Operation Easy Street (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 3)

by William Peter Grasso

  Crawling flat on his belly, Theo Papadakis slid past the private to get to Boudreau.

  “I can’t see where the hell those bastards are, Lieutenant Pop,” Bogater said.

  “I think I saw something,” Papadakis said. “Looks like there’s a couple of places out there where the ground rises up a little. That don’t look right, considering the land around here’s flat as a board.”

  The lieutenant spoke quietly but his words seemed determined, as if he was calculating the odds. It was difficult to hear him over the close-in noise of Japanese machine guns and the wounded crying for God and their mothers.

  Bogater asked, “You think they’re bunkers, sir?”

  “Fuck yeah I do.”

  “How far, Lieutenant?”

  “Forty, maybe fifty yards.”

  Boudreau had already pulled the safety pin from the hand grenade. Papadakis shook his head like it was a very bad idea. “No!” he said. “All that’s gonna do is bounce off a tree and come back at us.”

  “What choice we got, sir?” Bogater asked. He flung the grenade side-arm around the tree trunk, putting as much might as he could into the awkward motion.

  Thup thup thup...more bullets hit the tree. Bogater snatched his throwing hand back with a grimace: “Shit…got me some damn splinters.”

  Two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi—the grenade bounced off the ground and detonated not even halfway to the bunker.

  “Well, that didn’t do shit,” Bogater said. “Where’s the fucking thirty cal, sir? The mortars?”

  “Too late for that,” Papadakis replied. “We’re gonna pull back and regroup before we all get fucking killed. We’ve got too many men down already.”

  The tally for Able Company’s morning probe was grim: five men dead and twelve wounded, eight badly enough to be evacuated by native litter bearers back to the airfield at So Sorry. If they survived that trip, they’d get a plane ride back to Port Moresby. Hopefully.

  Among the badly wounded was the lieutenant leading 1st Platoon.

  “Can I just move up Sergeant McMillen to acting platoon leader, sir?” Theo Papadakis asked Jock. A muscular but small man, Papadakis looked positively miniscule as he grieved his company’s losses.

  Jock looked at Sergeant Major Patchett to gauge his reaction. He was relieved when Patchett gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

  “Sure, Theo,” Jock replied. “Do it.”

  As the rest of the company commanders gathered in the CP tent for the briefing, Patchett told Jock, “We’ve got another problem, sir. Ain’t enough field rations showed up in that last air drop to feed two companies, let alone a battalion. We’re gonna have to ration the rations.”

  “Shit,” Jock said. “How are we fixed for sixty-millimeter mortar ammo?”

  The battalion supply officer replied, “We’re not flush, that’s for sure, sir. Fifty-two rounds total, assuming the companies are leveling with me. That breaks down to forty HE, eight white phosphorous, four illum.”

  Fifty-two rounds between twelve tubes, Jock thought, a little better than four rounds a tube, against Japs dug in like moles. That ain’t good.

  Patchett said, “Maybe we can get Third Battalion to farm out a couple of their eighty-ones.”

  Jock shook his head. “Even if Colonel Molloy agreed to it, the Third is already headed west across the Girua River, into the Aussie zone. They’d come up with a million excuses to make sure we never got those mortars.”

  “Yeah,” Patchett agreed. “We’d do the same to them, I reckon.”

  “Damn right we would,” Jock said, “and who knows…they may need it where they’re going, too.”

  Jock took a count of the attendees and said, “All right, gentlemen, we’re all here, so let’s get down to it. Believe it or not, we learned a few things this morning. It appears the Japs—despite those fine intelligence estimates to the contrary—have constructed rather formidable field fortifications. The good news is: they’re above ground.”

  The faces of Jock’s officers couldn’t lie: they didn’t see the good news in that at all. The only news that might be classified as good involved the Japanese fleeing the field of battle completely.

  It fell to Lee Grossman to ask the question on everyone’s mind: “Why’s that good news, sir?”

