Tom Hadley had the solution for Patchett smelling of beer. He picked up some coconuts that had been lying around on the ground, punched two holes in each one, and poured their milk down Patchett’s fatigue shirt. “There,” Hadley said, “now you smell like rotten coconuts. Let’s see Major Kitty Kat smell beer over that.”
“I smelled worse, you touch-hole. But I’m soaking fucking wet now, too.”
“Hey, we’re all sweating like pigs anyway, Top. Who the hell’s going to notice?”
Then they waited. Kit Billingsley, their new C.O., was late for the very first morning formation of his new command. Finally, a jeep approached and screeched to a halt. Billingsley tumbled out, looking bleary-eyed, like a man who’d overslept—or never slept at all. “Sergeant Patchett,” he said, “my battalion looks like it’s standing around with its thumb up its ass…and all I see here are sergeants. Where the hell are my officers?”
“In your CP tent, sir, waiting on you to give them the briefing you scheduled for 0800.” Patchett made a grand theatrical gesture of checking his wristwatch. “That would be ten minutes ago by my watch, sir…which is gonna make us late for this morning’s training exercise. I’m sure Colonel Molloy’s gonna be unhappy about that right off the bat, sir.”
Billingsley harrumphed and stomped off to the CP.
“The man’s a walking, talking disaster, Tom,” Patchett said, as they followed at a respectful distance.
“How the hell do we get rid of him, Top?”
“Just bide your time, son…just bide your time. You heard what Colonel Molloy said…he’s only gonna be here long enough to get hisself a combat star. Then he’ll be back upstairs faster than shit through a goose.”
For Hadley, that seemed too long. “And in the meantime?”
Patchett put a comforting hand on Hadley’s shoulder. “Tom my boy, our shirts spent more time in the laundry than he’s got in a combat zone. While he’s busy screwing the pooch, we’re gonna be watching out for our men. Like we always done.”
“Just like Major Miles taught us, right, Top?”
“No, you dumb shit…just like I taught y’all.” Patchett broke into a sly grin and added, “With a little help from the major, of course.”
It had been the same story at every tactical problem during the day’s training. Major Billingsley would brief his company commanders on the problem’s objective and his plan to seize it; as soon as he was done, they would collectively shake their heads in dismissal of the plan. One of them—usually that smartass kike Grossman, Billingsley fumed—would then speak for the sullen group, saying something like that’s not the way it’s done, Major.
Kit Billingsley knew no matter how their objection was phrased, it contained three implied messages.
The first: we’re combat veterans and you’re not.
The second: We’ve already done this shit for real a hundred times…and you haven’t done it once yet.
Last but certainly not least: That’s not the way Major Miles taught us.
It was nearly 1500 now—time for the last problem of the day before supper back at the bivouac area—and Billingsley was barely into describing his plan of attack before Lee Grossman was voicing the collective objection.
“We’re in the wrong position, Major,” Grossman said. “That’s not the Girua River over there. It’s something we named Rabbit Hole Creek, since it never had a name on those crappy maps we had.”
“Why’d you call it that, Captain?”
“Because all we did around here was kill Jap snipers hiding out in rabbit holes, sir.”
Billingsley plastered that insufferable smirk on his face, the one his officers had grown to hate in the remarkably short time he’d been their C.O. “That’s an interesting anecdote, Captain Grossman…but I think your recollection of the geography is a bit faulty. I know this place like the back of my hand, and that’s the Girua River.”
Trying not to laugh in Billingsley’s face, Grossman said, “Would you mind sharing with us how you came to know this place like the back of your hand, Major?”
“From map study, of course, Captain.”
Lee Grossman didn’t hold back his laugh this time. “From maps, sir? These useless maps? Well, we learned this terrain a little differently, I’m afraid…by bleeding and dying on it. So here’s the deal, Major—we can launch your screwy pretend attack from here and watch the whole battalion bog down in the chest-high swamp. With a little luck, maybe nobody will drown or get taken by a snake or a croc. Then, we can all watch Colonel Molloy chew your ass for the worst attack he’s ever seen. Or, we can bypass the sewer diving and take that nice, dry trail over there to the correct start point and show them once and for all how a combat unit gets it done.”
