Operation Easy Street (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 3) Read online

  They had only traveled half a mile when the drone of American C-47s echoed up the slope. “Well, fuck me right up the arse,” the captain said. “The Yanks are early for once…too bloody early.”

  From their high perch, the Aussies watched as a dozen planes dropped their parachute-loads of supplies to the jungle below. For once, the targeting looked remarkably accurate: most of the containers seemed to land within easy reach of the Track. Usually, the loads floated down all over the surrounding jungle; the ground troops were lucky to recover a quarter of it.

  This drop’s rare display of precision would have been beautiful to watch—if it wasn’t so frustrating.

  Shaking his fist at the planes as they flew off, the captain said, “Thank you, you bloody wankers. Thank you for supplying the bloody Japanese instead of us.”

  Lagging miles behind the head of the Australian column, other men were fighting a different battle. Scores of diggers and native porters struggled like chain gangs with long, thick ropes, blocks and tackles secured to stout trees, and brute manpower to haul four 25-pounder artillery pieces up near-vertical slopes. Progress was sometimes measured in inches: each howitzer alone weighed over 3,000 pounds. Men could be killed, and a day’s work undone in a terrifying moment, if a load slipped its restraints and careened backward down the trail.

  They’d first tried using the pack mules for this task, but quickly gave up on it. The beasts would balk and gave up as much ground as they gained. The diggers had to put two mules out of their misery after the animals slipped, fell, and, still tethered to the tackle, were badly injured as a runaway load dragged them up the slope.

  The Aussies were sure of one thing: all this effort was well worth it. They’d need those four guns—and the eight still well behind them on the Track—when they got to the north coast. Maybe sooner.

  Chapter Four

  The euphoria Jillian Forbes felt to be docking at Port Moresby again evaporated the moment she saw Jock Miles’s face. He was standing on the wharf, slumped against his jeep, with what seemed like the weight of the world on his shoulders. Even from the pilot house of her ship, the Australian coastal trader Esme, she could tell there was bad news waiting to be told.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” she asked before even reaching the bottom of the gangway.

  “Big change in plans, Jill,” he replied. “We’re not going to be here near as long as we figured.”

  She wanted to believe it was a cruel joke. They thought they’d have months together here in Port Moresby as 32nd Division regrouped and retrained. Even though she’d be captaining her ship as it sailed back and forth from Australia, shuttling supplies to the Allied forces, the young lovers would’ve still been together for a night or two on a fairly regular basis. “What? Where are you going?” she asked, expecting him to break into a sly smile any second, unable to play out the joke any longer.

  He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything.

  “Jock, this isn’t funny. What’s going on?”

  He told her about the plan to take Buna. She wasn’t impressed. Horrified would better describe how she felt.

  “You Yanks aren’t ready to go anywhere,” she said. “And you’re a battalion commander now? When did that happen?”

  “Right after I got my ass chewed for being AWOL the last time you were in port.”

  “My recollections of that night tell me it was well worth an ass-chewing, laddie.”

  Jock finally managed a smile. A big one.

  “You bet it was, Jill. But dammit, nights like that are going to be hard to come by now.”

  “No kidding,” she said. “In the next ten days, I’ll only be back here twice at most. You are going to be able to slip away tonight, aren’t you? Without getting nicked for being AWOL again?”

  He snapped her a salute. “All taken care of, Captain Forbes. Command does have its privileges.” Climbing into the jeep’s driver’s seat, he added, “Can you get away right now? They’re holding supper for us.”

  She bounced into the passenger’s seat. “Of course I can, silly boy. My lads have the unloading under control. Like you said, command does have its privileges.”

  Jillian was stunned by the sumptuous spread on Commander Shaw’s dining room table. “Bloody hell, Commander,” she said, “isn’t there a war on? My crew and I have been living off nothing but bully beef for weeks…and you’re offering a meal fit for a king!”

