TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy)

by Timothy James Dean

  And that was how it happened that just after midnight, a young man on a stretcher was manhandled up a ramp at the Manila docks. At the ship’s gangway waited a knot of officers and doctors and Johnny feigned unconsciousness as they checked his papers. His stretcher was transferred from one set of hands to another, and he was carried into a vast hold. He saw hundreds of skeletal men reclining on the rows of beds. His bearers found a vacant one and transferred him onto it. There was a bad moment when they saw the rifle hidden under the sheet. One tried to remove it, but the soldier would not let go. A tug of war ensued. Without speaking, the sick man demonstrated that it was unloaded, then firmly tucked it against his leg once more.

  The orderlies had a great deal to do before the ship sailed on the tide. They shrugged and left the fellow alone. These chaps had been through an ordeal most couldn’t imagine. Johnny lay back sweating from the exertion. He had not spoken, because he knew that if he did, the jig would be up.

  Eventually the banks of lights were switched off and the men fell silent. His wound already suppurating through the dressing, Johnny lay wide-awake as the hours crawled by. Finally, still in pitch darkness, he felt the vibrations that told him the great engines had started up. An hour later, he felt the roll of the ocean. Only then did he drift into an exhausted slumber.

  The breakfast trolleys had come and gone and it was late morning before the British doctors came down his row. They finished with the malnourished man beside him and gathered around Johnny’s bed. Again, the medical men checked his papers. Apparently there was some discrepancy between the injury described there, and the bandaged chest of the fellow before them. They unwrapped the dressing and exclaimed over what was obviously a badly infected bullet wound.

  They peppered the patient with pointed questions, and finally Johnny had to answer. As soon as they heard the marked Californian accent, the doctors knew this was not the Corporal from Woolgoolga his papers claimed him to be. Some terrible mix-up had occurred. They poured over the lesion, disinfected it as best they could, doused it with antibiotic powder and made him swallow some pills. Then they bandaged the boy up and moved to the next case. One of them climbed to the bridge and reported the mistake, but the Captain did not even consider turning the ship around.

  The sole Yank on board watched the gulls drifting by the portholes, against the heave of the South China Sea, and even managed a weak smile.

  The floating hospital powered down the South Pacific and entered the waters between the New Guinea coast and the Solomon Sea. It rounded the eastern tip of the big island and turned toward Sydney.

  Suddenly an underwater explosion rocked the ship. In spite of the crosses painted on her, the floating hospital had come under fire. The hull shuddered along its length and began to sink. Fortunately, it was not the kind of direct hit that would send her plunging in minutes to the bottom, the fate of so many vessels in these waters during the war. The bridge, in fact, never saw what had attacked them. Perhaps it was a submarine, or simply a rogue mine that had slipped its cable.

  What mattered was to save the lives on board. Listing to starboard, all her pumps on full, the ship sped for the nearest harbor. That happened to be Port Moresby, on the southern coast of New Guinea. Once in the harbor, the captain deliberately ran his command aground in the shallows so it could not sink. Most of the passengers would be offloaded long enough for the welders to go to work on the old plates at low tide.

  The doctors saw to it, however, that the young American was immediately lowered on his stretcher over the side. By then he had been in a coma for two days. His wound, already septic, had turned gangrenous. The medics had observed the stench and the blackening flesh. They pursed their lips, shook their heads and held out scant hope for the poor Yank. Johnny was loaded in an ambulance truck and rushed to the military hospital.

  One foot in the grave, far too ill by then to even know where he was, Johnny had returned to the place where he had first gone into battle.

  FROM THE JOURNALS OF COLONEL HENRY CHAMBERS, JR.

  The Most Warlike Place On Earth

  For tens of thousands of years, the New Guineans lived in the Stone Age, and most still do. The people never discovered the wheel, let alone metallurgy. They live in huts with dirt floors, without running water or any civilized amenity. To this day, for most of them, their toilet is the nearest bush. Their enemy is the tribe just over the hill. Yet though their technology is primitive, their societies are complex, infinitely varied, and highly evolved.

