Long Walk To The Sun (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 1) Read online

  LONG WALK TO THE

  SUN

  Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series

  Book 1

  A Novel By

  William Peter Grasso

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2012 William Peter Grasso

  All rights reserved

  *********

  Cover design by Alyson Aversa

  Cover photo courtesy of US Army Signal Corps

  Map created at planiglobe.com

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Long Walk To The Sun is a work of historical fiction. Events that are common historical knowledge may not occur at their actual point in time or may not occur at all. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales or to living persons is purely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  About the Author

  More Novels by William Peter Grasso

  DEDICATION

  To my grandsons Eli and Charlie—May they never know war

  Northeastern Australia

  “We had about 4.5 million barrels of oil out there and all of it was vulnerable to .50-caliber bullets. Had the Japanese destroyed the oil, it would have prolonged the war another two years...”

  Admiral Chester Nimitz, Commander-in-Chief, U.S. Navy Pacific Fleet

  Chapter One

  December 1941

  He was dead asleep when the first explosion shook his bed. More explosions rattled the open windows and jarred him fully awake.

  This room looked so unfamiliar; for a few moments, Maynard “Jock” Miles was hung over and couldn’t remember where he was. He checked his wristwatch—it read 7:42. I suppose that means 7:42 in the morning, he thought. Draped sloppily over a chair in the corner was the dress white uniform of a US Army captain. The branch insignia on the blouse’s lapel was an eagle perched on a shield adorned with stars. One look at those stars and all the details of his professional life came flooding back to Captain Jock Miles—he was the aide to General Short, commander of the US Army in Hawaii. Staggering to his feet, he realized he hadn’t spent the night in his quarters at Fort Shafter but at the Pearl Harbor Naval Station guest house.

  The sound of airplane engines droned like a swarm of angry insects. A series of explosions, split seconds apart, rattled the entire building and sent Jock Miles diving to the floor, thinking, What the hell does the Navy think they’re doing? It’s early in the morning…Sunday morning! This is no time for fly-bys and cannon salutes. He crawled to the window. Still on his knees, he stared in disbelief at the scene outside.

  Thick black smoke billowed from the battleships moored at Ford Island. Countless single-engine airplanes buzzed low over the harbor, each in turn dropping a long, black, cylindrical object—a torpedo—aimed straight at the sitting ducks of Battleship Row. The planes all had those big red meatballs—the rising sun of Japan insignia—on their wings and fuselages. There was not an American plane to be seen opposing them. There didn’t even seem to be any anti-aircraft fire directed against them.

  Surely, this is just a bad dream…

  On the street below his window, a group of young sailors running toward the harbor —maybe a dozen, Jock thought—were cut down in a hail of machine gun fire. A few were dead before what was left of their riddled bodies hit the ground. Others writhed in agony, some screaming for God to save them. The rest screamed for their mothers. A second later, the airplane that strafed them streaked low overhead, barely above the tops of the tall trees lining the street. For a brief moment, the plane’s shadow—a perfect aircraft silhouette—blotted out the morning sun like a deadly eclipse.

  This is a little too realistic to be a drill! And those damned planes just keep on coming!

  Jock struggled into his dress whites. He balled up the necktie, stuffing it into his trouser pocket, and didn’t bother to button the blouse over his half-open shirt. Such requirements of military decorum seemed ridiculously unnecessary right now. He sprinted down the hallway, trying to remember the way out of the old and stately guest house.

  Where the hell did I park the car? I’ve got to get back to Fort Shafter! The general’s probably screaming for me already!

  His recollections of how he came to spend the night at Pearl, rather than his own room a few miles away at Fort Shafter, were raggedly taking shape. There had been a reception last night at Pearl, hosted by Admiral Kimmel, the US Pacific Fleet commander. General Short and his staff had attended. So had Trudy Judd, the captivating daughter of a rear admiral. Jock Miles had reserved the room at the guest house on the chance that Trudy, who he had been seeing for the past few months, might finally be inclined to slip away and spend the night with him. A neutral location would
be necessary, as Trudy lived with her parents, and female guests at Shafter’s bachelor officers’ quarters were strictly against regulations.

  And girls like Trudy Judd don’t do it in cars.

