The fat captain wasn’t going to let it go that easily. “This is all highly irregular, Missus Miles. You’ve made me and my command look like a bunch of gangsters.”
“Oh, that’s just bloody bullshit. War is highly irregular, Captain. And as far as the gangster claim, I think Missus Christiansen would agree—all you Yanks are bloody gangsters. Right, Greta?”
“Correct, Jillian.”
“So if you’ll excuse us, Captain, we’re going to enjoy a drink and a meal at the officers’ club. Good night.”
They made it as far as the veranda, where Jillian was startled to come face to face with Colonel Molloy.
“What are you doing here, Colonel?” she asked.
“Actually, I was coming to say ‘hi’ to you. Figured you were still at work.” He looked to Greta and asked, “And who do we have here?”
Jillian gave him the lowdown. Molloy was delighted to learn Greta would be offering her mapmaking skills and knowledge of Biak’s terrain to the Americans.
“We can certainly use your help,” he said. “How soon can you join us on the island?”
Greta replied, “As soon as I can collect some suitable clothes.”
“Excellent. I’m sure Jillian can have you decked out in no time. You can fly back with me tomorrow.”
Molloy’s smile faded; there was something else on his mind. Producing a small envelope from his shirt pocket, he said, “Jillian…this is from Jock. I promised I’d give it to you personally.”
“Oh dear lord…is he all right?”
“Yes, yes. He’s fine. Perfectly fine.” He pressed the envelope into her hand.
Shit. He’s being too solicitous. This is bad news. I know it.
“I can’t read it out here. It’s too dark. Excuse me for a moment.”
Back inside the villa, she read Jock’s letter with trembling hands. Smiling through her tears, she was touched that his men—some of whom she knew so well—had loved him so much they’d petitioned for his return as their commander. It was easy to understand his bond with them. She felt a bond to those men, too. They’d all been through so much together in the past two years.
I should be jealous.
My husband has two wives…me and his bloody First Battalion.
But how will he manage back in the bush with that leg of his?
Knowing him, I’m afraid he’ll find a way.
If those bastards don’t take brilliant care of him, though, they’ll be answering to me.
She had to stop and pull herself together before she could make it through the last paragraph:
Promises, Jill…I keep remembering what you said about promises. How war doesn’t let you keep them. I’d like to believe it, now more than ever. My only fear is that war or not, I’ve pushed it one broken promise too far this time. I lost you once to the Japs. If I lost you again…this time to my own foolishness…there would be nothing left for me to live for.
She was too overwrought go back outside and face Greta and Colonel Molloy. If she tried to speak, she knew nothing would come out.
Just a few more moments and I’ll be right as rain.
That was all it took. When she stepped onto the veranda, Molloy’s eyes wouldn’t meet hers. Greta, with no such problem, saw the tracks of Jillian’s tears glistening even in the dark. She threw her arms around her.
“I’m fine,” Jillian said. “I’ve grown quite accustomed to this insanity.”
She asked Molloy, “Really? A bloody petition?”
“Can you believe it?”
“Yes, Colonel, I can. Nothing surprises me about your Army anymore. Tell me…were you there when he made his decision?”
Molloy nodded reluctantly, as if confessing to some transgression against her.
“Was it hard for him?”
He nodded again, this time with a bit more enthusiasm.
“Silly boys,” she whispered. “You all can be so thick. As if he really had a choice…”
Jillian walked to the veranda’s railing. Looking up at the starry sky, she added, “This war is our life…until it ends, one way or another. And there’s not a bloody thing we can do about it.”
Chapter Thirty-One
By the time Colonel Molloy returned to his regimental HQ on Biak, Bogater Boudreau’s new name for the campaign they were waging had stuck fast. It might still officially be Operation Alamo, but every man in the regiment was now referring to it as Operation Fishwrapper. Jock found himself explaining to the colonel how the new name had come to be.
