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

by Timothy James Dean

  “And this monster crocodile—and our beloved kanaka brothers and sisters?”

  “As I said, the men will avoid the river,” the Colonel replied. “That simple. Forget the blasted crocodile. As for the natives—I am afraid they are not our concern.”

  “Not our concern—of course,” Dingo said. “Right Henry. Well, I’ve a coupla-thoughts myself—if you’ll allow me.”

  “Shoot,” the Colonel said, taking up his glass and sitting back.

  “First—limit the team to two experienced men. More than that will only get in the way. Second, make this a proper Allied operation—one of yours, one of ours.”

  Henry pursed his lips.

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Dingo said. “I’ll be the ‘one of ours.’ I’ll lead ‘Operation Teeth’—with your approval, Henry. I’m the best choice, if I say so myself. I’m the only one with first-hand knowledge of the region. I speak the languages. I know how to handle your bush kanaka. And I have conducted many a campaign against the Japs. How does that strike you?”

  The Colonel was thrilled, but he allowed himself only a small smile, as befitting his station. Putting “Operation Teeth” under an experienced jungle warrior like Dingo Hawsey was a virtual guarantee of success.

  “Dingo, you have my full endorsement,” he said. “Glad to have you, Major!” The Colonel offered his hand and the Australian shook it heartily.

  “Truth is,” Dingo said, “I could use a few days in the bush—get fed up in town. And that means you have only one other bloke to find, Henry.”

  “Great,” the Colonel said. “Now—the clock is ticking. The priest’s letter is already dated, and I have two weeks before I go. I want to be here to welcome you back. I’d like you to be on your way by Tuesday.”

  “Leave Tuesday? Lot’s of time, if we find a plane,” Dingo grinned. “Puts us back in Port Moresby—let me see, Friday next? We can tear a chop together that night—with the priests, of course. And that still gives you a full week before you have to leave us.”

  “What about the aircraft?” the Colonel said.

  “Leave that to me,” the Major replied. “I believe I might know of one. Pilot’s a mate of mine.” He stood up. “I’ll suggest he just touch down, let me and the other bloke out, and come back Friday morning to pick us up. In and out, and Bob’s your uncle.

  “Tell you what—I’ll work out the wrinkles and meet you here first thing Monday. I’ll let you know about the plane, and you tell me who’s coming along.

  “I’ll see to it,” the Colonel said, walking Dingo to the door.

  “One last thing,” the Aussie said. “I’d very much appreciate it if your Yank has got experience fighting in the New Guinea bush. There won’t be time for me to hold anyone’s hand.”

  “Count on me,” the Colonel said. Dingo departed and he closed the door and returned to his desk.

  Now who can I send? Something caught his eye.

  CHAPTER 10

  As the Colonel perused the file, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. Insane heat! I won’t miss it—or this primitive place. Henry’s interest was military history, not anthropology! He would continue to write about New Guinea for some time, but as for actually being here, he was fed up. He could hardly wait for the comforts of civilization back in Charleston.

  I’d hate to be the one going in-country, he reflected. But then, that is the privilege of command. But neither can I abandon an American citizen, and it’s only a three-day jaunt. Again, he thought about his book and was encouraged.

  Then there’s the anecdote for my book! My readers will understand that I, too, have commanded action. And what a tale to tell—a raid to snatch unarmed civilians, priests at that, from the enemy’s clutches!

  Henry got an image of himself being interviewed by a room full of reporters. In a habitual gesture, he removed the comb from his pocket and slicked back his steel-gray Brylcreemed hair.

  But first things first! He returned to the file. The subject of it was as seasoned and decorated a campaigner as he’d come across, but as he knew himself, he was a discipline problem. He’d been promoted an incredible fifteen times, and on an equal number of occasions, demoted again.

  The Colonel set the dossier down and walked to the window. Again he stood staring towards the harbor, hands clasped behind his back. He is the best choice for this mission. He’s less than half Dingo’s age, but has about as much experience in jungle combat as does the Major. On top of that, the timing’s right. The Colonel had just received a report from the hospital.

