Operation Fishwrapper (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 5)

by William Peter Grasso

  Knox scowled at him. “I take it back, Fuzzy...maybe you are that dumb after all. I’ll tell you one more time—if we killed them outright, it’d be a firing squad for us, for sure. But the way I got it set up, anything that happens to them is gonna be seen as God’s will.”

  Van Flyss sighed and said, “All right. When do we do it?”

  “Tonight.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Thirst was driving Arthur Simpson slowly out of his mind. He’d yet to cross a stream or river from which to fill his canteen. In his solitary wandering toward Biak’s southeastern shore, the only body of water he’d come upon was a stinking swamp—a glorified mud puddle. But even though he could no longer summon saliva to his mouth and he felt sure he’d be spitting out dried-up pieces of his esophagus any minute, he wasn’t crazy enough to try and drink from it. Not yet.

  He’d couldn’t remember how long he’d been walking the edge of this bluff—at least two hundred feet high—looking for a safe and easy place to descend to the seashore. Simpson could see the Pacific now, and its forbidden water—infinite, undrinkable—seemed to be taunting him. The weather was taunting him, too. From his high vantage point, he’d watched two storms roll off the ocean, pouring their life-giving rain on the island far to the north and south. Not a drop had fallen anywhere near him.

  Below the bluff, thick forest stretched to a rocky shoreline. He wasn’t sure at first—maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me—but he thought he was looking down on a thin column of smoke rising above some treetops not far away.

  A cookfire, I’ll bet. Some darkies must be cooking up fish or a pig for supper…and where there’s cooking, there’s got to be a village…

  And where there’s a village, there’s water.

  Better hurry…it’s going to be pitch dark in a couple of hours.

  Abandoning caution and the laws of physics, he eased one foot over the edge and then the other…and began a clumsy and death-defying descent down the steep slope—slipping, falling, tumbling, bouncing off trees—only to somehow regain his feet, try a few more uncertain steps, topple over, and begin the head-over-heels journey all over again.

  Bruising though it was, Simpson’s unceremonious downhill run was a big timesaver—he reached the bottom in little over a minute. He took some small comfort in that fact:

  I’m a little banged up but I don’t think I broke anything…and now I’ve only got an easy little stroll to that village.

  He staggered to his full, commanding height, threw back his shoulders—Ow! Must’ve sprained something…

  And then, as the pain in his shoulders receded, he stepped off smartly, like a man on the way to reclaiming his rightful destiny.

  When the huts of the village came into view, he stopped, crouched low, and began to recon the situation before him. As he did, he reached for his .45 pistol…

  But the holster was empty.

  Shit! Must’ve lost it falling down that fucking cliff. Ahh, the hell with it. Only had two damn bullets in it, anyway. Don’t imagine I’d be able to shoot my way into getting a drink.

  Simpson could see nothing but a group of busy women—a dozen, give or take—tending to children and the boiling pot.

  Looks like they’re cooking supper. Fish stew, I’m guessing. They’re no threat…but where the hell are all the men?

  He heard something behind him, a rustling sound, like an animal in the underbrush.

  When Simpson turned, there was a man—an islander—standing before him.

  In his hand was a large wooden blade—like a fraternity paddle…or a cricket bat.

  There were more island men all around him. No bats for them, just long knives hanging from their waists.

  Where the fuck did they all come from? They don’t look too damn friendly, either. But at least there ain’t no Nambu pointed at me this time. And those knives don’t mean shit. Hell, every pickaninny in the jungle carries a knife.

  Simpson held up his hand in greeting, like the actors pretending to be American Indians in the movies did when saying hello to white men.

  The islanders made no gesture in return.

  “US Navy,” Simpson said, pointing to the gold wings on his chest. “Pilot…aviator…flyer.”

  Still no response.

  He pointed skyward as he patted the wings. Pilot or not, he was making no impression on the grim-faced islanders.

