Operation Fishwrapper (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 5) Read online

  No…but I’ve got to put the brakes on this train before it derails and we all get killed.

  He made the rounds of his men once again, hissing the same command to each in turn, “Do not shoot unless I give the command. Is that clear?”

  Each man offered the same, wordless response: a wide-eyed, fearful look of acknowledgement which could mean Yes, sir…or it could mean Are you out of your fucking mind?

  The storm was almost on them; there was only a second or two now between the lightning and thunder. No sooner had a crashing BOOM assaulted their ears than the next round of lightning came, with multiple, strobe-like flashes that made the forest come alive with those phantom soldiers.

  “Easy, boys,” Jock urged, scuttling from man to man once again. “There’s nothing out there except—”

  But he realized he was wrong. Beyond their left flank—Hans’ post—something was definitely out there: the crunch of a man’s footsteps, stepping gingerly through the brush.

  The Dutchman’s rifle swung in their direction. Jock grabbed its forestock with one hand. With the other, he waggled a finger in Hans’ face: No!

  Then he held that finger to the man’s lips: Quiet!

  The crunching of footsteps stopped. Whoever it was couldn’t be more than fifteen feet away.

  Some rustling sounds, and then nothing…

  Until they heard the soft groaning of a man, as if he was straining against something. A few muttered words, definitely Japanese.

  The poor bastard’s trying to take a shit, Jock told himself. Eating nothing but rice like they do, they probably only crap a little rock-hard pellet about once a week.

  Just like when we eat nothing but K rations, and I’m betting it hurts like hell for them just like it does for us.

  But he’s too fucking close.

  The groaning continued, getting louder.

  Sounds like he’s giving birth or something.

  Still, he’s too fucking close.

  Is he alone?

  Is there a platoon of Japs out there somewhere?

  A company?

  A battalion?

  One step, one stumble, and he walks right into us.

  Can’t take the chance. But it’s got to be done quick….and real quiet.

  Jock laid his Thompson next to Hans. Once more, he placed his finger to the man’s lips, harder this time: Quiet. I mean it.

  The Jap’s groaning became more insistent.

  This guy’s about ready to drop his load. It’s now or never.

  Jock drew his bayonet…

  Crept forward…

  It was over in a second. He’d never killed a man with a blade before.

  But it had gone by the book: stun the victim with a sharp blow to the side of the neck. Pull back his head. Slice his throat.

  Done without a sound.

  I don’t think the son of a bitch even got to finish taking his crap.

  In the next flash of lightning, Jock could see just for a moment the man he’d killed, lying on the ground next to the rifle that could no longer save him.

  He’s so young. Just a kid.

  Maybe he was lost.

  Bad luck for him.

  Then the rain began to fall, a deluge so strong it could wash away everything but the sins of men.

  The storm passed and so did the terror of night, finally yielding to the relief and cautious optimism of daybreak. No other Japanese had come their way, as near as Jock and his men could tell. The only weapon used was one bayonet, now wiped clean.

  They could take a better look at the dead Japanese soldier. To Jock’s surprise, the hapless victim, who looked so young in the brief, harsh flashes of lightning, wore the rank of lieutenant on his collar.

  Hector Morales asked, “What are we going to do with this gentleman, sir?”

  “When we get relieved in a little bit, we’ll take him down with us and bury him, if we can manage to dig a hole in this rock. Can’t leave him up here.”

  “How come?”

  “He might have been alone last night, poor bastard, but he belongs to some unit. They just might come looking for him.”

  Jock rolled the dead man over and checked his pockets. There was nothing out of the ordinary: a small notebook, a pen, a few yen, some pills in a tin—probably quinine. There was also a photograph of a young woman and a few letters, their paper faded, brittle, and tearing at the creases.

  His rucksack was a different matter. It had the pungent smell of seafood about it, with good reason: wrapped in crumpled paper was a small fish, probably being hoarded for a private feast.

  But it was the wrapping paper that was most surprising. It was a map of Biak; an American map, just like the one Jock carried. There was writing on it, in English. Where the fish oil hadn’t smeared it, the handwriting was fluid, almost decorative.

