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

by William Peter Grasso

  Patchett said, “I reckon it’s best you keep quiet about that business with Captain Brewster and Miss Forbes, son.”

  Back on familiar, safer soil, a bit of cockiness crept back into Wheatley’s demeanor. “And what if I don’t?” he asked.

  “Then we just might start recollecting it was you that took the shot that killed our boy Guess,” Patchett replied. “Last time I checked, you still get the firing squad for murder.”

  Patchett could tell he had made his point; the cockiness had drained from Wheatley’s face. Sounding sheepish once again, he asked, “Am I dismissed, First Sergeant?”

  “You bet your sweet ass you are, son.”

  The corporal grabbed his gear and vanished into a tent without saying another word.

  Back in his quarters, Dunbar Green—the doc—couldn’t believe the radio announcer was still carrying on about how the Yank airmen had evicted the Japs from Cape York. Like nobody on the ground helped them, he thought, mixing amusement and annoyance. He allowed himself the luxury of an extra-long shower and 15-minute nap before donning clean khakis and driving to the offices of the Brisbane Telegraph newspaper. Harry Giggs, editor for the Telegraph and old school chum, met him in the lobby. They embraced like long-lost brothers.

  “Dunnie, you’re limping,” Harry said. “Are you all right?”

  “Nothing serious,” Doc replied. “I’ll be fine.”

  “So what’s this hero story you’ve got for me? I can’t wait to hear it.”

  “You’re going to love this, Harry. That bombing raid that drove the Japs off the Cape? I’m giving you the exclusive story of the Aussie woman who made it all possible.”

  “Really? This sounds brilliant,” Harry said, leading Doc down the hall to his office. “They’ll love it all the way to Canberra!”

  First Sergeant Melvin Patchett had cleaned up, too. He was in downtown Brisbane, waiting to see his old buddy, Master Sergeant Johnny Jarvis. He and Jarvis went back a long way—all the way to the trenches of France in The Great War. Their bond of trust was forged in blood all those years ago. He would be the one man—the top sergeant for the whole division, unofficially its sergeant major—who knew everything that was going on within it, secret or not. Of all the men on God’s green Earth, Melvin Patchett knew Johnny Jarvis was the one who would never try to bullshit him.

  Patchett sat on a bench in the hallway and watched as a workman scraped the gold leaf lettering off the door of the big office down the hall. Half the letters were already gone, but he could tell it used to read MAJOR GENERAL SAMUEL BRILEY.

  Johnny Jarvis, a fireplug of a man who seemed to always be moving at the speed of an Olympic runner, smiled with delight as he raced down the hall. “PATCH,” he said at thunderous volume, “glad you’re back! How the hell are you, you old son of a bitch?”

  They settled into Jarvis’s office. “Pretty fancy digs you got here, Johnny,” Patchett said, eyeing the spacious, well-appointed room.

  “Got me two secretaries and everything, Patch. Sweetest little Aussie girls you ever did lay eyes on.” Jarvis came around and propped himself against the front of his desk, within arm’s length of Patchett. He lowered his voice as he said, “So tell me, Patch…what’s it like fighting them Japs?”

  “Hard to say, Johnny. The only ones I saw were either running away or surrendering.”

  The roar of Jarvis’s laughter rattled the office windows.

  “That’s my old Patch…ain’t a man alive not scared of you…except me, of course.”

  Jarvis snuck a hurried glance at the clock on his desk. “But I know this isn’t a social call,” he said. “What do you need, Patch?”

  “A couple of questions. First…are we getting a new division commander? Or did Briley just change his name?”

  “Well, Patch, it’s like this…let’s just say General Briley has fallen from favor with the man upstairs.”

  Patchett knew the man upstairs meant MacArthur. “Who’s replacing him?” he asked.

  “Some brigadier named Horace Cash.”

  “Never heard of him,” Patchett said.

