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

by Timothy James Dean

  “The ‘saltys’ are a plague in the north of Australia. We lose people and livestock to ‘em every year. They can drag a full-grown bull into the water and drown it, Henry! Of course, it’s worse in New Guinea. What are sticks and stones against such a monster? The people must live on the river, and resign themselves to occasional predation. No wonder they worship the brute!”

  “‘Beware of the river’ is right then,” the Colonel said. “I’d like a full briefing on Kissim, and the Raub. It’s wise to have all the information—before we go in.” He set the letter on the table and looked expectantly at the Major.

  “Before we go in?”

  “Well, Dingo, I can’t very well leave ‘my dear fellow American’ to the Japs—or the crocodile, for that matter. Part of my mandate is to neutralize or eradicate the enemy where we find him. God knows, the Nips have not surrendered in New Guinea. There are hundreds of thousands of them around.”

  “Bloody menace,” Dingo nodded. “It will take us years to round up all of the Yellow Peril.”

  “And as you know, these are my last days,” the Colonel went on. “In two weeks I leave for the States. But I believe we have time to pull off a rescue before that!”

  “Good on ya Henry!”

  “Nothing too grand,” the Colonel hastened to add. “Let’s say, four of my men—commando types.”

  “A fortnight should be more than enough to get in and out, and bring back your priests,” Dingo said.

  “We’ll call it—oh—‘Operation Teeth,’” the Colonel said, displaying his own in a smile. “Show those Japs our bite!”

  “That’s the spirit Henry! ‘Operation Teeth’ it is!”

  Against Colonel Chamber’s explicit instructions, Johnny showed up at Army HQ once more.

  He knew he was risking insubordination, but he just couldn’t let it go. Again he badgered the Colonel’s staff until the Commander decided it was less trouble to see him than not. This time, it was a very frosty officer who had the young man shown into his office. Chambers left him standing at attention while he ignored him for fifteen minutes and went on making notes in a ledger.

  Johnny stood rigidly, jaw clenched, until at long last the Colonel closed his book and capped his pen.

  “Private Willman,” he said coldly, “what in blazes are you doing here?”

  “Sir,” Johnny blurted, “I am fit for duty, Sir! I request to be returned to my unit, Sir!” The Colonel continued to stare him down.

  “I thought I told you, Private, you would be released only on Doctor MacClure’s say-so, and not before. Then, like everyone else, you will get your orders through channels, and you will follow them!” Johnny stood with fists balled at his sides, staring straight ahead, and the Colonel sighed. He was inclined to send the boy on to the General. The two deserved each other. But Johnny did not know when to leave well enough alone.

  “Sir, some men might be satisfied with being clerks,” he blurted, “but a soldier’s job is in the fight! That’s where I need to be!”

  In fairness, Johnny had not intended to insult the Commander, but his haymaker hit a nerve. Who does he think he’s talking to? I’ll show this pup a choke chain!

  “Private Willman, you will return to the hospital—at once!” Chambers thundered and slammed his desk. In the next room, his aides shared a nervous look. “There you will remain, bothering no one, until you get your orders! Show up here again, and I’ll have you court-martialed for insubordination! Have I made myself clear this time?”

  Uh-oh, Johnny thought. He’d heard that tone before. Once again, he’d gone too far.

  “Yes Sir!” he said. Crestfallen, he left the office and took himself back to the hospital. Shortly after, Doc Mac came by to add his own rebuke. Johnny was lying on his bed, worn out by his excursion. The old man’s blue eyes flashed and his bushy brows were drawn together.

  “Young Johnny, neither the world, nor my hospital, revolves around you!” Everyone within earshot turned to stare. “I’ve just heard from your Colonel. I’m to exert better control over you. Hmmmph! Frankly, I’m fed up with you. But that does not make you well. I do, however, want you out of my sight!”

  Johnny was banished to the outskirts of the hospital, to what he and his new roommates called the “the halfway tent.” Here they were expected to take care of themselves, make their own beds, and walk to the mess and the showers.

