Operation Fishwrapper (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 5)

by William Peter Grasso

“Maybe it’s more of a hill than we realize. Whoever’s out there may already be on the other side and we can’t hear him.”

  “Good bet, sir. So what are we gonna do?”

  “We’re not stopping now, that’s for damn sure.”

  The incline was steepening. So was the pain in Jock’s leg. More than once it threatened to give out. He found himself grabbing the trunks of trees for support.

  “You gonna make it, sir? I can go back and get—”

  “No, Bogater. We’re going to find him, you and me.”

  They kept climbing until they noticed patches of moonlit sky peeking through the rainforest canopy. “The trees are thinning out a little,” Jock said. “We must be almost to the top of this fucking hill.”

  “I still ain’t hearing nothing, sir.”

  The clack-clack of an Arisaka rifle’s bolt cycling changed all that. It sounded like it was only a few feet away…

  Because it was.

  There was a rustle of movement—and Jock found himself at arm’s length from another man. Even in darkness, there was no doubt it was a Japanese soldier.

  He tried to point the weapon at Jock but there was no room. They were too close.

  Jock caught the stock of the rifle with his free hand and held it fast. The long bayonet on its muzzle—only inches from Jock’s ear—gave off a dim glint, reflecting what it could of the sparse moonlight.

  Jock tried to maneuver his Thompson for a point blank shot but the adversary in his grasp kept twisting, turning, retreating…

  It had become an ironic shoving match between heavily armed men.

  Jock could see another shape rushing toward them, another glint of moonlight off cold steel, a tousle of light-colored hair on a helmetless head shining pale gray in the moonlight…

  Bogater!

  The Jap screamed and went limp as the Cajun’s bayonet struck deep into him. Jock was finally able to pull the Arisaka free but the motion made him jerk backward. He stumbled, tried to regain his balance…

  And then it all went wrong.

  It felt like someone had taken a scissor to his thigh muscle. Like a rubber band snapping, his bad leg recoiled and went limp. Jock toppled over, expecting to hit the ground in an instant.

  But he kept falling. It was strangely exhilarating—like floating in space without a care—until he bounced off the first tree. He felt no pain from the impact but heard the distinct pop, knowing it could only be coming from inside his body.

  The plummet continued. By the third collision with a tree, he had lost consciousness.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The new regimental commander hadn’t been in the crowded HQ tent more than a moment when, in the thick drawl of the American south, he asked, “Where’s that sumbitch Dutchman who caused me all this trouble?”

  “He’s at the mess tent having breakfast, sir,” an intel sergeant replied.

  “Well, get his sweet ass over here, on the fucking double. This isn’t the Dick Molloy Benevolent Society anymore.”

  As the sergeant scurried from the tent, the new commander told the rest of his staff, “For all ya’ll who don’t know me, my name is Colonel T. Lamar Abernathy. General Freidenburg has sent me to do a little ass-tightening around here, because it seems like this regiment surely needs some. Any of my battalion commanders here yet?”

  Across the tent, Lee Grossman raised his hand. “Grossman, sir, acting C.O., First Battalion.” He would have given anything not to claim that title.

  Abernathy replied with only a frosty, dismissive glare.

  Melvin Patchett whispered in Grossman’s ear: “I believe there’s something about that name of yours the man don’t cotton to, sir.”

  “Probably so, Top. I’ll bet he thinks all Jews have horns, too.”

  Patchett looked at him with mock surprise and replied, “What? Y’all don’t?”

  The intel sergeant returned with Dyckman and his daughter in tow. Her arm was wrapped protectively around her distraught father. Abernathy wasted no time firing his first salvo at Greta: “You must be that mapmaking woman my predecessor was so all-fired high on.” He looked her up and down with a disparaging eye, adding, “Don’t be getting too comfortable here, missy. Your services are no longer required.”

  Lee Grossman started to raise his hand but Patchett grabbed it, whispering, “Let me be the one stirring the shit around here, sir. We don’t need to be losing no more good officers.”