  At puberty, the warriors initiate the boys into manhood during secret and often violent rites. In many tribes, these include the scarification of the body, and the piercing of the nasal septum. The resulting hole between their nostrils allows for the wearing of many items in the face. Commonly, these are pig tusks, the teeth and bones of animals, and feathers. In Port Moresby, around your Author’s office, some of the men find it a convenient way to carry a pencil.

  Once the youngsters are recognized as men, they join their elders in the interminable vendetta battles with their traditional enemies. For many tribes, the hostilities go hand-in-hand with a grisly culinary habit abhorred in the civilized world.

  Dear Reader, millions of New Guineans are cannibals. Not only do they kill their neighbors—they eat them. Men, women and even children partake of the human repast.

  On the maps, New Guinea might appear tame to you, neatly divided by lines. This masks the truth. Most of the ferocious island is unexplored.

  More than a million inhabitants of the rugged Highlands never even clapped eyes on a white man until recently. The interior was so mountainous, it was thought to be uninhabited. That was so until the coming of aircraft. Aviators in the late 1920’s flew over and saw gardens and villages—evidence of habitation in what had been blank space on the maps. In 1930, rough Australians braved the heights. Armed with guns and guard dogs, they searched for gold.

  In the Highlands, they came face-to-face with flourishing Stone Age communities that had no experience of the outside world. The result was a clash of cultures that reverberates to this day. Some of the villagers fainted dead away at the sight of the white men—the ghosts of their ancestors, or so they believed. Some of the warriors’ envy of the goods the foreigners possessed turned to sudden violent acquisitiveness. The Australians were forced to demonstrate just what their firearms could do, at considerable cost of native lives.

  This was a profound event—the very last time Earth would witness such a substantial, isolated tribal community meeting the outside world. The visitors began to trade—a knife for a pig, an axe head for a native girl. It was those young women who first discovered that these were not gods, but men.

  Ironically, many New Guineans’ introduction to “civilization” was World War. In 1942, the Japanese war machine stormed onto the island. The Asian invaders saw themselves as superior to the natives and ran roughshod over them.

  The Australians, and our troops when America arrived, treated the inhabitants more humanely. As a result, the Allies won the support of most Papuans and New Guineans. Thousands of our men owe their lives to the villagers who carried them to medical aid. The natives earned the name given by the Australians: “the Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels.”

  Yet, while the New Guineans marvel at the modern machines of war and the sheer scale of the slaughter the white and yellow men exacted on one another, they are no strangers themselves to mortal combat.

  New Guinea may be the most warlike place on Earth.

  The Colonel extracted from the envelope a folded sheet of yellow paper. Moisture had seeped through and blurred the writing that covered both sides. Henry scanned the first lines, turned it over and glanced at the signature, then began to read from the beginning. He looked up only when the Australian cleared his throat.

  “Yes Dingo. The writer signs himself ‘Father Christopher Bastion’ and gives the address as ‘The Mission of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, Kissim Village, Raub River.’ He says he’s an American priest from Kingman i
n Arizona. ‘My dear Commander and my fellow American, I am in need of your mercy and your urgent assistance.’” The Colonel read ahead and paraphrased.

  “Bastion and three others arrived to establish the mission in 1937. In all, there were four priests—two Australians, an Italian, and himself. When war broke out, he and his fellow priests were ‘guided by God’—his words—‘not to return to the outside world.’ This was because of the Italian, Father Constanti.” The Colonel read the next passage word-for-word:

  “‘We learned from the rare newspaper carried to us by native traders that Italy was our enemy. This was not so under the loving guidance of Our Lady. Here, we were two Australians (Fathers Sid Brown and Bob Delaney), myself, an American, and our Italian brother, Bruno Constanti. In the greater world, our nations might be at war, but in our lost Eden, we were the true Allies.

  “‘Here we laid the foundation for ‘agape,’ brotherly love, far from the reach of international politics. What example would we set for our new brothers and sisters in Christ, we asked ourselves, if we could not live in His love for one another?’”

