Operation Blind Spot (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 4)

by William Peter Grasso

  Chapter Twelve

  “Well, no surprises here,” Patchett said as he slithered down the tree he’d climbed to get a visual fix on their location. “Dremsel’s right where it oughta be. And it’s sunny as all hell, too, not like this tomb we’re in down here.”

  True, the thick canopy allowed only a fraction of the tropical sunlight to reach the rainforest’s floor, but at least now—unlike last night’s blind journey on the boats—they could see their surroundings. “Looks, feels, and smells just like that damn Papua to me,” Bogater Boudreau said as he checked how well the men of his section had cleaned their weapons. “Get more oil into this trigger group,” he told Cotton Allred as he tossed the M1 back to him. “That sea water you gave it a bath in makes a pretty poor lubricant, mon frère.”

  Tom Hadley emerged from a nearby thicket. “I found a good place to hide the boats, sir,” he told Jock. “There’s a depression just beyond those trees with all kinds of low vegetation growing over it. It’ll be natural camouflage. The Japs would have to stumble right over them to actually see them.”

  “Good work, Tom,” Jock said. “Just make sure we can find them a few days from now.”

  “No problem, sir. We’ll be marking the trees on our way out of here Hansel and Gretel style.” He pulled his machete from his web belt and slashed two small cuts into a tree trunk to illustrate his point. A random observer wouldn’t think twice about them, but to the men of The Squad they formed an arrow as good as any signpost.

  “How long do you want me to keep cutting these marks, sir?”

  “Until we hit a landmark,” Jock replied. “That trail about two miles north of here should do.”

  Patchett joined the conversation. “Just make sure them boats get hidden real invisible-like from any direction.”

  Hadley took in the wilderness around them and said, “Sure, Sergeant Major…but this ain’t exactly Grand Central Station we’ve got here. I mean, there’s nobody around…nobody at all.”

  Patchett replied, “That could all change, son…in a li’l ol’ heartbeat.”

  The Squad walked north through the dense rainforest, a column of ten men in olive drab barely distinguishable from the wilderness around them. Their first objective was to find the trail winding its way around the eastern half of the island. Even fighting the uphill terrain, cluttered with underbrush and the fallen detritus of the forest, they should get there in less than an hour.

  Forty-two minutes had elapsed when Boudreau, the point man, stopped, crouched down, and raised his clenched fist—the signal to halt. Without any need for further instruction, the GIs formed an oblong perimeter, each man in the prone firing position, as Jock made his way forward.

  “This must be the place, sir,” Boudreau whispered when Jock arrived.

  They were among stout trees just yards from a well-used trail.

  “Look at all them tracks, sir…ox carts, all kinds of animals…looking pretty fresh, too. We gonna walk on it?”

  “Nope. You know that’s not the plan, Bogater. Can’t risk getting spotted.”

  “I know all that, sir. It’s just that…well, you gotta admit it would be so much faster on that trail than crawling through this jungle. And it’s happened before where plans changed all of a sudden when opportunity knocked.”

  “It isn’t going to happen right now, Bogater. Keep your eyes peeled while I huddle with the sergeant major.”

  As Jock scuttled back, he saw the perimeter had shrunk, with Patchett, Botkin, and the two Nisei crouched in the middle, all listening intently to the walkie-talkie.

  “Lorengau station’s come up on the usual frequency, sir,” Botkin said. “Ace and Deuce figured out what they’re saying. They want Mount Dremsel station to report. They’ve sent that same message three times now.”

  Patchett added, “That could mean that something’s wrong with the radio up on that OP, sir.”

  “Maybe,” Jock replied, “but one thing’s for sure. Lorengau doesn’t know what’s going on up there.” He paused before adding, “And neither do we, dammit.”

  “It could mean something else, too,” Patchett said. “We just might climb up there and find nobody’s home.”

  Jock shook his head. “Or we find a platoon, maybe a company, poking around, trying to figure out why the radio went silent.”