As Grossman finished his sermon, Kit Billingsley didn’t respond. He found himself distracted by the actions of the other company commanders. Their attention had shifted to the jeep where Sergeants Botkin and Patchett were huddled anxiously over its radio set. Billingsley was the only one who didn’t know why.
Sergeant Stu Botkin had gone over the Signals section of the division’s operations order from one end to the other. He’d identified all the frequencies that weren’t in use today. Then he designated one frequency—unofficially—as 1st Battalion’s personnel communications link back to bivouac. Over this frequency, updates on Major Miles’ condition would be sent on the hour. It was just seconds shy of 1500.
Botkin pressed the headset against his ears, his head bowed as if in prayer. When he finally popped his head up, he announced, “He’s still hanging in there!”
Billingsley could sense the wave of relief sweeping over the men—his men.
But they’re my men in name only right now, he told himself, and as long as that fucking Jock Miles draws breath…
They were all completely ignoring Kit Billingsley now. Bogater Boudreau ambled over to the jeep and asked, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Hey, Sergeant Major, if the man keeps his leg, that means we get him back, right?”
Patchett surprised everyone—especially Major Billingsley—with his reply: “Better tone it down a notch or two, son. It don’t mean no such thing.”
Then he looked Billingsley dead in the eyes and said, “I believe Captain Grossman just laid out one hell of a fine option here. So what’re we gonna do, sir?”
Colonel Molloy buttonholed the surgeon in the mess tent as he was scarfing down a hot supper of Spam and lima beans. “At least we finally got some vegetables on the menu, Dick,” the surgeon said between mouthfuls. “The men could sure use them.” The colonel wasn’t here to talk about the chow, though.
“It’s been twenty-four hours, Doc,” he said. “What’s the word on Jock Miles now?”
“Well, a little bit of an infection has popped up. Kind of expected that here in the tropics…but I don’t think it’s anything we can’t knock out with sulfanilamide.”
“Give it to me straight, Doc…is he going to keep the leg?”
“Yeah, Dick, he’ll keep it. How much use it’ll be to him…that’s another story.”
Melvin Patchett felt ridiculous in the hospital gown, surgical gloves, and mask. “They wouldn’t let me in to see you unless I wore this stuff, sir,” he told Jock. “Threat of infection, they said. Not sure if they meant a threat to you or me. So how the hell you feeling?”
“Been worse, Top. Been better, too.”
“I hear tell from Colonel Molloy that all that amputation talk got deep-sixed. That’s real good news, sir….real good news. It’ll give the men something to feel good about, too, because they sure need something right about now.”
“Things not working out too well with the new boss, Top?”
Patchett started to laugh. “The man’s only been around a couple days and already I could write a damn book. He got hisself more lost than a ball in high weeds today, nearly marched us straight through the goddamn swamp…until Captain Grossman straightened his ass out. But it was the damnedest thing…even after the Captain
read him the riot act, I thought that pig-headed sumbitch would still try and make us do it his own fucked-up way.”
“But he didn’t,” Jock said, “so maybe he’s learning?”
“That’ll be the day, sir. The way I see it, that man’s a perfect sun-riser”
“Sun-riser? What’s that, Top?”
“Someone who thinks the sun rises out of his asshole, sir.”
“Hey, go easy on me, Top. It hurts when I laugh….it really does. But come to think of it, I thought the gospel according to Melvin Patchett stated that every officer thinks the sun rises out of his asshole.”
“Not all y’all, sir. Just most.”
Their laughter turned bittersweet. Neither of them wanted to face the fact their working relationship—one that had helped them survive this war from its earliest days—was now coming to an end.