  Patchett put his hand up.

  The colonel pointedly ignored him for a few moments. Then a look of unwelcome recognition spread across his face. “Well, as I live and breathe, is that you, Melvin Patchett?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “I thought they would’ve put an old goat like you out to pasture by now. Imagine my fucking delight when I heard you, of all people, were a battalion sergeant major in my regiment,” the colonel said, clearly not delighted. “What’s on your mind?”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Patchett said, “this lady’s helped us more in a couple days than a whole truckload of staff jockeys done the past year. It just don’t make no sense why you’d want to send her packing.”

  The colonel smirked as he replied, “I can explain it to you, Sergeant…but I can’t understand it for you. So I’m going to say it just once—despite what Dick Molloy might’ve thought, the US Army can make its own maps just fine and dandy. We don’t need no woman around these parts showing us how.”

  What Patchett wanted to say: If only that were true, you fucking jackass. I got me a whole bunch of graves full of guys who thought different.

  But a life in this man’s army had taught him to know better. Grossman wasn’t taking any chances on what Patchett might say next, though. He nudged him and whispered, “Keep a lid on it, Top. We don’t need to be losing any more good NCOs, either.”

  Patchett replied, “Relax, sir. I reckon this is about to take care of itself.” He motioned toward Greta, who to this point had been calmly taking it all in, and added, “Watch this. She won’t be holding her tongue much longer.”

  In a flash she proved him right. “In other words, Colonel,” Greta said, “your General MacArthur has paid me five thousand American dollars for doing next to nothing. I know you Yanks love to throw money away but this is quite extraordinary.”

  Abernathy flinched. He shot a nasty look at his adjutant, asking the man, “Is this true?”

  The adjutant managed to sputter, “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed?”

  Any number of explanations crossed the adjutant’s mind, none of which would qualify as a satisfactory answer. Instead, he replied, “No excuse, sir.”

  Abernathy’s face turned bright red. “So you’re telling me this woman has an employment contract with Supreme Allied Headquarters?”

  It was a simpler question. All the adjutant had to do this time was nod.

  “Very well,” Abernathy replied, “we’ll deal with this matter later.”

  Patchett whispered to Grossman, “He won’t be dealing with shit later. Abernathy always was a little dumber than the average brass hat…but was he really supposing anyone except a GI would work for nothing? Especially in this stink hole?”

  Trumped by the daughter, the colonel set his sights on her father. “And you, Mister Dyckman…I need you to explain just what in tarnation you were doing out there that cost one of my battalions its third commander in a week.”

  In a weary, wavering voice, the Dutchman tried to begin his story by telling how, nearly three weeks before, he’d helped Jock and the crew of the downed PBY Catalina. But Abernathy cut him off. “I’m a busy man, Mister Dyckman. I just want to hear about the events of last night. Bad enough a battalion commander disobeyed orders and went freelance on me but then he goes and gets himself—”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Patchett interrupted, “but the battalion never got no such order.”

  “Why, that’s just a bald-faced lie, Sergeant,” Abernathy said. He
turned to his S3—the regimental operations officer—and added, “Isn’t it, Major?”

  The S3 hesitated before replying, “Not exactly, sir. I was there. General Freidenburg told Colonel Molloy not to do the rescue mission. And then he fired him on the spot. Nobody thought Colonel Miles would go ahead and—”

  “DAMMIT,” Abernathy said, “General Freidenburg’s dead on the mark when he says this regiment needs some ass-tightening.” He fixed Dyckman in his belligerent gaze and asked, “Let’s get back to what happened last night. I’m told you took off—just vanished—after Colonel Miles ordered you not to. And I damn sure want to know why.”

  “It wasn’t my intention to disobey Jock’s—Colonel Miles’—order, sir. But my people were terrified and disorganized. They’d come under fire twice in just a few minutes. I was trying to ease the colonel’s load and help lead them to the safety of the American lines.”

  “And did you manage to do that, Mister Dyckman?”

