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Operation Long Jump (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 2)
Operation Long Jump (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 2) Read online
Operation
Long Jump
A Jock Miles WW2 Adventure
By
William Peter Grasso
Novels by William Peter Grasso :
Moon Above, Moon Below
A Moon Brothers WW2 Adventure
Operation Fishwrapper
Book 5 in the Jock Miles WW2 adventure series
Operation Blind Spot
Book 4 in the Jock Miles WW2 adventure series
Operation Easy Street
Book 3 in the Jock Miles WW2 adventure series
Operation Long Jump:
Book 2 in the Jock Miles WW2 adventure series
Long Walk To The Sun:
Book 1 in the Jock Miles WW2 adventure series
Also available as audiobook
Unpunished
East Wind Returns
Kindle Edition
Copyright 2013 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.
Operation Long Jump is a work of alternative historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales 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. Time lines of actual events depicted may be modified. Events that are common historical knowledge may not occur at their actual point in time or may not occur at all.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Novels by William Peter Grasso
Copyright
Author’s Note
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
About the Author
More Novels by William Peter Grasso
Author’s Note
Operation Long Jump is a work of alternative historical fiction. The Japanese never took Port Moresby from the Australians during WW2. They did come awfully close to doing so, though—within 20 miles. Australian forces, with some American logistical and air support, managed, just barely, to hold the town, its airfield, and harbor. Like all historical events, however, it could have come to something much different: the fall of Port Moresby and an Allied effort to reclaim it. This work of fiction explores that possibility.
The designations of military units may be actual or fictitious.
In no way are the fictional accounts intended to denigrate the hardships, suffering, and courage of those who served.
Contact the Author Online:
Email: William Peter Grasso
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https://www.facebook.com/AuthorWilliamPeterGrasso
DEDICATION
To the men of the US 32nd Infantry Division in World War 2
In the beginning, they were thrown against the Japanese when far from ready
But at the end, they were the ones standing tall
Port Moresby and Surrounding Territory
November
1942
Chapter One
Day 1
The PT boat’s deceleration was so violent—and so unexpected—that Jock Miles found himself no longer kneeling. He was now sprawled face down across the map he had spread out to study on the cabin floorboards. The steady roar of the boat’s three engines had mellowed to an asynchronous rumble, like the murmurings of a disgruntled mob. Jock Miles’s 20-odd soldiers, crammed together in the muggy, foul-smelling cabin, didn’t look very happy, either.
First Sergeant Melvin Patchett gave voice to the collective unease as he drawled, “Why in blue blazes are the swabbies slowing down, Captain? We couldn’t be nowhere near that damn beach yet.”
“Keep your drawers on, Top,” Jock replied as he found his feet and started up the steps to the cockpit. “I’ll go see what’s happening topside.”
As Jock climbed through the hatch, his soldiers took solace in two facts: none of the boat’s machine guns were firing and nothing was slapping against its plywood hull except the sea. Racer-fast and well-armed though she might be, this US Navy PT boat was little more than an overgrown and overpowered cabin cruiser loaded with ammunition and a few thousand gallons of high-octane gasoline. It wouldn’t take much of a spark to turn their wooden ark into a blazing inferno.
In the few seconds it took Jock to reach the cockpit, the boat slowed to a crawl. In a few more, it would be dead in the water. He took in a quick, panoramic sweep and saw nothing but the crescent moon in a black dome of sky, casting its pale glow across the deck. It was just enough light for Jock to see the silhouettes of a dozen men manning heavy machine guns. The boat’s skipper, a young lieutenant j.g., stood at the helm, straining his eyes to glimpse something in the dark void before them.
Jock asked, “What’s the holdup, Lieutenant?”
“A couple of blacked-out Jap destroyers, sir, crossing ahead, heading west toward the Torres Strait,” the lieutenant replied, his gaze still fixed in the distance. “We’ve got them dead abeam. What I’d give for my load of fish right now.”
“Fish? What are you talking about, Lieutenant?”
“Torpedoes, sir. We call our torpedoes fish. We don’t have any onboard right now so we could lighten up and make max speed and range for this mission. Dammit! I’ve never had a shot like this in my life.”
“I can’t see a blessed thing,” Jock said, his night vision still impaired b
y the effects of the cabin lighting. “Where are the boats with the rest of my guys?”