“Any of the big brass come to see you, sir? Aside from that brigadier who showed up just to bust your balls?”
“No, Top. Not a one.”
“Figures. They’re gonna ship you home this time, ain’t they, sir?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“But how in blue blazes you gonna work it so you can stick around?”
“I honestly don’t know, Top.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Anxiety had gotten the better of his appetite. Try as he may, Hugh Finchley couldn’t bear to touch a morsel of his supper. Across the table at Government House, though, Jillian Forbes didn’t seem to be having any problem polishing off hers. She’d popped her left arm from its sling—that shoulder aches less today—and deftly switching from knife to fork, was one-handedly cleaning the tuna steak from her plate with alarming efficiency.
“This is bloody good fish,” she said.
“I suppose you know a great deal about fish,” Finchley said, “owning that fishing fleet back in Weipa.”
Her face took on the no shit look she’d seen on so many soldiers—GIs and diggers alike—when someone was belaboring the obvious. To ensure he didn’t miss its meaning, she added, “Can’t bloody fool you, can we, Mister Finchley?”
She pointed her fork at his still-full plate and added, “What’s the matter? You don’t fancy the meal?”
“No, I’m sure it’s quite wonderful, Miss Forbes. It’s just that I’m a bit nervous about the broadcast tonight.”
“Why’s that?”
“The transcript hasn’t gotten the stamp of approval from MacArthur’s headquarters yet, I’m afraid…”
Jillian finished the sentence for him. “And without that approval, there’ll be no broadcast.”
Those words stung Hugh Finchley like a slap in the face. “And no book, either.”
“I don’t care about the bloody book,” she replied.
Hugh Finchley did, though. Very much. As long as this war raged on, The Supreme Commander would hold the editorial power over anything written about his campaigns. Jillian Forbes might have her family fortune to fall back on but he did not. A best seller right now could make his life very comfortable. Give him negotiating power with the network and the publishing world he never had before. And most importantly, get him out of this hellhole called Papua once and for all.
Now Jillian seemed to have lost her appetite, too. She wasn’t lying when she said she didn’t care about the book. There was something she did care about, though, something putting their story over the airwaves could provide:
Without that broadcast, there’ll be no possibility of Canberra using our story to bolster morale back in Oz. That means no heroes’ tour for me and Jock…
And he gets shipped home.
Without me.
Five minutes to air time: 1955 hours...and still no word from MacArthur’s headquarters giving Hugh Finchley’s broadcast a thumbs up or thumbs down.
The broadcast engineer at the radio relay station, a US Army sergeant, watched the Aussie newsman with great amusement: He’s sweating worse than a whore in church.
Then the sergeant went back to thumbing through a well-worn copy of Life magazine.
Two minutes to go…
The red light on the microphone’s desk that, when lit, meant On The Air, was still dark.
One minute to go…
The phone on the engineer’s desk rang. The conversation was brief. As he hung up, the sergeant looked at Hugh Finchley and shook his head.
The red light never came on.
The sergeant went back to his magazine.
Hugh Finchley retreated to his room and the bottle of whiskey stashed there.
At Government House, Jillian tuned the shortwave to Radio Australia and waited. For the next hour, she listened as the News Hour featured segment after segment describing the great Allied victories being won as MacArthur’s forces swept down the northern New Guinea coast.
Five minutes were reserved at the end of the program for brief pieces about the war in Europe and the American naval campaign in the Central Pacific.
And then the News Hour signed off for the evening.
She never heard Hugh Finchley’s voice...
And the world’s going to wait until Hell freezes over to hear our story.
By midnight, the whiskey had jacked up Hugh Finchley’s courage enough for him to hitch a ride to the Dobodura airfield complex on an American deuce-and-a-half. Once there, he leapt from the truck like a paratrooper while it was still moving—twisting an ankle in the process—and then, limping but undeterred, tried to storm the American Headquarters building. A trio of amused MPs stopped him well short of his goal.