  “I haven’t heard much, except he’s a pencil-pusher…but somebody’s pushing him for another star and he needs a command for that, so here he comes. We expect him to arrive tomorrow.”

  “Somebody, you say, Johnny. You mean MacArthur, don’t you?”

  Jarvis smiled and said, “Who else?” His eyes narrowed as he continued, “But you didn’t come all the way here to ask me that. Hell, you could read the change of command order on your dayroom wall. What’s really on your mind, Patch?”

  “I’ll get right to the point, Johnny. We ran into Captain Brewster out there—”

  “Briley’s aide?”

  “Right…and my company XO before that. Seems he might have been carrying some secret orders about assassinating an Aussie civilian.”

  Jarvis looked truly shocked. “Are you sure, Patch?” he asked.

  “Let’s just say a couple of the details are real fuzzy…but yeah, I’m sure.”

  Jarvis slid off the desk and slumped into his chair. He looked truly upset.

  Patchett asked, “You didn’t know anything about that, did you, Johnny?”

  Jarvis shook his head. “No, Patch…I surely did not. I don’t want to believe we’d do shit like that.” After a pensive pause, he added, “It might explain where that little son of a bitch Brewster vanished to, though.”

  “He ain’t coming back, either, Johnny. We buried him out there.”

  Johnny Jarvis didn’t look in the least bit upset to hear that news.

  The only word Jock could think of to describe the home of Margaret Forbes-Masters was palatial. Sitting on top of a hill that overlooked Brisbane and the Pacific Ocean beyond, it obviously belonged to someone extremely well-heeled. Jock began to feel very out of place in his filthy fatigues—like some grubby street urchin—as he drove the jeep up the long, winding driveway. Seated beside him, Jillian seemed to be steeling herself for the reunion with her aunt. She tied her wild hair back and tried to primp her hopelessly grimy shirt and trousers into something presentable for what seemed like the hundredth time since they left the seaplane base.

  “Quite a little house,” Jock said.

  “Yeah, and it’s just one of them,” Jillian replied.

  A maid escorted them into the drawing room. Seated in a plush chair by the window was a tall, stern-looking woman, wearing an exquisite silk dress that probably cost as much as Jock’s pay for a year. Her graying hair was tightly pulled back and twisted into a bun, framing her face like an ancient warrior’s helmet. Jock found the mere sight of her intimidating.

  Aunt Margaret hadn’t so much as glanced at Jock yet. Her disapproving glare was fixated on her niece. “I can smell you from here, my dear,” she said, her voice cold, her words brutally frank. “I don’t suppose that piscine odor has come from working on your little boats.”

  Unflustered, Jillian replied, “Sorry. It can’t be helped.” She took Jock’s hand and pulled him closer to the seated woman. “Aunt Margaret, I’d like to introduce Captain Jock Miles, United States Army.”

  At last, she turned her withering gaze to Jock. She looked him up and down twice, and then, to Jock and Jillian’s great surprise, smiled at him. “I trust you two have a good reason for visiting me in such a”—she paused, searching for just the right word—“defiled condition.”

  They told her their story. As they related the plot to kill Jillian, Aunt Margaret’s eyes flared with incendiary fury. Jock was sure anyone targeted by that gaze might as well be standing in front of a flamethrower.

  When their story was done, Aunt Margaret said, “Jillian, go stay at the Hope Island cottage. You’ll be well hidden there”—she smiled at Jock again before continuing—“and your young man won’t have far to travel when he visits.”

  How about that? She’s scary and clairvoyant, too, Jock thought.

  He rose to take his leave. “Very nice meeting you, ma’am,” he said
, “but I’ve got to report back to my commander. And I’ve still got a company to run.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Jillian said. “The first sergeant can run the company all by himself. He doesn’t need you.” She winked so he would be certain she was just pulling his leg.