The lieutenant pointed over the stern. “They’re both a couple of hundred yards back, idling just like we are. You can’t make them out, either?”
“Not yet, Lieutenant. But we’re wasting time here. We’ve got to be at Barakau way before sunrise and it’s already past oh-four-hundred. Can’t you find a way around those Japs? Or through them?”
“I don’t know, Captain…those destroyers might not be alone. They could be the escort for a battleship or a carrier. Like we say in Jersey, it could be a real case of the brown drawers if we tried to pull off something like that.”
“Look, Lieutenant…I’ve been to New Jersey…and I’ve had brown drawers before, too. That’s a chance we’ll just have to take. Isn’t that what these fast little boats are for, anyway?”
“Yeah, sure, Captain…but—”
“No buts, Lieutenant. Your orders are to get us to Papua before daybreak. Let’s make that max speed you’re talking about.”
Even in the darkness, Jock could see the uneasiness on the lieutenant’s face. It took a moment, but the skipper’s hand returned to the throttles and started to slowly push them forward. Calling to his signalman at the blinker light, the lieutenant said, “Tell the others full speed ahead.”
The lieutenant turned to Jock. “Okay, Captain, we’ll try it your way. Papua, here we come.”
In seconds, they were ripping across the Coral Sea once again at better than 30 knots. Jock’s night vision was kicking in, and he could make out the distant shapes of two ships. They looked sleek and menacing in the moonlight.
“How far off do you make them, Lieutenant?” Jock asked, pointing in the destroyers’ direction.
“About two thousand yards.”
“How far off Papua are we?”
“About ten miles.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, Captain. We get great radio fixes off the Jap stations.” The lieutenant nudged the ship’s wheel to starboard. “We’re going to cut behind that second destroyer,” he said. “With any luck, there’s nobody behind her we ain’t seen yet.”
They passed closer astern to the destroyer than Jock had imagined. He made the distance as little more than 500 yards off their port side. One of the PT boats in trail crossed the destroyer’s wake even closer.
“If those Nips are awake,” the lieutenant said, “we’ll probably get lit up by searchlights any second. And after that, the shooting gallery opens for business.”
His hand pushed insistently on the throttles, but they were already at the high-power stops. Within seconds, a searchlight beam began to sweep the sea’s surface like an accusing finger, well behind the lead PT boat. But it wasn’t coming from the destroyer they were rapidly leaving behind off their port quarter. The searchlight came from starboard, from a ship still invisible in the darkness. “See that, Captain?” the lieutenant said. “There is somebody behind her.” He was proud to be right.
He was terrified for being right.
“We’re probably looking right down her bow,” the lieutenant said. “I’m surprised we couldn’t at least see the glow off her bow wave before that light came on.” He glanced nervously behind; the searchlight’s beam was scanning dangerously close to the two PT boats racing behind them. “If we were dead in the water,” he added, “she’d be on us so fast our heads would spin.”
As if changing its mind, the beam suddenly swung toward the lead boat, following her luminous wake to its source. Sea algae—the simplest of one-celled organisms—stirred to a bioluminescent frenzy by the boat’s passage, were foiling their best efforts to escape. For a blindingly bright moment, the boat and her crew were turned ghostly white, fixed in the beam’s harsh glare.
The lieutenant jerked the ship’s wheel to starboard, and they slipped from the searchlight’s grasp. The relief of being hidden in darkness lasted only a second; a dashed arc of bright yellow tracers seemed to stream from the searchlight and panned across the black sky, making no sound and hitting nothing but water well beyond the PT boats. Two more strings of tracers etched their bright path across the sky, to no one’s harm.
Zigzagging his boat to avoid being caught again in the searchlight’s frantic scan, the lieutenant said, “Looks like they saw enough to figure out we’re not one of them. I’m guessing that’s twenty-five millimeter they’re throwing up.” He was growing more confident they were outrunning the Japs’ blind shooting. “It’s the tracers you can’t see that’ll get you,” he added.
“Yeah, I know,” Jock replied. “You can’t see much of the ones coming right at you.”
The boat’s speed carried them from harm’s way very quickly. The rounds from the ship they had never seen continued splashing in their wake, becoming little more than a fireworks display, like watching clusters of Roman candles on the Fourth of July.