  Johnny showered for the meeting, and for the first time in days, he shaved. He changed into clean clothes—his other set of fatigue pants and a buttoned shirt. He was keyed up about the outcome, and he warned himself to guard his tongue. Then he made his way to the hospital mess tent and waited in line for breakfast.

  A man spooned scrambled eggs onto his metal tray and another slopped on instant mashed potatoes and canned gravy. Johnny grabbed several slices of toast, but bypassed the butter. It had separated in the heat. At least there was fresh coffee. He filled a mug at the urn and topped it up with sweetened condensed milk.

  Johnny saw some of the men from his tent and joined them at a long table packed with patients. While he wolfed down his food, he kidded the others about sleeping in all day, while he’d already been to market. He told them about the Catholic girls and they laughed.

  Johnny always seemed to be hungry now. Normally his six-foot one-inch frame weighed a hundred and ninety pounds, but when he’d managed to get on a scale here, he’d been dismayed to see the needle settle at one-fifty-something. Since then, he’d packed on a good twenty-five pounds, and he had more to go.

  He wiped his tray with a piece of toast, then got another helping. After his third coffee, he still had time before the meeting, so he returned to his tent and took apart his Springfield. Even more than the average GI, he depended on his rifle for his life. He laid the parts out on his cot, oiled and wiped each one, and assembled it again. And at last it was time.

  Feeling nervous, ready for an argument but trying to stay calm, Johnny walked to the Acute Care ward. There was frantic activity around the front entrance. A stretcher was being hauled out of an ambulance and a doctor and two nurses were working on the patient, surrounded by a group of men. A jeep stood nearby, engine running, driver behind the wheel. Johnny ducked around the corner where a wooden structure had been built against the rounded side of the Quonset hut.

  He knocked and Doc Mac’s voice told him to enter. Johnny stepped into the administrator’s stark office and found the old man in a bloodstained white jacket, clipboard in hand. Johnny saw it was Ruthie, not Gwyn, who assisted the Chief today, and he suppressed a stab of disappointment. Doc Mac was saying something to him and Johnny forced himself to focus.

  “Sorry Doc, what’s that?”

  “Do you have any pain in the chest?”

  “No,” Johnny lied. “I’m good.” He grinned and rotated the shoulder, ignoring the spasm.

  “Well then,” Doc Mac said, making a note. The finality in his tone surprised Johnny. He realized the meeting was already wrapping up. It had taken less than a minute.

  “I have a busy morning. Young Johnny, we are done with you. It’s official. You are no longer a resident of this hospital. You’ll have to find another place to stay. I do wish you all the best.” Then, wonder-of-wonders, Doc Mac smiled warmly and offered his hand. Johnny took it and shook.

  “Keep eating, will you? You need the weight,” Doc looked him up and down. “And may I ask you to try not to take the war quite so personally? It seems to interfere with your health.”

  “I’ll try,” Johnny said, “And Doc, I owe you my life, I know that. Well—thanks for everything. I’m sorry if I got out of line.” The Doctor was still staring at him.

  “I’m not sure you know it, young Johnny, but there is more to life than war. Will you try to remember that as we
ll?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good man,” the doctor said. “Now, I have a message from your Colonel. He wants to see you, and at once. His jeep is waiting around the front.” Johnny’s spirits leapt. Maybe there was a ship going north! Doc Mac said goodbye and departed, door banging behind him. Johnny paused to say goodbye to Ruthie.

  “I’ll see you around,” he said. “Sorry if I was a jerk. Say goodbye to Gwyn for me. You heard the Doc. Maybe the Colonel is sending me back to the Philippines.”

  “Sorry, you’ll have to say goodbye to Gwyn for yourself,” Ruthie smiled. “Take care, Johnny-me-lad.” She stepped up, offered her cheek and he kissed it. Then he was out the door, heading for the jeep. Fifteen minutes later, he was standing in front of the Colonel again, but this time he’d been invited, and that made all the difference.

  “At ease,” the Colonel said, looking up from the book he was forever writing in. “I understand Doc Mac has given you a clean bill of health.” He laid down his pen, rubbed his eyes and leaned back.

  “Private, I have an assignment for you. I’m sending you into the New Guinea interior. It’s a simple three-day mission I’ve named ‘Operation Teeth.’ Show me you can handle this, and I’ll send you back to General MacArthur.”

