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

by William Peter Grasso

  Jillian didn’t budge.

  “That means you, too, Jill.”

  “I’m not going bloody anywhere, Jock. You need me. I’m a better shot than any of you Yanks. And you’ve got another M1 for me, right?”

  There was another M1—the one Joe Youngblood used to carry.

  “Dammit, Jill, I said no. The last time you went on a little nautical adventure, you ended up a POW.”

  “That’s true…and I’d do it again if it meant keeping you alive.”

  “Jill…Jillian…nobody’s doubting your courage…or your shooting ability. But—”

  She continued her argument, stepping on his words as if he wasn’t even speaking.

  “Besides,” she said, “none of you can handle a boat better than I can.”

  She left him no room to counter. There was no denying anything she’d said.

  And there was no time for debate, either.

  “All right,” Jock said. “Hand her the other M1.”

  Bogater picked up one oar while Jillian grabbed the other.

  “No,” Jock said. “Your shoulders aren’t up to rowing, Jill. Give me that oar.”

  She waved him off. “Never you mind, Yank. Just get on that bloody machine gun.”

  “All right, fine,” Jock said. “Let’s go.”

  As they pulled away from the other boat, Patchett said, “Sir, all the croc wranglers are in your boat. What do we do if one comes and pays us a little visit? If we shoot it, that’ll give us all away.”

  Jillian handled the reply. “Just sharpen up some of those long sticks laying around the mangrove. If a croc comes at you, stab the bloody bastard in the eye before it rips that silly boat to shreds.”

  Bogater told her, “Couldn’t’ve said that better myself, ma’am.”

  Another minute of paddling and they’d be free of the river mouth, out in open water, away from the shield of the mangrove. The patrol boat presented a perfect profile as it coasted slowly. They could still see the Japanese on deck—all five of them— plus one man, presumably their leader, who looked to be shouting orders from the helm in the tiny wheelhouse.

  Jillian had an idea. “Jock,” she whispered, “suppose we just shoot those blokes and seize the bloody boat? There’s only a handful of them.”

  “What if there are more below deck, Jill? Even one guy with a weapon down there would make boarding pretty risky…and I’m not going to risk anyone’s life worse than I already am for a boat I don’t need.”

  “Fine, then,” she replied. “We’ll blow the bloody thing up. Bogater, see where that boom attaches to the deck?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The petrol tank should be just below and slightly aft. If nothing flares up after the first few rounds, we’ll move our shots forward up the hull. We’ve only got twenty tracers between us, so we’ve got to make every one count.”

  “Got it,” Boudreau replied. “What do you make the range at, ma’am?”

  “Two hundred yards…maybe a little less. What do you think, Jock?”

  “Two hundred sounds just about right to me, Jill. When I start sweeping the deck clean with the Nambu, you two do your stuff. Just remember—tracers work both ways. If they can see them coming, they’ll know exactly where we are.”

  “Amen to that, sir,” Boudreau said.

  “Bogater, you’re starting to sound just like Sergeant Major Patchett.”

  “I reckon I could sound a lot worse, sir.”

  Jock held the gunner on the bow in his sights, adjusting for the rise and fall of the rubber boat on the modest swells. This thing better shoot as flat a trajectory as everyone says it does, he told himself, because if I miss high or wide, I won’t know where those rounds went.

  Jillian lay snug against him on his left, Bogater the same to his right. Both had their M1s trained on the patrol boat’s stern.

  Here goes nothing, Jock told himself…

  And squeezed the Nambu’s trigger.

  He expected the roar of the machine gun to wake the dead…

  But he hadn’t expected to be blinded by the vivid muzzle flash.

  I can’t see if I’m hitting anything or not!

  “YOU’RE LOW, JOCK,” Jillian yelled. “YOU’RE HITTING THE WATER.”

  And then the Nambu fell silent.

  Shit! Jammed!

  Jillian and Bogater had pumped five rounds each into the stern…

  But there was no onboard fire yet.

  The patrol boat began to turn hard toward them.

