“Goddamn Buna…that didn’t go none too well, as I recollect, sir. Now, the brass are so all fired-up about artillery we even got it shooting out of the landing craft as we hit the beach. I reckon even generals learn…just a lot slower than the rest of us.”
A GI from the commo section approached and handed Jock a message form. “It’s marked urgent, sir,” the messenger said.
“Hmm,” Jock said as he read it. “It says I’m to be at Regiment at 1300 hours.”
“Maybe we’re finally getting our marching orders,” Patchett said, and then—with a hefty dose of sarcasm—added, “You suppose The Great One finally made up his mind where he’s gonna try and get us all killed next?”
The Great One—General Douglas MacArthur—had indeed made up his mind. Jock was about to hear his part in it from Colonel Molloy.
“We’re leap-frogging all the way to here, Jock,” Molloy said, pointing to a spot on the big map. “A port called Hollandia, in Dutch New Guinea. It’s a big jump—a couple more amphibious operations just like it and we’ll be in the Philippines. Our division is scheduled for the follow-up landings, to head off and trap the Japs trying to counterattack from Wewak…”
Molloy paused, moving his finger slowly north from Hollandia to an island across the Bismarck Sea. “But before that happens, this regiment’s been handed a special assignment, crucial to the success of the main effort, right here at this island called Manus. The Japs have an observation post on a mountain peak there. Do you see where I’m going with this, Jock?”
“Yes, sir, I believe I do. This looks like Port Moresby and Astrolabe Mountain all over again.”
“Yeah, it’s somewhat similar,” the colonel said.
It’s all too similar, Jock told himself, and it explains why it’s me sitting in this chair right now and not someone else.
“Obviously,” Molloy continued, “when this plan got hatched, your name came up right away. But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here, Jock. I’m not ordering you to go. I’m asking if you’d like to volunteer.”
Volunteer…Jock tried not to laugh out loud. He’d been in the Army far too long to know how volunteering worked. Your commander said something like, I need a volunteer, and then pointed to a man and announced, You.
“It’s just that you’ve led a mission like this before, Jock…with great success, I might add.”
“And if I decline this honor, sir?”
“No problem. Just suggest somebody else as qualified as you.”
Colonel Molloy waited patiently for Jock’s reply. Nothing in his demeanor suggested he was being anything but honest about the volunteering part.
And Dick Molloy’s always been straight with me—right down the line.
Jock found himself instinctively fumbling for the West Point class ring on his finger. But there was nothing there—the ring was gone now, lost somewhere in the same fog of war that had claimed the woman he loved.
Knowing what that ring represented, though—Duty, Honor, Country—that was not gone. It was altered, no doubt, its high purpose eroded, taking on a jaded character through the filter of war’s unspeakable horrors. But not gone. And with that enduring knowledge, Jock Miles was certain—just like Dick Molloy was certain—that it would be impossible for him to say no, thank you.
Just like it had been all those times before.
Feeling the weight of the West Point ring on his own finger, Colonel Molloy asked, “What happened to your class ring, Jock?”
“No idea, sir. Probably some native kid up in the mountains thinks it’s a magic charm now. Hope it gives him better luck than it did me. One question, though, sir.”
“What’s that, Jock?”
“I get to pick my own team, right?”
“Damn right you do,” Molloy replied. “We’ll fly over to Milne Bay first thing tomorrow and get this ball rolling. I’ll set up a briefing at Division HQ. There’s an Aussie there who was stationed on Manus before the Japs drove them out. He should be a big help. Plan for an 0800 takeoff.”
Chapter Four
Seeing the bureaucratic gaggle that was 32nd Division HQ at Milne Bay made Jock glad his battalion was doing their jungle training across the strait at Goodenough Island, away from all this meddlesome hierarchy. Colonel Molloy found himself appreciating the distance, too, as he told Jock, “Sure beats having these pencil-pushers up our asses all the time, doesn’t it?”
