“Oh, come now, Major. A light truck doesn’t sound like an armored vehicle.”
Hoping his ironic smile wasn’t lost on this clueless colonel, Jock replied, “To a green GI scared out of his mind in the dark, it could sound like a whole squadron of tanks, sir.”
Sunrise revealed a far more sobering picture on Astrolabe. Melvin Patchett’s supposition that a man couldn’t walk around OP Charlie Able without tripping over a dead Japanese soldier was proving prophetic. Japanese bodies—or at least parts of bodies—littered the ground. The wind had carried away the stench of high explosives. Now, the air the GIs breathed reeked of death.
The wholesale slaughter extended as far down the backslope as Charlie Company’s scouts dared to venture. Patchett’s shifting of fire had done exactly what the American survivors of the FPF hoped: decimate the retreating Japanese survivors. The GIs had given up on an exact count of the enemy dead. There was no formula to tally whole bodies from random pieces.
Melvin Patchett had looked upon scenes like this before: This ain’t looking no different than France in ’18. The first sergeant then offered his experienced opinion: “If we got hit with a battalion of Japs, half of them are lying here dead.”
That would fix the Japanese death toll at about 200.
Fittingly, the backslope had taken on the look and stillness of a graveyard. Trees sheared off near the ground by artillery shells looked like rows of tombstones. Impact craters—ringed by piles of churned-up earth—looked like fresh graves awaiting their occupants. Within the Charlie Company perimeter, there were 18 such craters, representing three volleys of deadly accurate final protective fire from a six-gun battery. No one above ground when the rounds hit survived. Some burrowed into the ground didn’t, either.
“We’re gonna need some of these shell holes to bury our own dead,” Patchett said. His voice—flat, dispassionate, yet unquestionably authoritative—was the only thing pulling the dazed and aching survivors of Charlie Company back to purposeful action. Eighteen of their comrades were dead. Some, like Bucky Reynolds, had apparently been killed in hand-to-hand fighting. It looked like Lieutenant Joe Garcia died that way, too. His body was still in his fighting hole among half a dozen Japanese dead.
Three men were unaccounted for: Boudreau, Fanning, and Mukasic. They had been manning OP Charlie Bravo, keeping tabs on the Japs at The Notch. Their landline had gone dead—probably severed—when the final protective fires fell.
Standing beside Lieutenant Grossman, Patchett said, “We’ve got to get rid of all these Jap bodies, too, before disease sets in and finishes the rest of us off.”
They hadn’t heard Ginny Beech walk up behind them. “I think I can get the natives to help with that,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I know where they went.”
Patchett gave her a worried look. “I’ll give you two men to take with you,” he said.
“No, you can’t bloody spare them,” Ginny replied. “I’ll be quicker on my own, anyway.” Wanting no further discussion of the matter, she walked off.
Scores of the company’s men were wounded, their bodies torn by bullets or shell fragments. A dozen were wounded badly enough to be evacuated to CCP at Regiment. As soon as the sun had risen, those evacuees were taken down the mountain, the slightly wounded carrying the badly wounded wherever possible. That left Charlie Company at half-strength. Every man left alive was still suffering from the unspeakable pummeling of the artillery rounds, like they had been hammered again and again by the fists of a thousand supermen.
“We just gotta hold out one more day, until the Aussies come,” Patchett said. “After that, everything’ll be different.”
Lee Grossman’s mind was still trying to fathom how it had come to this. He asked Patchett, “How’d they get so damned close, Top? What happened to our listening posts?”
“They probably got fooled, Lieutenant. All that noise them Japs were making way down the hill…it masked the quiet ones who snuck up on our guys. Took ’em out before they even knew what hit ’em.”
Grossman was fighting to hold back his tears. He was losing the battle.
“Top, do we know how many of our guys died from the Japs…and how many from the FPF?”
“No telling, sir. But you did the right thing calling that FPF, no two ways about it. We’d all be dead if you hadn’t.”