  “Yes Sir!” Johnny grinned so enthusiastically the Colonel could not help smiling. It was hard not to like the boy, even if he was a pain in the keester.

  “I’ve decided to go out on a limb for you,” Chambers said, rising and coming around the desk to face the GI.

  “I’m going to give you a promotion. And you will do your best to try and hang on to this one. That is an order.”

  “Yes Sir!”

  Glen Carmichael leaned the bike against the wall of his house, went in and kicked off his filthy shorts. He stood under the five-gallon bucket on the rope in the stall, twisted the showerhead and cool water cascaded over him. He scrubbed thoroughly, working hard on the blackened arms and fingernails. He lathered the suds into his short, sandy hair, and rinsed off.

  He dried himself, decided the short stubble on his face was good enough, and looked through his few clothes. He selected tan shorts and a bright orange shirt. It had been a gift from an auntie—sister of the mother who had passed on when he was a boy. His mum had fallen to consumption, what they now called ‘tuberculosis.’

  He was dressed in a flash and slid into his sandals. There was a bottle of Old Spice on the dresser and he sprayed some on the armpits of his shirt and slapped a little on his cheeks. On the way out the door he peered into the cracked truck mirror hung on a nail. He licked a finger and smoothed down the one curl that always stuck up.

  “Footy me mate, you’re God’s gift to the Sheilas,” he crooned. “She’s gotta love ya.”

  Then he was on the motorbike again, weaving through the Saturday afternoon crowd, on his way to see Gwyn.

  “You’ll be under Major Hawsey’s authority,” the Colonel told Johnny. He waved the GI to the sofas. Once they were seated, he picked a stained letter off the table and handed it over.

  “Take this with you. It’s a letter from the priest at Kissim.

  “‘Operation Teeth’ will go as follows. You have three days to find Father Chris Bastion. He’s an American, and your primary objective. There should be an Italian, Father something-or-other, with him. It’s in the letter. Bring them back. Do what you can to kill or capture the enemy troops. That is your secondary mission.

  “Stay away from the river. As the letter explains, there’s some sort of dangerous gator there.

  “Now Son, let me be clear. In spite of anything the priests say, do not bring back any natives! They are not our concern, apart from any relief you can provide by neutralizing the Japs.

  “Major Dingo Hawsey will lead. You follow. He’s the most able New Guinea hand I’ve ever met, with a lifetime of experience. Is that clear?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  The Colonel sat forward and stared into the young man’s face.

  “I’ve looked through your file, John. You’ve had more than your share of disciplinary problems. Apart from that, you’ve got an outstanding record. I’d go so far as to say you’re a bona fide hero.” Johnny stared back and said nothing.

  “I’m going to take a chance on you. Your are now Sergeant Willman—I’ve signed the paperwork. You’ll get your stripes in due course. Try to hang on to this one.”

  “Yes Sir,” Johnny said. “Thank you, Sir!”

  “Do a good job for me, and I’ll send you back to General MacArthur. There’s a supply ship scheduled through in nine days, bound for Manila. I’ll put you on it before I depart for the States—unless you want to come with me? That’s within my power. Are you dead certain you want to return to the war?”

  “With all due respect, yes Sir! I want to be there when we take down Japan.”

  “It’s settled then,” the Colonel nodded. “What do you need for supplies? One of my aides will take you to the depot and ensure you get what you need.

  “Then Sergeant, report here Monday at 0-800-hours for your briefing with Major Hawsey. We have some details to work out, but you two will fly out Tuesday, and the aircraft will pick you up Friday morning. I want you report to me that afternoon. Got it? Good. Dismissed.”

  Soon Johnny was standing in a storeroom packed to the rafters with equipment.

  “Looks like you’re well stocked,” he said. The Supply Sarg, a middle-aged man with a substantial beer belly, shrugged.

  “Most of it’s used, if you catch my drift.”

  Johnny chuckled, then rattled off what he wanted. In short order, he had a box of .30-06 cartridges for his Springfield, a holstered .45 semi-automatic Colt pistol, and ammunition for it. From a pile of knives, he selected a machete in a canvas sheath and a knife-style bayonet that he knew would attach to his Springfield. He chose a webbed belt, and threaded onto it the pistol, knives, two water bottles, and some canvas pockets.