“So I’ve got you and your hoodlums to thank for this,” Molloy said, trying to sound displeased by the state of affairs.
No one in the regimental CP was fooled. They all knew their colonel wasn’t really upset. Maybe he even likes it, Jock thought. He certainly agrees with the sentiment.
“Think of it as a morale-boosting device, sir,” Jock offered. “It puts a smile on the men’s faces.”
Molloy replied, “Always looking on the bright side, eh, Major Miles?” Then he broke into a devilish smile of his own. “By the way, that’ll be the last time anyone calls you Major Miles.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a silver oak leaf, the insignia of a lieutenant colonel. Unpinning the gold leaf from Jock’s collar, he installed the new rank in its place. “I’m sure you’d rather have your wife here doing this,” Molloy added, “but at least she can tell you in her own words how she feels.”
From another pocket, he produced Jillian’s letter.
Jock held it gingerly in his hands, like it might explode if handled too roughly. “I shouldn’t read this right here and now, sir.”
“Read it whenever you like, Colonel Miles. But let me remind you that good things come in threes. You’ve already seen the first two…”
“So this letter’s a good thing, sir?”
Molloy smiled. “I believe you’ll find that to be the case, Jock. And now, for that third good thing, just take a look outside the tent.”
A GI was helping a red-haired woman unload her gear from Molloy’s jeep.
Jock said, “Let me guess…that hair’s a dead giveaway. That’s got to be Andreas Dyckman’s daughter, Greta.”
“Yep, that’s her. Your wife did one smooth job rounding her up. Come on…you need to meet her. She’s quite an interesting lady.”
As they shook hands, Greta said, “Very nice to meet you, Colonel Miles…and congratulations on your promotion.”
“Thanks. Call me Jock.”
“As you wish. Actually, the familiarity shouldn’t be a problem. Jillian’s told me so much about you I feel I’ve known you for years. By the way, your wife is an amazingly courageous woman, you know.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. She’s a hell of a lot tougher than I am.”
“And very persuasive, too,” Greta added. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her.”
They went into the CP tent. A big map of the island hung from a side curtain. Greta took one look at it and whistled in surprise. It sounded like a bomb falling. “Where did you get this sorry relic?” she asked.
“It’s the best we’ve got at the moment,” Jock replied. “There are five survey teams at work. We’re updating the map at a rate of about twenty square miles a day, when the Japs don’t slow us down.”
“At that rate, you could be at it for six months or more. My husband and I mapped most of the southern island. It took us over a year.”
She went back to studying the map. “Where is my father?” she asked.
“Last I saw of him, he was about here,” Jock replied as he pointed to a spot on the east coast. “When I left him and his party two weeks ago, he planned to go north. They had a radio set…a receiver and transmitter. We’ve tried to raise him a number of times, with no luck. I’m not surprised, though—he never liked to use the transmitter. That may be a good thing, because if you transmit, the Japs can find you real easy.”
“Or maybe he thinks you’re the Japanese trying to trick him into revealing hi
s position. Did he have any of the maps Lukas and I drew?”
“Nope. He said the Japs ended up getting everything he had.”
“Well, there weren’t very many. They were all plotted by hand. We didn’t have any printing presses for mass production. You haven’t captured any maps from the Japanese, have you?”
“No, not yet, I’m afraid.”
“Well, the Japanese have had two years to reproduce our maps. Maybe even make their own. There’s got to be plenty of decent ones around this island by now. It’s a pity you don’t have any of them.”
Greta stepped back to take in the entire map hanging there in one glance. She frowned while calculating the scope of the task ahead, finally saying, “Oh well, let’s get to work. Unfortunately, it’s been a few years and I don’t have perfect recall, but I’m sure I can fill in a good many blanks for you very quickly. I assume your lack of elevation data is causing you the most problems?”
“You assume correctly,” Jock replied.
“Fine. On which area do you need to focus first?”