  “That’s Mister Simpson’s handwriting,” Morales said. “I’d know it anywhere. It’s all over my radio log.” After a long pause, he added, “Maybe he just threw the map away and the Japs found it.”

  “No,” Jock replied, “I’m betting the Japs took it off him, and then they threw it away. Our maps are so useless the enemy uses them to wrap fish.”

  Dyckman shook his head sadly when Jock showed him the fish-stained map. “As I told you, Major, the Japanese have the maps my daughter created. They have no need for these nineteenth century mapmakers’ fantasies you Americans carry.” He fell silent for a moment before adding, “And I suppose we can deduce the fate of your Mister Simpson, as well. Now that the sun is up, I must take my people away from here, to the mountains in the north. The Japanese are too close—all those radio transmissions you’ve made. They must know exactly where we are. And as you’ve said, Major, this place is a trap, hemmed in on all sides.”

  “Sure,” Jock replied, “pull out whenever you’re ready. But I need one favor.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I need you to leave your crank generator behind, so we can use the transmitter as a homing beacon for the submarine.”

  Dyckman didn’t like that idea one bit. “That is unacceptable, Major Miles. We need the generator if we are to charge the receiver’s batteries after you are gone. It’s our only link to the outside world. And why would you not give us the transmitter now, too? You don’t have any need for it. The submarine has your coordinates—”

  “You mean the coordinates we got from that mapmakers’ fantasy, as you call it? The ones that might be off by thousands of yards?”

  “Really, Major, you must be realistic.”

  “I am being realistic. A miss is as good as a mile in the dark. We need that transmitter—and the generator—to put out a homing signal.”

  “If you transmit again, the only homing that will occur is the Japanese zeroing in on you.”

  “That’s a risk I’ll have to take, Mister Dyckman. Now listen…we’re not taking that gear with us. We’re leaving it behind. You can come back and get it if you need it that badly once we’re gone.”

  “If the Japanese haven’t already claimed it, you mean, don’t you?”

  “I guess that’s a risk you’ll have to take, Mister Dyckman.”

  The Dutchman scowled, threw up his hands, and began to stomp off. His red hair caught the morning sun and seemed ablaze.

  Jock called after him, “So we have an agreement?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that, Major. You give me no choice.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Captain Hutchins felt like a man reborn. He was glad he’d stopped drinking the moment Jillian Miles left his table last night. Rather than closing the bar, as was his usual custom, he’d headed straight to his quarters and gotten a good night’s sleep, his first in weeks. Waking at 0500, he ate a decent breakfast at the officers’ mess and downed several cups of coffee as he read the note once again, the one someone had slipped under his door as he slept.

  The note was unsigned but he knew who wrote it. That lady really kept her word, he told himself. This is my “h
eads up.”

  His newfound feeling of well-being was quickly put to the test as he arrived at the provost marshal’s office—his office. The place was swarming with MPs from 6th Army HQ, led by a lieutenant colonel whose collar brass identified him as Judge Advocate General’s Corps; in layman’s terms, a lawyer. Technical Sergeant Franklin Knox was seated in a corner of the day room, looking unfazed, a burly MP standing on either side of him. He wasn’t handcuffed.

  Pretty strange to see MPs guarding other MPs, Hutchins told himself.

  Several other soldiers from Hutchins’ company were seated along the opposite wall, with their own 6th Army MP overseers. The looks on his men’s faces varied from bewilderment, to defiance, to terror. They weren’t handcuffed, either.

  Standing in the middle of the room was Jillian Miles. She didn’t bother saying hello. Her first words to Hutchins were, “That man Van Flyss…the one we put in your nick for attempted murder late last night. He’s dead. Hung himself in his cell, they’re telling me…if you can believe that.”

  She looked to the colonel as if saying, You want to take it from here?