  The Sarg brought him a first aid kit. Johnny checked through it; bandages, sulfa powder, iodine, gauze, a roll of tape and cotton balls. There were bottles of water purification tables, which he would use, and anti-malarial pills, Atabrine, which he would leave behind. The bright yellow pills colored his skin and made him feel sick. He preferred the fever.

  Johnny asked for syrettes of morphine. The Colonel’s aide was watching everything, taking notes, and he approved the requisition. The Supply Sarg said the narcotic was in lockup and went to get it.

  Johnny found a used steel M1 helmet with netting and added it to his growing pile. He selected a coil of rope, a mess kit nested together, metal plates and cutlery for two—he didn’t know what the Australian was bringing. He grabbed a coffee pot, a one-burner kerosene stove, and a can of fuel. He pulled down a backpack and began to stuff everything in.

  The Sarg returned and handed over the morphine—three metal squeeze tubes with their needles under glass caps. Johnny had administered these many times during the fighting—most GIs carried one—and he put them in a pocket.

  “Find me a jungle hammock, will you?” he asked, “and a sheet to go with it.” In his experience, the ruggedly made hammock with its waterproof roof and mosquito netted sides was the way to go in New Guinea. It kept you out of the mud, away from all the creepy-crawlies.

  Johnny turned his attention to food. They needed enough for two men for three, max four days, but he decided to take six days’ supply, just to be safe. He sorted through stacks of canned rations and found two cartons to fill.

  Into one he put the meat and vegetables. Soon it was stacked with corned beef, stew, potatoes, cooked tomatoes and tomato sauce, mixed vegetables, baked and green beans, and more. He added a pack of hard tack biscuits and C-ration crackers.

  The second box, he packed with fruit cocktail, cling peaches, pear halves, applesauce and custard. He added bags of ground coffee, powdered milk and sugar. He decided he’d round up some loaves of fresh bread at the hospital mess Tuesday morning.

  �
�I’ll take two cartons of cigarettes,” he said. The supply man handed over unfiltered Camels. Johnny almost reached for a box of matches, but decided there was no need. He’d refill his Zippo before they went, and that would be more than enough for this jaunt. “One last thing—a bottle of brandy,” he said. The officers stared. “For medicinal purposes,” Johnny shrugged. “And that’s it.”

  “Are you sure?” the Colonel’s aide asked dryly. “How many days you going for again?” The Sarg fetched a bottle of the amber liquid and Johnny stashed it in his pack.

  He tied the hammock roll on top of his bulging backpack, grabbed a shoulder strap and swung it up. Right away, his wound let him know just what a bad idea that was. Pain popped like flash bulbs and he dropped the load. He felt the eyes of the other men on him and he grunted and dropped to a knee. To give himself a moment, he crammed the helmet on his head and breathed deeply. It wouldn’t do for the Colonel to hear he couldn’t even pick up his pack!

  Johnny lit a smoke, grinned through the hurt, and stood. He took all the weight in his right hand, swung the load again and managed to hook his arms through.

  “Can I get a ride?”

  “Sure thing, Sergeant,” the looey told him.

  “Give me a hand with that box?” Johnny scooped up one of the cartons of food, careful again to use his right arm, while the Colonel’s man hoisted the other.

  A short time later, the jeep was pulling up in front of the halfway tent. And this, Johnny saw, was a day for surprises.

  She stood in her uniform, surrounded by an admiring cluster of his tent mates. Johnny had his helmet on, knives and the pistol hanging off his belt. He jumped out and sauntered over, feeling suddenly self-conscious under the gaze of those somber sea-green eyes.

  Gwyn, it appeared, had been waiting for him.

  CHAPTER 11

  FROM THE JOURNALS OF COLONEL HENRY CHAMBERS, JR.

  The One Punch Fight

  Dear Reader, for us to understand our enemy (a key to the art of war), we must first grasp Japan’s legendary warrior code, “Bushido.” In the 1930’s, your Author lived in Tokyo for two years, a Military Attaché to our Embassy. There he had the opportunity to study firsthand this alien and yet refined civilization, its culture and literature, its art and its people.