Operation Long Jump (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 2)

by William Peter Grasso

  The sergeant was a wealth of information. Yes, he said, his platoon had tangled with the Japs—they weren’t sure how many—and taken no casualties. The contact was over now and they were holding their position just fine. No, he had no contact with 1st Platoon, on their left flank. No, he had no contact with 3rd Platoon on their right flank, either. Yes, he had seen the company commander. The XO and first sergeant, too. They were out trying to find 1st and 3rd Platoon, and were supposed to be on the company radio net if you needed to talk to them. Yes, he could try to relay a message to the company commander.

  Blevins looked at the walkie-talkie he carried. “Ain’t that dandy,” he said. “This radio is on battalion frequency, and they’re on their company frequency. We’re stumbling around out here blind and deaf.”

  While they waited for the reply from the platoon sergeant, Jock picked up the phone marked 3rd Platoon. Nobody answered. He wasn’t surprised.

  The sergeant from 2nd Platoon was back on the line, saying he hadn’t been able to raise the company commander.

  Soaking wet, with rain dripping from the rim of his helmet, Blevins cut a pathetic figure as he looked one way and then the other, trying to figure out in which direction he might best influence this mysterious battle. “What do you think, Major?” he asked. “Where do we start?”

  “I think we should go to our strength first, sir, and hook up with Second Platoon.” Jock began to justify his advice, but a persistent exchange of gunfire erupted—to their rear.

  “Oh, shit,” Blevins said. “They’re behind us. That’s not good at all.”

  “Yeah, that changes things,” Jock said as he climbed from the bunker. “We’d better get a handle on what’s going on in our own backyard.”

  Blevins seemed just as terrified by that suggestion as he was when final protective fires were first mentioned. He asked, “How do you propose we do that, Major?”

  “Carefully, sir. Very carefully.”

  The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Visibility improved slightly: Jock could make out shapes all around him now in the flickering light of muzzle flashes. Among the silhouettes of trees, he caught brief glimpses of running men, little more than black pop-up targets on a dark gray background, there one second, gone the next. Whether they were GIs or Japanese, he couldn’t tell. He wouldn’t be surprised if he collided with one of them.

  Hunched low to the ground, Jock moved as quickly as the soggy ground allowed but came to an abrupt and painful stop when he stumbled headlong into a gully. Catching his wind, he looked around and realized he was alone. Colonel Blevins was nowhere in sight. The barrel of Jock’s Thompson was impaled inches deep in the gully’s mud:

  Shit…If I try to fire this thing now, it’ll probably blow up on me. Shit.

  The gully turned out to be a good vantage point. He could hear men all around him yelling as they fired, things like Eat shit, Jap! and Fuck you, Tojo! It provided good cover, too: bullets seemed to be coming from all directions, pinging off the trees above his head and pelting him with wooden splinters.

  Idiot! I walked right into the middle of this damned fight. This hole saved my life.

  There was a sound of sloshing, like an approaching man’s footsteps in the slippery mud. On instinct, Jock swung his Thompson in their direction before remembering it was plugged and useless. Holding his breath, he pulled out his bayonet, straining to see in the darkness—waiting, waiting…

  The silhouette of a man loomed for an instant just feet away and then quickly disappeared as Colonel Blevins fell face-first into the gulley beside Jock.

  “Thought I lost you, sir,” Jock said. “Are you okay?”

  Blevins said nothing as he wiped mud from his eyes and mouth. When he was done with that task, he began to frantically feel around in the mud.

  “Lose your rifle, sir?” Jock asked.

  “Yeah…and the fucking walkie-talkie, too.”

  The gunfire all around them slowed and then stopped. The shouting didn’t. One voice from the left stood out: it had the distinctive accent of some New York City borough. The Bronx, I think, Jock surmised.

  “Funny thing, sir,” Jock said to the colonel, “but in all that shooting, I only heard GI weapons firing—”

  “You can tell that, Major?”

  Even in the darkness, Jock could read the surprise in Blevins’s face.

  “Sure, Colonel. A Garand sounds a lot different than an Arisaka…and a Browning a hell of a lot different than a Nambu. And another thing…I only hear GIs yelling. Japs usually make plenty of their own noise when they’re in a fight.”

  “What are you saying, Major?”