  “Missus Miles’ skepticism is well-founded, I’m afraid,” the colonel said. “The dead man has considerable blunt force trauma beneath that bushy hair of his, an injury quite inconsistent with hanging. This, Captain Hutchins, appears to be a murder clumsily dressed up to look like a suicide, and it happened in your shop, right under your nose.” He relaxed into a chair, folded his arms across his chest, and fixed Hutchins in a damning gaze. “So it’s your call what happens next…unless you want it to be my call.”

  Hutchins had a pretty good idea what the colonel’s call would be: He’ll lock every last one of us up—starting with me—and throw away the fucking key.

  He couldn’t help but see the look Jillian was giving him. He knew what it meant: You wanted the chance to cover your ass, one Buna survivor to another. Well, here it is, mate. Better grab it.

  Hutchins seized that chance like a lifeline. “Who was the duty NCO last night, Sergeant Knox?” he asked.

  Knox replied as casually as if he was reciting a grocery list: “That would be Sergeant Polito, sir.”

  Polito, Louis T. Jillian recalled the name and the face. He was the sergeant she saw leading those alleged Japanese sympathizers back to the camp. The one who was so arrogant at first, until he realized she worked for the Supreme Commander.

  The one who looked so terrified now.

  “Sergeant Polito,” Hutchins continued, “you are under arrest for dereliction of duty.” He turned to a 6th Army MP sergeant. “Confine him to the stockade, pending further investigation and possible additional charges.”

  “But I didn’t do anything, sir!”

  “That’s the trouble, Sergeant,” Hutchins replied. “You didn’t do anything…and now a prisoner—your prisoner—is dead.”

  As he spoke, he caught the momentary smirk that crossed Knox’s face and thought: That’s the look of a man who thinks he’s getting away with murder.

  Hutchins continued, “And you, Technical Sergeant Knox, are confined to quarters until further notice.”

  “Oh, bullshit,” Knox said. “You can’t do that. You ain’t got nothing on me.”

  “Actually, Sergeant Knox, I can.”

  “You gotta charge me with something first. Then I demand my right to a fucking court martial.”

  “Okay, fine. The first charge is insubordination.”

  Knox scoffed, like this was all a big joke.

  “And there’ll be many more, Sergeant, I’m quite sure. I’ve only just begun to peel this little onion of yours.”

  “You ain’t got nothing on me,” Knox repeated as the MPs pulled him from his chair. He didn’t sound quite so sure this time, though.

  But Knox wasn’t finished. Before he and his escorts reached the door, he stopped, turned to Jillian, and said, “This is all your fault, lady. That man had a lot of enemies. You had him locked up, disarmed him…a perfect set-up for someone with a gripe to do him in. You got him killed.”

  “So you knew Mister Van Flyss, then, Sergeant?” she asked.

  “Don’t make me laugh, lady. Everybody knew him. Even some of your high-falutin’ officers. Any one of them could’ve killed him.”

  Jillian replied, “Only one problem with that line of reasoning, Sergeant—he was in your nick at the time.”

  “You don’t know shit about nothing, lady.”

  Hutchins said, “That will be quite enough out of you, Sergeant Knox.” He motioned to the MPs: Get him out of here.

  Knox’s little empire toppled faster than a house of cards once Sergeant Polito was isolated in a room with the JAG colonel. “I ain’t taking the fall for no murder,” Polito blurted. “I didn’t even desert my post last night…Knox relieved me, all proper, by the book. He told me to go get some coffee over at the mess hall.”

  The colonel asked, “And when you got back from getting the coffee, you didn’t check on the prisoner?”

  “Why would I? Knox said everything was under control. Then he took off. When I finally did check, right before sunrise, well…it was me who sounded the alarm and called HQ, wasn’t it?”

  “So to your knowledge, Sergeant Knox was the only person alone with Van Flyss, aside from you?”

  “Yes, sir. This stockade ain’t exactly Grand Central Station—ain’t much traffic through here even in broad daylight—and he was alive when I went for the coffee. I swear it. And that rope wasn’t even in the cell when I locked him up.”

  The colonel jotted a few notes on his pad. Then he asked, “Do you have any idea why Sergeant Knox might want Mister Van Flyss dead?”