  Aunt Margaret had one more thing to say: “Soldiers don’t hatch plots like the one you just described. Politicians do…and no wanker from the King’s bloody government will ever threaten a Forbes and not pay a dear price. I’m going to make a few discreet inquiries of my friends at Government House. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone there is involved in this up to his bloody eyeballs…and when I find out who he is, I’ll rip those eyeballs out with my bare hands.”

  Jock had no doubt she could, too.

  As they watched him drive off, Aunt Margaret said to Jillian, “Now, my dear, let’s get you into a nice hot tub and find you a decent frock to wear. You’ve gone troppo long enough.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  First Sergeant Patchett let out with a wolf whistle as Jock Miles, cleaned up and outfitted in crisp khakis, complete with tie, entered the dayroom. “You cleaned up real good, sir,” Patchett said.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself, Top. Let’s you and I have a little chat in private.”

  They retired to Jock’s office and shut the door.

  Jock asked, “What did you find out up at Division?”

  “Johnny Jarvis don’t know a damn thing about it, sir…and you can bet your life on Johnny’s word.”

  Jock thought that over for a minute. “So the order was some big, goddamned secret, and it either came from Briley…or MacArthur himself.”

  “I’m betting MacArthur, sir. That would make Briley just the middleman…and Briley owned Brewster lock, stock, and barrel. That’d make him the perfect errand boy.”

  Jock told Patchett about Jillian’s Aunt Margaret and her theory some politician was ultimately behind the whole thing. Patchett thought it over for a moment, but he obviously had serious reservations.

  “Politician, you say? MacArthur ain’t nothing if he ain’t a politician, sir. What general ain’t?”

  Jock had to admit his first sergeant had a point. Suddenly, he was a lot less confident in their little plan to protect Jillian Forbes. MacArthur was untouchable, a goddamned national treasure. He could crush them all like bugs if he so chose and nobody would raise a voice against him—not in Australia, not back in the States. Reality was what he said it was—and if he wanted Jillian dead, she’d be dead.

  The voice in Jock’s head said, This newspaper friend of Doc’s better come through in a big way…and quick.

  The formal after-action report for Task Force Miles would take Jock a few days to write, but the new division commander, Brigadier General Cash, wanted a verbal debrief that afternoon, before happy hour began at Lennon’s Hotel bar. The first thing that struck Jock about General Cash was he looked more like a bank clerk than a general. His eyes always seemed to be staring intently at the papers on his desk, papers he shuffled constantly, as if the neatness of their stacks was more important than the information printed on them. The one star on each collar seemed to be a weighty burden, bending his slight frame constantly forward, forcing the general to frequently correct the resulting unmilitary posture. His staff officers seated around the conference table seemed to be feeding him basic information about his division far too often. Jock figured that was information any general should already know.

  I guess Top had him pegged, Jock thought. A pencil-pusher, over his head in a combat command.

  When the floor was given to Jock, he moved to the large map of Queensland on the wall and, pointer in hand, proceeded to relate the tale of Task Force Miles. He left out no details except one: he credited the residents of Weipa—without mentioning any names—for their unfailing support of his mission against the Japanese.

  The division intelligence officer asked, “So, Captain, you’re telling us the abos are definitely not supporting the Japanese?”

  “That’s correct, sir,” Jock replied.

  “You’re sure about that?” the intelligence officer asked.

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely sure. My men and I are living proof of that.”

  When Jock finished his presentation, the room went deathly quiet. The next words were supposed to come from the division commander, but General Cash just kept shuffling those papers before him. Finally, after the pause had gone past awkward into discomforting, Cash began to speak.

  “I’m concerned about a few points, Captain Miles,” the general said. “First, your use of civil telegraph lines to relay battlefield intelligence was a serious breach of communications security.”

  Jock couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Sir,” he said, “we had no choice. Our radio—”

  Cash cut him off. “You’ve already told us about your radio, Captain,” the general said, “but a wise commander takes better care of his assets.”

  Jock began to protest. “Sir,” he said, “our own planes bombed us.”