  “American,” Simpson said. He smiled, confident he’d just played the trump card ensuring his salvation.

  The batsman took a sudden step forward and, quick as lightning, delivered a knockout blow with that weapon to the side of Arthur Simpson’s head.

  The storms that bypassed Arthur Simpson were much kinder to Jock and his men. They’d been drenched twice, cooling themselves and refilling their canteens each time. Even if it hadn’t rained they wouldn’t have become parched: Josiah was adept at finding the thick vines that, when a cutting was hacked open, oozed enough thirst-quenching sap to keep a man hydrated.

  The setting sun was casting its long, eastward shadows as they stopped to rest for a few minutes. Trying to make some sense of his map, Jock asked Hans, “How much longer do you figure? Best I can make from this piece of toilet paper is we’re still on Biak, somewhere.”

  “We will reach our rendezvous within the hour,” Hans replied.

  Steve Richards added, “See? I told you, sir…you wouldn’t slow us down hardly at all.”

  “Well, I sure appreciate the help, Steve.” Then Jock stood and, for the first time since morning, took a few wobbly but unassisted steps on both legs.

  “Whoa, sir,” Richards said. “Give it a rest!”

  “No, I’m okay. You guys have been carrying me all day long. I think I can finish up this trip on my own two feet. You could use the break…I know it isn’t easy being somebody’s crutch over all that distance.”

  “Hell, sir, it was only about ten miles. Sure, it was up and down a little, but…”

  Jock laughed and said, “Steve, you’re sounding more and more like an infantryman every minute.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, sir,” Richards replied. Then he pointed skyward and added, “But I belong up there, with the rest of the flyboys.”

  “Speaking of flyboys,” Jock said, “your Lieutenant Simpson…there’ll be a board of inquiry…” He had started to say if we get back but changed his mind and finished the sentence with “when we get back.” Then he continued, “I’ve worked with pilots for a while now and I know how you like to cover each other’s asses. What do you plan to say about him?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Richards replied, “I’ll tell them he ditched us and ran away. Fuck him.”

  “Suppose he’s back with Dyckman when we get there, Steve?”

  “It doesn’t change a damn thing, sir. Would it matter to you if he came back?”

  “No, you’re right, Steve. It wouldn’t change a damn thing. Fuck him.”

  Arthur Simpson was fairly sure he was conscious now—still woozy but conscious. He could hear people talking in some strange language but couldn’t see anything except vague shadows, more like sensing motion from behind a curtain than seeing animate objects.

  That’s it! I’m lying here with a sack over my head. Burlap or something.

  He tried to lift his arms to remove it but he couldn’t. Something was holding them to his sides. There was chafing pressure at his wrists, which worsened the more he tried to pull his arms free.

  Shit. I’m tied up.

  There were hands on him now, roughly pulling him to a kneeling position.

  It felt like someone was untying something from around his neck, and then the bag over his head was whisked away.

  He could see again, at least whatever the soft glow of twilight allowed.

  The village. I’m still here.

  Dark silhouettes paced around him as if performing a ritual dance.

  But one silhouette remained stationary, directly before him…

  And he�
��s still holding that fucking bat.

  There was something strange about the shape of the batsman’s head…

  He’s wearing some kind of cap…but it almost looks like a hood.

  The batsman drew close, crouched low, and stared right into Simpson’s face.

  His features were clear now…and so was that cap.

  It’s one of those a Jap soldier wears, with that drape on the back to keep the sun off.

  On the cap’s peak was the big star of the Imperial Japanese Army, normally red but grayish now in the fading light.

  Ahh, fuck…Gekken.

  The batsman slowly raised his weapon so it touched Simpson’s cheek.

  The edge was razor sharp, like a wooden sword.

  He pulled that sharp edge along the pilot’s cheek, causing a sharp pain and drawing blood.

  Simpson could see the red trickle on the blade.

  He tried to pull away but the hands of unseen gekken forced his head to be still.

