Operation Fishwrapper (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 5)

by William Peter Grasso

  Wiry guys made the best tree climbers—that got the list of candidates down to Steve Richards and Hector Morales.

  “I’ll do it, sir,” Morales said, sounding positively eager.

  “No,” Lieutenant Simpson replied. “This is an officer’s job. Mister Richards, you do it.”

  Steve Richards looked terrified at the prospect.

  “Don’t worry,” Jock told him. “You’re a better target down here in the open than you’ll be up there.”

  That didn’t seem to comfort Richards at all. But he took the compass Jock offered and, with great reluctance, swung himself onto a lower branch. Jock said, “Just get us good azimuths to the two highest peaks. They should be hard to miss once you’re up there.”

  Using branches like ladder rungs, Richards got about halfway up the tree trunk—thirty feet or so above the ground. From that point on, the branches would be too thin to support a man’s weight. He’d have to shimmy up the trunk to reach the top.

  He made the mistake of looking down…and froze.

  Jock asked, “Something wrong, Mister Richards?”

  “I…I can’t, sir. I can’t do it.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I…I just can’t.”

  Sid Baum offered, “I think I know what’s wrong with him, sir. He’s afraid of heights.”

  “Are you shitting me? A pilot who’s afraid of heights?”

  “Seen it before, sir. A good pal of mine couldn’t even climb a ladder or ride a Ferris wheel when we were kids, but that didn’t stop him from becoming a bomber pilot with the Army. Got a letter from my wife last week that said he did his twenty-five missions over Europe and now he’s back home.”

  Jock puzzled over that one for a moment before saying, “That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

  “Maybe not, sir, but it’s the God’s honest truth. As long as the thing he was riding wasn’t attached to the ground, it was no problem. Looks to be the same story for Mister Richards.”

  “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Jock said. “Morales, go and get him down.”

  Arthur Simpson seemed just as startled as everyone else. He responded to Jock’s accusing glare with an earnest shrug that said, Hey, I didn’t know! Really!

  Good thing, Jock thought, because setting a man up like that—one of your men, to boot—would make you an even bigger asshole than I already think you are.

  Once Richards’ feet were firmly back on the ground, Hector Morales shot to the top of the tree with astonishing ease. The compass shots took less than a minute and then he, too, was back on Mother Earth.

  “The highest peak on the north island is shrouded in mist,” Morales said, “but I still got a pretty good estimate where it is, sir. Couldn’t be off more than a degree or two. The other peak I shot dead on. I can still see smoke from where we burned the plane, though. We’re not as far from it as I thought…a mile or so, probably. I’d hate to get caught in a forest fire we set ourselves.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Jock replied. “The wind’s blowing away from us…and it’ll rain buckets before you know it. That’ll put the fire out, for sure.”

  Plotting Morales’ azimuths on the map, Jock said, “That puts us here, halfway across the southern plateau, about three miles north of the southern coast…in the middle of this big, empty green glob. This old map sure isn’t real big on surface features, is it? No rivers, no streams, no contour lines…nothing. I guess we should count ourselves lucky it showed those two peaks, at least.”

  Arthur Simpson took a good look at the map and replied, “I thought you said the Japs would be in force near the south coast, sir. It seems deserted around here.”

  “Are you complaining, Mister Simpson?”

  “Hell, no, sir.”

  “Don’t sell the Japs short, either,” Jock added. “Just because we don’t see any at the moment doesn’t mean there’s not a regiment or two nearby.” He made a small circle on the map along Biak’s east coast. “Let’s shoot for this area here. It’s only about a seven-mile walk…if we can believe this map, that is.”

  Simpson asked, “Why there, sir?”

  “Because if I was looking for somewhere to hide out, I’d pick a place like that. Nothing but rainforest, supposedly. Maybe the Dutch think the same way.”

  “You mean if they’re still even on this island, sir…and alive, right?”

  “Well, Mister Simpson, I’d say you have an excellent grasp of the situation. Pull your gear together—we move out in two minutes.”

