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

by William Peter Grasso

  “There’ll be photographers when MacArthur honors you, Jill.”

  She walked to the window as the first rays of sunrise began to brighten their little world, illuminating her face as she said, “You can keep one of those photos, I suppose.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Master Sergeant Johnny Jarvis strolled into Melvin Patchett’s dayroom carrying a cardboard box under his arm. He dropped the box on the first sergeant’s desk.

  “What’s this, Johnny?” Patchett asked. “You giving out presents?”

  “Yes, indeed, Patch. Yes, indeed,” Jarvis replied, a big grin on his face. He stuck his hand into the box and produced a manila envelope.

  “First,” Jarvis said, “here’s the revised after-action report for your Task Force Miles.”

  “Revised in what way, Johnny?”

  “Let me start by telling you what General Cash’s staff didn’t revise. All that stuff about unconditional support from the indigenous population stands. MacArthur was real insistent about that. But he did make them tone it down a teeny little bit.”

  “All right,” Patchett said. “What else did they change?”

  “A few key points have been corrected or clarified, Patch. For example, it now says all bombs struck the designated target within probable error criteria.”

  “That’s complete bullshit,” Patchett said. “They bombed us, for cryin’ out loud.”

  “I know, Patch…I know. But it’s gospel now.”

  Patchett scowled and leaned back in his chair, laced his hands nonchalantly behind his head, and said, “Go ahead…you might as well kick me in the ass with the rest of it.”

  Jarvis dumped the remaining contents of the cardboard box on Patchett’s desk. Eleven small, identical rectangular boxes spilled out—the type of boxes that might contain jewelry. Or military decorations.

  “No, Patch,” Jarvis said, “you’ve got this all wrong. Getting back to that part about the bombing…since we now know it all hit its designated target, that bombardment you and your men suffered is no longer classified as an unfortunate accident but the result of enemy action—”

  Patchett interrupted, asking, “Like a Jap artillery barrage?”

  “Exactly, Patch.”

  “Bullshit, Johnny. I know a fucking artillery barrage when I see one. So do you. We’ve damn sure been in enough of them in the last war.”

  “Bear with me here, Patch,” Jarvis said, not missing a beat. “As a result of these new findings, General Cash is proud to award the eleven men who were wounded in that bombardment the Purple Heart, including that Aussie doc. In fact, the Purple Heart for your”—he fumbled to find the name on the pages of the after-action report—“for your Private First Class Marcel Boudreau comes complete with oak leaf cluster, since he was wounded twice on that mission.”

  Patchett shook his head in disgust. “General Cash may be proud,” he said, “but I don’t see him awarding shit. We don’t ask for much…hell, we didn’t even ask for these damn medals…but it’d be real decent of him if he, or at least Colonel Snow, showed up to pin these medals on my men.”

  Jarvis shrugged as he backed toward the door. “Sorry, Patch. I really am…but the general and the colonel are both very busy men.”

  Melvin Patchett’s burst of laughter shook the walls. “I’ll bet they are, Johnny,” he said. “So that’s it? That’s all the ceremony my men get? Some old warhorse drops a box on my desk like he’s delivering parcel post? Why don’t you just line them up and shit on their heads while you’re at it?”

  “Seems like someone’s already done that, Patch,” Jarvis said before slipping out the door.

  At MacArthur’s headquarters, in a conference room crowded with US Army officers, civilian newsmen, and photographers, a very different sort of awards ceremony was taking place. In front of the podium, before a fusillade of popping flashbulbs, the 12 bomber pilots stood proudly in a row, snapping to attention, to be decorated by the Supreme Commander himself. The squadron leader and aircraft commander of the Peggy V—the plane that unwittingly bombed nothing but the men of Task Force Miles—was the first to receive his medal: the Distinguished Flying Cross. He puffed his chest proudly as MacArthur pinned on the decoration, the highest the nation bestowed for heroic exploits in the air. The general moved down the line, dispensing an Air Medal, the newly-established award for aerial achievement, to each of the other 11 pilots.