“Maybe you just oughta get lost and sleep it off, pal,” the MP sergeant said.
“I will do no such thing,” Finchley replied. “I demand to see the general!”
“Look, pal…either get lost or we have to lock you up. Your choice, amigo.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Yank.” He tried to emphasize his point with a whiffed punch, which did no more than stir the humid night air.
“Oh, the hell you’re not,” the sergeant replied, spinning the unsteady Aussie around and snapping on handcuffs. That’s when Hugh Finchley really began to make a scene, shouting every swear word and anti-American epithet his sodden mind could conjure.
After a particularly strong chorus of you bloody miserable Yank son of a bitch fuckers, the MPs stopped wrestling with him and sprang to attention. Finchley, without the benefit of his handcuffed arms for balance or the brawny MPs holding him up, fell flat on his ass. Bewildered, he looked around, not quite sure what had caused this sudden turn of events.
A commanding voice called from the building’s entryway, “What the fuck’s going on out there, Sergeant?” The voice belonged to Brigadier General Ted Stanley. He was standing in a silk dressing gown, with a phalanx of lackeys behind him.
“Nothing to concern yourself with, General,” the sergeant replied. “This Aussie gentleman’s just had a little too much to drink.”
“GENERAL?” Finchley said, his voice an alcohol-fired roar. “ARE YOU GENERAL MACARTHUR?”
“No, I’m General Stanley. And who might you be?”
It took three tries—each one spraying the MPs with saliva—before he got past the F in Finchley. Once said, though, Stanley realized exactly who this drunk was.
“Finchley, eh? You’re the gent who wrote that piece about that Aussie hero woman and her American boyfriend…the pair that seems to be winning this war single-handedly, right?”
“Bloody well right, that’s me. How dare you refuse my story, you…you…”
“General will suffice for a title, Mister Finchley. You want to know why your story’s been shitcanned? Well, I’ll tell you why: nobody but Douglas MacArthur is going to be given the credit for any of his brilliant tactical campaigns. And I mean nobody. Your little piece of fiction about some Aussie split-tail warrior will never see the light of day, my friend. So I suggest you crawl back to your typewriter like a good little mate and write what you’re told.”
The whiskey was still p
umping chemical courage through Finchley’s veins. He replied, “Or what?”
“Or those war correspondent credentials we were charitable enough to grant you just might vanish, Mister Finchley…and you’ll be lucky to find yourself in some Outback shithole, reporting on the price of kangaroo meat.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The old vessel may have been rusty and tired-looking, but Jillian thought the coastal freighter Esme—her ship: the one still bearing her name on the ownership papers—looked wonderful in the noonday sun. She and Jock sat at quayside of Port Moresby’s Fairfax Harbor and watched as deck cranes lowered her war cargo to the wharf.
“The old girl’s still beautiful, isn’t she, Jock?”
Jock hesitated, searching for a delicate way to express the anxiety reborn with this ship’s reappearance. The best he could do was, “You’re not actually thinking of becoming her captain again, are you?”
“No, not yet. Not until I’m strong enough for the job.” She raised her arms—finally free of the slings they’d worn for the past month—and made slow circles above her head. “Nice to be able to do this again, though.”
And it would be really nice not to have you at sea in a war zone again, too, he thought, but didn’t dare say out loud. Trying to stay upbeat and hopeful on their last day—and last night—together was proving difficult enough. The prospect of her sailing into harm’s way again was more than he could bear, and he told her so.
Upbeat, eager, and without a hint of sarcasm, she replied, “What else am I going to do with myself while we’re apart?”
He couldn’t see it that way. He cursed the sea, the fact she was so at home on it, and the fact he had nowhere to go now but back to the States.
“Maybe we should just head back to Commander Shaw’s place,” he said. “Don’t want to be late for The Last Supper.”
The enthusiasm drained from her face. He wished he hadn’t used those words, not meaning for them to sound so cold, so final. Even if they were.
Operation Blind Spot (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 4) Page 23