  “No, Colonel, I did not. I’m ashamed to say I got disoriented. After stumbling about in the dark, I walked right up to soldiers I assumed were Americans…but I was wrong. They took me prisoner and began marching me through the forest.”

  “How many Japs were there?”

  “I saw only two.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “The Japanese seemed confused, as if they, too, were lost. I tried to escape while they were engaged in some hushed discussion—it sounded like an argument—but failed. They bound me to a tree, argued some more…and then one of them leveled his bayonet at my chest. Another man suddenly appeared out of nowhere—I only found out later it was Colonel Miles—and he grappled with the soldier about to stab me. While they fought, Sergeant Boudreau arrived and bayoneted the Japanese soldier…and then Colonel Miles was gone, fallen off the ridge.”

  “If you couldn’t tell it was Miles, how the hell did you know it was this Boudreau fellow?”

  “Sergeant Boudreau didn’t fall off the ridge, Colonel. He stayed right there with me.”

  “What about the other Jap? What happened to him?”

  “I have no idea, Colonel. Perhaps he fled.”

  “And perhaps you were in cahoots with those Japs all along, Mister Dyckman, leading them to my position?”

  “I do not know the meaning of cahoots, Colonel.”

  Keeping her anger in check, Greta provided the translation. “It means collaborator, Papa. I've heard such nonsense from the Americans before.”

  The Dutchman’s face flared red as his hair with rage. “I can assure you, Colonel, that allegation is absurd beyond belief.”

  Abernathy fumed for a few moments. Then he asked Lee Grossman, “Captain, does this man’s story agree with what your people told you?”

  “Yes, sir. To the letter.”

  “Well, ain’t that just the cat’s ass,” Abernathy said. “But at least I’ve got me a forest full of dead Japs I won’t need to be chasing anymore. We should have this little ol’ island sewed up in a week or two.”

  “Lord help us,” Patchett whispered. “The man ain’t found the latrine yet and he’s predicting a lickety-split victory.”

  As they walked back to their battalion CP, Patchett told Grossman, “I blame myself. I shoulda never let him go out there with that leg of his.”

  “No, Top...none of us could’ve stopped him. It’s all our faults. We never should’ve asked him to come back in the first place. That damn letter…”

  Lost in their thoughts and regrets, they walked on. Grossman finally broke the silence: “But he’s come back from the dead before, you know.”

  Patchett shook his head. “A game-legged man’s one thing, Lee. A one-legged man’s something different altogether.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Six months later—December 24, 1944

  1900 hours

  Jock took a long swallow from the bottle of Australian beer. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the concept of Christmas in the middle of summer.”

  Jillian replied, “No more than I could get used to it in the middle of winter, buried in snow.” She slid a little closer to him on the veranda’s wicker settee, careful not to disturb his leg, which was set in a fresh cast after its latest surgery.

  “But you’ve never even seen snow, Jill.”

  “And from what I’ve heard, I’d like to keep it that way, Yank. Your Massachusetts sounds frightfully cold and dreary to me.”

  The sun had dropped behind the mountains west of Brisbane. The city they looked out on was in deep shadow, but the horizon across the Pacific could still be seen clearly. “Nautical twilight,” Jillian said, a wistfulness in her voice.

  Jock asked, “You miss being on the sea, don’t you, babe?”

  “Bloody hell, Jock, I’m six months up the duff. Going to sea will have to wait a while. A very long while.” She leaned against the seat back, shifting in search of physical comfort that being with child was making more elusive by the day. Still, she found a reason to smile as she patted her swelling belly. “See what can happen? That one fleeting moment in Hollandia…there was so little time…and we were so wrapped up in it we didn’t bother to use a bloody johnny.”

  “Any regrets, Jill?”

  “Just one. That I didn’t leave a steaming pile of horse shit on MacArthur’s desk when I got kicked out of New Guinea.”