First Sergeant Patchett popped his head through the hatch. “We got our tits in a wringer, sir?” he asked. Taking a look around, Patchett did a double take as he saw the tracers flying in the distance well behind them.
“No, Top,” Jock replied, “just a close call. Everyone okay down there?”
“The boys are getting ants in their pants, Captain. They’ve been on one damn tub or another for too damn long now.”
“Tell them we’re almost there. Looks to be about another twenty minutes,” Jock said, looking to the lieutenant at the helm for confirmation.
The skipper nodded in agreement and added, “Twenty minutes…maybe a little less. Assuming we don’t run into more company.”
Patchett vanished back into the cabin.
Jock asked the lieutenant, “What are the chances of running into Jap patrol boats along the coast?”
“Not sure, sir. Never been this close to Papua before.” It seemed to Jock to be more an expression of dread than a statement of fact.
Jock had another question. “Do you think those ships we just passed will follow us?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Nah, not a chance. They’ll be hell-bent on getting through the Torres Strait and into the Arafura Sea before daybreak. The Air Force will beat them up bad otherwise. Those flyboys are starting to get the hang of this ship-sinking business…in daylight, anyway. They sunk a Jap cruiser off Bligh Passage last week.”
They raced northward for 15 minutes, until they could see at least a dozen fires—some near, some far—spread across the darkness that was the Papuan coast. They were searching for a specific two: two fires that “blinked” like the beam of a lighthouse, one near the water’s edge, one farther inland. When those two beacons were aligned, they would indicate the path to their landing beach near the village named Barakau.
“Every village in Papua must have a fire burning, and I don’t see a damned one of them blinking,” the lieutenant said. “That Aussie coast watcher better not have his head up his ass.”
As they slipped closer to shore, throttles at idle, a crewman on the bow stuck a sounding pole straight down into the water. “Eight feet, Skipper,” he called out. “Feels like coral below.”
“That’s just swell,” the lieutenant said through clenched teeth. “Only three feet of water between her keel and razor-sharp rocks…and we have no idea where the hell we are.”
Jock Miles pulled the binoculars from his eyes. “Wait a minute…look over there,” he said, extending an arm and holding up two fingers to form a V, much like the notch of a gun sight. “I’ll bet that’s the far one, and it’s sort of blinking…but I think we’ve got too much of an angle. We’re too far east.”
The skipper eased the boat to port. As she crept westward—two minutes, three minutes—he was growing decidedly uneasy.
“Seven feet, Skipper,” the man on the sounding pole said.
“Shit,” the lieutenant said, taking off his steel helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Look, Captain, we can’t be screwing around like this. If we go hard aground, we’re all as good as dead. I can’t
be risking the boat.”
Jock wasn’t paying attention. He was fixated on the shore fires. Forming another aiming sight with his fingers, he said, “I think I’ve got it. Look…”
Over her starboard bow were two fires, one higher and farther than the other—and they both seemed to be blinking on and off every few seconds.
“I’m going to get my men on deck,” Jock said. “Line those fires up over the bow and take her straight in, Lieutenant.”
“Down to six feet, Skipper,” came the call from the bow. “One more foot and we’re sitting on the bottom.”
Chapter Two
Day 1
With a brief but sickening moan of wood against coral, their slow creep toward shore was abruptly halted. The PT boat had come to rest, her bow nestled against a shallow coral shelf. No more than 10 yards in front of them, they could see the outline of a mangrove in the signal fire’s light. It was obvious now how the fire had been made to blink: a suspended tarpaulin—perhaps a sail—was swinging on a boom back and forth on the seaward side of the flames. Whoever pulled the ropes to make it swing was invisible, well hidden among the trees. Jock was surprised how small the fire actually was until he remembered even a match’s flame can be seen for over a mile in total darkness. The other two PT boats appeared out of the darkness and nestled against shore on either side of their leader. In twos and threes, 60 armed men with heavy packs on their backs leapt from the bows and sloshed through waist-deep water to shore.
The men fanned out in a line, advanced through the mangrove, and took up firing positions. From where they stopped, the signal fire was still 20 yards distant, casting its eerie, dancing shadows against the woodland like a kaleidoscope lamp. The engines of the three PT boats growled as they pulled away from shore. They quieted to the mumble of low idle as the boats glided over the reef on their way back to the sea. Their sound soon gave way to the fire’s crackle and the rustling of trees in the sea breeze.