  “Because if they’re above ground and we can pinpoint where they are, maybe the Air Force can flatten them for us,” Jock replied. “Of course, if we had some artillery or tanks, we’d do it ourselves. Theo’s been closest to those bunkers so far, so I’ll let The Mad Greek describe them.”

  Theo Papadakis took center stage, exhausted but still looking every bit the scrappy fighter he had long since proven to be. “They just look like big lumps on the ground…ten, maybe twenty feet wide in front,” he began. “They don’t seem to be very deep front to back, though. You really can’t see them until you’re right on top of them…the jungle’s grown over them real thick already. I think they’ll stand out a little more if you can view them from the side. Their humped shape will probably be more pronounced that way.”

  Lee Grossman asked, “Can you see the firing ports?”

  “Nope…and that smokeless powder they’re using doesn’t give them away, either,” Papadakis said. “Your only hope is to see a little bit of muzzle flash…but you’ve got to be too damn close already to see that. One more thing, the way they’re laid out, they look to be mutually supporting. We got caught in a shitstorm of interlocking fire.”

  The morning’s losses had taken their toll on Theo Papadakis; he was trying hard not to get choked up. It was obvious he wouldn’t be able to fight off the tears much longer, though.

  Jock came to his rescue. “Okay, very good, Theo. Thanks. Now listen up, gentlemen…this is what we’re going to do.” He pointed to Lieutenant Tony Colletti, Baker Company’s commander, and said, “Tony, take your company and retrace Able’s steps into the east end of the plantation. Get their attention and draw their fire. Use a few grenades, if you have to, and pull that firecracker recon the Japs are so fond of.”

  He turned to Lee Grossman next. “Lee, once Baker Company’s got their attention, your Charlie Company will advance on the plantation’s east end from the south—out of the swamps—and see what the Japs look like from that direction. Everybody pool your mortars—we’ll set them up at the jumping-off point just east of the plantation. Sergeant Major, you’ll coordinate the mortar fires. We’ll all only be about a mile apart, at most, so we should be able to communicate with the walkie-talkies just fine.”

  Theo Papadakis raised his hand. “What do you want Able Company to do, sir?” he asked.

  “Your company’s in reserve, Theo,” Jock replied. “Be ready if we need our asses bailed out.”

  Papadakis seemed hurt by that answer. “But, sir—” he began to protest.

  Jock put a hand on his shoulder. “You and your men earned a break, Theo. And hey…if we screw up, it may not turn out to be much of a break at all.” He looked at his wristwatch and said, “Okay…it’s oh-nine-fifteen. I want an ops order written and distributed within two hours.”

  The battalion operations officer grimaced—that’s cutting it mighty close—but nodded in acceptance.

  Jock continued, “Everybody remember: this is still a recon. We’re not looking for a serious engagement, unless we see a golden opportunity…and I mean really golden. Then, I’ll make the call whether we change missions or not. Don’t anybody go freelancing on me. Let’s plan a jump-off time of thirteen hundred. Any questions?”

  Patchett had one: “Where will you be, sir?”

  “I’ll be with Charlie Company…in the swamp,” Jock replied.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The swamp’s mud was threatening to suck the boots right off the feet of Charlie Company’s GIs. At the best spots, they were ankle deep in soft, silty soil. At the worst, they were waist deep in fetid water.

  “This is like living in a fucking sewer,” Lee Grossman grumbled, “and
the rats here shoot back. It’s a shame we don’t have any boats.”

  Jock replied, “Why, Lee? You don’t mean you’d try to sneak up on them from the seaward side, do you?”

  “Hell, no, sir. That’d be suicide. I’d use the damn boats to get through this swamp.”

  “Staying dry is the least of our worries, Lee, considering there’s next to no cover here. And if this high swamp grass thins out, we’re out of concealment, too.”

  “Concealment? No problem, sir. We’ll just hide behind a cloud of these mosquitoes.”

  The GI carrying Grossman’s walkie-talkie said, “These fucking mosquitoes…I just know I’m getting malaria.”

  Another GI replied, “You’ve got it already, you dumb shit. We all do. Any day now, we’ll start shaking with chills…and then burning up with fever. That Atabrine shit they want you to take ain’t gonna help you none.”