  “Let’s find out, sir.” He cupped his hands and yelled toward the GI voices to his left: “HEY, BRONX MOUTH…IF I GIVE YOU THE PASSWORD, YOU PROMISE NOT TO SHOOT US?”

  “TAKE THE GAS PIPE, HIROHITO,” the New Yorker replied. “WE DON’T KNOW NO FUCKING PASSWORD…AND A SHITLOAD OF YOU NIPS SPEAK BETTER ENGLISH THAN ME.”

  Jock tried a different tack. “TELL YOU WHAT…ASK ME A QUESTION ABOUT THE NEW YORK YANKEES INSTEAD. GO AHEAD, ASK ME ANYTHING.”

  There was a moment of silence—a palpable hesitation—before the New Yorker said, “OKAY, WISE GUY…WHO’D THE BAMBINO PLAY FOR BEFORE THE YANKS?”

  “IS THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO, NUMBNUTS? EVERYBODY KNOWS BABE RUTH WAS WITH THE RED SOX FIRST.”

  “OH YEAH? SO ANSWER THIS, SMART GUY…WHAT CITY DOES JOLTIN’ JOE COME FROM?”

  “DIMAGGIO COMES FROM SAN FRANCISCO. NOW, FOR CRYIN’ OUT LOUD…”

  Another voice piped up in the darkness. This one came from Jock’s right—the opposite side from the New Yorker. It was decidedly GI, gruffer, and bathed in the deep drawl of the American South: “HOW ABOUT YOU YANKEE ASS-WIPES SHUT THE FUCK UP…THE JAPS ARE EVERYWHERE.”

  “HEY, JOHNNY REB,” Jock said, “ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THAT? FROM WHERE I’M SITTING, THERE’S A GOOD CHANCE WE’VE GOT NOTHING BUT AMERICANS SHOOTING AT EACH OTHER HERE.”

  Another palpable silence—and then the New Yorker said, “HOW ABOUT THIS ONE, SLANT EYE? WHERE’D THE IRON HORSE GROW UP?

  “THE LATE, GREAT LOU GEHRIG WAS FROM NEW YORK CITY,” Jock replied.

  The southern voice rang out again: “YOU GOT A NAME, MISTER BASEBALL EXPERT?”

  “MY NAME’S JOCK MILES.”

  “AND WHAT RANK WOULD YOU BE, JOCK MILES?”

  “I’D BE A MAJOR. NOW LISTEN UP…ME AND YOUR COLONEL ARE RIGHT BETWEEN BOTH OF YOU, AND WE DON’T SEE OR HEAR ANY JAPS.”

  The voices from both the northern and southern camps were softer now, just murmurs. But their combined message was unmistakable: Oh, shit…

  “WE’RE COMING OVER TO THE NEW YORK SIDE,” Jock said. “PAY ATTENTION, ALL OF YOU…CEASE FUCKING FIRE UNLESS YOU CAN REACH OUT AND TOUCH A JAP. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”

  The answer came from both sides simultaneously: “YES, SIR.”

  Jock asked the colonel, “You find your weapon, sir?”

  “Yeah, and the walkie-talkie, too.”

  “Well, then,” Jock said, taking a deep breath, “let’s go.”

  It was all sorted out very quickly: the New York voice belonged to a sergeant—a squad leader—in Third Platoon. The rest of the platoon was scattered nearby around its leader, a terrified lieutenant who seemed little more than a confused and frightened child at the moment.

  Colonel Blevins asked the lieutenant, “Why did you pull back, son?”

  “I was told to, sir.”

  “By who, Lieutenant?”

  “I think it was Captain Foley, sir.”

  Captain Foley: the company commander they had yet to find.

  “You think, Lieutenant? You’re not sure?”

  “No, sir…It was all so confusing…the Japs were everywhere.”

  “Yeah, we’ve heard that one already,” Jock said, his skepticism hard to miss. “Do you have any casualties, Lieutenant?”

  “Not that I know of, sir.”

  The southern voice belonged to the platoon serge
ant of First Platoon. That unit, too, claimed they had been told to pull back, though they hadn’t come under any pressure from the Japanese. The first fire they encountered this night probably came from Third Platoon. Mercifully, they suffered no casualties, either—and no, they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of their company commander lately.