Bittersweet as Patchett’s verdict was, Lee Grossman needed to hear it. He wished with all his might he could say the decision had been a result of careful calculation. But he knew better: it had been sheer, adrenaline-fueled terror calling the shots. Try as he may, though, he couldn’t bring himself to his first sergeant’s level of stoic acceptance.
“We’re in Hell, Top,” Grossman said.
“No, sir, this is just Purgatory. Hell’s a final destination…and we got a long road ahead of us yet.”
A slight but bitter laugh rose from Lee Grossman. “So I guess we won this fight, Top?”
“I reckon we did, sir…but it don’t feel like that, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Get used to it, Lieutenant. Even when you win, it ain’t gonna seem that way. It just feels like you lost a little less than the other bastard.” Fumbling to light a cigarette with trembling hands, Melvin Patchett added, “Victory is for the generals. All us dogfaces get is a little relief.”
Sergeant Hadley called to Grossman and Patchett from the CP. A field telephone was in his hand. “Lieutenant, Top…I’ve finally got Bogater Boudreau on the line. He and his guys are okay…and he says the Japs are gone from The Notch.”
One more day, Jock thought as he studied the situation map at Regimental HQ. By this time tomorrow morning, the Aussies would be coming ashore. If that didn’t break the stalemate on Papua, he had no idea what would.
The division’s line on the lowlands was holding solid. The operations order for the next phase of Long Jump had been cut: the plan was to try and fix the Japanese forces facing the Americans in place. If they succeeded, Blamey and his Australian division would land virtually unopposed on the west side of Port Moresby. The Aussies could then storm the Japanese from the rear, enveloping them completely. Unable to escape the jaws of the Allied vise, the Japanese forces would be crushed bunker by bunker.
If the Americans didn’t succeed and some of the Japanese forces abandoned their current positions to turn and meet the Aussies, the GIs would then press forward, rolling up the divided and weakened Japanese from the rear.
Nobody in the US 32nd Division expected the Japanese to do that, though. It wouldn’t be like them to abandon fortified positions. When on the defensive, they preferred you bring the fight to them.
And if the Aussies prove as punchless as we are, Jock thought, the Japs could hold both Allied divisions off in a bloodbath that could last weeks, even months.
Jock rubbed his tired eyes, hoping that would bring the map’s details into better focus. It didn’t. The half-hour nap he’d managed to steal right before sunrise hadn’t helped at all.
Turning his attention to the flank on Astrolabe, he began to feel even worse. The Japanese battalion threatening that flank had been mauled, but so had Charlie Company. The thought of all those dead and wounded GIs—soldiers he had led until just a few days ago—was making him physically ill. A bitter voice spoke from deep within him:
Use your artillery, the colonel said…that’s all you need to defend that flank. So when my guys called for that artillery, the son of a bitch doesn’t give it to them…until it’s too late. Half a company sacrificed—just thrown away—so this fucking idiot of a regimental commander can chase phantoms.
Yet, a feeling of pride welled up inside of him: But even beat up, filthy, hungry, and exhausted, my boys are still doing their job, still ready to fight. If they aren’t the best soldiers in this man’s army, I don’t know who is.
There were still some questions about Astrolabe begging for answers, though, questions the beleaguered men of Charlie Company hadn’t been able to address. Jock drew question mar
ks on the map as he mulled them over:
The Jap battalion that had been beaten off—where were its survivors? Were they still an effective fighting force?
The Japs that had held The Notch and now were gone…where’d they go? And how big a force were they? Grossman said his scouts couldn’t tell. The Japs must have slipped away during the night.
No matter how willing they were, was a weakened Charlie Company strong enough to hold the flank? We’d better pray they are…Colonel Hailey made it clear once again he has no intention of sending any more troops up that mountain.
Jock needed the answers to those questions quickly, and he’d never get them staring at a map. He needed John Worth’s airplane:
But I’ll never get it, not with the Aussies coming tomorrow. Division will have Worth and his L4 commandeered for the duration, I’ll bet.
