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

by Timothy James Dean

  At last he stopped and she gently retrieved her hands. Then it was her turn to talk, her face serious. When she was done, the man gazed intently at her and then turned to look at the ships.

  If Johnny had been watching, he would have seen Gwyn kiss him. True, it was only a peck on the cheek, but she put up a hand and stroked his face as well. It was the kind of affectionate touch a woman only gives someone she cares deeply about.

  The couple stood quietly a moment longer, and then Gwyn departed.

  The man known to his mates as “Footy” stood lost in thought, a frown on his face. Then his habitual grin surfaced, and he made his way through the crowd in search of his motorbike.

  CHAPTER 12

  Tuesday morning, Johnny had an early breakfast with the men from the halfway tent and bought some loaves of bread. The day before, he’d visited the barber. The man got busy with his clippers and the dark curls fell to the floor. Fighting short.

  He was standing outside his tent with all his gear when the Colonel’s jeep pulled up. Johnny was dressed in camo trousers and his undershirt. The belt around his waist bore two canteens of water, the revolver, bayonet and machete. The rope was tied to his pack and he had his helmet on, Springfield over his shoulder. His buddies heaved the food cartons and everything else into the back. Johnny said his goodbyes and climbed in the passenger seat. Soon he’d left the hospital behind for good.

  The Colonel’s aide raced to the airport and headed across the Macadam. There was a line of wrecks in the distance, but they cut towards an old bomber at the end of the runway. Johnny’s first impression was of a piece of junk. It had metal patches all over it and the propellers didn’t even match. As they got close, he noticed the pin-up beauty on the side and the name, “Miss Nippon-These.” This can’t be our plane! But it must be, because there was the Aussie Major beside it—the one he’d met yesterday at the Colonel’s office.

  Major Hawsey. What did he tell me to call him? Some sort of dog. The mission leader stood with his backpack and rifle, dressed in shorts and a shirt with the arms rolled up to display thick biceps. He wore a brimmed hat, the kind the Aussies favored, with the side hooked up. The man was barefoot. A pair of sandals was tied to his pack. Some of these characters have been here too long!

  The Major was laughing with a smaller man, dressed in white shorts and a light shirt. The jeep stopped and Johnny got out and began to unload. The Major and the other guy came over and lent a hand.

  “Morning, Johnny,”

  “Morning Major.”

  “Now, we had that out yesterday,” the older man smiled. “I’m in charge, but from here on in, we’re just a coupla mates in the bush, awlright? You call me Dingo like I told you.” Ah, that was it.

  “Ok—Dingo.” They had Johnny’s gear out and the jeep sped away.

  The Major put a hand on the shoulder of the man beside him. “This here’s a good mate of mine, our pilot—Glen Carmichael.”

  “G’day mate,” the fellow grinned, extending a hand. “I hear you’re a Yank, but we’ll try not to hold that against you.”

  “Thanks Glen,” Johnny said dryly as he shook. He must have gripped a little harder than he meant to, because the pilot grimaced and squeezed back.

  “Call me ‘Footy,’” the man said.

  “Footy? As in—foot?”

  “Footy,” the pilot said, “as in ‘football.’”

  “Soccer to you Yanks,” Dingo nodded. “Footy’s quite the boy on the field.”

  Johnny turned toward the aircraft.

  “Tell me we’re not flying in that!”

  “She might look a bit rough, but she’s sound,” the pilot said defensively. “Miss Nippon-These will get you there, and pick you up come Friday, no worries, mate.”

  “You guarantee that?” Johnny asked.

  “Bloody right!” Footy sputtered.

  “Johnny, if Footy says so, you can count on it. Come on lads, stop the pissing and let’s get this mission in the air!” Dingo grabbed a food carton and headed for the aircraft. Footy shrugged and picked up the other box.

  “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot,” the pilot smiled. By the time they reached the wooden ladder leaning against the door into the bomber, the Major was aboard. “Up you go. We’ll be hunky dory, you’ll see.”

  “Ok,” Johnny muttered as he climbed, “but I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”

  He stepped into the Hudson and saw it was all open space, the metal interior and wiring on display. In the middle sat a bench seat bolted to the floor that looked like it had come from a truck. The men deposited their gear and the pilot went to the cockpit.

  “Tie everything down,” Dingo said, “in case of turbulence.”

  Johnny uncoiled his rope and lashed his gear to the ribs using slipknots. Dingo watched approvingly, then took the end of the rope and did the same, not quite as expertly. Johnny wedged his helmet and rifle under the strands. The men sat down and realized there were no seatbelts.

  One engine roared to life, and then the other, blowing smoke. Soon they were yowling and the aircraft began to creak forward. A hairy spider as big as a hand climbed out of the fuselage over the men and dropped fast, legs spread. Dingo whipped off his hat and swatted it away. It scuttled across the floor and ducked into a hole.

  The Hudson went bounding down the runway, motors roaring. On and on they rumbled and Johnny thought they’d never lift off. But then the shuddering stopped and the aircraft tilted up. They watched the treetops fall away.

  Footy put the craft into a steep climb. The altimeter, he saw, wasn’t working, but he figured they were at about seven thousand feet and leveled off. There followed a long stretch with only the vibration of the engines and the whistle around the patches. The air felt cold and thin. Dingo gave Johnny a wink, pulled his hat over his eyes, and fell asleep.

  From time to time, Johnny went to the windows and stared down. He saw only the interminable green jungle, occasionally parted by the coils of a brown river. After some hours, Johnny felt the plane’s engines labor as they climbed over the mountain range. He glimpsed snow on the tallest peaks.