  The batsman seemed to be enjoying himself. He barked words that sounded like orders and sprayed Simpson with spittle.

  The sack had been rolled into a slender length of rough cloth, like a kerchief…

  Or a blindfold. It was quickly tied over Simpson’s eyes.

  In the quiet seconds that followed, the Navy pilot thought of the stories he’d heard of Allied flyers being executed—beheaded—by their Japanese captors.

  But that can’t be happening…not to me. These aren’t Japanese. They’re just some fuzzy-wuzzies playing dress-up games. And he doesn’t even have a real sword.

  Enough of this shit. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here…

  He tried to stand…but couldn’t.

  His ankles were secured to the ground somehow. To stakes, a tree—he couldn’t tell.

  Puffing his chest out, he said, “Look, I’ll give you my wings! They’re nice and shiny, right? Shine like gold! You want them, don’t you? Go ahead, take them.”

  It seemed such a short time ago he had not a doubt in the world he was all powerful, the master of his universe. A soaring god…

  The master of every universe.

  Now he was helpless, his fate in the hands of a stranger:

  Some fucking darkie.

  This is all the Army’s fault. Let them ask me again to fly a mission for them.

  They can all go fuck themselves, from that comic opera son of a bitch MacArthur right on down the line.

  Arthur Simpson didn’t even sense the disturbance of the air…

  But he felt the bite of the wooden blade as it struck the back of his neck with terrific force.

  It put him face down in the dirt. He couldn’t move a muscle…

  Couldn’t feel his arms or legs.

  But he could still hear the shrieking of the gekken standing over him.

  A metallic taste in his mouth:

  My own blood.

  A second blow…

  But his head remained attached to his body—there was less shattered spine and mangled tissue to hold it now, but it was still attached.

  On the twelfth blow, the wooden sword splintered to pieces.

  But the batsman was too caught up in his bloodlust to stop. He screamed for another sword.

  Arthur Simpson was dead long before the seventeenth blow finally caused his head to roll free.

  The winded but exultant batsman picked it up by a bloodied ear and displayed it like a trophy.

  But all the other gekken were gone. For them, the Japanese ritual of execution they’d dreamed of performing on a white man for so long had proved too horrific to watch.

  The batsman’s solitary celebration didn’t last long. He was soon confronted by a mob of angry village women. They demanded the white man’s body—including his severed head—be removed. Immediately, the women insisted, before it began to rot and stink. Already it was attracting swarms of insects. The batsman had little choice but to comply; his mother was the mob’s leader.

  The rest of the gekken men joined him as he wrapped Simpson’s body in a woven mat. Then they lifted it and headed off in the darkness, hoping to travel as short a distance as possible downwind from the village before ridding themselves of the corpse.

  That distance turned out to be even shorter than expected; they had barely made it to the trail when they heard heavy footsteps coming the other way, sounds that could only be made by men with boots on their feet. Men wearing footwear could only be enemies.

  The gekken had no intention of getting caught. They dropped Arthur Simpson and fled back to the village. They were long gone when the first soldier in the Japanese patrol tripped over their discarded cargo.

  Chapter Twelve

  They could tell they were getting near the edge of the rainforest. As the sun set at their backs, its light had grown dim among the trees through which they walked. But ahead, there was still a sense of pastel pink mixing with deep blue. That was where the labyrinth of the forest ended and the vista of sky and sea began.

  “I’m guessing there’s a pretty sharp drop to the water there,” Jock said, “despite the gentle slope this useless map would have you believe.”

  “Yes,” Hans replied, “about two hundred feet, almost straight down, I’m told.”

  Those last two words took Jock by surprise. He sputtered, “You’re told? You mean you’ve never been here before?”

  “No, not here, exactly, Major. But I’ve been close…and I do listen when others describe things.”

  “How close is close, Hans?”

  “Within a few miles.”