  Jock ripped the magazine from the Nambu. When he did, the round that had jammed fell into the sloshing water at the bottom of the rubber boat. It danced about like a mischievous child caught red-handed yet protesting its innocence. He gave up trying to grab it and reached for a new magazine.

  As he did, he caught sight of the strangest thing: two men on the patrol boat’s deck were on fire, dancing in crazy pirouettes as flames consumed their torsos.

  Jillian fired again, the tracer a white-hot pinpoint of light streaking to hit a third man on the deck. He, too, began to burn.

  “I got no shot at the stern,” Bogater said.

  “Then don’t waste your tracers,” Jock replied. “Help me reload this damn Nambu. I can’t get it right.”

  “I had trouble the first time, too, sir,” Bogater said as he deftly slipped the magazine into place. “Gotta get that front edge hooked in before the back’ll lock down.”

  The patrol boat was headed straight for them. The machine gun on its bow began to fire simultaneously with Jock’s Nambu.

  The next seconds were a festival of hideous mayhem as the two automatic weapons fought a watery duel to the death.

  Jillian and Bogater buried their heads at the bottom of the boat, clutching the dubious protection of rubber tubes filled with air.

  They could sense the bullets flying close above them like angry winged insects, even hearing their quiet pfftt in those infinitesimal moments of silence between the Nambu’s shots.

  The rounds from the patrol boat that went short showered them with little geysers of seawater.

  Then the Nambu stopped firing again. It wasn’t another jam—this time the magazine was empty.

  But the machine gun on the patrol boat had stopped firing, too. The only sound was the indifferent putter of the patrol boat’s engine as the vessel barreled toward them.

  There wasn’t a soul visible on the deck. Even the burning men were gone.

  Probably threw themselves into the water, Jock thought. Some choice…bleed to death, burn to death, or both.

  “I believe we got ’em all,” Bogater said, more surprise than certainty in his voice.

  “Let’s board her,” Jillian said. “Start paddling—she’s going to pass very close.”

  Bogater jumped on her bandwagon, adding, “Yeah, why not? We got two Thompsons. They’re perfect for a close fight if need be.”

  “Not so fast,” Jock said. He pointed to the stern of the rubber boat. It was already awash—what had once been the buoyant aft tube was now ragged and airless, punctured in any number of places.

  But the front half of their boat was still afloat, at least for the time being.

  Jillian was adamant. “We can still make it, Jock.”

  She had a point. The patrol boat’s track would bring her to within about ten yards of where they lay in the water. It wouldn’t take much paddling to drag their foundering craft into a position to intercept.

  Seizing the patrol boat was suddenly a very tempting option.

  “Okay,” Jock said, “let’s do it. Jill, grab a Thompson and cover that boat. Bogater, you and me on the oars.”

  Thirty seconds of furious rowing and the rubber boat had barely moved. “It’s like we got an anchor holding us back,” Bogater said.

  There was a rope dangling over the side of the patrol boat’s low afterdeck. Jillian was ready to snag it…provided it was in arm’s reach.

  “Come on, you wankers,” Jillian said, “get me just a littl
e closer.”

  Jock gritted his teeth. Every stroke of the oar—every twist of his kneeling body—caused jolts of pain from his wounded leg. His strength flagging, the oar began to thrash uselessly at the water’s surface.

  But on his side, Bogater was pumping his oar with what seemed superhuman strength—so much that their sluggish craft began to pivot, swinging Jillian away from the approaching patrol boat.

  “STRAIGHTEN OUT, YOU KNOBS,” she yelled, not realizing that was now physically impossible for Jock.

  It was a losing game. As the patrol boat grew near—thirty yards, twenty-five yards—that rope hanging from the afterdeck was still out of reach…and it was going to stay that way.

  Before disappointment had a chance to wash over her, she saw the flames—just a flicker at first—playing along the afterdeck.

  The flicker became a blaze in mere seconds.

  “GET UNDER,” she screamed to Jock and Bogater—but their swamping boat had seen to that already. Only their heads bobbed above the surface.

