the seaplane base. Sometimes, the Jap bombers came at night. There was no point making themselves easier targets.

  The radio operator called out, “M for Mother is in the water, sir. They’ll hold position until we start our run.”

  “Very good,” Wells replied. He asked his co-pilot, “I reckon we’re in the middle now, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, this looks about right.”

  Jock wished both pilots sounded a little more certain.