  “What about Josiah? Has he ever been here?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, Major. But I assure you, there’s no cause for alarm. We know where we’re going.”

  Josiah turned, as if to add his reassurances. But before he could say a word, he dropped to one knee, rifle at the ready, and raised his hand to the others: Stop!

  Then he pointed toward the trees still ahead, wagging his finger back and forth…

  Sketching a line of adversaries in their path.

  Crouched low behind trees, the others couldn’t see the Japanese.

  But there were telltale sounds: the scurrying of feet…

  The clack-clack of rifle bolts…

  Then the first shot from an Arisaka splashed against the tree, just a foot above Jock’s head. “STAY DOWN,” he said. “DON’T WASTE A ROUND UNLESS YOU CAN SEE THEM PLAIN AS DAY.”

  Steve Richards shot him a panicked look. He wanted to fire, to do something—anything, no matter how useless—to try and buy his salvation…something—anything—to stop the angry lead splintering the tree which, for the moment, protected him.

  Jock knew well the instinct flooding Richards’ senses—and he knew well what a mistake it would be to follow it now.

  “Just do what I say, Steve.”

  Suddenly, on the left flank, a Japanese soldier was running, trying to keep his bent body low to the ground.

  But speed makes for poor cover. Hans picked him off with one shot.

  “They’re trying to get behind us,” Jock said. “They’ll be easy to see if they keep it up.”

  Another Japanese soldier tried, this time on the right flank.

  It took two shots, but Josiah took him down.

  “Outstanding,” Jock said.

  Richards was still nothing short of terrified. “What about your Thompson, sir? Let loose with it! Spray their asses!”

  “When they’re close enough for this thing to hit them, I will. Same thing for you with that .45. Now calm the fuck down, Steve, and stay alert. You remember what your quadrant is?”

  “Hell, yeah!”

  “Good. Stay glued to it.”

  It fell silent for a long, anxious moment—just long enough to allow for false hope the Japanese were retreating…

  But then came the sense of something hissing through the air above their heads…

  And a thump as the grenade struck the tree right behind Jock…

  And dropped in
to his outstretched hand like an outfielder playing a long fly off the wall.

  The grenade’s hiss was a deafening whisper now as its fuze burned, spewing a plume of wispy gray smoke, marking the last instant to its destiny.

  Could there really be any time left?

  In one smooth motion, Jock’s arm went from catching to throwing, hurling it back from where it had come.

  The eyes of his three men watched it fly over their heads in stunned disbelief, anticipating the blast which seemed so long overdue.

  Praying the grenade wouldn’t bounce off yet another tree—and this time, land at their feet…

  For they knew no hand would be quick enough to flick it on yet again.

  It had dropped from sight when it finally blew up, its sound a muted poof…

  Causing barely a ruffle of the surrounding trees.

  More like a malfunction than a deadly explosion.

  “A dud?” Richards asked.

  “No,” Jock replied. “That’s what they sound like.”

  They waited for another grenade, more rifle fire—anything to indicate the Japs were still players in this lethal game.

  “You killed them all,” Hans said, a prayer more than a fact.

  “I couldn’t be that lucky.”

  He wasn’t—and neither was Steve Richards.

  The Japanese soldier seemed to pop right out of the ground before him.

  Richards’ .45 was only inches from the onrushing soldier’s heart when he jerked its trigger.

  They fell as one, in a swirling sense of misfortune and dread…

  And stuck fast to the ground on which they fell.

  Richards was on the bottom, flat on his back. The mortally wounded Japanese soldier’s head lay prone on the flyer’s chest, the stock of his Arisaka rifle standing above them like a grave marker.

  The rifle’s long bayonet had gone completely through the left side of Richards’ abdomen. Its tip was planted firmly in the ground.

  Their blood mixed, painting matching portraits of war’s agony on their khaki shirts.

  Jock raced to them, threw the Japanese soldier off and placed the muzzle of his Thompson against the man’s forehead.