The briefing was scheduled to begin at 1000 hours but, of course, being on Army time, it didn’t. A stream of overwrought staff functionaries, each with a last-minute change to some miniscule facet of the agenda, kept racing into the old plantation villa housing the HQ, pushing the start time back. Finally—at 1025—the briefing was ready to begin.
A US Army major, looking barely out of his teens, was the briefing officer. He announced to the dozen or so attendees, “I’m Major Kit Billingsley from the G3 shop, Supreme Allied Command.”
Supreme Allied Command—that meant MacArthur.
As Billingsley began speaking, Jock made a not-so-startling revelation: I remember this guy. He was three years—three whole years!—behind me at The Point, in the class of ’38. A plebe when I was a firstie. A real screw-up, too…but his daddy was some hotshot in the War Department. And he’s a fucking major already, on the big guy’s staff. He’s not wearing a CIB on those khakis, so I’m guessing he’s seen maybe two days of combat time, if that much—but he’s probably got light colonel in the bag already.
Same old story: it’s all about who you know and who you blow.
Well, I sure know a lot of people in this man’s army…but I guess I’m a little weak on that second part.
Standing at the big map of New Guinea, pointer in hand, Kit Billingsley thrust himself into his presentation. “If you’ve been allowed in this room, gentlemen, you’re part of a very select group. You already know of General MacArthur’s plans for seizing Hollandia. Before we can discuss that operation, however, we must discuss a different objective, one that poses a unique problem for the Supreme Commander.”
Billingsley’s pointer hit a spot on the map—a tiny patch of brown and green on the northern edge of the deep blue Bismarck Sea. The officers being briefed had to lean closer in their seats to get a decent look at it. “This, gentlemen, is Manus Island, the largest island in the Admiralty chain,” Billingsley continued. “It’s been of great interest to our General MacArthur as well as Admiral Nimitz, as it sits on the border of their respective areas of responsibility and appears to be very lightly held by the Japanese. But each command has a very different interest in this island.”
Dick Molloy leaned toward Jock and whispered, “Oh, brother…we’re about to get sucked into a four-star pissing contest.”
Pointing to a large anchorage at the island’s northeast corner, Billingsley said, “Admiral Nimitz seeks the excellent natural facility that Seeadler Harbor can provide. It can be a terrific asset to our Navy in bottling up the Japanese stronghold of Rabaul, which is less than four hundred miles to the southeast. However, gentlemen, the admiral has already made the case to Washington that MacArthur should take the island for him, since the general’s forces in New Guinea are so much closer to Manus. Of course, the Supreme Commander considers this an insult and has made his position clear to Washington: his troops will not shed one drop of blood securing territory for Admiral Nimitz. If Washington were to be foolish enough to order him to do so, he would resign his command immediately.”
Kit Billingsley paused as a smirk spread across his face. “Naturally, the Supreme Commander has called Washington’s bluff.”
“Naturally,” Dick Molloy muttered. “Funny, though…MacArthur’s never been worried about spilling our blood before. Only when his pride gets hurt.”
Billingsley was far from finished. Working his pointer across the map, he continued, “But at the moment, Manus Island presents an irritant to our Hollandia amphibious landings. In an effort to avoid easy detection by Japanese aircraft operating fro
m bases on the northern coast of New Guinea—such as Wewak—the invasion fleet will sail far offshore as it makes its way west through the Bismarck Sea to Hollandia, close enough to Manus—within fifty miles or so—to be seen from the Japanese observation post we suspect is on Mount Dremsel, the island’s highest point.”
Jock raised his hand to ask a question.
“Yes, Major Miles?” Billingsley said, managing to make major sound like a slur.
“How high is this Mount Dremsel?” Jock asked.
Dismissing the question with a scowl, Billingsley replied, “That’s been published.”
His face reddening, Jock stood up, ready to lock horns. “I didn’t ask if it’s been published or not. Just tell us how high the damn OP on this mountain is. Or do I have to read it off the map myself?”
He didn’t mean to sound brusque, but it’s hard not to sound that way when you’re totally focused on a problem. Kit Billingsley’s veneer of imperiousness—a trait every member of MacArthur’s staff exhibited, as if emulating their general—began to crack just a little. Perhaps it was foolish of him to talk down to a man of equal rank. Especially one with a bucketful of serious combat time and the contempt for desk jockey bullshit that came with it.
