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

  “Begging your pardon, General, but Jock Miles is no rookie at this game. I think General MacArthur needs to be informed of the changing situation immediately.”

  “Oh, do you, Colonel? The last time I checked, you were a regimental commander. You wouldn’t be trying to do the G2’s job—my job—too, would you?” He pointed to the brass plate atop his desk, adorned with name, title, and two silver stars.

  “No, sir. Of course not, sir. But we need to delay the Biak landings until—”

  The hand went up once more.

  “This is what you’re going to do, Richard. Get with our Air Force people. Have them set up a bombing run on those alleged targets Miles identified for tomorrow.” He’d sneered as he said the words alleged targets.

  “But sir, it would take a raid by a hundred heavy bombers, at least, to take out all those airfields at once. That’s way beyond Fifth Air Force’s capabilities.”

  “Nonsense, Richard. They’ll do the job with what they’ve got, just like they always have. And then, the Biak landings—Operation Alamo—will take place as planned, eight days from today.”

  “It’s no good, sir,” Molloy replied. “We’ve got to delay.”

  The general shook his head. “We’re driving an enormous ship, Richard, at very great speed. You just don’t stop it—no, you can’t stop it—every time someone thinks he sees the boogey man.”

  He went back to shuffling the papers on his desk. Molloy stood in place, ramrod straight, struggling to find the words that might turn that enormous ship around.

  “Why are you still here, Richard? You’ve been dismissed.”

  In reluctant retreat, Molloy was halfway to the door when General Willoughby said, “Oh, and one more thing, Richard. As long as Miles is already there, have him give us a bomb damage assessment after the raid. Nothing like having eyes on the ground.”

  “Isn’t that what the photo recon boys at Fifth Air Force are supposed to do, sir?”

  With a sarcastic smirk, Willoughby replied, “You mean the photo recon group that hasn’t yet managed to take one measly picture of what Miles claims is there?”

  Molloy ignored the jab. “But he and the Navy crew have been through a crash, sir…and they’ve been evading the Japanese ever since. We should really have the Navy pick them up ASAP.”

  “Negative, Richard. We’ve all been through worse, and you tell me this Miles of yours is a very resourceful boy. He’s apparently healthy and in a position to be quite useful. You have your orders. Carry on.”

  Jillian hung up the phone and stared blankly into space. The young GI—a PFC mail clerk—who’d been standing beside her desk waiting for the call to end, asked, “You okay, Missus Miles? You look like you’re a million miles away.” Then he laughed and added, “Actually, a million miles from Hollandia sounds like a great place to be.”

  “I’m not so sure,” she replied. “I’m trying to figure out if I’ve just gotten good news…or bad.”

  “About your husband, ma’am?”

  She nodded.

  Gently, he placed a stack of envelopes on her desk. Ordinarily, he would have just dropped them with a loud plop. He decided not to this time, though; it would have seemed a cruel intrusion into her privacy. “Well, I sure hope it turns out to be good news, ma’am,” he said, and pushed off on his rounds.

  So do I, laddie, she told herself. So do I.

  She tried to turn her focus back to work but found it impossible. Now that the shock of knowing he was in hostile territory had worn off, a rage began to seethe within her.

  They’re going to just leave him there and put him back to work? I thought they were supposed to rescue downed airmen. They do it every day…one bloody submarine in the dark is all it takes. I’ve got a good mind to—

  Jillian stopped herself—ranting would do no good.

  At least both of us know the other is still alive. That’s more than we’ve known for most of the past two years. Go outside…take a walk for a bit…clear your head…

  And then get back to your job.

  The walk around the headquarters compound did Jillian a world of good. Returning to her desk, she dove back into the discrepancy she’d found before that phone call derailed her:

  Something’s wonky with the figures from the Aitape resettlement camp. Looks like there are about sixty fewer Dutch refugees reported to be living at the camp than were transported there.

  She double-checked her figures. Same result.

  Walking into the office of the sweating, pencil-pushing captain, she laid her evidence on his desk. He didn’t seem in the least bit concerned.