  Trevor Shaw chuckled as he replied, “My dear girl, MacArthur insists on living like a king. We could exist off his scraps for months. That provides some small measure of consolation for me, shunted to the servants’ house as he makes himself quite at home in mine. At any rate, Virginia’s been doing a marvelous job looking after him. She’s kept The Great One quite happy.”

  Virginia Beech’s voice boomed from the kitchen, “It’s easy if you remember the bloody wanker must have his luxury.” She swept into the room toting another platter of seafood. “You ought to see His Highness in the mornings, prancing around the veranda in his dressing gown, downing crumpets and sipping his coffee while he reads his dispatches. Son of a bitch farts through silk while his lads live out there in the bush like filthy animals.”

  Jillian looked to Jock and asked, “Speaking of the lads, what are they eating right now?”

  “At least they’re getting hot chow and plenty of it,” Jock replied. “Of course, it’s not exactly being served on fine china like this…” His voice trailed off: it would be no time at all before he and his men would be in the swamps, subsisting on field rations again.

  Jillian asked, “Where is MacArthur, anyway?”

  “In Australia,” Trevor Shaw replied. “A high-level meeting in Brisbane. He’ll be back tomorrow.” Ginny Beech added, “You didn’t think he was out in the jungle, did you?”

  Jock threw up his hands in surrender and said, “I can see I’m outnumbered here—the only Yank against three Aussies. So go ahead, bash us GIs all you like.”

  “Oh, we will, Jock,” Ginny said. “We will.”

  “Speaking of Yanks,” Jillian said, “where’s First Sergeant Patchett? I figured if Ginny was here, he’d be around.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, girlie…the old boy will be around, all right,” Ginny replied, “but later, when I have some time for him.” She pointed an accusing finger at Jock. “Didn’t this wanker tell you? He’s not first sergeant any more. This man right here made him Battalion Sergeant Major Patchett.”

  “Good on Patch!” Jillian said. “A promotion!”

  “Don’t get carried away, lass,” Ginny said. “It’s not really a promotion, just a new title the major over there stuck on him. No extra stripes involved. Leave it to the bloody Yanks to give a man more responsibility without something extra in his pay envelope. Not that their pay envelopes aren’t fat enough to begin with, compared to our poor diggers.”

  Jock turned to Commander Shaw. “Sir, there’s something I really need to talk with you about.”

  The old coast watcher pushed his plate away and lit his pipe. “Fire away, young man,” he said. “I’m at your disposal, as always.”

  Jock told them of the plans for taking Buna. When he described 2nd Battalion’s orders to advance over the Kapa Kapa Trail, their jaws dropped and their eyes went wide.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Ginny said.

  “They’re dead serious,” Jock replied. “I take it there are problems we Yanks don’t know about?”

  “That’s an understatement, Jock,” Shaw said. “Kapa Kapa is a trail in name only. It’s more like an imaginary line through mountainous jungle—one you’ll have to hack through inch by inch.”

  Ginny added, “And if you’re counting on native porters coming with you, bloody well forget it. They’ll go as far as Ghost Mountain but won’t cross it. As far as they’re concerned, it’s a haunted, evil place. It won’t matter what you offer to pay them.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a very timely plan, either,” Shaw said. “You and your airlifted
troops will be on the north coast long before that unfortunate battalion emerges from the jungle…if they ever emerge. Are you sure those men are up to such a trek? The diggers have enough trouble crossing the Owen Stanleys…but the Yanks?”

  “It’s not my call, Commander. Ready or not, they’ll be on the trail in two days.”

  Shaw and Ginny just shook their heads. “Poor buggers,” she muttered.

  “What about the landing fields they say are there?” Jock asked.

  Shaw replied, “Dickie Bennett’s been our coast watcher in the Buna district since before the first Japanese landings. I’ve known the man for years. If he says those fields are useable—and unoccupied—you can bet your life on it.”

  “Good,” Jock said, “because that’s exactly what my men will be doing.”

