Briley gave Wells an arrogant glance. “I believe your boys flew Task Force Miles in, didn’t they, Wing Commander?”
“Yes, General, they did. I flew the lead plane.”
“And would the Royal Australian Air Force be willing to fly in and pick them up at Albatross Bay, as this ridiculous message suggests?”
“If the message can be verified as authentic, then absolutely, General.”
“And just how do you propose we verify it, Wells?”
“Quite simply, sir…by asking them the identifiers of the aircraft that flew them in. No Jap could ever know that.”
Stu Botkin was startled when the receiver relay began clicking its reply. It had been less than an hour since he sent his message to Brisbane. His three comrades were lounging on the veranda, keeping a lookout while resting their weary legs. They weren’t expecting an answer so soon. They came rushing in and crowded eagerly around the telegraph operator’s table at the first click of the relay, straining to hear every dit and dah of Morse code—though only Botkin and McGuire understood it.
The reply was short; only a few sentences. By the time he finished copying it, Botkin seemed puzzled. He sighed and said, “Here we go…they want authentication. Get this…they’re asking for the identifiers of the aircraft that flew us here.” He buried his face in his hands and asked, “Who the hell would know that?”
Botkin could tell right away that Hadley and Boudreau didn’t know; the blank looks on their faces were a dead giveaway.
McGuire, though, was busily flipping through a notebook he pulled from his shirt pocket. “I know that,” he said. “It’s all right here. The planes were called L for Love and M for Mother.”
Botkin was astonished. “You wrote all that shit down, Pat?”
“Yeah,” McGuire replied. “You see, I plan to write a book about all this…if we ever get out of here alive, that is.”
The joint planning conference was still going on when General Briley’s aide rushed back into the conference room. “The reply has come back, General,” the aide said, pointing to the phone on the conference table. “I’ll have them put the call through.”
General Briley listened for a moment, and then cupped his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. Turning to Tim Wells, he asked, “L for Love, M for Mother. Is that it, Wells?”
Tim Wells smiled. “That’s correct, sir,” he replied.
Briley hung up the phone and began to pace the conference room as the eyes of 20 military officers nervously followed him. He had been so heavily invested in the idea the message was a Japanese hoax that now, with confirmation of the message’s authenticity, he didn’t know how to proceed. He didn’t like being proved so totally wrong, either.
One thing still bothered Samuel Briley very much: what of Captain Brewster’s courier mission? There was no mention of it at all in the telegraph message. Had that mission failed as spectacularly as Task Force Miles had succeeded? Perhaps there was another possibility, Briley thought:
The elimination of the Forbes woman has been accomplished, and my young captains are shrewd enough to make no mention of it in an unsecured message.
Whatever the outcome, it could not be discussed over civil telegraph lines.
After a few more moments of pacing, Samuel Briley had come to a decision. “All right,” he said, “let’s bring Task Force Miles in…but we’re not going to pick them up at Albatross Bay.”
Several voices rang out in dissent all at once, but Tim Wells’s was the most prominent. “Why not, sir?” Wells said. “I’m willing to give it a go.”
“Too risky…and I know my Air Force will back me up on this. We haven’t had a successful air operation in daylight since we got here, and we’re not going to try it now. Task Force Miles walked in…they can walk out the same way. Tell them to come home…and make damned sure they bring that Jap colonel with them.”
Briley sensed the other officers in the room weren’t thrilled with his decision. They wouldn’t look him in the eye and shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. The general didn’t care, though. They had no choice but to comply, and he wasn’t there to make them happy.
“This meeting is dismissed,” Briley said. “I’ve got to get upstairs and inform General MacArthur.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Samuel Briley walked purposefully into the reception suite of MacArthur’s office. His step faltered only when the icy gaze of the receptionist fell on him. The woman, an Australian civilian in US Army employ, issued a cold greeting: “General Sutherland wants a word with you, sir.”
Quite put out, Briley said, “I’m here to see the Supreme Commander, not the Chief of Staff.”
“General MacArthur is unavailable,” she said. “Please have a seat. General Sutherland will be with you shortly.”
Briley knew what was going on: I’m being snubbed. A two-star doesn’t have to cool his heels just to see another two-star. Sutherland is just his gate-keeper...I know full well MacArthur’s in there.
It was one thing to know what was going on, but it was entirely another to know why. Right now, Samuel Briley didn’t have a clue as to why MacArthur was snubbing him.
Generals do not wait well. In the five minutes it took Sutherland to appear, Sam Briley’s face had reddened with annoyance. He was sure he could feel his blood pressure rising. He was well aware of his pulse pounding in his temples. His first words to Sutherland were anything but cordial: “What the hell’s going on here, Richard? I need to see General MacArthur. I have some excellent news for him.”
Sutherland’s tone was like a schoolmaster scolding a pupil. “The general already knows your news. It’s all over the radio…and he’s very unhappy.”
Briley realized this conversation was going to happen right here, with the two of them standing in the reception area. He would not be ushered into Sutherland’s office, let alone MacArthur’s. He would not be offered a drink and a comfortable chair. He was not being afforded the courtesies owed to a two-star general. The snub was becoming more brutal by the second.