Jock looked up from the map to see Colonel Hailey and a major he didn’t know standing before him. The major was clean right down to his boots. Sharp creases were pressed into his fatigues, too. He looked like he hadn’t been deprived of a moment’s sleep. Clearly, he hadn’t spent last night on Papua.
“Major Miles,” Hailey said, “this is Major Pryor. He’s just flown in from Australia. He’ll be relieving you of your duties here at Regiment.”
That was the last thing Jock had expected to hear. He asked, “Effective when, sir?”
“Effective immediately, Major Miles.”
Jock began to feel the full weight of those words tumbling down on him. “You mean I’m fired, Colonel?”
Hailey laughed. “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, Major. You’re getting kicked upstairs, that’s all. General Hartman has ordered you to Division staff.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Day 14
Jock wasted no time packing his gear. When he stepped outside the Regimental HQ tent, two men were waiting for him. The first was his new driver from Division, who jumped from behind the wheel of the idling jeep to grab Jock’s kit. The second was Travis Spill, in full field gear.
Jock asked, “Going somewhere, Spill?”
“Well, sir, with you leaving and all, I figured I’d go back to the old outfit. From what I hear, they could use some extra hands.”
“Do you have orders to go back, Spill? You don’t have to, you know.”
“I know, sir…but I reckon you could cut me them orders.”
Jock couldn’t help but smile. Even in parting, Travis Spill had managed to make him proud.
“Sure,” Jock said. “I can do that for you.” He extended his hand. “You’re a good man, Travis, and a damned fine soldier.”
Spill did a brief aww, shucks dance in place as they shook hands. He had one last question: “Think you could mention that to First Sergeant Patchett, sir? He thinks I’m a real screw-up.”
“Not any more, he doesn’t.”
Travis Spill, a one-man parade, started marching toward Astrolabe.
“Hey, Private,” Jock called after him, “keep your head down up there.”
Spill began to salute, but the gesture quickly transformed to a wave of goodbye. “If I did that,” he replied, “I couldn’t see who I was shooting at, sir.”
Thirty minutes later, Jock was at Division HQ. General Hartman, the division commander, wasted no time putting him to work.
“I’m making you my Assistant G2, Jock,” General Hartman said. “The Aussies are on the way. Their invasion fleet set sail this morning from Queensland. Now that they’re coming for sure, I need you back in the air. It seems almost everything we know about the Japanese dispositions—or lack of them—in the Aussie sector comes from your aerial exploits. If those dispositions change, I need your experienced eyes watching.”
“I understand, sir,” Jock said, barely managing to keep in check the heady thrill of his new assignment. “Just one question, sir…do we have a recon plane available again?”
“As a matter of fact, we do, Jock. It’s waiting for you at Twenty Mile right now. But let’s chat for a moment before you go.”
General Hartman led Jock to the situation map. It was four times the size of the one at Regiment. The general laid his finger on Astrolabe’s peak and said, “Those boys up there…they used to be yours, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How are they holding up, Jock?”
“They’ve taken the worst beating of any unit in this division, sir, and never given up an inch of ground. By rights, they should be relieved. They’ve more than earned it.”
“I agree, Jock,” the general replied. “But answer me one question…with the entire division committed, just who do I relieve them with?”
That bit of information surprised Jock. “The entire division’s committed, sir? There’s no division reserve?”
“On paper, we have a reserve…but it’s less than two companies now. Everybody is plugging holes in the line somewhere.”
Jock’s eyes swept over the situation map once again. Every little rectangle signifying a combat unit was on or very near the division’s line. “I see your point, sir,” he said. “May I ask one favor, though?”
“Shoot.”
“If those men on the mountain call for fire support, they get it, immediately…no questions asked.”
Hartman’s smile seemed warm and full of sympathy. It was as if he was saying, I know full well what happened last night…and it’s a crying shame.
“You have my word, Jock,” the general replied.