  “SHE’S GOING TO BLOW,” Jillian said, and then dove underwater.

  From the safety of the mangrove, Patchett and company watched as the patrol boat dissolved in a fireball, spitting flying matchsticks in all directions. The explosion seemed to consume everything—and everyone—in the water around it.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The second rubber boat threaded carefully through a sea full of charred, broken wood—the burned-out remnants of the Jap patrol boat. Torn, jagged planks of her hull would loom suddenly out of the darkness like floating spears, threatening to puncture the soft, fragile craft. As he batted more dangerous flotsam out of their way, Patchett mumbled, “Some fucking rescue we got going on here. We’re gonna get our asses sunk just like the major and them if we don’t watch our step real careful-like.”

  He’d called out several times to the lost trio but gotten no answer. McMillen, in his morphine stupor, was convinced he knew why: “They’re all fucking dead. Got the shit blown out of them. Ain’t that just a fucking perfect ending?”

  “Shut the hell up a minute,” Hadley said, straining to hear. “Way over there…I think that’s Bogater’s voice yelling.”

  A few minutes later, as the rubber boat came alongside, Bogater Boudreau said, “Good thing y’all heard me. I’m running out of steam here.”

  He’d nearly exhausted himself being guardian angel to Jock and Jillian. Both of them were barely able to hang on to the floating plank that was their makeshift life preserver. Jock’s wounded leg had become nothing more than a useless appendage, searing with pain. The chronic ache in Jillian’s shoulders had snowballed to debilitating discomfort. For them, swimming—even treading water—was out of the question. Only Bogater’s steadfast grip kept them from slipping under.

  As Patchett and Ace lifted Jock into the boat, he managed a weak smile and said, “At least we didn’t get ourselves cooked.”

  “Amen to that, sir,” Patchett replied, “but we got ourselves another little problem.”

  “Let me guess...nothing from the sub?”

  “Not a damn thing, sir.”

  Jock looked to Botkin and asked, “Are we sure that radio’s even working?”

  “Positive, sir. I can still pick up Lorengau.”

  “Good,” Jock replied. “We’ll need that bearing to find the rendezvous point.”

  Patchett asked, “You still wanna look for that sub, sir?”

  “Well, we’re not going back to Manus, that’s for damn sure. Let me see your map, Top. Mine sunk with my helmet.”

  He studied the map for a few moments, and then, teeth gritted with pain, dragged himself over and around the others to the stern of the boat, where Jillian was sitting. “Jill,” he said, “I need some sailor’s advice. Are you up to giving me a hand here for a minute?”

  She couldn’t quite mask the pain in her voice as she replied, “Of course I am. Just don’t ask me to lift any bloody barbells right now.”

  He laid the map before her and said, “Tell me about the wind and current again.”

  When her explanation was done, he said, “Okay, that’s what I needed to know.”

  Then he addressed everyone on board. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to continue rowing this boat as near as we can reckon to the rendezvous point with the sub, with or without its radio signal. And if the sub doesn’t show by sunrise, we’re going to turn west and row with the current to one of the small, uninhabited islands a couple of miles off Manus. They’re just a few miles from here. We’ll see them clearly in the daylight. Unfortunately, if any more patrol boats show up, they’ll see us clearly, too, so we’ll have to be quick about it. Once we’re there, we’ll figure out our next move. Any questions?”

  “Just one, sir,” Hadley said as he grabbed for an oar. “What compass heading do you want us to row?”

  In a few minutes they were making good headway through the open sea, finally clear of the debris field left by the shattered patrol boat. Patchett finished taking stock of their equipment. He told Jock, “Well, sir, we got no food, only about a sip of water per person, morphine’s running low, ammo’s getting tight, the Nambu’s gone, and the rest of our weapons will be jammed up tight as padlocks if we don’t get ’em clean and dry real soon.”

  Jock tried a little gallows humor: “But aside from that, Top…”

  Patchett was in no joking mood. “Aside from that, sir, we got a C.O. who I reckon can’t walk, a lady who can’t lift her arms over her head no more, and a man without a leg who ain’t long for this world if we don’t get picked up right quick.”