Jock tore open Jillian’s letter the moment he returned to his battalion’s CP. Patchett caught a glimpse of him seated in a corner of the tent, reading intently. In all their time together—even those times under fire—he’d never seen Jock looking so apprehensive.
The boss needs a little privacy. I’ll come back in a spell.
When Patchett returned, Jock was in exactly the same place, his eyes still glued to the letter. He said nothing, but his demeanor had done an about face: he looked relaxed and content.
A man could read a one-page letter about twenty times in the couple of minutes it took to catch me that smoke. Damn if his eyes ain’t welled up a bit, though. But look at him grinning like the cat that ate the canary. It’s like a ton of weight just got lifted off him.
If she ain’t leaving him over this, I reckon she ain’t never gonna.
“Good news?” Patchett asked. It was a safe question. He already knew the answer.
“Yeah, Top. Couldn’t be any better, all things considered.”
By evening, the big map at the regimental CP looked quite different. Working from memory, Greta had provided a vast amount of topographic data for the current area of operations. A team of intel NCOs drew her enhancements by hand onto smaller maps—the fishwrappers—for immediate distribution to the infantry and artillery battalions.
“We owe Missus Christiansen here a big note of thanks,” Colonel Molloy told his assembled commanders and staff. “In just one day, we’ve seen a tremendous increase in artillery effectiveness alone…not to mention a marked decrease in the terrain surprises which have plagued us from the moment we set foot on this island.”
Artillery effectiveness…every man in the room knew how much that meant, especially when firing on mobile targets that don’t bother standing still while you’re adjusting rounds on them. Before today, it had often taken five or six adjustment rounds before fire for effect was called, the forward observers often trying to adjust the unseen impacts by sound alone in the opaque wilderness of the rainforest. A formation of Japanese soldiers could have run hundreds of yards while all that was going on. The fire for effect rounds would take only trees as their victims.
But they wouldn’t get very far if that first round was close to on target—or you were confident enough of the enemy’s location to call fire for effect right off the bat. Then they wouldn’t have a chance to run.
“There’s an added bonus,” Colonel Molloy said. “Now we have a much better idea where the tanks can actually operate and do us the most good…and the area we’re going into tomorrow looks perfect for tanks. Until we hit the coastal cliffs, it’s relatively level ground, with room for them to maneuver in the forest. I’ll turn it over to the S3 now. He’ll give you all the details.”
As the briefing wound to a close, Greta went right back to work on the map. Jock walked over and said, “I think I have an idea that might do us both some good.”
He had her complete attention. “I’m sure your father’s out there, Greta, and I’m betting he’s real close—and in a position to provide us some great intel—if we can just get him to talk to us.”
She knew immediately what he had in mind. “You want me to send a message in code that he’ll know had to come from me, don’t you?”
Jock replied, “That’s exactly what I was thinking. What kind of code?”
“Something in Dutch. Perhaps the lullaby he used to sing to me as a child.”
“It’ll have to be short. We don’t want him on the air too long.”
“No problem, Jock. It’s just a little song.”
“Great. Let’s run it by Colonel Molloy and get his stamp of approval.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Maybe it was the newfound phenomenon of deadly accurate artillery fire sweeping the rainforest ahead of the advancing GIs. Or perhaps it was the clank and squeak of American tank tracks that quickly filled the void, sounding as methodical and inescapable as a meat grinder, whenever the artillery barrage leapt forward. Whatever it was, after that first, decimating contact earlier this morning, what was left of the shattered Japanese formation was fleeing to the north, not bothering to stand and fight. At least not for the time being. The combat veterans in 1st Battalion could not recall a time they’d advanced so quickly. They all were thinking the same thing:
Are they going to run themselves right into the Pacific? Or are we getting suckered as they hot-foot it to a fallback position…where they’ll dig in and start kicking our asses?
A rookie PFC in Charlie Company thought jogging a few yards behind the tanks was insanity. “Why the hell don’t we just ride on the damn things?” he asked First Sergeant Tom Hadley. “Fuck this double-time bullshit.”