  Chapter Five

  Jock would have loved to stand and watch Esme sail out into the Coral Sea until she was just a speck on the southern horizon. He couldn’t, though: this was the morning the replacement troops for 1st Battalion would arrive. There would be a million details to attend to and not nearly enough time to do them. One last, lingering kiss with Jillian at the ship’s rail and he was speeding off in his jeep, back to his battalion CP.

  When he got there, Sergeant Major Patchett had everything under control. First Battalion’s cadre—Patchett especially—seemed chipper and ready to face this challenging new day with a smile.

  “I’m guessing every man jack in this outfit got laid last night, sir,” Patchett explained.

  Jock replied, “So the men’s field trip to the Port Moresby hospitality center went well?”

  “Well, indeed, sir. Well indeed. Ain’t nothing like an evening with a fine Aussie lady…even the ones you gotta pay.”

  “Just so we don’t lose anyone to the clap, Top…”

  Jock fell into an awkward silence, worried he had just breeched military etiquette: Patchett wasn’t a company first sergeant anymore. He was Jock’s battalion sergeant major now.

  “Don’t you worry none, sir,” Patchett said. “Top’s still just fine, as long as it’s just you and me talking private-like. Sergeant major is kinda formal between two dogfaces who been through as much together as we have.”

  “Got it,” Jock replied. “But every other swinging dick better call you sergeant major, right?”

  “Damn straight, sir.”

  A steady stream of confused, newly arrived GIs spilled from the deuce-and-a-half trucks shuttling between the Port Moresby docks and 1st Battalion’s bivouac. By morning’s end, some 300 men, all green privates—save for a few equally green sergeants and lieutenants—were distributed to fill the empty platoons of Able, Baker, Charlie, and Dog Companies.

  It should have been pure chaos, like most mass movements in this man’s army.

  But it went smooth as silk. Until this morning, 1st Battalion may have been just a skeleton, but its key leadership positions were already staffed with the combat veterans of Charlie Company—men who Jock Miles had led into combat in Papua.

  By mid-afternoon, the battalion was organized enough for its first formation. As Jock trooped the line with Colonel Molloy, Sergeant Major Patchett paced behind the rear rank, making sure the company sergeants tolerated no goofing off among their men. Always a few dogfaces, too clever for their own damn good, Patchett thought, smarting off, thinking they blend in so good nobody can see them. His studied eye caught one such incident in Baker Company. That unit’s first sergeant found Patchett in his face immediately.

  “I know y’all are brand spanking new to my battalion,” Patchett hissed in the first sergeant’s ear, “but let’s get something straight right off. If you let them get away with that grab-ass on the parade field, how the hell do you expect them to follow orders in combat? You gotta stomp on that shit the minute you see it, Sergeant. Otherwise, it’s gonna grow like a cancer and wreck your company. I guaran-damn-tee it. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major, I just—”

  “Didn’t ask for no fucking explanation, did I?”

  “No, Sergeant Major.”

  “Very fine. Now get your head out of your ass and carry on.”

  Colonel Molloy’s inspection done, Jock dismissed the battalion formation. Their day was far from over: in one hour, they’d embark on their first tactical field exercise.

  “It’ll be a Chinese fire drill,” Patchett assured Jock and Colonel Molloy, “so no live ammunition yet, that’s for damn sure. We don’t be needing no accidents.”

  Molloy asked, “When do you propose to do a live fire exercise, Major Miles?”

  “The minute the sergeant major and I believe they’re ready, sir.”

  “Good plan,” Molloy replied, “but I’m more than a little concerned about the way you reorganized your cadre. Do you think it was a good idea to deplete Charlie Company of most of its combat-experienced officers and NCOs?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jock replied. “I believe it’s better to spread the expertise around so all the companies have a relatively equal level. Otherwise, we get one very experienced company and three led by rookies.”