Sounding much less sure of himself now, Billingsley replied, “I believe it’s two thousand, three hundred and sixty feet.”
Jock did a quick calculation in his pocket notebook. When it was done, he said, “So, with clear skies, you can see to a horizon about eighty-five miles away. Do you agree, Major Billingsley?”
Billingsley gave a sheepish shrug. He had no idea if that number was correct or not.
“Then you’re going to have to trust me on it,” Jock said, “since I’ve done this stuff before. So, eighty-five miles…that’s nearly halfway to the New Guinea coast. If the fleet sails where you say it will, then yeah…on a clear day they’ll be visible from Mount Dremsel to anyone with a halfway decent pair of binoculars. At night, they’d even be able to see the big blinker lights the Navy uses for ship-to-ship commo. So what does the Supreme Commander want us to do about it?”
“The Japanese garrison there sends regular radio reports to their headquarters at Rabaul,” Billingsley said. “We need to make sure that the Japs at Rabaul or on New Guinea don’t get any warning of the Hollandia fleet’s approach…until it’s too late.”
“That’s a pretty tall order,” Jock replied, “considering any plane high enough can see a fleet of ships a hundred miles away. Or any idiot with a radio in a patrol boat just might stumble across them.”
“Agreed, Major Miles,” Billingsley said, “but the Air Force and the Navy are doing their best to minimize those chances.”
Jock asked, “Does this mission have one of those inspiring names yet?”
“Yes, Major Miles. The Supreme Commander has named it Operation Blind Spot. Very fitting, don’t you think?”
Nobody seemed to care one way or the other how fitting it was.
Dick Molloy had a question. “You’ve been monitoring the Jap radio on Manus,” he said, “so you’ve probably got the transmitter’s location pretty well pinpointed. Why doesn’t the Air Force just take it out?”
“They’ve tried, sir,” Billingsley replied, “but that transmitter keeps coming back on the air day after day.”
“So you’re telling me we’ve got a choice,” Jock said. “Silence the transmitter or blind the OP. Either one gets the job done, right?”
“That’s correct, Major Miles. In fact, I was instructed to tell you the choice of this mission’s objective is yours, be it the OP, the transmitter, or whatever. All we need is to ensure there is no advance warning of the fleet’s approach to Hollandia. How you do it is totally up to you.”
Molloy asked Billingsley, “When do you need this to happen, Major?”
“Three weeks from now, sir. Twenty-nine February, to be precise, thanks to 1944 being a leap year.”
The briefing took ten for a coffee break. Jock and Colonel Molloy were still a bit shocked by the freedom they were being allowed. Usually, you were ordered to Depart Point A at such-and-such hour and take a very specific Point B. Neither man could recall ever being granted such wide-open latitude selecting a mission objective.
Quickly warming to the concept, Molloy said, “Maybe the brass are finally learning, Jock. Just think of the freedom and flexibility it’ll give you.”
Jock wasn’t so convinced. “I don’t mind planning on the fly, sir…but if the intelligence we get is the usual half-baked shit, we’re liable to run out of options real fast. My back went up as soon as he said very lightly held by the Japanese. I’ve heard that song and dance before.”
Dick Molloy wasn’t ready to surrender to skepticism just yet. “Before you give yourself a case of the red ass, Jock, let’s see what the aerial recon photos show. And I really want to hear what this Aussie who’s actually been there has to say about the place.”
When the briefing reconvened, the Aussie—an Australian Army sergeant named Burke—limped into the room, supporting himself with a cane. “I guess he won’t be coming with me,” Jock whispered to Colonel Molloy.
Sergeant Burke told the assembled Americans he’d been a member of the last Aussie unit to occupy Manus Island: a platoon that manned the observation post on Mount Dremsel. “When the Japanese came in ’42,” Burke said, “a few of us lucky ones fled into the rainforest and managed to evade the Nips.” He tapped his game leg and added, “That’s how this happened—fell into a bloody ravine running for my life in the dark. Finally, with the help of some friendly natives, we escaped by sea to one of the nearby islands.”