  Colonel Blevins wasted no time appointing the First Platoon leader as acting company commander, pending the reappearance of the absent Captain Foley or his XO. This lieutenant, at least, seemed far more composed—and far less terrified—than Third Platoon’s leader. Blevins’s first order to the new company commander was simple: Get your asses back on the line with Second Platoon and stay there.

  As Jock cleaned the mud from his Thompson, Blevins, shaken and weary, sat down on the ground with his back against a tree. Looking to Jock, he said, “We’ll never know what really happened here, will we?”

  “It’s confusing enough in daylight, sir,” Jock agreed.

  “Amen, Major. Amen. I think I’d better get back to my CP, but…” Blevins looked around, clearly confused in which direction he’d find the command post.

  “It’s this way, sir,” Jock said, pointing into the darkness.

  They hadn’t walked far. Three quick shots rang out some distance ahead—an M1 firing as fast as a GI could pull the trigger.

  Then a muffled explosion—a grenade.

  “Not again,” Colonel Blevins said, the words a moan of frustration laced with fear.

  They crept forward until they could see the outline of the CP tent. Jock’s jeep was still parked in front; Private Spill leaned nonchalantly against its hood, his M1 trained right at them.

  “Spill, it’s Major Miles and the colonel,” Jock called out. “Don’t shoot us.”

  “Well, come on if you’re coming, sir,” Spill replied. “I recognized y’all way off, anyway.”

  “How’d you do that?” Jock asked.

  “Ain’t no Jap as tall as you gentlemen, sir. And even in the dark, the shape of the helmet is all sorts of different.”

  Jock and Blevins took a few steps closer. Twenty yards in front of Travis Spill, three Japanese soldiers lay on the ground. Two were lifeless, their bodies mangled by some explosive force; the third, barely alive but no less mangled, gurgled softly as the life flowed from his body.

  Jock asked, “Did you take these guys down, Spill?”

  “It was them or me, sir. Kill or be killed, right?”

  “Did you see any more than these three?” Jock asked.

  “No, sir, I surely didn’t.” Spill walked over to one of the bodies, pulled a rucksack from beneath it and carefully peeked inside. “Looks like they had a whole bunch more of them grenades, too, but only got to pull out that one. Didn’t even get to throw it…just kinda dropped it when I shot him. Son of a bitch must’ve gone ten feet in the air when she blew.”

  Colonel Blevins shook his head in disbelief. “Are you telling me that three little sappers caused all this mayhem…nearly turned my whole battalion inside out?”

  “Maybe, sir,” Jock replied, “but like you said before, we’ll never know.”

  Two officers stepped from the CP tent, the silver bars on their collars catching a glint of moonlight through the clearing skies. A third man, older, without silver bars but with sleeves heavy from the weight of many stripes, followed close behind. Blevins put his hands on his hips, as if about to reproach delinquent children.

  “Well, well, Captain Foley,” Blevins said, “I see you, your XO, and your first sergeant are still with us, after all.”

  “We couldn’t raise you on the radio or the landline, sir,” Foley replied, his voice shaky, “so we came to the CP for your instructions.”

  Blevins grew testy. “You found it necessary for all three of you to come?” he asked. “Who did you leave in charge of your company?”

  “I didn’t…didn’t think to delegate command, sir,” Foley said, staring at his feet as he spoke. “Didn’t think it would be necessary.”

  Blevins was finding it difficult to control his rage. “Apparently, you were wrong, Foley. Dead wrong. At least two of your platoon leaders are of the opinion you gave them permission to pull back. Is that true? Did you do that?”

  “Well…no, sir…not exactly…”

  “Well, exactly what, then, Captain?”

  “I believe I said if it was necessary—”

  The colonel’s rage boiled over. “YOU LEFT IT UP TO THEM, CAPTAIN?”

  Blevins whirled in a little dance of frustration, its final step a sound kick of a tire on Jock’s jeep. “Get out of my sight, Foley,” the colonel said. “Go back to your company and reclaim command. I made your First Platoon leader…whatever the hell his name is…acting commander in your absence. We’ll discuss this matter in greater detail later.”

  Foley tried to offer a word of explanation, but Blevins would have none of it. “Dismissed, Captain,” the colonel said and stormed into the CP tent.

