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

by William Peter Grasso

  But he couldn’t keep up. His tracers arced far behind the nimble fighters, never closing the gap.

  “LEAD THEM, YOU WANKERS,” Jillian implored from the bridge.

  But the gun crew down on the foredeck was too far away to hear.

  Jillian eased the wheel back to starboard: Can’t get too close to shore…too many shallow spots.

  The fighters lined up for another pass. This time, they came straight for her port side.

  No leading necessary for the Oerlikon gunner this time…

  Just a difficult head-on shot at their minute front profiles.

  The deck gun’s tracers seemed to float all around the attackers like helpful beacons guiding them to the ship…

  But never hitting them.

  With the THUNK THUNK THUNK of a rivet gun gone amok, Japanese bullets slammed against the weathered steel of Esme’s hull and deckhouse.

  The bullets left only dents.

  Jillian allowed herself to relax for a moment: What’s that the Yanks say? Close, but no cigar?

  But all that bloody petrol lashed to the deck…I ought to dump it in the sea right this minute.

  The planes sprinted away, making safe distance from the ship before beginning their turn to strike her once again.

  With nothing to lose—and no hits yet to his credit—the Oerlikon gunner began firing with planes still a long way off.

  He tried to find the range as the tracers—short of their mark—bounced crazily off the water.

  “BRING IT UP, LAD…BRING IT UP,” the gun crew yelled at their mate on the trigger.

  He did.

  Like magic, both planes suddenly pulled straight up and over, reversing direction and racing away with engines screaming.

  If the planes had been hit, no one could tell. All they knew was the Japs were leaving in a hurry.

  Everyone on board wanted to slap the gunner on the back and give him a hearty, You did it, lad! Well done!

  But then they saw the real reason the Japanese planes were fleeing: a quartet of American fighters—P-40s by their silhouettes—were diving down from high overhead, giving chase.

  For the Aussie gunners, the thrill of bagging an enemy aircraft would have to wait. The relief of the fight being over would have to suffice for now.

  “It’s about bloody time,” Jillian said. “The Yank Air Force is finally doing what it promised.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  It had only cost a few cases of beer to bribe the GI truck driver. Just like Jillian figured, he’d be glad to take her and the rest of the golden brew up to Buna.

  These Yanks will do anything for some grog.

  It was late afternoon when the truck pulled up to 1st Battalion’s CP. Melvin Patchett was the first out of the tent. He was surprised—and delighted—to see her, especially after he saw what was waiting to be unloaded. Within a few moments, he had a detail carrying the cases of beer into the CP on the double.

  “Young lady,” Patchett said, “are you trying to corrupt us fine American boys with all this Australian mother’s milk?”

  “I doubt I could corrupt you Yanks any worse than you already are,” Jillian replied as she gave him a big hug. “Where’s the major?”

  “Up at Regiment. I’ll give them a ring and—”

  “No, don’t,” she said. “I want to surprise him.”

  “That you will, dear girl. That you will.”

  When Jock stepped into his CP some 30 minutes later, he was afraid he was dreaming: there was the woman he loved, perched high on a stack of beer. He stood there, dumbfounded; no words would come out.

  “Nice to see you too, Yank,” she said, enjoying his stunned surprise as she jumped down to her feet. “I thought I’d bring the lads some New Year’s spirit.”

  The next thing she said made Jock, Patchett, and everyone else in the tent burst out laughing: “I’m not going to get you in any trouble, am I?”

  Jock replied, “What kind of trouble could be worse than what we’re already in?”

  He began to pull her by the arm out of the tent.

  “Sergeant Major, I’m going to take a walk up to Cape Sudest with Miss Forbes,” Jock said. “Charlie Company can fetch me if you need me.”

  “No problem, sir,” Patchett replied. “Take your time. But just one thing…” He handed a helmet to Jillian. “Best put this on, Miss Forbes. Snipers, you know.”

  She glanced at Jock for a clue if Patchett might be joking. The look on his face told her the sergeant major definitely was not.