It was difficult to tell who was happier to be in the air again: Jock Miles or John Worth. The L4 in which they were once again flying had taken to the air effortlessly, her damage repaired and forgotten. The jettisoned radio had been replaced, borrowed from the wrecked L4. In clear skies, beneath the blazing sun of midday, her pilot’s capable hands were guiding her to Astrolabe’s backslope, where she had nearly come to grief just two days ago.
As they skirted the mountain’s eastern edge, Worth asked, “How high do you want to be for the first pass, sir?”
“Let’s try five hundred feet,” Jock replied. “That sound all right with you?”
“No problem,” Worth said, pointing the nose down a few degrees to comply.
In a few minutes, they passed just north of last night’s killing field on the backslope. It was unmistakable from the air: the broad, barren swath of exposed earth and shattered trees looked as if those acres had been selectively leveled by a storm of biblical proportions. There was another dead giveaway, too: human remains too numerous to count were scattered across the wasteland. Dark-skinned humans—Papuan natives, bare to the waist—were dragging the dead to mass graves.
Looks like Miss Ginny’s still working her magic with the locals, Jock thought.
They flew along the backslope for some six miles, to where the Laloki River met the swamps of Eworogo Creek. In all that distance, Jock could find no trace of living Japanese soldiers. He radioed that information to Division HQ.
Worth asked, “Aren’t you going to tune in your boys on the mountain and tell them, too? I’ll bet they can’t wait to hear good news like that.”
“I’d love to, John, but their radio got knocked out last night. Don’t know when they’re going to get another one. In the meantime, they’re down to landline.”
“That’s a tough break,” Worth said. “Where to now, sir?”
“Follow the river through The Notch, John. Then we’ll take another look at the other side of Port Moresby.”
Worth asked, “Are the Aussies really coming tomorrow, sir?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“It’s about time.”
OP Charlie Baker’s intel proved accurate: the Japanese were gone from The Notch. The steep, treed slopes of Astrolabe’s western edge had been beaten up by artillery, but it was nothing like the earth-clearing devastation the backslope had experienced. And there were no dead bodies to be seen.
Thinking out loud, Jock said, “The question is, where’d they go?”
Flying
south across the lowlands, they skirted Port Moresby’s airfield and Fairfax Harbor. The Aussie landing beaches lay about 10 miles ahead. Between the L4 and those beaches were the coastal hills, where Jock had noted that lone, small contingent of Japanese on their last flight over that ground. As those hills grew closer, Jock could tell right away the situation had changed.
“This place looks lousy with Japs,” he said, the tension in his voice obvious. “Maybe I just answered my own question.”
As if to emphasize his words, the L4 gave a barely detectable shudder—and then several more. Before Jock’s racing heart had time to take another beat, something invisible whizzed straight up through the cabin right in front of him.
That something left a bullet-sized puncture in the floor between his feet and a spider-webbed hole in the plexiglass window above his head.
Worth slammed the throttle forward, rolled the little plane hard right, and pointed her nose almost straight down. Cold as ice, he said, “Gotta get low.”
Good idea, Jock thought. He couldn’t see much during their treetop dash, but he could see enough: the Japanese were in position on the inland side of the hills, in some semblance of force, to defend against an invasion from the Aussie landing beaches. It wasn’t a huge force—he noted two batteries of light artillery at the most—and it didn’t seem enough to throw a division-sized landing back into the sea. But it was enough to impede that landing and make life miserable for the troops who made it to shore.
“I’m surprised your guys didn’t see this buildup from Astrolabe,” John Worth said.
“Give them a break, John. They’ve been pretty busy. Plus, it’s over twenty miles away. Even with a great pair of binoculars, that’s a little far to see much of anything.”
“I didn’t mean to”—Worth stopped speaking for a moment to concentrate on clearing a tree—“didn’t mean to say they weren’t doing their job, sir.” He paused again to make another quick, dodging maneuver and then asked, “Have you seen enough around here yet?”
Operation Long Jump (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 2) Page 25