  “An idealist,” the Major observed dryly. The Colonel nodded and scanned on.

  “The war passed them by. ‘No aircraft have arrived since the hostilities began,’ Bastion writes, ‘…but we had everything we needed, provided by our Heavenly Father.’ They were even left alone, he says, ‘by the savages our people fear above all others—the notorious headhunters of the Valley of the Cannibals.’ He says, ‘Thanks be to God, those Mambu warriors have not ventured in our time through the wild country that separates us.’” The Colonel read a passage to himself.

  “Ah,” he said, “now we’re getting to the heart of it.”

  Dingo leaned forward, listening intently.

  CHAPTER 5

  “‘Everything changed at the beginning of May of this year,’” the Colonel read. “‘Then the Japanese invaded Kissim. A squad of nine arrived, bringing native guides at gunpoint. Eventually, we learned they had come through the mountain passes from the Sepik. The day they marched in, they surprised our Australian brothers who were, ‘by bad luck or God’s will’—Bastion’s words,” the Colonel said, “‘working with the faithful in the gardens.

  “‘The Japanese forced them to kneel and, while Brother Constanti and I watched from the forest, unable to do anything but forfeit our own lives, Sid and Bob were beheaded. Our people panicked at the murder and ran, as did the Sepik guides, and all were shot down. The war had found us at last, and with a vengeance.”

  “Sodding bastards!” Dingo exploded, rocking forward so his hat fell on the floor. He snatched it up and jammed it on his head.

  “Indeed,” the Colonel said. “Father Bastion goes on: ‘The Japanese have murdered thirty-seven of our people. They have guns, and we have nothing but our faith, and the primitive weapons that are these people’s only defense. Still, our men managed to kill two of the enemy. The reprisals have been terrible. They burned down the village, including our home and simple church. They have killed all the pigs and robbed the gardens.

  “‘We count seven Japanese remaining. As for ourselves, we can barely keep body and soul together. We exist like animals, eating roots and wild fruit, creeping to a new place every night in order to avoid certain death.’

  “‘My Dear Commander,’” he read on, “‘we have long surrendered our fate to God. But now we throw ourselves on your mercy as well. I would not ask only for myself and Father Constanti, but for the lives of our innocent flock. I beg you, if it is within your power, rescue us.’” Colonel Chambers turned the page over.

  “There is an airstrip behind the mission—a natural field where they first landed. He says we can put down there.

  “He concludes: ‘We will continue to hide in the jungle, and we pray that our brave acolyte, Simay, who volunteered to carry this letter across the perilous mountains, will somehow come to you. We pray for your protection, Sir, and your men. We will watch without ceasing for you to come. God willing, you will find us before the enemy does.’ And he signs himself, ‘Yours in Christ, and Your Fellow American, Father Christopher Bastion.’”

  “Called in the heavy artillery there,” Dingo grinned. “God, and country. When was the epistle penned?” The Colonel flipped the page again.

  “‘Sunday, May 27,’” he read, “‘in the Year of Our Lord, Nineteen Hundred and Forty-Five.’”

  “Two months ago, more or less,” the Australian observed. “No doubt the good Fathers have not heard the mad dog Hitler found his ‘final solution’…”

  “…or that Germany surrendered,” the Colonel added. “Peace in Europe! The Italians of course were beaten by then, and Il Duce and his mistress killed by the mob. Father Constanti is no longer an enemy alien. Little do they know.”

  “Fair dinkum,” Dingo agreed.

  “There’s something else,” Chambers said: “a Post Script.” He put his finger on the place and puzzled through the words, almost obscured by the stains.

  “Something strange here,” he said, peering at the Australian over the letter. “He warns me to beware of a ‘monstrous crocodile.’ He says it arrived in Kissim after the Japs. The people call it, ‘the Father of all the Crocodiles. We have a hard time to prevent them from worshiping it,’ Bastion writes, ‘particularly after it killed five of the faithful.’”