  Molloy pondered that for a moment, and then asked, “Sergeant Major, is that your opinion, too?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Patchett replied. “I seen it too many times before. Get one company full of crackerjacks and the others full of jerk-offs…well, them jerk-offs will collapse the minute the shit hits the fan. Then we all end up getting overrun. But if they all fight about the same, we all got a better chance to keep drawing breath.”

  Molloy smiled: the sergeant major might have only limited command of the King’s English but his experience had to be respected. “Very well, then,” he said, “but I’ve got to drop a little bombshell on you both. Your battalion is still under strength by about fifty men, and, unfortunately, it looks like it’s going to stay that way. By the time any more replacements are available, we’ll all be bivouacking in Buna.”

  Jock knew what the expression on Patchett’s face meant: Should I bend over again, sir…or are you done fucking me?

  Trying to keep that same expression from his own face, Jock asked, “What about our heavy machine guns and mortars, sir? We’ll still be getting those, won’t we?”

  “The S4 expects them within the week, Major Miles.”

  “That don’t give us no training time for the weapons company hardly at all, sir,” Patchett said. “Not if we’re moving out in nine days.”

  As he climbed into his jeep, Molloy replied, “All we can do is our best, Sergeant Major. I’m counting on you two to do that for me.”

  As the colonel drove away, Patchett asked Jock, “Sir, I thought you said that man was in France in ’18?”

  “Yeah, he was, Top.”

  Patchett shook his head: “He don’t sound like no one who been in a shit storm of lead...but let’s hope he’s better than that last paper soldier we had to put up with.”

  Jock replied, “Trust me, Top. He is.”

  The first tactical field exercise went exactly as Sergeant Major Patchett expected: a Chinese fire drill. Radios broke down almost immediately in the tropical heat, causing coordination between units to break down just as fast. Among those with working sets, communications discipline was atrocious: several operators would constantly try to talk on the same frequency at the same time; knowledge of proper voice message format was sorely lacking; security procedures went out the window. Case in point: one squad leader in Able Company began identifying himself over the air as if answering a telephone. “McNally, First Squad,” he broadcast rather than his proper call sign, Rodeo One-One-Six. Countless units reported their location’s coordinates without bothering to code them.

  An evaluator told one of Jock’s company commanders, “They’re making it way too easy for the enemy. A lot of your men just died because they told the Japs who and where they are.”

  Four of the battalion’s nine rifle platoons got lost in the rainforest, unable to accurately dead reckon using ma
p, wristwatch, and compass. Two of those platoons eventually found their way to the objectives and staged ragged mock attacks judged as “unsuccessful” by the evaluators.

  A frustrated platoon leader told his evaluator, “These maps are all fucked up, sir.”

  In a deadpan voice, the evaluator replied, “It’s not the maps, Lieutenant.”

  The other two lost platoons never found their objectives; they could barely find their way back to the assembly area when the siren signaled the end of the exercise. Ultimately, their evaluators guided them back to save time; too much had been wasted already.

  Tactical dispersal was another area needing improvement. It wasn’t uncommon for GIs to be bunched close enough to hold hands. In one incident, an evaluator encountered five GIs huddled—inches apart—behind the same fallen log while taking up a defensive position.

  “You know what I see here?” the evaluator asked. “Five dead GIs. Did you ladies ever hear the expression grenade gets you all? Well, it just did. Here…put these around your necks.” He handed each of the GIs a cardboard tag that read KIA in big black letters—for killed in action.

  As the evaluator walked away, the GIs snickered among themselves like it was all some big joke. One lay prone and silent, pretending to be a corpse with eyes closed, hands crossed over chest, and a disdainful smirk on his face.

  Chapter Six

  Kokoda, the little mountain village that gave the track its name, was the halfway point in the 120-mile journey from Port Moresby to Buna. That distance was as the crow flies; it nearly doubled for men climbing up and down the towering peaks of the Owen Stanley Range. The head of the Australian 7th Division column had yet to reach the village. It was still some 20 miles away, a formidable distance for diggers still skirmishing for almost every yard.