  Steve Richards didn’t need to say a word. All it took was one look at him to know he was mortified by his tree-climbing failure. Jock walked over to him; Richards’ eyes wouldn’t meet his.

  “Don’t sweat it, Steve,” Jock said quietly, hoping only Richards would hear. “I can’t climb a tree, either. And I sure as hell can’t fly a plane…so I guess that puts you one up on me.”

  Lieutenant Simpson was too close not to hear it, though. He hovered, with what Jock thought to be a smirk on his face, looking ready to mock his copilot…

  But Simpson read the forbidding look on Jock’s face correctly: Don’t you fucking dare. He turned away and said nothing.

  They hadn’t walked far before the downpour came, just as Jock promised it would. The jungle rain promptly drenched them, and its loud hiss made it impossible to speak softly. “Use that rain catcher from the survival kit,” Jock shouted. “Catch every drop you can.”

  “But we’ve still got lots of water, sir,” Baum replied.

  Jock laughed and said, “You flight crew guys don’t get out in the hot sun very much, do you?”

  “No, sir, not really. We’re either flying…or cooling our heels.”

  “Well, just wait until this squall passes and the sun starts to bake us. You never have enough water in these parts. Fill us up…every container we’ve got. When you’re done with that, everyone use some rainwater to wash yourselves up.”

  Jock decided this was a good time for the rest of the jungle hygiene lecture. He gathered the Navy men close: “I don’t see any Halazone in that kit, so don’t drink any—and I mean any—water from streams we might stumble across. We don’t need anyone laid low with the shits. And while we’re on the subject, if you do have to shit, don’t wipe yourself with leaves. You’ve already bought enough trouble without your ass itching and burning, too. There any toilet paper in that kit?”

  “A little,” Baum replied.

  “Well, when that runs out, use whatever paper you don’t need…ration wrappers, notebook pages, whatever you’ve got. Just don’t use one of these damn maps, in case they actually turn out to be at least a little accurate. And one more thing…”

  They all looked at him like they’d heard quite enough already.

  “Whatever paper you use, bury it. We don’t need to leave any calling cards.”

  The rain shower lasted only a few minutes, ending as if heaven’s faucet had been abruptly shut off. Jock asked, “Any of those forty-fives get wet in their holsters?”

  The Navy men all shook their heads.

  “Good. Now let’s hold up and dry out the thirty cal.” He pulled the small oil bottle from the stock of his Thompson. “When you’re done, get a little of this on those moving parts in the casing. As soon as that gun’s up and running again, I’ll dry out my Thompson. That way, we don’t lose all our firepower at once.”

  It wasn’t even 0900 but the heat and humidity were already taking their toll. “I think I see what you meant about the water, sir,” Sid Baum said, slurping from his canteen once again. “How long you figure until we hit the coast?”

  Before Jock could answer, there was a shriek from farther back in the column—one high-pitched yelp—the sound of a startled and terrified man. Jock turned around to see Arthur Simpson some ten yards away from a native man, who was clad only in khaki trousers but carrying a Nambu pistol. That weapon was pointed straight at the Navy pilot.

  The native shouted something—Jock could
n’t understand what he said.

  Arthur Simpson was jerking around as if receiving electric shocks. He was trying—and failing—to pull his own pistol from its holster. His panicky hands couldn’t seem to get the motion right.

  Before anyone could take a breath, the native fired…

  Simpson flinched but didn’t go down. And he still hadn’t drawn his weapon.

  “DOWN!” Jock yelled. Everyone but Simpson hit the ground.

  The native fired again.

  Again Simpson flinched but didn’t fall. He began backpedaling as fast as he could…

  Until he tripped over Sid Baum.

  The native took a step back, putting a tree between him and Jock, and fired a third time.

  Racing to clear his field of fire, Jock told himself, If I don’t take this guy down, nobody will.

  The BUPBUPBUP of a three-shot burst from Jock’s Thompson…

  The red spray of blood and body tissue as the three bullets hit the native squarely in the chest…

  And he fell backward in a heap.

  His Nambu clattered to the ground.