  Captain Foley approached Jock, desperate for a sympathetic ear. They met before at regimental staff meetings but weren’t close by any means. Jock had had no occasion to form an opinion of the man before this night. Everyone knew Jock, though—the Cape York campaign had seen to that. Surely, Foley thought, here was a man who hadn’t yet forgotten the difficulties of company command while under fire. A man who wouldn’t think his judgment poor or question his courage under fire.

  “You really fucked up, Mike,” Jock said, playing the Dutch uncle and shattering Foley’s vain hope. “A lot of people…me included…almost got killed because of you. Don’t ever run out on your men like that again. You’d better pray the colonel doesn’t decide to court-martial you for dereliction. Now get your head out of your ass and start showing those men some leadership. They deserve it.”

  Spill was behind the wheel of the jeep, grinning from ear to ear as Captain Foley and his entourage slogged off.

  Jock asked, “What are you so fucking happy about, Spill?”

  “It’s not every day a l’il ol’ mutt like me gets to see an officer chewed out, sir…and I got to see it twice.”

  “I see your point,” Jock said as he checked to see if the jeep’s silent radio was still working. “Any radio traffic for me while I was gone, Spill?”

  “Just Colonel Hailey wanting to know where you were at, sir.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “I told him you were busy saving his ass and you’d get back to him as soon as you could…not my exact words, of course.”

  When he stopped laughing, Jock said, “Well done, Spill. But seriously, I’ve got to ask you…are you okay after what you did…what you had to do?”

  “You mean killing them Japs, sir?”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “I reckon I’m just fine, sir. I mean, ain’t that what I’m supposed to be doing? It don’t seem much different than shooting game, except game don’t shoot back.” Spill cranked the jeep’s engine. “Where to, sir?” he asked, still smiling.

  Before Jock could answer, the jeep’s radio came to life: Charlie Company—high on Astrolabe—was calling for more artillery fire.

  “Those coordinates they just gave,” Jock said, pulling out his map. “They’re calling for fire near The Notch…and on the backslope, too.”

  “Sounds pretty hot up there, sir.”

  “Yeah, it does,” Jock said as he checked his watch. The sun would be up in less than two hours. “Take us back to Regiment, Spill. This is going to be an interesting day.”

  Bogater Boudreau couldn’t have agreed more with Major Miles: this day had already proved interesting. A little too damn interesting, maybe, the Cajun told himself. The artillery fire he had called down on The Notch had slowed the Japanese down but didn’t stop them. They were still coming and they were very close; it was too dark to count how many, but there seemed to be plenty of them. Far too many for three men to handle, Bogater was sure, so the three were on the run again, racing to get out from under the fire mission they h
ad just called. At least that’s what he hoped they were doing:

  If I ain’t right about where we’re at…maybe I guessed a little too far down the ridge…we ain’t gonna be leaving them rounds behind us. We’re gonna run right into them.

  As they sprinted for their lives, one of his breathless men managed to ask, “Hey, Corporal…how far we gonna go this time?”

  “Until I say stop, numbnuts.”

  The pursuing Japanese were yelling louder now.

  Are they closing on us? Or just making more noise?

  Boudreau felt the rapid whoosh whoosh whoosh of objects cutting through the dark sky above.

  Moment of fucking truth…

  He didn’t hear the explosions. Something had lifted him off his feet and propelled him through the air.

  He didn’t remember crashing into the ground. Must have been knocked out, I reckon. His weapon, his helmet, the field telephone he was carrying—they were all gone.

  Bogater sat up and looked around. He could see nothing in the darkness and heard nothing but a fierce ringing in his ears. His body felt numb, like he was swaddled in cotton. Only his sense of smell provided any information. It registered the acrid odor of spent explosives. The scent of death.

  He called the names of his two men—Fanning! Lyle!—but his voice sounded distorted and unintelligible through the bizarre filter of his ringing ears. On his hands and knees, he collected his gear and bumped into Fanning and Lyle doing the same thing.

  Fanning was trying to say something. It sounded like, “What do we do now, Corporal?”

  Lyle was trying to say something, too. It sounded like, “I think I’m hit.”

  Bogater replied, “Think about it a little longer while we find that fucking Jap wire again and get this phone spliced in.”