Jock asked, “And how’d you get off that island, Sergeant?”
“A submarine finally picked us up, sir.”
Kit Billingsley chimed in, “That’s how you’re going to Manus, too, Major Miles. By submarine.”
Jock wasn’t surprised. Still, it wasn’t great news: Submarines aren’t even big enough for their own crews. That’s really going to hold down on the size of my team and the equipment we can carry.
“Geographically,” Sergeant Burke continued, “Manus is just a very small replica of New Guinea. It’s the largest of the Admiralty Islands at sixty miles long and nineteen miles wide, and it’s covered by dense rainforests for the most part, a fair bit of jungle, and the occasional swamp and coconut plantation scattered here and there along the coast—”
Major Billingsley broke in, adding, “And very few Japs.”
Dick Molloy tried not to laugh in Billingsley’s face. Jock resisted the urge, too, asking, “How few is few, Major?”
“Two to three thousand.”
“That’s more than a few, I’d say,” Molloy replied.
“But we estimate they’re scattered across the width and breadth of the island,” Billingsley offered in rebuttal. “The odds of running into large units are—”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Burke interrupted as he turned to the map, “but that’s not likely. The Japs will be clustered here, on the eastern half of the island—around Seeadler Harbor, the town of Lorengau, and Los Negros, which is actually a separate island across a narrow passage of water from Manus proper. The western half is fairly rugged, inhospitable, and sparsely populated. And, of course, we expect they’re using our old observation post on Mount Dremsel, near the island’s center.” His finger fell on the concentric contour lines indicating the island’s highest point on the map.
“Yeah, we’ve heard a little about the OP already,” Jock said. “Give us all the details you can, Sergeant.”
“Of course, sir,” Sergeant Burke replied. “It’s nothing fancy, as you can imagine. It’s about half a day’s hike up the trail from Lorengau. We built a fifty-foot tower at the peak to get our line of sight well above the treetops.”
“Where was your transmitter?”
“In a plantation outside Lorengau, sir.”
“How’d you get the information from the OP to the transmitter?”
“We ran a telegraph line, sir.”
“Did you leave that line intact when you escaped?”
“No, sir. We cut it up as best we could. And after being rained on for a couple of years, anything left will be quite useless now.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Jock said, fixated on the map. “This Mount Dremsel looks like a pretty steep climb.”
“It is, sir. The only way to the top is a trail that runs on ridges all the way up and around the mountain, like a spiral staircase.”
Colonel Molloy was sorting through aerial photographs. He set one in front of Major Billingsley and asked, “The Jap transmitter location…it’s marked here as a goose egg several square miles in size. We couldn’t nail it down better than this? No wonder the Air Force hasn’t knocked it out.”
Billingsley fumbled for an answer, finally admitting, “I can’t explain that exactly, Colonel.”
“The transmitter might be moving, sir,” Jock said. “We’ve run into that before—a high-powered radio mounted on a truck.”
“Maybe so,” Molloy replied, and then laid another photo before Billingsley. “This airfield on Los Negros—Momote, it’s called—it looks deserted. There’s scrub growing on the runway. What does the Supreme Command make of that?”
“We believe Los Negros is deserted, sir,” Billingsley replied.
Sergeant Burke shook his head. “With all due respect, Major, the Nips wouldn’t be foolish enough to do that. I speak from experience, unfortunately. The beaches of Los Negros are about the only decent amphibious landing zones on Manus, too inviting to leave undefended.”
Touching his fingertip to a point on the map, Jock asked, “What about here, Sergeant? Could we land here undetected?”
The spot he picked was on the island’s southeast coast, the mouth of a river on a small, sheltered bay. Nearby was a trail, part of a network that would lead west to the base of Mount Dremsel—just eight miles away—or in the opposite direction to the town of Lorengau, some twenty miles distant.
Operation Blind Spot (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 4) Page 2