  The Christmas revelers inside the house were growing boisterous. “Aunt Margaret certainly knows how to throw a party,” Jillian said. “Sounds like she’s breaking out the good stuff right about now. She’ll want us to make an appearance soon, you know.”

  Jock glanced at the empty wheelchair beside them and said, “Not quite yet, if that’s all right.”

  She knew why he was in no great hurry to join the party. He’d fielded quite enough well-meaning questions about his injuries. Nothing was more tiresome—and more depressing—for a true warrior than having to play the wounded warrior. This holiday furlough from the orthopedic ward had been a godsend for his morale—but it was only temporary.

  “Do you really have to be back in hospital the day after Christmas?” she asked. “It seems like such a pitifully short time.”

  “You know the answer to that, Jill.”

  “You could go AWOL, you know.”

  He wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  She’d been half-serious, even though she was fully aware he had to return. There was still one more operation scheduled on his leg—the one that would determine if he could ever use it to walk again. Even if that operation was a smashing success, though, he could never go back to field duty; his ravaged quadriceps would never allow it. But with the help of a cane, he’d at least be able to stand on his own two legs once more.

  “Of course I’m kidding, Jock. But before we get shanghaied into the party, I need to give you your Christmas present.”

  “Wait,” he replied as he gently placed a hand on her midsection. “You’re already giving me the greatest present a man could ask for. I don’t need anything more.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Well, laddie, you’re going to get it anyway.”

  “Let me go first,” he said. Reaching under the wheelchair’s cushion, he produced a small box. “Here, Jill…our very first Christmas actually spent together…and already there are three of us!”

  Removing the wrapping paper, her eyes opened wide with surprise when the name of Brisbane’s most expensive jewelry store was revealed. She gasped when she saw the gold necklace inside. He helped clasp it around her neck. Running her fingers through the glittering strands, she said, “It’s so beautiful! But how in bloody hell can you afford this, Jock? Your bloody Army hasn’t even paid you in months.”

  “That payroll snafu finally got straightened out, Jill. Remind me never to get transferred from the Army to the Air Force and back again. The bean counters just can’t keep up.”

  “So you spent all your back pay on this necklace, silly b
oy?”

  “Yeah…pretty much. I’ve never been able to buy you anything before.”

  She kissed him again, this time full on the mouth. They let it linger.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” she whispered in his ear. “I love it. And now, for your present.”

  She retrieved an envelope from the pocket of her maternity top. Handing it to him, she added, “Ta da! Welcome to the Forbes family, Jock Miles.”

  The paperwork within seemed all in order, signed and stamped by various officials of the Queensland and Canberra governments. Its language was tortuously legal. As best as Jock could tell from a quick scan, the papers made him part owner of Forbes-Weipa Company.

  “I gave you some of my shares,” Jillian explained. “I wanted to split it fifty-fifty but since you’re a Yank—a bloody foreigner—you can’t own more than fifteen percent of an Aussie business. So that’s what you’ve gotten.”

  He looked bewildered as he stammered, “But…but all I got you…was the necklace.”

  She burst out laughing. “Oh, Jock…that’s so sweet. But Aunt Margaret insists: if you’re going to be knocking up her favorite niece, you’re going to have to be a man of considerable means. And now you are.”

  “But wait a minute,” Jock said. “Your company—”

  She corrected him: “Our company.”

  “All right, our company does lots of business with the US Government up on Cape York, leasing them all that land, the harbor facilities, and lord knows what else. I’m an official of that government, so doesn’t that put me in a conflict of interest?”

  She took the paperwork from his hand, turned a page and pointed to a clause. “It says right here you—and I, your wife—will be recusing ourselves from all dealings with the US Government as long as you’re serving in its armed forces.”

  “But what business is there right now besides dealings with the US Government?”

  With a mischievous smile, Jillian replied, “Oh, baby…you have no idea how much more there is.”

  She gave him a few minutes of silence to process his startling change of fortune. When that silence finally begged to be broken, she asked, “Sweetie, how did you manage to actually buy this necklace while you were cooped up in hospital?”