  “Enough of that talk, you men,” Grossman commanded. “Let’s stay focused.”

  Talking softly so his words wouldn’t carry, Jock said, “You know, Lee, I’m afraid they may be right.”

  Lieutenant Tony Colletti was pleased with how things were going so far. His Baker Company had entered the coconut palm forest of Duropa Plantation as silently as thieves. He told himself, No way in hell we’re going to get cut up like Theo’s company did. Poor Theo…he’s taking it real hard. He had a charmed life when he was a platoon leader, but that’s all over now. He’s tough, though—he’ll make it.

  Two scout teams—two men each—were some 50 yards ahead of the rest of the company, inching from tree to tree so as not to expose themselves for more than a second or two. Behind the scouts, the company’s three rifle platoons were ready to lay down supporting fire as necessary.

  “We’ve got to be at least as far in as Lieutenant Pop’s guys were,” a scout said to his partner. “Can you see anything?”

  “Not a damn thing,” the partner replied.

  Huddled low against a tree trunk, the scout called Lieutenant Colletti on the walkie-talkie. “Panty Raid Zero-Six, this is Panty Raid Three-Seven, over.”

  He cringed as his company commander’s hushed voice crackled in the earpiece: it seemed loud enough to be heard a mile away.

  “This is Three-Seven…you want us to try the firecracker trick?”

  “Affirmative, Three-Seven. Do it now. Six out.”

  He never even got to pull the safety pin from the grenade. A loud shout rang out from his right flank. A GI was screaming, “HALT! HANDS UP!”

  The reply contained no words—just the thunderous roar of weapons discharging.

  The two scouts were lucky; their tree of salvation had dense, above-ground roots which wrapped around them like a mother’s embrace.

  They needed it: bullets were whizzing past their position in every direction, it seemed.

  Both scouts knew his partner’s first thought: What fucking idiot tried to capture somebody?

  They knew each other’s second thought, too: the Nambu machine gun trying to saw down the tree shielding them couldn’t be more than 20 yards away.

  Their third thought wasn’t a thought at all, but an instinct: We need mortars! Now!

  Each was so eager to make that call for fire, they nearly fought over the walkie-talkie.

  It took almost a minute for the first mortar rounds to arrive.

  That minute seemed like a hundred lifetimes to men pinned down under fire.

  Only a few rounds landed anywhere near the bunkers, doing no more than assaulting the eardrums of the Japanese inside.

  The rest burst in the dense palm canopy above the scouts, raining invisible shards of steel all around them.

  The scouts yelled as one into the radio, “TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! YOU’RE KILLING US!”

  “Oh, shit,” Lee Grossman said, as the sounds of the fight in the plantation rippled across the swamp. “I guess Baker Company got their attention, all right. Sounds like somebody’s getting their ass riddled in there but good.”

  “We still can’t see shit, though,” Jock said. “We’ve got to get closer.”

  “Mortars on the way, sir,” the radio operator said.

  Jock spied through a tall clump of swamp grass as the mortar rounds began to burst in the trees.

  “Shit,” he muttered, “the rounds aren’t even making it to the ground. That’s all we need…tree bursts, with our own guys underneath. Shit.”

  The radio operator had another news flash: “They’re canceling the mortars, sir.”

  “Good,” Jock replied. “Get Panty Raid Zero Six for me.”

  The radio conversation was brief. When it was done, Jock told Grossman, “Baker’s holding in place. Let’s you and me try to get up to that next bunch of swamp grass. Maybe we can see what we need to from there. Make sure the rest of your company stays put.”

  It was a 30-yard slog to that next patch of grass.

  Thirty yards had never seemed so far…but they made it.

  Nobody was shooting at them.

  “I make it as about a hundred yards to the southern edge of the plantation,” Jock said. “What do you think?”

  “That looks about right, sir,” Grossman replied. “And not a stitch of concealment the entire way. Our asses will be hanging out if we try to cross it.”