Although the men were roughly the same height, Sutherland seemed to be looking down at Briley. “That message from that task force of yours,” Sutherland said, “the whole damned world knows about it now. It’s all over the radio. Do you vouch for its authenticity?”
“Yes, Richard, I do.”
“Then that was a damned foolish thing to do, General.” Sutherland managed to make the word general sound like a slur.
Baffled, Briley asked, “Since when is victory foolish, Richard?”
“When MacArthur doesn’t get the credit,” Sutherland replied. “The only name being mentioned on the radio right now is yours…because your idiots on that task force put it in that telegram. Does anyone in your division have any concept of communications security?”
“This is ridiculous, Richard. I think—”
Sutherland silenced him with a wave of the hand. “Nobody cares what you think, General. You’ve forgotten two cardinal rules of this command. First, when there’s a victory to be announced, MacArthur will announce it at a time and place that suits MacArthur. Second, only MacArthur will get the credit for said victory. Think about that in your new assignment.”
Sutherland’s last sentence knocked whatever wind was left from Sam Briley’s sails. He took a second to compose himself before asking, “What new assignment?”
“You’re going home, General,” Sutherland said. “A combat command no longer suits you. The orders are being typed as we speak.”
The waiter at Lennon’s Hotel bar left a freshly-opened bottle of whiskey on Sam Briley’s table. The general had quickly emptied his glass several times already, and the waiter was tired of bringing refills. He had the usual nighttime crowd of American officers to tend to, and most were far better tippers than this two-star sitting alone in the corner.
“With the hotel’s compliments, General,” the waiter lied before scurrying away. The hotel had no intention of giving anything to the Yanks for free. Th
ey simply had too much money in their pockets to deserve such largesse. The bottle would be duly added to Briley’s running tab, and the bleary-eyed general would never catch the charge even if he bothered to check.
Briley’s mind was still clear enough to focus on two key facts. First, he had been sacked—relieved of his division command and sent packing to some nebulous desk job in the States, where he would probably spend the rest of this war rotting away in obscurity.
Second, if there was ever any fallout over the summary execution of an Australian civilian—an act he had ordered troops under his command to carry out—he was now out of favor and at the mercy of the political winds. Suddenly, the prospect of being found guilty of conspiracy to commit murder and spending the rest of his life in Leavenworth seemed very real. The politicians would skate free, like they always did, no matter what horrors they had perpetrated. And MacArthur, of course—despite his colossal blunders in the Philippines—was untouchable. If anyone in the high command was going to pay a price, it would be the newly-expendable Samuel Briley.
He removed a carefully folded piece of paper from his pocket and solemnly opened it. One last time, he read the order to kill Jillian Forbes that bore his signature. It had been locked in a file cabinet to which only he had the key, and it was the only copy of that document that should still be in existence. When he was done reading, he folded it once again, placed it in the ashtray sitting beside him, and reduced it to ashes with his cigarette lighter. In a room already thick with cigarette smoke and the effects of too much alcohol, nobody even noticed what he had done.
Refilling his whiskey glass, he thought, Now, whether that woman is dead or not, it’ll just be my word against the word of some little captain.
Jillian and Jock sat on the steps of the officers’ quarters, counting the stars in the quiet of night. He played gently with her hair, absently wrapping its curls around the fingers of one hand. One of her hands sketched lines on his back, as if keeping a running total of the star count on some imaginary blackboard. Neither could remember a time in recent days when things seemed so peaceful.
“Where’s Doc?” she asked.
“He’s bunking with the first sergeant tonight.”
“How thoughtful,” she said, pulling him closer.
“Jill…Doc said you went to see him today.”
“Yeah, I did,” she replied, taking back her arm to clasp her knees to her chest. She kept looking at the stars.
“So what did he say?”
“He said there’s nothing wrong with me. Not physically, anyway. I’m a perfectly healthy young woman.”
Jock was too puzzled by what she had just said to put a coherent question together. Disjointed words began tumbling from his mouth: “But…why…why can’t…”
She assembled the sentence for him. “Why can’t I have normal sexual relations? We talked about that. Quite a bit, actually.”
Jock’s puzzlement was giving way to frustration. “Come on, Jill…aren’t you going to tell me?”
“Fucking hell, Jock…why do you keep calling me Jill? It sounds like we’re in some bloody nursery rhyme…Jock and Jill went up the hill...”
He became more soothing than he ever imagined he could be. He pulled her close, with a firm but protective touch that chased every bit of tension from her body. She melted into him. He kissed her forehead.
“There…that’s the problem,” she said.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“My head. Doc says it’s all in my head.”
“Why? How could that be?”
“It might have something to do with my mum. She died giving birth to me. I never told you that, did I? He thinks maybe I’m just afraid that sex can lead to pregnancy…and death.”
“But there are things we can do about that,” he said.
She slipped her hand into the pocket of her shift and pulled out a fistful of condoms. She waved them in front of his face.
“Ahh, very good,” Jock said, reaching for the condoms. “Seems the doc’s got a cure for everything.”