  Botkin’s face blanched as Jock’s words took hold. The Nisei’s did, too. Patchett’s optimism crumbled like a sandcastle battered by a gathering storm. “I get your point, sir. We was better off when they had a routine we could monitor.”

  “Yeah,” Jock replied. “Routines lead to complacency. We learned that a long time ago.”

  “So what do you propose, sir? Are we going up there anyway?”

  “Damn right we are, Sergeant Major. We have to.”

  They had turned west toward Mount Dremsel, walking parallel to the trail but far enough from it to be concealed in the forest. So far, the map—augmented by the intelligence the Aussie sergeant had given them back at Milne Bay—was proving fairly accurate. Close enough for government work, as Patchett would’ve said out loud, if they weren’t keeping strict noise discipline. If the map really was close enough, Dremsel was still five miles away.

  The going got tougher. Steep ridges bounded the island’s central plateau, from which sprouted Dremsel and several lower peaks. The trees had thinned slightly as the elevation rose, providing less shelter from the baking sun of late morning. The men of The Squad had slept little in the last three days. Laden with weapons, ammunition, K rations, canteens, ropes for scaling cliffs and crossing streams, and seven days’ worth of bulky radio and flashlight batteries, they were already tired. The physical effort to climb the ridge was pushing them to exhaustion. At the steepest face, it was necessary for two men to strip off their gear, ascend the ridge like mountain climbers armed only with rope, tackle, and bayonets, and rig a crude “pulley” system to haul the others up.

  Once on the plateau, the sparser tree cover allowed the men to keep Dremsel in view. Even though they had been walking toward it for two hours, the mountain seemed no closer. It loomed in the distance like an inverted cone, bedecked with low trees sprouting from what seemed near-vertical walls. They were all convinced it was mocking them.

  Jock signaled the column to halt. The men needed to rest and eat. This shady patch, on a rise giving them fair visibility in all directions, was as good a place as any for a break. As they tore into K ration packages, Jock asked Patchett, “Is everyone tanked up on water, Top?”

  “Yes, sir. Every man filled up at that last stream we crossed. I watched the Halazone tablets go into each and every canteen, too.”

  “Good, because it doesn’t look like we cross any water for a while. When it rains, we’ll stop and catch what we can. Next question—should we leave Boudreau on point?”

  “Nah, give him a rest. Let Hadley walk point for a while.”

  “Sure,” Jock said. “Get him over here. I want to show him something on the map.”

  With Hadley seated on the ground beside him, Jock pointed to a spot on the map and said, “There should be a village straight ahead, Tom. In the aerial photos, it looked like about fifteen or sixteen huts right on the main trail to Lorengau. I want to stay downwind of it so neither man nor beast will smell us. We’re getting a little ripe.”

  “Roger, sir. When do you want to kick off?”

  As he checked his watch, Jock noticed Patchett doing the same, his fingers rising in sequence as if counting off minutes. Or hours.

  “What’s your suggestion, Sergeant Major?”

  “Well, sir, I know you’re all fired up to get to that mountain there, but if we hold off a bit…take a li’l ol’ siesta right in this fine place, we’ll be able to work into nightfall a whole lot better.”

  It only took a moment for Jock to realize Patchett was right: he had wanted to push off immediately for the mountain—and if they did, by nightfall the men would be completely exhausted. Too exhausted, in fact, to make good u
se of the one ally they’d have when climbing that mountain: the cover of darkness. We should wait here, he told himself, get to the mountain a little bit later…but a lot better rested.

  Hadley wasn’t convinced. “It’s half a day’s walk from Lorengau to the mountain, right? Isn’t there a good chance a detail checking on the OP is already there?”

  “Not likely,” Sergeant Botkin said as he joined the circle. “Lorengau station just sent another message requesting Dremsel’s status, sir.”

  “Sounds typical,” Patchett replied. “From what I’ve seen, Jap HQs don’t work no different from ours. They gotta jaw about something for a day or two before they do anything about it. I don’t expect they sent nobody out of Lorengau yet. Not if they’re still trying to raise them on the radio. And it’s for damn sure they ain’t got no working telephone up there, neither.”