  Yet, exasperating as the boy could be, privately, Doc Mac approved of Johnny. There was no medical research he knew of to support it, but he’d observed time and again that patients with a burning desire to live often did so, while others with less grievous injuries succumbed. This young Yank was among those who “swam against the stream.”

  Doc Mac was disturbed, however, by what it was that motivated the soldier. He suspected his patient clung to life simply in order to kill more of the enemy. On the other hand, who was he to judge? This was war, and perhaps young Johnny was exactly the kind of bloke who was needed.

  At any rate, Doc preferred him to the hordes of the callow and cowardly that had slunk through his doors over the years. These were the ones pathetically grateful to their injury because it was their ticket home. Worse yet were the “NPs”—the neuropsychiatric cases—chaps too battle-shocked or terrified to fight. The doctor understood that their predicament was real, but he could not respect the men.

  Young Johnny was not of their breed.

  “Let me show you,” the Major told Colonel Chambers. The two of them walked to a side table piled with reports and charts. It was dominated by a large colored map, spread open, the corners held down by cannon shells. It displayed the South Pacific, from Australia at the bottom, to the islands of Japan at the top. Across the lower third sprawled the colossal island of New Guinea.

  The Major’s finger traced up the northern coast and stopped about half way.

  “Here’s the Raub River,” Dingo said, indicating a blue squiggle. His finger followed it until it faded away in the unmarked middle of the island.

  “And somewhere here, up at the headwaters, is the village of Kissim, where the Catholic mission is located.

  “Here…” his finger moved slightly towards the ocean and he tapped: “is the trouble and strife. This is the notorious ‘Valley of the Cannibals.’ Home of the Mambu nation—most warlike tribe in all New Guinea. And that’s saying something, Henry. No white man’s ever gone in there and been seen again.”

  “Do tell,” the Colonel said.

  CHAPTER 9

  “You know I’ve kicked around New Guinea a few years?” Dingo asked the Colonel.

  “So you’ve said,” Henry murmured. “So you have said.”

  The door banged and Hala swished in again with a fresh pitcher of juice. She still wore the grass skirt, but she’d pulled on an olive T-shirt stenciled “US Army” across the chest. It was far too tight: almost worse than naked, the Colonel thought with a sigh. She replaced the empty jug and departed. The Colonel refilled the glasses.

  “Seen some strange things, I have,” Dingo went on, eyes absentmindedly following the girl. He looked back at Henry. “You know many New Guineans are cannibals. Most tribes eat their enemies—some even consume their own dead.”

  “Disgusting,” the Colonel grimaced.

  “Too right,” Dingo said. “But consider this. Our good Catholic priests, like these blokes on the Raub, offer communion to the faithful—the Lord’s Supper. The priests teach that the bread and wine literally become the body and blood of Christ.

  “It is no less than the eating of God, Henry. Sanctified cannibalism. In some parts of the world I imagine that would be a difficult mystery to communicate. Not in New Guinea! Here they understand what it means to gain a person’s power by eating him. They do it all the time.”

  “What a place!” Henry exclaimed.

  “Now, to the Mambu Nation,” Dingo went on, “the bush kanakas that inhabit the Valley of the Cannibals. Extremely warlike lot, even by New Guinea standards. Worse than the Kukukuku tribe
, and that’s saying something. There are thousands of warriors in the valley, very zealous about defending their territory.

  “Nearest I’ve been, I flew over the place before the war. I swear, some of those kanakas were shooting arrows at us! The valley formed a long strip on either side of the Raub River, flanked by sheer mountains, thick with jungle. The entire flat land was under cultivation. I made out four, perhaps five villages on the riverbanks. The only way in and out of the valley appeared to be the river gorges at each end.”

  “Any way to get through there?”

  “Nigh impossible, unless you sent in a coupla-hundred soldiers and modern weaponry. Still, you’d take casualties.”

  “What, bows and arrows against a full company of armed soldiers?” The Colonel was incredulous.