  “ANYBODY HIT?” Jock asked.

  No one answered. But Jock could see Morales and Richards clearly. They seemed shaken, but physically all right.

  “Stay sharp, you two,” Jock told them. “There may be more of them around.”

  He had to take a few steps to see Simpson and Baum. They weren’t hurt, either…but Simpson looked like he’d just witnessed his own death. Baum just looked confused. He asked, “What the hell’s going on, sir? I never saw nothing.”

  “Take a look over there,” Jock replied, pointing to the man he’d just shot.

  Baum took a few tentative steps toward the motionless body. The native wasn’t dead yet—he was still gurgling softly—but he would be very soon. The blood flowing from his wounds was nearly invisible as it pooled on the wet ground.

  “Where the fuck did he come from, sir? That’s a Jap pistol, ain’t it?”

  “Yep. Looks like Jap Army pants he’s wearing, too.”

  Tucking the Nambu into his belt, Baum said, “So it looks like the natives ain’t necessarily friendly, are they?”

  “Maybe not. Let’s get the hell out of here…before some of his friends show up.”

  Helping the ashen-faced Simpson to his feet, Jock added, “It’s a hell of a lot harder to kill people when you’re face to face, isn’t it? Not nice and easy like dropping bombs on them, eh?”

  Simpson couldn’t find the words to reply.

  “Well, at least you didn’t piss or shit yourself. Probably didn’t have enough time. C’mon…let’s get moving.”

  As he took the lead once again, Jock found himself mumbling: Fucking flyboys.

  Chapter Four

  Colonel Dick Molloy walked briskly into the old plantation villa at Hollandia, New Guinea, trusting no one but himself with the delicate task at hand. He passed the GIs nailing a sign above the entryway and thought, They’re sure not wasting any time getting set up here. They only flew in from Port Moresby yesterday.

  The sign read:

  SUPREME ALLIED HEADQUARTERS,

  SOUTHWEST PACIFIC

  OFFICE OF CIVIL AFFAIRS

  This is where he’d find Jillian Forbes—actually, Jillian Forbes Miles, Jock Miles’ Australian wife. She’d been given the job Assistant Australian Advisor for Civilian and Refugee Affairs. Dick Molloy had been the prime force behind that appointment, lobbying for her until General Sutherland, MacArthur’s Chief of Staff, finally relented and decreed the job was hers. After all, who could provide better guidance on the needs of resettled civilians and refugees than a woman who was both of these things—and an ex-POW of the Japanese, too?

  Or, as Sutherland dismissively put it, Oh, what the hell, Molloy. She knows all about sea transport and the darkies, right?

  Molloy had chafed at the mandate she’d be Assistant Australian Advisor, since there didn’t seem to be any Senior Advisor at Supreme Allied Headquarters. But he’d take what he could get; he fully understood that a woman would never be the boss of anything in MacArthur’s kingdom.

  He made his way across the worn hardwood floors of what was once an opulent parlor before the Japanese occupied it. They’d first used the villa as a division headquarters. Later, as American and Australian forces bore down on them, it had become a hospital and, finally, a charnel house as Hollandia fell to the Americans.

  Now it served as a bustling office that seemed much too clean and fresh to be part of a forward Allied headquarters. Those Army engineers did a hell of a job fixing this place up after what it went through, Molloy told himself, trying to lighten just for a moment the weight of what he was about to do.

  She was sitting at a desk in the middle of the room, sifting through stacks of paperwork. As soon as she saw the look on Colonel Molloy’s face, she had no doubt: Something’s wrong…terribly wrong.

  Her stomach knotted as if it had been punched, knocking the wind from her, forcing her to whisper:

  “What happened? Is he…?”

  “We don’t know anything, Jillian. He was along on a night recon mission.”

  Molloy hesitated, feeling as if he was betraying a secret Jock had very much wanted to keep from her. A betrayal for sure—but a necessary one now. As far as he knew, Jillian had no idea her husband was doing anything other than an Air Force staff job on Wakde Island, just over a hundred miles to the west. Intelligence liaison between Army and Air Force, as Jock had described it. A safe job, out of combat and firmly on the ground.