  “I’ve got to agree with the sergeant major,” Jock replied, “and I’m liking his suggestion more and more. How about we push off in about three hours, then…say around 1600?”

  Patchett nodded. “I think that would work out just fine, sir.”

  Jock didn’t know what startled him more: being shaken awake by Tom Hadley or the fact he had fallen asleep in the middle of the day. No one could fault him—it was his turn to take the siesta Patchett had prescribed. But he had never been able to sleep when a mission was on the line, especially one like this, which put them out on a limb farther than they’d ever been before…and totally on their own.

  “We need you to take a look at this, sir,” Hadley said. “We’re not sure what to do. Take a gander over there.”

  Just outside the perimeter stood three native tribesmen—two young, lean, and strong, the other old and pot-bellied—wearing only loincloths and symbols painted on their skin. Each held a spear taller than he was, the tips pointed skyward, posing no immediate threat. A short distance away, two GIs—Sergeant McMillen and PFC Allred—crouched behind trees, their weapons pointed at the tribesmen. Their gazes locked, each side seemed to be waiting for the other to make the next move.

  “How long has this little standoff been going on?” Jock asked.

  “A couple of minutes,” McMillen replied.

  “Did you try talking to them?”

  “Yes, sir…but I don’t understand a word they said. Sounds like some sort of pidgin, but I don’t know what the hell it means.”

  “Let me try,” Jock said. Taking a few steps toward the trio, he aimed his words at the elder tribesman, saying, “Poroman…pren…wantok.”

  McMillen asked, “What the hell does that mean, sir?”

  “They’re the only pidgin words I know for friend. Maybe one of them will ring a bell for these gentlemen.”

  There was no response from the natives at first. The staring contest went on for a few moments more before the elder said, “Austrelia.”

  It sounded like it might be a question.

  “No,” Jock replied. “Americans.” He pointed to himself and repeated, “American.”

  The elder insisted, “Austrelia.”

  Oh, what the hell…

  “Ya, ya,” Jock said. “Australia.”

  That seemed to satisfy the elder. He swept his arm in a panoramic arc and said, “No gut birua ami.”

  Hadley said, “I think I know what that means, sir.”

  “Yeah, me too. I think he’s telling us the Japs are everywhere.”

  The elder became even more talkative. In the barrage of words he spoke, the Americans picked up only a few: bilong em…nogat…tekewe. Coupled with the gestures he made toward the younger men by his side, they figured it could only mean one thing: “Those two are his sons,” Jock said, “and the Japs haven’t managed to take them away yet.”

  “Yeah,” Hadley replied, “that’s what I make out of it, too, sir. I guess the Japs are using the natives here for forced labor just like on Papua.”

  Patchett approached, waking sleeping soldiers for the next watch. He came to Deuce Hashimoto, who was asleep in the underbrush just a few yards from the encounter in progress with the tribesmen. His eyes popped open and, still lying down, said, “What’s all the noise? Aren’t we still tactical?”

  “Got a few visitors, son,” Patchett replied.

  Deuce rose to his feet and got a good look at the tribesmen. They got a good look at him, too. In a split second, they were fleeing. Even the elder was fast on his feet.

  Allred drew a bead on one of the tribesmen. Before he could pull the trigger, Jock grabbed the M1’s muzzle and jerked it skyward.

  “They aren’t the enemy, Private,” Jock said.

  “But they’re getting away, sir! They’ll rat us out!”

  “To who? They already think we’re with the Japs. Let’s not make things even worse by actually killing some of them.”

  Deuce seemed startled—and a little disheartened—by the whole affair. “I guess it’s just not white people who think we all look alike,” he said as he shuffled to his place on the perimeter.

  Nobody else seemed thrilled with the turn of events, either. Patchett said it best: “All that help we was getting from the natives back on Papua…I guess we can kiss that goodbye on this damn island.”