  If this bloody wanker spouts “no big deal”—that tired excuse for Yank sloppiness—I just may have to bash his brains in.

  But he surprised her by saying, “We simply cannot have a discrepancy of this nature. It makes it look like this department doesn’t know what in the Sam Hill it’s doing, and I will not have that. We must account for those people to the last head. You do realize, Missus Miles, that the Supreme Commander has made it a top priority to account for every last Dutchman—military and civilian—in these parts?”

  She told herself, How touching that tosser MacArthur cares so much about the Dutch when he doesn’t give a shit about his own troops.

  But she replied, “Of course I realize it, Captain. Sorting out the refugees is my bloody job, after all.”

  “I’m certainly glad you realize that, Missus Miles. So tell me…what do you propose we do about this little problem?”

  “How about I go to Aitape and solve it, for starters? Teach you Yanks how to count, if necessary.”

  And get me away from you for a while, you fucking pompous imbecile.

  Andreas Dyckman was growing more nervous by the minute. “We’ve already waited too long,” he told Jock. “You’ve broadcast three times. They’ll find this location for sure…and soon.”

  The Dutchman’s camp was a frenzy of activity as his people packed their scant belongings, hoping to begin their trek north to the safety of the mountains before darkness fell. He hurried to the radio hut and began to hover anxiously over Baum and Morales as they struggled to dismantle the gear.

  “Dammit, we’re going as fast as we can, Mister Dyckman,” Baum said. “These Rube Goldberg connections we made are fragile enough. We break something now and we may never get this set back on the air.”

  “Getting back on the air will be the least of our worries if the Japanese come walking in on us,” Dyckman replied. “Please, gentlemen…finish with all possible haste.”

  Jock huddled over a map with the Dutchman’s scout, Hans. They were preparing for a walk in a different direction: back to Mokmer on Biak’s west coast for the bomb damage assessment ordered by Headquarters at Hollandia. The raid by the planes of Fifth Air Force was scheduled for 0900 tomorrow. They’d have to walk all night—coast to coast, clear across the Biak plateau—to be in position on the bluffs above Mokmer’s airfields. When the raid was finished, they’d have to walk all the way back across Biak, hopefully to find Dyckman and his people once again.

  Hans asked, “Will we be taking the radio with us, Major?”

  “No,” Jock replied. “Much too heavy…and much too fragile. We need to travel light.”

  “But that means we cannot report to your generals in Hollandia what we saw until we return to Meneer Dyckman’s new camp.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what it means, Hans. I’ve already told HQ to expect about a twelve-hour delay in reporting. If we need another raid…and I’m betting we will…they wouldn’t be able to fly it before the next day, anyway.”

  Something about the plan still bothered Jock, though. “Are you sure we can set up on the bluffs without the Japs seeing us?”

  “Quite sure, Major.”

  “All right, then…let’s take two more guys besides you and me. How about one islander and one Yank?”

  “Fine. Do you remember Josiah, the man who found you?”

  “Yeah…he’ll be good.”


  “Yes, he will, Major. But what Yank will you choose?”

  “I’ll let you know in a couple of minutes.”

  Arthur Simpson answered a question still unspoken. “No fucking way, Major Miles. I’m not going.”

  “To be honest, Mister Simpson, I wasn’t planning on asking you.”

  Steve Richards didn’t wait for Jock’s question, either. “Sure, I’ll go, sir,” he said. “Be glad to do it.”

  “Great, Steve. Pull your gear together. We leave in thirty minutes.”

  Simpson leaned against a tree, sulking. “I don’t see why you don’t take the Jew or the Mexican instead. Foot patrols sound like an enlisted man’s job, anyway.”

  “That’s funny...I could have sworn you were the guy who said climbing a tree was an officer’s job. The Navy seems to have pretty interesting ideas about division of labor. Anyway, I wouldn’t take Petty Officers Baum or Morales, Mister Simpson, because they’ve got a very critical job of their own, tending to that radio. Something only they can do.”