  “Well, on the bright side, Top, I won’t have to worry about walking as long as we’re all crammed onto this damn little boat.”

  “Walking ain’t the half of it, sir. I can smell the gangrene coming on you.”

  They never thought they’d be praying for rain, not after all the drenchings they’d endured in the jungles and rainforests of Manus. When they saw the flashes of lightning illuminating distant storm clouds from within, like Chinese lanterns, it seemed their prayers were about to be answered. Even when the storm grew closer, the lightning now splashing down on the sea’s surface, the air thick with the stink of ozone and the danger of electrocution very real, they still wanted it to come. Ready for the deluge, they sat in their little rubber boat with helmets upturned and waiting to be filled. They were that thirsty.

  But the thunderstorm swept wide of them without delivering a drop—all fury, no salvation…

  And it was hours past the scheduled rendezvous with the submarine. Botkin had kept up his unfailing vigil on the radio, but there was still no signal.

  “This battery’s going to be dead pretty soon, sir,” Botkin said. “After that, I’ve only got one more…if all this water hasn’t ruined it already.”

  “We got a couple hours to sunrise, sir,” Patchett added, his voice low, trying to keep the conversation as private as possible in this boat crowded shoulder to shoulder. “Wanna start rowing toward them islands now? You know, get us a head start on this Robinson Crusoe shit. We’ll get out of that baking sun quicker. I mean, parched as we are…”

  “No, Top,” Jock replied. “We’re going to wait.”

  “All due respect, sir, may I ask why?”

  “Because things may look a whole lot different in daylight, Sergeant Major…for us, and any swabbies that just might be looking for us.”

  There was a long, tense pause before Patchett replied, “As you wish, sir…as you wish. But if that’s the way you want it, we might as well just leave one man on watch and let everyone else get some shuteye for now, if they can.”

  “Good idea. I’ve got first watch.”

  “But sir, don’t you need a little—”

  “I need a lot of things right now, Top, but sleep isn’t one of them. And don’t worry about my leg. All I’ve got to do is sit here.”

  Jock could tell there was something else on Patchett’s mind, though. Usually, you never had to tell an
old soldier twice to take a nap. But the sergeant major lingered, staring into the night as he searched for the right words to say.

  “You know, sir, this wouldn’t be the first time the brass decided to just forget about a li’l ol’ unit like ours…like getting them back wasn’t hardly worth the trouble.”

  “I’m not buying that, Top. Not for a minute. We’ve been walking around in enemy territory for six days. They’re going to want to know what we saw.”

  “I sure do hope you’re right, sir. I surely do.”

  Not everyone fell asleep. Mike McMillen drifted in and out of the morphine’s grip, mumbling what sounded like curses on President Roosevelt, the United States Army, and every swinging dick in it.

  Jillian wasn’t sleeping, either. She snuggled up to Jock and said, “I suppose I’m not a target of Sergeant McMillen’s wrath at the moment, seeing as I don’t possess a swinging dick.” She slipped her hand into his. “I’d put my arms around you if I could, you know. You’ll have to settle for this.”

  They sat quietly, just holding hands for a few minutes, until—her voice very soft—she asked, “Could Patchett be right? Could they really just write off you lot?”

  “I hope to hell not, Jill.”

  She put her head on his shoulder. “Whatever happens, we’ll get through this, Jock. One bloody way or the other. I know we will.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The last time they could actually see Manus from offshore, it was through the narrow and water-sloshed point of view of a submarine’s periscope. The island seemed such a tiny place then: drab, unimposing, unthreatening. Now, as the rising sun lifted the blindfold of night from their eyes, the view from the rubber boat was unsettling. The island soared from the sea like an evil god ready to suck them back to a primal hell that was all too familiar. And it seemed closer than any of the GIs had envisioned.

  “All that rowing,” Patchett said, “and damn if it don’t look like we ain’t gone nowhere.”

  “It’s just our perspective,” Jillian said, trying to be reassuring. “We’re really about three miles offshore.”