  “Put a lid on that talk, Top,” Jock said, quiet enough for only Patchett to hear yet harsh enough to convey his annoyance. “One little minus doesn’t wipe out that real big plus of having the Nisei with us.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The siesta came to an end all too soon. The GIs shouldered their gear and headed west in the descending sun of late afternoon toward Mound Dremsel. The rest period had made some of the men surprisingly energetic; the head of the column was moving quickly—too quickly—with the distance between the lead and trail elements growing minute by minute. Jock gave the hand signals to slow down and close it up. They’d be losing light steadily from now on. It would be easy for a man to become separated from the column in the thick rainforest. Like Melvin Patchett had always preached, A man you can’t see is a man you can’t control…or help out if he gets in deep shit.

  They’d been walking for an hour. Dremsel, its near face in shadow now as the sun settled behind it, finally seemed to be getting closer. They heard no sound but the gentle thump of their footsteps and the squawks of birds.

  One might dare call it peaceful.

  That’s why it was so startling when point man Tom Hadley threw himself to the ground. Only the two men close behind him in the column—Jock and Botkin—could see Hadley disappear into the underbrush...

  It took a microsecond for their minds to process something’s wrong—and then they were on the ground, too.

  A few more seconds passed before the entire column—like a row of toppling dominoes—was prone in the dirt.

  Low-crawling to Hadley, Jock was halfway there when he saw what was happening: two Japanese soldiers—did they even have weapons?—were blundering straight toward the column.

  “What do we do, sir?” Hadley whispered. “I don’t even think they’re armed.”

  “Capture them.”

  Boudreau and Youngblood lay behind trees ten feet back, adrenaline masking their fear, their senses razor sharp. They still had no idea why they were on their bellies. Jock signaled them: Don’t shoot. Follow me.

  The Japanese soldiers never saw Jock, Hadley, or Botkin. They walked right past them...

  Right into the middle of the five-man trap.

  “NOW,” Jock said.

  In a blur of rushing bodies, the Americans charged the startled enemy soldiers and tackled them to the ground.

  A cloud of rice silently exploded from rucksacks torn from the captives…

  But no grenades.

  No pistols.

  No bayonets.

  No weapons at all…

  And no resistance, either.

  “Ain’t no fight in these sumbitches,” Boudreau said. “Shit…they seem downright happy we caught ’em.” He rolled his captive face down and tied his hands behind his back, just like Ha
dley was doing to the other. “What’s the deal with these guys? Out here in the jungle without even a machete? Ain’t never seen me an unarmed Jap before.”

  “And you’re not seeing one now,” Ace Nishimoto replied, arriving too late to do anything but watch. “They’re not Japanese. They’re Korean.”

  The two captives became terrified when they saw the faces of the Nisei.

  “How the hell can you tell that?” Boudreau asked.

  Jock added, “Koreans? Are you sure?”

  “Trust me, sir, they’re Korean. Asians don’t all look alike to me. I’ll bet they speak very poor Japanese, too. And look—the silly bastards are scared shitless of me and Deuce.”

  Bogater Boudreau was totally confused now. “What the hell are Ko-reans doing all dressed up like the Emperor’s finest?”

  “Korea’s been occupied by Japan for over thirty years,” Ace replied.

  “Yeah,” Jock said, “but I didn’t know they were using impressed Korean troops off the Asian mainland.”

  “You’re not alone, sir,” Ace said. “We never heard that mentioned at G2, either. Do you want me and Deuce to see what we can get out of them?”

  “Hell, yeah, Corporal. That’s why you’re here.”

  It took a while for Ace and Deuce to break through the Koreans’ terror and win their trust. Once they did, though, an unbelievable story—in fractured Japanese—began to spill out with startling enthusiasm.

  Deuce told Jock, “We think they’re saying they were servants, sir, to the Japanese officers up on the OP.”

  “How many are up there?”

  Ace posed the question in Japanese, then struggled to understand the torrent of words forming the answer.

  “He’s saying none, sir.”

  Jock shook his head and said, “How the hell could that be?”