  “Don’t underestimate these blighters,” Dingo said soberly. “The Mambu are not afraid of the white man, Henry. Many of our patrols learned that the hard way over the years. They will have you for supper, if only to see what you taste like.” He sucked his teeth and the Colonel clicked his tongue.

  “Then—as your priest mentions—there are the crocs. The Raub is infested with ‘em. In fact, the river is named for them.”

  “For the alligators?” the Colonel asked. “Please explain.”

  “Crocodiles, Henry. It’s named for the crocs.”

  Johnny came to the road that led to the hospital. He really wanted that shower now. He had the meeting coming up, and hoped he’d see Gwyn there. He hadn’t talked to her since Doc Mac banished him to the halfway tent.

  She is drop-dead gorgeous, he thought. Finding a beauty like her in New Guinea was a big surprise. Suddenly his imagination took him back to Waikiki Beach, Gwyn beside him, holding his hand! She was wearing a skimpy two-piece bathing suit like Rita Hayworth or Esther Williams. The vision was so real he could almost smell the oil on sun-warmed skin.

  He was so dazzled, he stepped in a puddle that sloshed over his shoe. He almost dove headlong in the mud and barely managed to recover. On he staggered, feeling foolish.

  His walks had taken him on ever-widening circles through town. To entertain himself, and on the hunt for something half decent to eat, he’d searched out the Moresby restaurants. It was slim pickings. The few he found were in or near the hotels that catered to the expats. Dying for a change from the unremittingly canned and overcooked hospital food, Johnny had tried several.

  A week ago on impulse, he’d gone looking for Gwyn. He found her working on the Acute Care ward and noted in her green eyes that glad-to-see-you look, mixed with wariness. He asked her to come out the next night and grab something to eat.

  “I don’t date patients,” she’d said.

  “It’s not a date,” he hissed. “It’s just a bite—together.” She gave him a level look.

  “It’s a date,” she said, “and I don’t go out with patients, or soldiers.”

  He backed off and bided his time. He set himself the task of finding the very best restaurant in town. It turned out to be a seafood place at the finest hotel, with an Aussie chef. Johnny decided it wasn’t up to some of the places he’d gone with his family in Honolulu, but at least the catch-of-the-day was fresh off the grill.

  Again he sought Gwyn out, and asked her to dinner. This time he did not even pretend it would not be a date. He spruced up before he went. His fatigues were clean, his hair brushed back, and he wore a buttoned shirt instead of the usual undershirt. He’d even shaved and splashed a little Aqua Velva on. He caught her leaving work, and he did his best to muster his old appeal, the easy smile that had won quite a few hearts back in high school. Gwyn saw him coming, and her tummy gave a funny little jump. Still, Johnny found that the nurse seemed to have no trouble resisting his admittedly rusty charms.

  He ended up going for the seafood meal with some of the guys from the halfway tent. They drank too much Australian beer, and while the fish fillets were tasty, he found himself belly-full and heart-empty. For the first time, he began to wonder if he’d been cheated of something. Like any chance at a normal life.

  Still, he had his promise to keep and he tried to push Gwyn out of his thoughts. Yet she remained an itch that teased the edges of his consciousness. Much of his time in the hospital was lost forever, eaten up by his illness. But now whispers of memory came fading in. Some times, he’d come aware again, to see a beautiful woman with a halo. It was Gwyn by lantern light, seen through the netting. There she’d be by his bed, perched on a chair, often reading a book.

  Johnny learned not to show any sign he was awake, or she’d soon be gone. So he’d lay absolutely still, eyelids barely cracked, studying her face in repose. The soft curls, her lip caught between even teeth.

  She looked younger then, and he could see the girl she’d once been. He traced her features—the lashes, the angle of the cheekbones, the soft lips and the cup of her chin. He followed the line of her neck to the pulse at her throat, then probed the shape within her uniform. Her breasts against the cloth as she breathed. He saw the flare of her hips, the molded skirt, the crossed calves.

  But Johnny could not hold her there. Shortly after he came to, no matter how still he was, she would glance sharply at him. Then the book would snap shut, and with a quick “sleep well,” she’d be gone.