  As he turned to walk away, Jock added, “Mister Simpson, didn’t the Navy teach you a little respect for your men and their abilities goes a long way?”

  Simpson’s shake of the head was not a no but a rejection of Jock’s premise. “I don’t answer to the US Army, Major Miles.”

  “Maybe not, Lieutenant. But since you’re staying with the others, you will be answering to Mister Dyckman. Try and be of some use to him.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jock did a last check of the three men going with him on the all-night walk to Mokmer. They were armed lightly, their weapons more a token offering to the danger they might face than a serious defense against it. Jock carried his Thompson, deadly at close range but uselessly inaccurate beyond. Hans and Josiah toted ancient, bolt-action Mannlicher rifles, slow-firing and cumbersome. Steve Richards had only his .45 pistol. “Remember,” Jock told them, “we’re a recon mission. We’re not looking to get into any fights. Nobody get itchy on the trigger.”

  Richards asked, “Shouldn’t we be taking the thirty cal, sir?”

  “No…Dyckman’s people will probably need it worse than we will.”

  They hadn’t even cleared the camp’s perimeter when CRUMP—the first mortar round landed in its midst.

  “Get back with the others…NOW,” Jock yelled.

  A few rapid heartbeats later, the second CRUMP.

  Dyckman and his people were frozen in fear, half-crouched, their wild eyes searching for a safe haven nature couldn’t provide. Hector Morales crouched behind the .30-caliber machine gun, ready to fire…but he could see nothing to fire at.

  “EVERYBODY DOWN, DAMMIT,” Jock called out. “KISS THE GROUND.”

  Another CRUMP, and Jock said, “Rate of fire’s real slow. Can’t be more than one mortar out there…and it’s a light one. Probably not too far away, either.”

  He crawled to Dyckman. “Any of your people hit?”

  “I don’t believe so, not yet,” the Dutchman replied. “Where is it coming from?”

  Jock pointed west. “That way. I’m going to go find it.”

  Dyckman recoiled in horror. “Shouldn’t we run?”

  “No, keep your people down. If we run, they’ll just follow us. Don’t think there’s very many of them…not if they’re using a mortar right off the bat. Better we get them off our backs right now.”

  Telling Hans to follow, Jock low-crawled out of the camp. Once out from under the mortar rounds, they regained their feet and moved swiftly through the forest. As the CRUMPS of impact grew fainter, they began to hear the poomf of the mortar being fired.

  It was coming from somewhere on their right…

  A few dozen yards away…no more than that.

  They were on their bellies again, crawling closer.

  Ahead, a sight unseen in nature: bushes twirling, moving back and forth…a repetitive, energetic activity…

  Not bushes at all, but poorly camouflaged men feeding rounds into a mortar tube.

  “Bingo,” Jock whispered. “I count four…what about you?”

  “Yes, four.”

  “I’ll take them,” Jock said. “Cover my back in case there are more around.”

  The Japs looked comical as Jock crawled closer—men adorned with branches and leaves like children at play…

  Confident they were blending with their surroundings…

  But standing out all the more.

  Jock was ten feet away when the first Jap saw him.

  By then, it was too late.

  Two quick bursts from the Thompson.

  Four dead Japanese soldiers. One corporal, three privates.

  One silenced mortar, still smoking.

  “Should we bury them?” Hans asked.

  “No time,” Jock replied, his words hurried. “There’s got to be more of them around somewhere.”

  Hans nudged a lifeless body with his foot. He was relieved when it remained dead. “Why did they stay so far away, sir? Why didn’t they come close and snipe at us?”

  “Probably got a gander at the thirty cal over Morales’ shoulder and preferred to keep their distance.”

  Jock took in the full panorama of the forest. There was nothing to see but trees. “I guess Mister Dyckman must be right. The Japs really are spread pretty thin in these parts.”

  He picked up a rucksack fashioned as an ammunition carrier. There were still four mortar rounds inside. He picked up the corporal’s binoculars, too.