  Polito looked as if he was about to be sick. It took him a few moments to hold down the bile and form the words, but finally he replied, “Yeah, I know why. Boy, do I know why…”

  He was barely into his rapid-fire description of the black market operation when the colonel stopped him, asking, “You’re telling me that, led by their senior NCO, half the men in this company were involved, in one way or another, with the theft and resale of Red Cross relief food and supplies to any and all comers?”

  “Not exactly all comers, sir. Only to the GIs. Nobody else in this fucking country got any money…not the Aussie diggers and surely not the darkies.”

  There was a look of surprise on the colonel’s face. “Is there really much of a market for it?”

  “Are you kidding me, sir? We were doing land office business. Maybe you officer-types don’t feel much like noticing, but the doggies around these parts ain’t exactly chowin’ down like the swells. Some extra rations and stuff come in real handy.”

  “Why did you go along with it, Sergeant Polito?”

  “Knox told us we’d play the game and keep our fucking mouths shut or we’d end up with our asses beatin’ the bush for Japs. Or worse.”

  The colonel asked, “To your knowledge, was Captain Hutchins involved in these events you describe?”

  “You kidding, sir? I think this morning was only the third time I even seen him in the months I’ve been here. He’s just a name on an office door.”

  “So the captain had no idea this was going on?”

  “I don’t think he knew shit about anything around here, sir.”

  “Did you receive any money for participating in this…enterprise, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir, I swear. But somebody hadda get the dough. I’m guessing it went to the kingpin of the whole show.”

  “And that kingpin would be Sergeant Knox?”

  “Yeah…him and that Van Flyss clown. You know, the dead guy. But there’s more, sir…a lot more.”

  “Go on, Sergeant.”

  “There’s a secret camp, sir,” Polito continued. “A prison camp…no other word for it. Some of the Dutch at the resettlement camp must’ve caught wise to what was going on, seeing as how they were barely getting subsistence rations and all. So before they could make a big stink, they got separated from the rest and put in this spec
ial camp. When we asked why we were doing that—rounding them up and all, like they were criminals instead of people we liberated—Knox said he just found out they were Jap sympathizers, and he’d been ordered to keep them on ice.”

  “Found out from who, Sergeant?”

  “How the hell would I know, sir?” He tapped the three stripes on his sleeve and added, “Just because I wear these don’t mean I get to ask no questions.”

  “Are men of your company involved in this prison camp, Sergeant?”

  “Hell, yeah, sir. Where do you think the guards come from?”

  “I see,” the colonel said. “Let’s take a break for a few minutes. I think it’s time we brought that lady from HQ in to hear your deposition. It might provide some answers on the missing refugees she’s looking for.”

  “Is it going to get me in worse trouble if she does hear it?”

  “No, Sergeant. I don’t believe we could make this mess much worse at the moment.”

  Polito’s chin slumped to his chest. “Just do me one favor, sir. Promise me you’ll lock Knox up and throw away the key. Otherwise he’s going to kill me for ratting him out. He’ll find me somehow and kill me. It won’t matter what stockade the Army puts me in.” His eyes filled with tears as he added, “Why do you think we all danced to his tune, anyway?”

  The colonel shook his head. “Sergeant, if everything you just told me is true, Knox won’t be in a position to hunt you or anyone else down. Not from inside a penitentiary.”

  By midday, a platoon of American MPs from 6th Army descended on the prison camp hidden in the forest. Six of Knox’s men were on duty there, oblivious to the shitstorm of reckoning going on back at company headquarters. The six were arrested and loaded into a deuce-and-a-half.

  An MP lieutenant, bustling about with great purpose, approached Jillian and asked, “What exactly are we supposed to be doing with these civilian prisoners, ma’am?”

  “Prisoners?” she replied, trying to keep her temper in check. “Prisoners? Clearly, you haven’t yet grasped this situation, have you, Lieutenant? These people were being held captive by criminals in your bloody Army. Congratulate yourself—you’ve just freed them. You’re a liberator.”