“Why? You’re asking why, numbnuts? It’s because we’re in contact, you dumb shit. A tank hull ain’t going to give you cover if you’re sitting on top of it. And if you get shot off the damn thing, who’s going to keep the Nips from hopping on and stuffing a grenade or two into the vents? And one more thing—if you’re up on top, when the main gun fires it’s like getting kicked in the nuts and punched in the ears at the same time. Trust me…you’re better off down here, close to good ol’ Mother Earth.”
It didn’t take more than a few seconds for Tom Hadley’s advice to prove true: every man in Charlie Company went sprawling as Japanese machine guns crisscrossed their column. “STAY DOWN BUT KEEP FUCKING MOVING,” Hadley called out for the benefit of the rookies, who were curled up as if trying to squeeze their entire bodies into their helmets. The veterans didn’t need to be told. They were already yards ahead, low-crawling for dear life. They knew how the Japs worked from hard experience:
Once we’re stopped dead, they’ll rip us to shreds with mortars. Gotta get out of the kill zone.
They crawled until they could huddle behind the steel mass of the tanks, now slowed as the crewmen scanned for the enemy gunners. The veterans were there a good minute before the rookies finally made it.
“Nice of you to fucking join us,” a platoon sergeant told them, his voice nearly drowned out by the staccato clank clank clank of bullets ricocheting off the tanks’ hulls and the roar of the tanks’ guns, returning fire. “You rookies just learned another important lesson in how to stay alive out here.”
Another minute and the fight was over as quickly as it had begun. The steel of the tanks prevailed against Japanese armored only in mortal flesh. As their men scoured what was left of the enemy position, Captain Grossman asked First Sergeant Hadley, “What’s our casualties, Top?”
“Two wounded, sir, not too badly. They can make it back to the aid station on their own.”
Grossman blew a sigh of relief. “There couldn’t have been more than a handful of Japs here, Tom. They were dug in deep…that’s why the artillery didn’t get them. How many bodies did we turn up?”
“Six so far, sir.”
“I doubt we’ll find more than that. Any blood trails?”
Giving a Stuart tank a friendly pat on its hull, Grossman said, “I’m starting to like these contraptions more every day. But I’m betting this little skirmish was only a delaying action. We’re going to hit a lot more shit as we keep going forward…and I think we just went off the edge of this new map, dammit.”
An excited young corporal came running up. “Sir! Top! You’ve got to see this!” Thrusting the rucksack he was carrying toward them, he added, “Found it under one of them dead Japs.”
Grossman and Hadley jumped back in terror. Neither man would take the rucksack. “Did you open that fucking thing already, Corporal?” the first sergeant asked.
“Yeah, sure. It’s full of maps and stuff.”
“Did it cross your mind it might be booby trapped?”
“I was real careful when I did, First Sergeant.”
“Let’s hope so,” Hadley replied as he took the rucksack.
Just like the corporal said, it contained maps which were far more detailed than the ones the GIs were using. The stuff he was referring to turned out to be a sheaf of Japanese Army documents.
Grossman turned to his radio operator and said, “Get Battalion on the line. Tell them we might’ve just hit the jackpot.”
At the regimental communications section, a new radio operator was coming on duty. He took a look at the messages lined up to be sent. On top was that crazy one in Dutch. They’d been sending it since last night, tapping out words they didn’t understand in Morse letter for letter. They’d received no reply.
The message contained just two lines:
Slaap kindje slaap,
daar buiten loopt een schaap.
He asked the man he was relieving, “What’d that lady say this meant, anyway?”
“It means something like Sleep baby sleep, outside there walks a sheep.”
“Hmm…don’t make no fucking sense to me.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to make sense to you, pal. That’s what the colonel wants, so we’re gonna keep sending it.”
Operation Fishwrapper (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 5) Page 20