  They stretched out among some big rocks at Cape Sudest, not far from a Charlie Company outpost. “Good cover here,” Jock said. Their hideaway afforded a splendid view of the sea and the setting sun. It was a fine place to share a K ration supper.

  There was quiet, too: not a bomb, artillery round, or gunshot to be heard.

  Buna could almost be a lush, tropical paradise—if only your mind could forget it was also a burgeoning cemetery.

  It had only been a week since Jillian last saw him. He had been gaunt then—much too thin. Now he looked even worse.

  “Your skin…it’s all yellow,” she said.

  “It’s the Atabrine, Jill. Supposed to help prevent malaria.”

  The exhaustion she had seen in his eyes the last time was still there. The despair was gone, though, replaced with what she could only believe was acceptance:

  Bloody hell! He thinks he’s already dead…and he’s accepting it. I’ve heard about this before: soldiers can only function if they believe they’re already dead. Otherwise, any sane man would be running as fast as he could to get away from the madness.

  They always knew every time together could be their last. But this time, there seemed an ominous certainty about it.

  His gaze fixed out to sea, he said, “They want us to make an amphibious attack…”

  She wasn’t surprised. She had seen the growing collection of barges and landing craft at Oro Bay—far more than were necessary to unload the coastal traders.

  “When, Jock?”

  “A week or so.”

  “How’s that going to work?”

  “It’s not, Jill. It’s a fool’s game. We’re going to die in record numbers. The Japs will win.”

  They watched in silence as clumps of driftwood washed ashore, the waterlogged planks smashing to pieces as they crashed against the rocks.

  “We’re going to end up just like that,” Jock said, “just broken pieces floating in the water.” He said it so matter-of-factly; if she hadn’t seen his face, she might have thought he was making an idle observation instead of a dire prediction.

  He seemed too tired to think and plan beyond moment-to-moment necessities of survival anymore.

  But she wasn’t too tired. Her mind reeled feverishly, searching for anything that might reverse the inevitability of failure—and death.

  Maybe this will do it…

  “We’ve got tanks for you down at Milne Bay,” she said. “Isn’t that what you need?”

  “Tanks at Milne Bay don’t do us a damn bit of good here, Jill.”

  “But we can bring them to you!”

  “Can you do it by tomorrow?”

  They both knew the answer to that question was beyond their control.

  “They’re making us bring the bloody construction equipment first,” she said.

  “Of course they are,” Jock replied with a sneer. “What’s more important than building their fucking airfields?”

  She watched as more driftwood shattered against the rocks…

  And it gave her an idea:

  “Jock, it’s a fool’s game, you say…and I’m sure you’re right. But suppose you staged an amphibious attack that was really just a diversion—a decoy for the real attack?”

  “But the diversion, Jill…the men trying to pull it off will get slaughtered.”

  “Suppose it didn’t have any men—the whole thing was a ruse. Would that work?”

  There was a light in his eyes that hadn’t bee
n there a moment ago. He had no idea exactly what she was suggesting, but the possibility there was something—anything—they could do other than the guaranteed disaster General Freidenburg wanted was enough to spark a ray of hope.

  “It’s simple,” Jillian began. “There’s a whole bloody fleet of old barges and whaleboats at Oro Bay that are useless and in the way. Most of their engines still run. We’re supposed to take them out and scuttle them…but what if we towed them off Buna—at night, of course—lashed their tillers down and set them straight for shore? We could fill them with explosives and gasoline drums on very long fuzes…”

  “You mean fireships? That’s a centuries-old tactic, Jill. Do you really think it would fool them?”

  “Why not? You told me your blokes got fooled by firecrackers, didn’t you?”

  Jock had to laugh at himself. “Point taken,” he said.

  Jillian wasn’t finished. “We could even cut palm fronds to look like men’s silhouettes and nail them into the boats. That should get the Japs soiling their trousers, don’t you think?”