  Despite the honors being bestowed on them, the pilots weren’t kidding themselves. They had seen the original bomb damage assessment from Task Force Miles. They knew their bombing accuracy had not been nearly as good as MacArthur was telling the world. Only one plane had dropped its load close to the designated target, but thanks to luck and Mother Nature, that one had been enough. As each pilot felt the dignifying presence of the medal just pinned to his chest, he was buoyed by the hope he might be the lucky man who sent the Japs running. Each would cling forever to the solace offered by that one in twelve chance.

  After the last pilot received his medal, MacArthur took a few moments to further cement the message he wished to convey. As reporters recorded his every word, he said:

  “Thanks to the unselfish heroism of these twelve brave men I see before me, the world has now seen the awesome, unleashed might of American airpower. We offer our continued and steadfast support to our allies, and we caution our enemies to think twice about any further acts of aggression, lest they wish to experience the swift and merciless vengeance dealt by thousands upon thousands of courageous airmen just like these fine men.”

  Waiting at the back of the room, Jillian thought, That’s right, you wankers, the flyboys did it all by themselves. Didn’t need a bit of help from Jock and his boys on the ground.

  As the pilots filed out, MacArthur cornered General Sutherland, his chief of staff, and whispered, “Why is Governor Owens not here yet?”

  “Bad news, sir,” Sutherland said. “The governor’s office just called. He expresses his regrets, but a pressing matter keeps him from attending. He’s sent Premier Granville in his place as representative of the Queensland government.” Sutherland nodded toward a man standing alone at the back of the room, looking disinterested and restless. “He’s the fidgety gentleman in the red tie.”

  MacArthur muttered, “Why, that treacherous little worm. Owens has made a serious mistake to trifle with me.”

  The American generals couldn’t help but notice that Prime Minister Curtin had ignored his invitation, as well. Then again, they hadn’t really expected him to make the trip from Canberra for a 15-minute ceremony. But a snub was a snub; he hadn’t even bothered to cable his regrets.

  “Well, Richard,” MacArthur said, “let’s get the rest of this circus over with.”

  Jillian Forbes, wearing an expensive dress, hat, and pumps Aunt Margaret had managed to procure on very short notice, was escorted to the podium on the arm of a young staff officer like a debutant strolling into a cotillion. Approaching General MacArthur as the cameras flashed, she realized she had no idea of proper etiquette:

  Am I supposed to curtsey to this wanker? No, of course not...he’s not the bloody king. Maybe a handshake?

  She decided a smile and a simple Nice to meet you, General would suffice.

  MacArthur got right down to business, rolling into his second and final speech of the ceremony. It concluded with these words:

  “For the substantial assistance selflessly provided by you to American forces in northern Queensland, on behalf of the President of the United States, I present you, Jillian Forbes, with this plaque for meritorious service.”

  On cue, the same staff officer who escorted Jillian into the room appeared with the plaque, a mahogany oval with the brass eagle-and-shield crest of the US Army at its center. Below the crest was an engraved brass plate. She didn’t bother to glance at the plaque but displayed it as she posed politely for pictures with the general.

  But Jillian’s polite expression faded. As she took a good look at the plaque, her li
ps pursed and she began to gently shake her head.

  “You know, General,” Jillian said as a stunned hush fell over the onlookers, “this is all very nice…but I, and the people of Weipa, could surely use a little more than kind words.”

  Startled this young woman had the audacity to speak without invitation, MacArthur played the benevolent straight man and asked, “And what would that be, my dear?”

  “I believe you are holding two of my fishing boats and four of my crewmen,” she replied. “I’d appreciate it if you’d return them to me so my community can rebuild and return to normal life.”

  Photographers who tripped their shutters at that moment recorded for posterity the dumbfounded look on MacArthur’s face; the general had no idea what Jillian was talking about. All of Queensland, though, would know about her request as soon as the evening papers hit the newsstands. Shaken and struggling to keep his irritation in check, MacArthur turned to his equally clueless chief of staff and said, “I’ll trust Miss Forbes’s concerns to you, General Sutherland.”