  But after a pleasant, arm-in-arm stroll to her family’s house on Admiral’s Row, they plopped into a settee on the moonlit lanai, where the evening degenerated into another frustrating episode of heavy petting and too much alcohol. By the time she sent him on his way, he was much too drunk to drive, much less find his car. How he managed to get to the base guest house was anybody’s guess.

  I must have been quite a sight…a drunk with a hard-on in army whites, wandering across a naval base.

  He was sure he was quite a sight right now, too, in his carelessly-donned uniform. Dressing like this would have cost me a year of walking the area back at West Point. But the wounded sailors he was carrying from the street to the shelter of the guest house didn’t seem to care how Jock Miles looked. They clung to him like a savior sent from heaven. The dress whites were now ruined, spattered with the sailors’ blood.

  He had to get back to Shafter; his place—his duty—was with the general. Japs could be landing all over Oahu—all over the islands of Hawaii, for that matter. Leaving the wounded sailors in the care of a very rattled petty officer manning the guest house’s reception desk, he stepped back into the street and got his bearings. His car was still at the officers’ club, a few blocks away, closer to the harbor. He set out for it on the dead run. Each time he heard a plane streak low overhead, Jock dove for safety behind a tree trunk, but he wasn’t strafed. The pilots had grander targets in their sights.

  He was nearing the officers’ club now. After a quick look for strafing planes, he abandoned the uncertain safety of trees and took a short cut, sprinting across an open field. The explosions from the harbor had become more frequent. The torpedo planes were gone; it was now the turn of the dive bombers to wreak havoc. Jock watched in horror as they released their bombs and then pulled out of nearly vertical dives to skim low across the anchorage. The bombs looked like tiny black pellets as they flew downward, some striking the water harmlessly but most exploding with terrible effect on ships and docks. There was still not a hint of opposition from American planes or anti-aircraft guns that Jock could see.

  Could we have really gotten caught with our pants down this badly?

  The thick, black smoke of burning vessels and aircraft was filling the air above Pearl Harbor. Jock reached the palm trees at the edge of the officers’ club parking lot. His Plymouth sedan sat at the far side, the only car in the lot. He could hear an airplane very close—and then there she was, right behind him, heading straight over the parking lot toward the harbor. He hugged the nearest palm tree for cover just as the plane’s machine guns announced her arrival with a bone-chilling rat-a-tat. The bullets plowed a trough across the parking lot, reached the other side, and turned Jock’s Plymouth into a junk pile of twisted metal.

  I won’t be getting back to Shafter anytime soon now, that’s for damned sure…not in all this chaos.

  He wasn’t sure what compelled him to keep running full tilt toward the harbor. Perhaps it was simply the West Point motto that kept repeating in his head: Duty, Honor, Country. His country was under attack. It was his duty to defend her. His honor depended on doing just that. How all that would come to pass on this Sunday morning, on the base of a rival service, he hadn’t figured out yet. But he kept on going, wondering why he was the only one running toward the harbor. The few sailors he encountered were running the other way, and from their terror-stricken eyes, Jock Miles could tell they had no interest in discussing the matter.

  At a dockside warehouse, he encountered a large group of sailors who were not running anywhere. They milled about outside an open doorway marked ARMS ROOM, their frustration boiling over into rage as they tried, and failed, to get inside. A grizzled old CPO was barring their entry. From his garrison belt hung a holster containing a .45 automatic pistol.

  “I told you…ain’t nobody drawing no weapons until the duty officer says so,” the CPO said.

  The sailors beseeched the CPO as one voice, gesturing frantically at the mayhem unraveling before them. He was not moved. His jaw set sternly, the CPO responded, “Those are my orders. Fuck off if you don’t like it.”

  Ahh, Jock thought, the Navy has mindless pencil-pushers, too…just like the Army.

  Jock stepped to the front of the sailors. “Chief,” he said, “in case you haven’t noticed, we’re under attack. This isn’t the time to be worried about paperwork. Step aside.”

  The CPO did not know what to make of this bloodied man standing before him. He was not even sure what branch of service the man represented; he had never seen an army white dress uniform in his long Navy career. All he could see was the double silver bars on the epaulets, and that made him some kind of officer. And this officer was trying to pull rank on him in front of all these swabbies.

  His face screwed into a sneer, the CPO said, “Look, sir, I don’t know who you are or where you come from—”

  Jock cut him off. “I’m Captain Maynard Miles, US Army Headquarters, Hawaii. Is that good enough for you, Chief? Now stand aside. I take full responsibility.”