  “A flying recon mission, of course.” Her voice had returned but sounded disembodied, as if she was having a discussion with herself.

  “You knew, Jillian? You knew he was flying?”

  “How bloody stupid do you think I am, Colonel? Of course I knew.”

  Molloy looked surprised…or perhaps confused, so she added, “I work for your bloody Army, remember? I know how to find things out. So where do they think he is?”

  “We don’t know. They radioed in over an island called Biak. That was the last thing heard from them.”

  A male voice—officious, impatient—boomed from an adjacent office, saying, “Missus Miles, I need those figures on Dutch POW repatriation on the double.”

  Through the office’s open door, Dick Molloy could see the speaker, an aging, pudgy, and sweating captain—the type of rear-echelon pencil-pusher who considered himself the complete soldier because he was dumb enough to wear a necktie in the tropics—seated like a petty tyrant behind a desk too grand to be GI issue. It must have been the property of the original Dutch plantation owners.

  “I’ll take care of that jackass for you,” Molloy told Jillian as he turned toward the office.

  “No,” she replied, “it’s all right. I’ll be fine, sir.”

  She scooped up some of the papers from her desk and started her own trek to the captain. Over her shoulder, she mouthed the words, “Leave the wanker to me.”

  At the doorway, she stopped and looked back at Molloy. Her brave face cracked for just a moment as she asked, “You’ll tell me the minute you know, won’t you?”

  And then she strode to the captain’s desk, unafraid, as always, of self-important little men.

  Chapter Five

  Arthur Simpson finally got his .45 out of its holster. Once they’d started walking east again, it never left his right hand. He intended to be ready for the next encounter.

  “Remember,” Jock told him, “you’ve only got two rounds in that pistol. Make ’em count…hold it straight out in both hands when you fire. None of that movie cowboy shooting from the hip bullshit.”

  “Yeah, fine, sir,” Simpson grumbled in reply.

  It was just past sweltering noon when Hector Morales said, “Sir, how much longer do you figure we’ve got to walk?” He was sagging beneath the weight of the .30-caliber machine gun.

  “Maybe another hour.”

  “I don’t see how you doggies manage all this walking, sir.”
>
  “You mean infantrymen, don’t you, Morales?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I meant. No disrespect or anything…”

  “None taken. Tell you what, though…let Baum carry that weapon for a while.”

  Morales started to protest but thought better of it. His heart may have been willing, but his body was crying for some relief.

  Sid Baum shouldered the machine gun and said, “It’s okay, Hec. Take a break. You earned it.”

  They walked on. Fatigue made the now-thin rainforest an enemy: an endless and monotonous maze that hindered their progress, providing only random patches of shade that offered no shelter from the broiling heat. Vines tore their flesh and snared their feet. They were nearly out of water again.

  When he first caught sight of them, Jock thought he was hallucinating. There were dark men—natives?—directly in front of them, just yards away yet nearly invisible…

  And then the dark men stepped forward—very real now, a dozen or more, obviously natives—with empty hands held high over their heads in a gesture of surrender. Their garb was typically native—most clad only in shorts, a few in loin cloths. Not a hint of a Japanese garment this time.

  Arthur Simpson had taken Jock’s earlier instruction to heart. He held his .45 straight out, in both hands, its muzzle just a few feet from the face of a cringing native. Definitely not cowboy bullshit.

  “NO!” Jock yelled. “DON’T SHOOT THEM!”

  Simpson hadn’t pulled the trigger yet, but his aim didn’t waver.

  “This could be a damn Jap trick,” he said, his voice high-pitched and breathless, like a man scared half out of his mind. “Fuck it, let’s kill them all.”

  “No, Mister Simpson. Put down that weapon. If this was an ambush, we’d be dead already.”

  “So what the fuck do we do?”

  “We accept their surrender.”

  A tall native turned to Jock and said, “Leider?”

  “I think I know what that means, sir,” Sid Baum said. “It’s Dutch. He’s asking if you’re the leader.”