  “And while they’re distracted with all that,” Jock added, “we can push in from the land side. We could probably get halfway to Buna Village before they realized what the hell was going on.”

  “So what do you think, Yank?”

  “I think we’d better go talk to Colonel Molloy right now.”

  Jock and Jillian were sure the colonel was going to say no. Molloy sat in silence, staring off into space, as they described their plan. Once they were finished, he still had nothing to say. They stood before him in the awkward silence—anxiously hoping for his approval—for what seemed like an eternity.

  When he finally spoke, his words were steeped in tones of rejection.

  “What bothers me most,” Colonel Molloy said, “is your plan’s reliance on civilians. They’ll be preparing the boats for the fake assault, they’ll bring them into position, they’ll launch them toward shore. I can’t risk the lives of my men for a plan that rests so heavily on non-military personnel not under my command.”

  That was the wrong thing to say to Jillian Forbes. The air began to charge with the energy of her response before she spoke a word.

  “Colonel,” she began, “you seem to have forgotten your whole operation depends on the civilians you think so little of. Who do you think brings all your supplies? It’s civilian sailors like me. Whatever those bloody little airplanes of yours bring in doesn’t amount to a trickle compared to what comes over the water.”

  Molloy began to wish he had chosen his words more wisely.

  Jillian continued, “And who’s been carting those supplies through jungles, down rivers, and over mountains for you…when they’re not carrying the litters of your wounded and burying your dead? Or have you inducted all those natives into your army?”

  She waited for him to absorb those blows before adding, “No, wait…then you’d have to actually pay a generous wage—like the rest of you wankers get—instead of the pittance you throw at them.”

  “Miss Forbes,” Molloy said, “I don’t mean to imply I’m not appreciative of your—”

  “Good,” she cut in. “Then let us civilians help you even more…before Buna becomes nothing but a Yank graveyard.”

  Molloy went silent again. But this time, he didn’t seem to be contemplating yes or no. It was more like how and when?

  Jock asked, “I suppose it’s too much to ask that the other two regiments help us out this time?”

  “You suppose correctly, Jock,” Molloy replied. “That would involve coordinating through Division…and General Freidenburg would put the screws to this scheme the second he heard it. He’ll see it as someone trying to step on his toes…and he’d be right. Better he knows nothing about this fireship scheme until it’s all over.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Jock said. “But speaking of coordinating, how will we maintain communications with you civilians?”

  Glaring at him like he was an idiot, Jillian replied, “We do have wireless on our ships, you know.”

  Before Jock could say anything, Molloy asked, “But what about message security, Miss Forbes? All messages have to be coded…and I can’t release our codes to you.”

  “You don’t have to,” she replied. “We’ll let you use our merchant navy codes.” She pulled a small notebook from her pocket. “Copy it quickly, please. I need it back.”

  Molloy’s concerns didn’t stop there. “But General Freidenburg’s assault is laid on for the sixth of January—less than seven days from now,” he said. “We couldn’t possibly pull this off before then…could we?”

  “Colonel, we could have those boats off Buna as early as tomorrow night,” Jillian replied, “the first of January. We civilians aren’t bogged in all your military red tape.”

  “Well, we’re not going to do it tomorrow night, that’s for sure,” Molloy said. “How much time do you need to get your men ready, Jock?”

  “We could go in forty-eight hours, sir.”

  “Very fine,” Molloy replied. “If we set it for oh-one hundred on January third, is that agreeable to you, Miss Forbes?”

  “Absolutely, Colonel.”

  “Good,” Molloy said. “It’s set, then. One more thing, Miss Forbes…you’re positive there are half a dozen Stuart tanks awaiting shipment at Milne Bay?”

  “Without a doubt, Colonel.”

  She could see the question in his eyes. It was breaking her heart the answer couldn’t be yes.

  “I can’t stay, Jock,” Jillian said. “I’ve got to get back to my ship…and get the wheels turning on our little plan.”

  “I know,” Jock replied. “We’ve both got a lot to do.”