  His magisterial air returning quickly, MacArthur faced the audience and said, “Thank you all for coming. These proceedings are closed.”

  Sir Malcolm Owens figured he was safe. As long as he avoided the downtown office building that served as MacArthur’s headquarters—as well as Lennon’s Hotel—for a few days, his odds of running into MacArthur or any members of his staff would be close to zero. In those same few days, this Jillian Forbes affair would be forgotten, dissolved in the constantly changing panorama swirling around a nation at war.

  And the blacks will be considered a subversive threat once again, as they bloody well should be, he thought.

  Owens wasn’t worried about MacArthur visiting him at Government House. The general had grudgingly paid the customary courtesy call when first arriving in Brisbane. He wouldn’t bother calling again.

  The governor couldn’t avoid being in public, though. Like now, for instance: he was lunching with two comely young secretaries from Parliament House, young enough to be his daughters, in the dining room of the Gresham Hotel. Owens was following the rule Dine with a woman not your wife and it’s called adultery. Dine with two, though, and it’s called business.

  One of the young women had caught his eye a few weeks ago; his confidence was high he would bed her very soon. The other was a more recent find and had been invited along for the appearance of propriety. She also served as insurance: if the first decided some archaic tenets of morality were more important than keeping her job, perhaps the second could be convinced to see reason. If things went really well, one of these lucky ladies might join the governor upstairs this afternoon in his private suite—The Guv’s Knocking Shop, the hotel staff called it—while his driver spirited the other back to Parliament House, perhaps to complete her last day in the government’s employ.

  As Sir Malcolm saw it, things were indeed going really well, but then he saw something else: Margaret Forbes-Masters striding across the dining room, coming straight for him. The two plainclothes policemen who were his bodyguards, each at a separate table, rose from their chairs to intercept the determined-looking woman.

  “That’s all right, lads,” Owens said to the policemen as he rose to greet her. “That lady is a dear friend.”

  “Dear friend, my arse, Malcolm,” Aunt Margaret replied, spitting fire with her words.

  Owens suddenly seemed very small and timid. His luncheon guests hastily excused themselves and fled to the powder room. Aunt Margaret stood very close to Sir Malcolm; what she was about to say was meant for his ears only.

  “Malcolm, you little shit,” she hissed, “if you ever so much as threaten a Forbes again, I’ll see—”

  “Now see here, Margaret,” Owens said, trying to puff himself up, “I represent the king. You cannot speak to me like that…and it’s Sir Malcolm.”

  “I’ll speak to you any way I bloody want, Malcolm. As I was saying, if you’re ever stupid enough to threaten a Forbes again, I’ll make sure you become a member of the penniless aristocracy overnight. I’ll also make sure there’s no place in Australia you’ll be able to show your face, you lecherous old bastard.”

  Owens tried to act offended, but he could fool no one. He couldn’t hide the fact he was terrified. In a quavering voice, he said, “But I represent the king…”

  “That’s very impressive, Malcolm. But it doesn’t make you immortal.” As she made her exit, Aunt Margaret added, loud enough for everyone in the dining room to hear, “Good day, Sir Malcolm. I do hope I didn’t spoil your little ménage a trois.”

  The photo hit the front page of every Brisbane newspaper that evening. There was MacArthur, a shocked look on his face, with mouth wide open, as the determined young woman beside him spoke her mind.

  Actually, Jock thought, it was a lovely picture of Jillian in her stylish outfit: Trim MacArthur out with a pair of scissors and the picture was a definite keeper. He was hoping when he arrived at the Hope Island cottage she might still be wearing it. He knew full well, though, she’d probably peel it off at the first opportunity, to be replaced with something far more casual and comfortable.

  He was right. When he drove up, Jillian was waiting on the cottage’s veranda, barefoot and wearing a flowing, full skirt and cardigan to ward off the cool evening breeze.