  “My word!” Dingo said. “‘The Father!’ Of course, I’ve heard of it from the kanakas, but I thought it was a myth. But if it is a real animal, I believe I know what the bugger is.”

  Johnny ran along the Moresby harbor, being jarred in all the places the war had hurt him. An ambulance truck, canvas sides painted with red crosses, came from the direction of the airport, siren howling. Johnny approached a section of the road lined with stores. Across the way, a man was taking the padlock off Burns, Philp & Company.

  Johnny’s body begged for a breather, but the soldier drove him on. In the western movies he’d grown up with, and in the current batch of war pictures, many a fellow got shot. But then, in the very next scene, there he’d be, maybe with a bandage, but pretty much as good as new. Johnny had learned in the school of war, it didn’t work like that. It had taken months to recover from every one of his injuries, and even longer to get back in shape.

  As he ran, his fresh scar throbbed, and the older one in his thigh pulled. In order to distract himself, Johnny gazed across the Moresby harbor. There was a freighter at the docks, men unloading it with a crane and net. Further out were two US Navy vessels. One was a gunboat, just getting underway. The other was a destroyer at anchor, sailors over the side on ropes, painting out the rust.

  Suddenly Johnny had to stare at the gravel road, trying not to think of his father. His dad had been an officer on a Navy warship. He winced under the barrage of images that came at him, and in spite of his efforts to steer his thoughts another way, he found himself in that other lifetime. His face, his voice.

  To distract himself, Johnny looked at the PT boat. What a power launch! He recited the facts: “PT” stands for “Patrol Torpedo”. Seventy-seven feet long, designed to barrel in on the big ships and let fly its one-ton torpedoes. It has cannons and heavy machine guns. They call the PT’s “the plywood fleet,” but their hulls are actually mahogany planks. They’re powered by Packard—three 12-cylinder engines that push fifty miles-an-hour.

  Johnny watched the launch cut smartly around the hulk of a Japanese-sunk freighter. It turned for the port’s mouth and the skipper opened her up. The blat of power reached Johnny across the water.

  His heart pounded and the sweat poured down his forehead. He came to an outcropping of rocks and threw himself down. He sat panting for a time, and then pulled out the Camels and lit one up. When he looked out again, the gunboat was a dot in the distance. He was still having trouble keeping his thoughts off his father, so he deliberately turned his mind to another PT he’d run across.

  It had been the year before, in the outer islands. There’d been a combined Marine an
d Army action against an entrenched Japanese camp. Enemy snipers had the men pinned down, and their commander radioed HQ. By then, Johnny was part of an elite core of killers well known to General MacArthur. Johnny had been on the New Guinea coast in the latest action. The first he knew about it, he was given thirty minutes to get his kit together, and then he was aboard a PBY Catalina, heading over the ocean.

  The armed Flying Boat took him across the channel of water between the New Guinea islands they called “the Slot.” He got a glimpse of the big island of New Britain, and then there were a lot more dotting the Solomon Sea. The aircraft splashed down near one and taxied ashore. It would be back to pick him up in five days.

  It was late afternoon. Johnny was just in time for chow and a drink with the men he’d be fighting beside the following day. As another spectacular tropical sunset fired up the west, the men moved to the “cantina.” This was no more than a table, a cooler, and a few chairs on the sand, but it had a million-dollar view, and a cold brew from home went down easy.

  Johnny was looking at a fellow’s pictures of his family when loud engines drowned out the conversation. A PT boat was racing at them. It got close and came on, barreling for the beach. Just when it looked like the skipper was going to park on the sand, he spun it hard around, threw it in reverse, and came to a pretty stop just offshore.

  A dozen sailors stripped their shirts off and swarmed over the gunwales. They dove in and swam the few yards, and dripping wet, came up the beach. Their leader was a skinny lieutenant with a shock of dark hair. As he reached the Army men, the “looey” fished a wad of wet greenbacks from a pocket and in what Johnny took for a broad Boston accent, he said he’d buy “every man-jack a be-ah.”