  “I can tell there’s a line of bunkers facing east, shooting at Baker Company,” Jock continued, “and about where that line is…but I can’t make the individual bunkers out.”

  Grossman nodded in agreement and asked, “You think there are any facing this way?”

  “I’m betting there are, Lee…I just can’t tell exactly where. Not until they start shooting.”

  Grossman asked, “You want to do a little firecracker recon, sir?”

  “Yeah. You’ve got First Platoon on the left flank, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Good. Let them do it. Have Hadley pull the company back first.”

  “While we stay and watch, sir?”

  “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Lee. You catch on fast.”

  As the rest of 1st Platoon followed First Sergeant Hadley out of the swamp, three men stayed behind. Rather than throw the grenades into the swamp water, where their submerged detonation might or might not draw the attention of the Japanese, the three came up with a different concept for the firecracker recon. They stuck two grenades in the thick mud of a grass thicket and tied a long cord to their safety pins.

  The cord was played out as far as it would go—only about 20 feet—but that was enough. It was then tugged firmly.

  The three GIs ran like hell, surprised and terrified by how much noise they made as they sloshed through the swamp.

  The grenades exploded with a dull thud and a great geyser of mud and brackish water.

  A fusillade of rifle and machine gun fire erupted from Japanese bunkers facing the swamp. It was aimed precisely where 1st Platoon used to be.

  The rounds struck nothing but the swaying swamp grass. The GIs were long gone.

  “They fell for it,” Lee Grossman said, his words more a sigh of relief he wasn’t in the bullseye.

  “It’s just like the other bunkers,” Jock said. “I can tell where they are but I can’t actually see them.”

  “So what do we do now, sir?”

  “We figure out map coordinates for the bunker complex, Lee. Then we get the Air Force to pummel the shit out of it. Something’s bugging me, though.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  Poking his head through the swamp grass for another look at the Japanese positions, Jock said, “We don’t see any Japs. Not one…and we can see a lot of that plantation from here. They can’t stay in those bunkers forever…and there can’t be many Japs in—”

  He stopped talking, grabbed a startled Lee Grossman by the web gear, and yanked him down.

  In the swamp, down meant under the stinking water.

  It was the only place to hide from the machine gun suddenly traversing toward them
. Its bullets swept just inches over the water’s surface before swinging away.

  There was no need for words when they surfaced: they knew they had to make their escape.

  Grossman couldn’t talk, anyway. He was coughing up the swamp water he swallowed.

  They were crawling along the swamp bed on hands and knees, heads just above water, weapons slung but dragging through the foul stew.

  They could sense the machine gun tracking back their way…

  No way I’m going under that fucking water again, Grossman thought.

  He saw what he thought was a patch of solid ground. He hurled himself onto it.

  It wasn’t solid at all: he sank into it—flat, face down—like a cookie cutter into soft dough.

  The dough held him like a giant suction cup and wouldn’t let go.

  Bullets trimmed the swamp grass all around like an invisible lawnmower making one broad pass…until their path swung away again.

  Jock popped out of the water. It took him a few moments to find his partner, squirming, semi-submerged and stuck like glue in the muck.

  Prying on Grossman’s helmet, he freed the man’s face so he could breathe again. The dank air of the swamp had never smelled so sweet as it rushed back into Lee Grossman’s lungs.

  He didn’t seem to be hit. Using the stock of his Thompson like a spade, Jock liberated the stuck man limb by limb.

  The second Grossman was free they were on the move, leaving behind a man-sized, perfectly detailed impression of a soldier in the Buna swamp.

  The two scout teams weren’t sure how they made it out of the plantation. All four men were wounded, the jagged tears in their flesh from American mortar fragments and splintered trees, not bullets. The battalion surgeon treating them couldn’t understand how they hadn’t been killed.

  “We must’ve crawled under the fucking ground, Doc,” one of the scouts told the surgeon. “All I remember is clawing through dirt.”

  The mystery of HALT! HANDS UP! still needed to be sorted out; that colossal mistake wouldn’t be unraveled until Baker Company was back at the assembly area. There, the answer came quickly.