  In another time and place, Johnny would have made a serious run at Gwyn. But this was war, and it wasn’t over by a long shot. He had no illusions about how dangerous the invasion of the Japanese islands would be. Soldiers who would die to defend a piece of worthless jungle would be much more fanatical fighting for their families. Still, Johnny had to take part in the enemy’s ultimate defeat. Only then would he have fulfilled his promise.

  That should have put an end to mooning over a nurse. But in spite of his resolve, her image kept getting between him and his war plans.

  Then Johnny had a bad dream. In it, he was making love to Gwyn. He was shocked by how vivid the images were, and then he was outraged. This was worse than the usual nightmares. At least, those were populated by dead men. But this fresh torment cut him to the heart because he knew he could not have her. He was pierced through by longing, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Johnny had no other choice but to turn her over to the hard soldier, and the killer did not let him down. Give her up! The order came. This got started because she nursed you. It’s normal, but not going further. Let it go!

  But Johnny didn’t want to let it go, and he brooded about it. Soon enough, he had to admit it was hopeless. Even if she liked me, all I can offer is a fling. That would end up hurting her, and that is the last thing I want to do to Gwyn.

  He did not ask her out again. He began to avoid the places he might see her. He redoubled his efforts to get back in shape, because that was his ticket out. But he could not stop his mind filling up with her, and he had no peace.

  “Crocodiles—of course,” Henry was saying. “‘Gators are back where I come from.”

  “The saltys are far, far bigger,” Dingo said, “and unlike your American ‘gator, their teeth line the outside of their jaws.

  “As for the river: the word ‘Raub’ is German, named by a Kraut. There was a time when the Hun was all over New Guinea. Still quite a few Lutheran missions hanging on, and so forth.

  “The Kraut who named it was famous in his own way. 19th Century bloke, Otto Finsch, who also named the ‘Bismarck Sea.’ You’ve heard of Finschhaffen?” The Colonel nodded.

  “‘Otto Finsch’s Harbor.’ ‘Raub’ means ‘predator’—something like that. And the place is crawling with the scaly buggers. Lots of the smaller fresh water variety, of course. Grow a mere twelve-foot or so. Still, they are man-eaters—regularly dine on your kanaka and his animals.

  “But the really enormous brutes are ‘saltys.’ My guess is this ‘Father’ is one of them. Long way from his usual haunts, but a bastard that big goes where it wants! Even a fifteen-footer can pull a several hundred pound cow by the nose or leg into the drink. The largest ever killed back
home was thirty foot. If this ‘Father of the Crocodiles’ is in that league, it will weigh about four thousand pounds.”

  “What? Four thousand pounds!” the Colonel exclaimed. “Imagine that coming at you in the water!”

  “Like a submarine—with teeth,” Dingo nodded. “And strong swimmers. They can cross the Pacific Ocean. In a scrape with a shark, my money would be on the croc. More intelligent, you see.

  “Your male crocodile is extremely territorial. In Queensland, they regularly attack boats. Otto Finsch lost an entire canoe of his kanakas at the mouth of the Raub. Overturned their dugout and slaughtered the men in the water as they tried to swim away. Old Otto called it ‘Raubfluss’—Predator River—and went on to easier things.”

  “Well, that’s clear enough,” the Colonel said. “My men will steer clear of the river! Now let’s go over the specifics of Operation Teeth.”

  “Fire away,” Dingo said.

  “I’ll send four experienced jungle fighters. We’ll have to fly them in. I’ll need your help there, Dingo. As you know, I have no aircraft at my disposal. I’ll pay the charter. The plane can take the men in, and wait for them to finish up. How many days do you think we need?”

  “Three days,” the Major said decisively. “That should be enough.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” the Colonel said. “The plan is simple. Rescue the American priest, Chris Bastion. The secondary objective would be to knock out the enemy, if possible. On the morning of the fourth day, they’ll return. Neat and clean.”

  “And the Eye-tie of course,” the Major put in.

  “What? Oh yes, they’ll rescue…” the Colonel glanced at the letter, “…Father Constanti as well. Naturally.”