  “Yes, Captain, you mentioned that, too. At least that’s what you think happened. You did say you observed Japanese artillery in your area of operation, did you not?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Then I’d say it was far more likely that Jap artillery is what bombed your position. Wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”

  “No, sir, that’s not—”

  Cash cut him off again. “Enough excuses, Captain Miles. I have another problem. That Japanese colonel you say you captured, then lost in a tragic accident. Do you realize what an asset to this command you allowed to slip away?”

  There was no point trying to explain it anymore; the verdict was already in. Jock’s reply was only, “Yes, sir, I realize that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Cash said. “Now, my final problem. This Captain John Brewster, who you say killed one of your men before meeting his own tragic end by friendly fire. Can you tell me what in the world this man was doing in your area of operation?”

  “Actually, sir, I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Jock looked around the room and got nothing but blank stares in response. He couldn’t help but smile, for now he was sure: This guy and his whole damned staff don’t have a clue about the order to kill Jillian.

  “Perhaps we can ask General Briley,” Jock said, “but I’m betting he’s halfway to California by now.”

  Nobody seated around the table seemed interested in asking General Briley anything.

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?” Jock asked.

  General Cash impatiently checked his wristwatch before nodding his assent.

  “I’d just like to add, sir, that my men did a heroic job against incredible odds. Their physical stamina alone allowed—”

  General Cash was having none of it. His voice was strident as he interrupted. “It seems to me, Captain, that your men just barely did what they were supposed to do, and sloppily at that. I’ll be expecting your written report within two days. You are dismissed.”

  The debriefing over, General Cash was in a hurry to seek some relaxation at Lennon’s. As he shuffled the papers on his desk one last time, his new aide—Scooter Brewster’s successor—appeared in the office’s open doorway. He held a file in his hand.

  With great impatience, Cash asked, “What is it, Captain?”

  “Sir, I was clearing out my predecessor’s effects from my desk, and I came across this. I thought you might want to look at it.”

  Cash motioned him closer and snatched the file away. His blank expression became a scowl as he scanned the documents within, documents proposing to decorate Jock Miles for his actions at Pearl Harbor.

  “Very good, Captain,” Cash said. “I’ll take care of this. Shut the door on your way out.”

  Once his aide left the office, Cash hesitated for just a moment before ripping the documents to pieces.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Jock’s jeep crunched to a stop in front of the Hope Islan
d cottage. It was partially hidden among palm trees, set well back from the narrow road and overgrown with tropical flowers, their vibrant colors muted in the early evening darkness. Jillian was waiting for him on the veranda, scrubbed clean, hair washed and silken, barefoot, and in a simple cotton dress that flowed softly in the breeze as if she was standing at the rail of a ship underway. She already had a drink in her hand.

  He had no trouble driving right up to the cottage. “Is this place really a safe hideout?” he asked as he stepped onto the veranda.

  “Sure,” Jillian replied. “This is private property, and there are guards. You wouldn’t have gotten in quite so easily if I hadn’t arranged it.”

  “Are they armed guards?”

  “Are there any other kind, silly boy?”

  “But I didn’t see any guards, Jill.”

  “You would have if you weren’t welcome. Now, would you stop bloody worrying and kiss me?”

  The kiss was long, slow, deep, and magnificent. When it was done, she led him into the cottage, using his khaki necktie to pull him along. Strains of Liszt rippled from a phonograph in a corner of the tiny sitting room. As they settled onto the couch, she said, “I’ve always liked it here. It reminds me of my place in Weipa, just with different trees.”

  “I see this place comes complete with music by Liszt,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, there’s some Wagner for you, too. Courtesy of Aunt Margaret.”

  “That’s very nice, but your Aunt Margaret still scares the crap out of me, Jill.”

  Jillian laughed as she replied, “She scares the crap out of everyone. But you have nothing to worry about. She likes you…and that’s an honor not handed out lightly. Or frequently.”

  She poured him a drink from a bottle of dark rum. Taking the glass, he asked, “How much of a head start do you have on me?”