  “Take the tube, Hans. A knee mortar might come in handy later.”

  “A knee mortar, sir?”

  “Yeah, that’s what we call these little fifty-millimeter jobs. Seen them plenty of times before. Even used one a couple of times.”

  “What are we going to do with it?”

  “Take it with us,” Jock replied. “We could use a little more firepower for our little trip to Mokmer. Now c’mon…let’s make sure the others are okay.”

  Dyckman breathed a sigh of relief as Jock and Hans returned, but his troubles were far from over. “By some miracle, none of my people are injured,” he told Jock, “but your troublesome Mister Simpson is missing.”

  “I saw him,” Sid Baum added, pointing into the rainforest. “He was running like a scared rabbit. You went one way, Major, looking for that mortar, and he went the other…”

  He mumbled a few more inaudible words. Jock was fairly sure chickenshit was among them.

  Dyckman was already shepherding his people onto a trail. “I don’t have time or daylight to go looking for him,” the Dutchman said.

  “Neither do I,” Jock replied. “But he couldn’t have gotten far. I’m pretty sure he’ll turn up again before long…if he doesn’t get himself killed first.”

  “Now there’s a thought,” Baum replied, hoisting a piece of radio gear to his shoulder. Then, with a big smile for Jock and Richards, he added, “With all due respect, of course, gentlemen. See you tomorrow night…I hope.”

  Then he joined Andreas Dyckman’s column as it began to head north while Jock and his three-man team set out for Mokmer.

  It had been dark for several hours when the heavens opened up. Jock and his men paused for a few minutes to fill their canteens with the cool, fresh rainwater, ate a few bites of the emergency rations they’d salvaged from the Cat, and then pressed on. They had no time to waste.

  Steve Richards asked, “How’s your leg, sir?”

  “It’s fine. I wish everyone would stop asking me that. Just because I limp a little doesn’t mean I can’t cut the mustard.”

  Cutting the mustard also meant ignoring the burning eyes and drained muscles that felt like elastic bands stretched beyond their limits—all the products of living on little or no sleep.

  When did I sleep last? Dammit, I don’t even remember. I’ve got to get my mind off how tired I am. Think about something else…

  Something else turned out to be the disappearance of Arthur Simpson.

  Jock asked, “Hey, Steve...have you f
lown with Simpson for a while?”

  “On and off for a couple of months, sir.”

  “So why do you think he cut and ran? I mean, hell…he’s been under fire before. We hit worse shit when the Cat got knocked down. Strange that a little popgun mortar would push him over the edge.”

  Composing his thoughts, Richards paused before replying, “It’s different in the airplane, I guess. There’s nowhere to run.”

  “But you didn’t run. Baum and Morales didn’t run, either.”

  “I can’t speak for the other guys, sir, but I was too scared shitless to run anywhere. Did you ever feel like that, sir?”

  “You mean scared shitless, Steve?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jock laughed as he said, “All the time, Steve. All the damn time.”

  The path Hans and Josiah had chosen took them not through the rainforest but scrubland, with only occasional patches of scrawny trees topped by sparse crowns that looked ghostly in the gray moonlight. Jock fumed as he thought, Of course, according to this damn map, all the terrain on this part of the island is supposed to be dense rainforest. Haven’t seen much of that yet…and I doubt the terrain has changed any since they drew this map at the turn of the century.

  The open country had been a blessing for walking in the dark. It allowed for good speed without the constant stumbling and falling a nighttime trek through the forest usually guaranteed. In daylight, though, open terrain like this—without cover or concealment—could be a death sentence. Once they reached the area where the Cat had crashed, Jock knew the terrain would turn back to rainforest and offer them protection. But they weren’t there yet…and the eastern horizon had begun to show the pale pink band of the coming dawn.

  “How much longer until we hit some real trees, Hans?” Jock asked.

  “We’re very close, Major. A few more minutes.”

  “And that tree cover will last all the way to the bluffs overlooking the airfields?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”