“Not so fast, Yank,” she replied, putting the condoms back in her pocket. “I’m going to need a lot of help loosening up. He thinks it would be a good idea if I got a little pissed before trying it again.”
“Pissed? You mean angry…or drunk?”
“Drunk, Jock. It means drunk.”
“Hmm…that could be a problem around these parts. Is there any liquor around?”
“Not that I know of,” she replied. “Not anymore, anyway. There’s something else, too…I don’t get drunk very easily.”
“Oh, come on…everyone gets drunk.”
“Is that so, Yank? I can drink every man I’ve ever known under the table.”
“We’ll just have to find ourselves a big enough supply of spirits to suit your requirements, then,” he said, hoping the words didn’t sound too lecherous.
“We’ll need to get back to civilization for that, Jock. And speaking of civilization…when you and the lads do go back, can I come along with you?”
Jock could not have imagined a more pleasant suggestion. “Sure! Of course you can!”
“Good,” she said, “because I really need to get to Brisbane. I was afraid I’d have to walk all the way there. I need to see my aunt…and we’ll need to talk to the bankers.”
“Bankers? What for?”
“For the money to rebuild my business,” she replied. “The Forbes family is, as you Yanks say, loaded, and Aunt Margaret controls the money.”
“Holy cow,” Jock said, truly surprised. “You’re an heiress or something?”
“Yeah, something like that…but that’s not my fault, Jock.” She kissed him and added, “And of course, you and I might want to sample the abundant stocks of liquor available there…and hopefully reap the benefits. You can wait that long, can’t you?”
“If that’s what you want, Jillian.”
Kissing him again, she said, “Thank you. Oh, and I didn’t mean to snap at you before. You, and only you, Captain Maynard Miles, are hereby allowed to call me Jill. And never in public.”
“Agreed,” Jock replied. “So what do we do now?”
She started to giggle and replied, “How about we listen to some music? Maybe some Wagner? Let’s just crank up the old Victrola…Oh, wait. I forgot. It got torched.”
They laughed away the sad truth until it ended in a mutual sigh—there would be no music for them until they were back in Brisbane.
“How about we just go to sleep, Jock? It’s very late.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
The new day brought more good news. The Japanese seemed to be completely gone from Weipa. Not one had been sighted since that final, large group passed through the Mission yesterday. The atmosphere in the Peppan Creek camp had become more relaxed—even idyllic—until, at twilight, a shrill, distant cooee shattered the serenity. Every man of Task Force Miles grabbed his weapon and hurried to the rally point at the center of camp. Old Robert hurried there, too. He needed to coax the Americans’ fingers off their triggers, for the cooee signaled good news. “It means your men are returning from Moreton,” he told Jock. “Please, Captain…no shooting.”
Thirty minutes later, Tom Hadley and his men walked proudly into the camp, to be greeted by the rest of Task Force Miles. They were exhausted but thrilled to be back. To silence the barrage of anxious questions, Hadley summed up the information they carried concisely: “We’re going home, boys.”
Sergeant Botkin handed the message from Brisbane to Jock, who began to study it intently. As he did, First Sergeant Patchett looked over Hadley’s men and said, “Very good. Four men went out, four men came in. Run into any problems?”
The story of the shoot-out with the thieves came tumbling from Hadley’s mouth. Jillian became apprehensive as she listened. “These men you call hillbillies,” she said, “they were white?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hadley replied.
Jillian blew a sigh of relief. She couldn’t
imagine one black thief, let alone a mob, inclined to shoot it out with soldiers.
Everyone noticed Jock’s face falling as he read further. Patchett asked, “Bad news, sir?”
“Yes and no,” Jock replied. “Yeah, we’re leaving, but we’re going back the same way we came in. Walking. We’re to hook up with the Nackeroos at Moreton again, and they’ll take us to the planes at Temple Bay. Headquarters nixed the idea of an Albatross Bay pickup. Too risky, they say.”
The news didn’t seem to depress anyone in the assembled company. All they knew was they were going home, and they were thrilled about it. Their war would be over for a little while, at least. It would be worth the walk.
“When do you want to move out, sir?” Patchett asked.
“Will everyone be ready to go at first light tomorrow, Top?”
Patchett turned to Hadley and asked, “Are you and your boys up to it?”
Hadley gave a thumbs up and replied, “We’re in great shape! We even slept with a roof over our heads last night. Just give us another night’s sleep and some chow and we’ll be ready.”
“Then the unit will be ready to move out at first light, sir,” the first sergeant said to Jock. He added, “I guess that was the further orders we’ve been waiting for?”
Deep in the woods east of Peppan Creek, Thaddeus, the young black man who spotted Hadley’s men approaching and sounded the cooee, was preparing to return to the camp. His tour on watch was done for the day. It would be dark soon, and new sentinels were already setting up a line of outposts nearer the settlement. His eagerness to get home didn’t dull his senses, though; there were more men approaching—not as many as before, maybe only two—but they were definitely heading toward the camp. And they were walking slower—more cautiously—than the men before, as if—despite the racket of their heavy boots on the undergrowth and the rattling of their gear—they were trying to sneak up on somebody.
Long Walk To The Sun (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 1) Page 35