  There was a tense moment as the CPO refused to yield. Jock began to wonder if the chief’s next move would involve the drawing of his pistol. Just then, the whistling of bombs falling close by sent them all diving to the deck. The nearest impact was on the pier barely 100 yards from where they all stood, but it injured nothing more than a cargo dolly. While the old CPO struggled to get back on his feet, sailors streamed past him into the arms room, grabbing all the weapons and ammunition they could carry. As Jock offered the chief a helping hand, he noticed the pistol on his hip was not even loaded. The rectangular slot for the magazine at the base of the grip was empty.

  “Better get some rounds in that weapon, Chief,” Jock said. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a shooting war.”

  The old CPO sighed and snapped Jock a crisp salute. “I hate like hell to say it, but I’m afraid you’re right, Captain. Best of luck to you, sir.”

  A few docks away, several ships had not been so lucky. They had been hit by bombs and were belching smoke from fires below deck. Jock started to run toward them. “Good luck to you, too, Chief,” he called over his shoulder. “We’re going to need it.”

  He was halfway to the docks when he realized the anti-aircraft guns on a few of the ships in the harbor had finally begun to fire. Hearing the THUD-THUD-THUD of the American guns gave him some small measure of comfort:

  At least we’re finally fighting back.

  The comfort was short-lived, for the strangest sound Jock Miles ever heard stopped him dead in his tracks. Rising above the angry chorus of Japanese engines, the roar of one aircraft had turned into a high-pitched scream that rose higher with each passing second. It was coming from the sky across the Southeast Loch, above the submarine base—and the fuel storage farm. A dive bomber—out of control, smoke streaming from its shrieking, overspeeding engine—dove straight down at incredible velocity and crashed into the top of one of the massive fuel storage tanks. The shrieking stopped abruptly; the sound of the impact that echoed across the loch was like one beat of a huge bass drum. Jock watched in disbelief as the sides of the tank buckled and split apart, leaking its millions of gallons of maritime fuel oil in thick, black torrents that quickly formed a pool within the tank’s surrounding berm.

  Son of a bitch! There’s no fire!

  Jock remembered the demonstration in a West Point chemistry lab of just how nonflammable heavy fuel oil was in a liquid state. The instructor putting on the show had stood next to an open barrel full of oil—wearing no protective gear whatsoever—and calmly tossed in one lit match after another. Rather than igniting the oil, the matches were extinguished in it. But the instructor had gone on to warn if that same oil was atomized into tiny droplets and you added enough heat for ignition, watch out! You would set off a raging infer
no.

  From his distant vantage point, Jock could not tell how the fire started—just whiffs of black smoke at first, then a few flames near the pipeline that ran from tank to tank along the top of the berm. Perhaps oil was spraying through a breach in the pipeline or a parted valve flange. Perhaps the crashed airplane had provided the spark or the red-hot projectiles flying everywhere had done the trick. Whatever the reason, a raging inferno had begun, spewing towering flames and thick, black smoke into the air. Inch by inch, the surface temperature of the spreading oil, licked by pools of fire at its edges, was reaching its flash point of 150 degrees Fahrenheit and igniting.

  Holy shit! It’s rolling like lava from a volcano!

  Like moths to a flame, three Japanese aircraft in line abreast formation flew low across the eastern shore of the loch, heading straight for the fuel farm. In what seemed to Jock a choreographed aerial display, they held their formation through a gentle turn, all the while raking the length and breadth of the 24 tanks with machine gun fire.

  The tanks began to resemble fountains, with black oil gushing out through scores of bullet holes in their sides. Within a few minutes, it seemed the entire fuel farm was engulfed in liquid fire; the newly spilled oil had somehow found its own source of ignition. In the ever-widening sea of flames, tank after tank buckled in the intense heat, adding many millions of gallons to the inferno. As Jock stood transfixed by this apocalyptic blaze, he didn’t realize all the Japanese planes were now gone.

  Fifty minutes later, while Jock Miles was rallying dockside sailors with machine guns into ad hoc anti-aircraft teams, a second wave of Japanese aircraft appeared overhead. The pilots and crewmen of those planes were surprised and delighted to see the inferno already raging below them. Despite the thick smoke that hindered visibility from above, they continued the attack on the already battered ships and airfields of the US Pacific forces according to plan.

  Chapter Two