  She still looks lovely.

  Jillian smiled when she saw the newspaper tucked under his arm. They kissed and settled into the veranda’s wicker loveseat. “So what did you think?” she asked, pointing to the newspaper.

  With a straight face, Jock replied, “The men in my company decided you have the biggest pair of balls in Australia.”

  She threw her head back and roared with laughter. His poker face broke, and he laughed, too.

  When the last giggle died out, she said, “Actually, I was quite furious after I saw all those pilot wankers get their bloody medals...and nothing for you and your lads.”

  “I really wasn’t expecting to be decorated, Jill.”

  “Still, Jock, they made it sound like I was the only one on the ground who made it possible. That’s not bloody fair.”

  Jock shrugged and said, “I wasn’t expecting it to be fair, either. I don’t expect much of anything anymore. All I wanted was to get that bull’s-eye off your back, and we did that. So how about that drink?”

  She dashed inside and emerged a few moments later. The two glasses of rum she had poured were balanced on what looked like a wooden tray. As she held it in front of him, he took his glass and realized what the tray was—the plaque.

  Jock started to laugh again and asked, “You’re going to use it as a serving tray?”

  “Sure,” she replied, “or a doorstop, paperweight…you know, something actually useful.”

  She took her glass and dropped the plaque to the veranda’s deck. It landed with a resounding thunk. Jillian gave the plaque an admiring glance and said, “Good wood, eh?”

  They clinked glasses in triumph and downed the rum. As the rich liquid traced a warm path to their souls, Jock asked, “Do they really have your boats…and your crewmen?”

  “Looks like it,” she replied. “General Sutherland said he’ll have confirmation in a day or two.”

  “And after that?”

  “I’ll be getting them back, I believe.”

  “And after that, Jill?”

  She gazed into the distance and replied, “Who knows what that day will bring?”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  It was Christmas in July as far as Franklin Delano Roosevelt was concerned. There seemed to be nothing but good news from his military chiefs. The report of Admiral Ernest King, the CNO, was especially gratifying.

  “Yes, Mister President,” King said, “we have met our fuel resupply target figures for the Pacific fleet on schedule…a little ahead of schedule, in fact. Hawaii remains safe, and our offensive operations against the Japanese in the Solomons will begin on schedule. Twenty-one September has been selected as D-Day.”

&
nbsp; “Excellent,” the president said. “What about the Japanese on Midway and in the Aleutians?”

  King snickered as he replied, “What about them, Mister President? They’re not doing much of anything. It looks like a clear case of biting off more than they could chew. They’re holding on to rocks in the water with miniscule forces that pose no real offensive threat. They’re just soaking up resources for their defense, resources that could be put to better use elsewhere. Once the entire Pacific fleet is back at fighting strength, I say we bottle them up and let them rot there.”

  Roosevelt said, “We’ll see about that, Admiral. Now, General Marshall, I see the great MacArthur has finally seen fit to advise us on the situation in Australia, and I must say, I like what I’m hearing. I like it very much.”

  “Yes, Mister President,” George Marshall said, “the Air Force did a magnificent job evicting the Japanese exploratory force on Cape York. Commendations are being prepared for General Arnold and his theater commanders as we speak.”

  A look of concern crossed the president’s face. He asked, “What of our boys on the ground…the young lads who did the reconnaissance for the bombers? How did they fare?”

  “They paid a steep price, Mister President,” Marshall replied. “Of the sixteen that began the mission, three were killed, and almost all were wounded. The survivors are recuperating at Brisbane.”

  The president was disturbed to hear those numbers. He asked Marshall, “So, you’re saying they took nearly one hundred percent casualties?”

  “Unfortunately, yes, Mister President.”

  FDR sadly shook his head as he said, “Let it be our fervent hope, gentlemen, that in future ground engagements with the Japanese we incur a significantly lower rate. It was bad enough to be bled dry of fuel, but we’ll recover. We simply cannot afford to be bled dry of manpower. We could never recover from that.”