  He could feel the distance already growing between them although they were still close enough to touch.

  Within minutes of their arrival at Jock’s CP, Patchett had a jeep waiting to take her back to Oro Bay. As she hopped into the passenger’s seat, Jock said, “Don’t even think about being anywhere near Buna—offshore or onshore—when we launch this attack, Jill. I mean it.”

  The kiss she gave him tried to convey so much: hopes, dreams, reassurances, confidence—anything but the nagging fear growing within her that somehow she was creating the circumstances of his death.

  “I wouldn’t worry, silly boy,” she replied, trying her best to dodge the issue. “I’ve got a ship to look after.”

  “I’m serious, Jill. Don’t.”

  Colonel Molloy wasted no time tracking down General Freidenburg. He was at one of the airfield construction sites near Dobodura, admiring the repair work in progress on the bomb-damaged runway.

  The general said, “These coloreds do some fine work as long as they’re closely supervised. Wouldn’t you agree, Colonel?”

  The urge to reply with sho-nuff, massa, was very strong, but sarcasm wouldn’t help Dick Molloy a bit right now. Instead, he replied, “Yes, sir, but there’s something I must discuss with you.”

  “Go ahead, Colonel,” Freidenburg said, his eyes never drifting from the natives hard at work on his airfield. “I’m all ears.”

  “General, are you aware there are six Stuart tanks at Milne Bay, just waiting to be shipped up here? And there’s a ship on hand capable of carrying them to Oro Bay?”

  Freidenburg acted surprised to hear that.

  Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn’t, Molloy thought. But he learned something a long time ago: generals always knew everything they wanted to know.

  “Stuarts! How do you know that, Colonel?”

  “An eyewitness told me, sir.”

  “Even if that’s true, Colonel, it would be a week or more before they could be here and—”

  “Negative, sir. I’m told they could be here in two to three days.”

  The general appraised Molloy with the cold, dead eyes of a shark. His voice soft yet menacing, he replied, “Do not interrupt me again, Colonel. As I was saying, a few tanks that may or may not be at Milne Bay will not be necessary after your men storm Buna Villa
ge from the sea. It might be different if tanks could be part of that amphibious assault, but we don’t have the landing ships for that. Do I make myself clear?”

  The only thing that was clear to Dick Molloy: General Freidenburg was every bit as obtuse as the man he replaced.

  January1943

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  First Sergeant Tom Hadley was delighted to no longer be acting company commander of Charlie Company. He greeted Lee Grossman, the real company commander, by handing him a bottle of beer. “Happy New Year, Lieutenant,” Hadley said. “Here…have a brew, sir. Everybody gets one…and you sure as hell look like you need it.”

  “Better not,” Grossman replied, gently rubbing his belly. “This gut’s going to be tender for quite a while. Doc said mine was the worst case of dysentery he’d ever seen. I damn near died of dehydration.”

  “Well, on behalf of every swinging dick in the outfit, it’s good to have you back, sir,” Hadley said. “But with all due respect, you do look like you got rode hard and put away wet. You sure you’re up to this? We’re going back into the plantation tomorrow night, you know.”

  “Tom, I’ve had my ass dangling over a slit trench for the better part of two weeks. It’s time I did my bit again. Let’s start with you filling me in on who’s in charge of what in this company now.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Hadley said, “but before we do that, the men would like to give you a little welcome back present.”

  As a crowd of GIs watched, two privates approached, each concealing something behind his back. Once standing before Lieutenant Grossman, they dropped to one knee and produced the hidden objects. Each man held out a roll of toilet paper. On the side of both rolls were written the words Reserved for Company Commander’s Use Only.

  “We figured these might come in handy, sir,” Hadley said.

  For a moment, the men thought their C.O. had not found their gift funny at all. But after an awkward, silent moment, he took the offered rolls, tucked them under his arm, and—with a big smile—said, “Thank you very much, men. I’m sure I’ll be putting this generous gift to good use…and real soon, too.”