  He was hungry and he tore off the end of a loaf and ate. It occurred to him that he was getting into the supplies for the trip, but he wasn’t concerned. He’d brought double what they needed for three days, and Friday’s breakfast, before the flight back.

  The Hudson shot into a cloudbank and the windows went dazzling white. After a time they exploded into brilliant blue again. Dingo dozed on and Johnny wandered back and forth to the windows. Now below them was a rumpled cloud blanket as far as he could see.

  As he watched, the bomber threaded between enormous cumulous towers. They boiled up a thousand feet above them and Johnny suddenly felt tiny. As the Hudson passed between the thunderheads, he saw bursts of light within and guessed it was lightning. Crouched at the windows, he watched for some time. Once more the bomber banked around a cloud and he realized they were going in circles. When the floor leveled out, he worked his way to the cockpit and stuck his head in.

  “How’re you doing?” he yelled over the thrum. The pilot turned towards him and Johnny saw worry on the man’s face.

  “Not good,” Footy said. “I can’t see the bloody ground.” There was a hand-drawn map spread on the copilot’s chair and Footy squinted at it. “Look,” he called. “We’re in the vicinity of the Raub, but I can’t see. Get Dingo up, would you? I need his help.”

  Johnny woke up the Major and they returned. Dingo waved Johnny into the co-pilot’s seat while he stood in the doorway, holding on.

  “I reckon the Raub’s below us,” Footy said over his shoulder, “but it’s socked in. No landmarks. The usual in New Guinea, I’m afraid. Why they call the blasted place ‘the pilot killer.’”

  “What now?” Johnny asked.

  “We need a break in the clouds—a way through,” Dingo said. Footy ran a hand over his face.

  “I’ll circle for a bit—but I need enough petrol for the ret
urn flight. We must find a way in the next fifteen minutes, or we have to call it off.”

  “Abort the mission?” Dingo yelled.

  “If we must, mate,” Footy called back. “Now put your eyeballs out there.” The men stared in every direction but saw only clouds. At last Footy tapped the fuel gauge.

  “That’s it I’m afraid…”

  “There!” Johnny yelled. He’d seen a flash of green through the side window. “A hole!”

  Footy stood the Hudson on a wing and dropped the nose. The bomber screamed down, an arrow against the thunderheads. The gap was there, a patch of jungle in the white, disappearing fast. Just in time, Footy brought the Hudson through. At once the light dimmed and rain splattered against the patched windows, blurring the view. Footy saw the band of water to one side and wrestled the craft that way.

  On the ground, the drone of engines had been noticed for some time. Hostile eyes watched the black shape drop suddenly out of the rain. The roar was loud as the enemy aircraft careened at them along the river. The patrol turned with guns ready and ran for the only place an aircraft could land.

  The bomber shot low over the river’s surface. The men stared at the jungle rushing by. It was Dingo who saw the open bank.

  “There!” he shouted. “A village!”

  “Right mate,” Footy called. He squinted through the drops that quivered across the windows. The clearing came up fast and then was below. Johnny made out blackened circles, the remnants of huts. Behind that was a strip of grass surrounded by jungle, and then a mountain that climbed into the clouds. They were over dense jungle again. Footy banked hard over the river, leaving Johnny’s stomach behind.

  “Gotta be Kissim!” Dingo yelled, hanging onto the doorway.

  “And the airstrip!” Footy called. The landing site the priest wrote about, Johnny realized.

  They were back over the village. Johnny stared, but saw no one, no movement at all. The bomber turned inland and there was the field. The pilot made a pass over it while he worked the controls. The landing gear clunked into place. They could see nothing but rain, mist and the waist-high kunai grass.

  “Look ok?” Johnny asked.

  “It’ll have to do,” Footy said grimly.

  The mountain flank came up fast. Again the pilot spun the Hudson and they were headed back at the field. A crosswind shoved them sideways and rain rattled like pebbles along the fuselage. Footy nudged the nose into the wind and the plane crabbed on, dropping lower.

  Then, with a stutter of rupturing metal, bright shafts of light poured into the cockpit. A new set of holes opened as Johnny stared. Footy fought the stick and the bomber yawed wildly.

  “Machine gun!” Dingo bellowed. There were clangs to Johnny’s right and he glanced along the wing and saw chunks of the engine flying off. The propeller froze, black smoke billowing behind it, and there was the stench of gasoline. The aircraft dropped hard again and Footy fought it.

  “Bloody hell!” he gritted. The ruined engine exploded in an orange fireball and Johnny saw the grass rushing at them.

  Then three men burst from the jungle into the waist-high kunai. The leader had a machine gun and the other two, rifles. They turned and aimed at the aircraft. Johnny saw tracers come from the machine gun. The windshield exploded and bullets whined overhead and punctured the bulkhead. Dingo dropped to the floor.

  “Bloody, bloody hell,” Footy snarled. “Hang on!”

  The plane fell like a stone, hit dirt and bounced. They struck again, hopped up, fell back, and stayed down. The landing gear collapsed with a scream of rending metal and the bomber slammed down on its belly. Now it was no more than a mass of twisted, burning metal, hurtling down the field.

  Johnny couldn’t take his eyes off the soldiers. They were close enough now that he could see they were Japanese. The guns kept firing and shot clanged around them. Pieces flying off, the Hudson bore down on the men. Suddenly the shooters perceived their danger. They stood frozen for long seconds, then broke and ran for their lives.

  The Hudson slewed so Johnny’s side window gave him a ringside view. The machine gunner ran first, another on his heels. The third man stumbled and fell. The wing on Johnny’s side dipped down and mowed the grass. A rain of stalks flew into the smoke and fire. The first two Japanese managed to clear the wingtip. The third man was on his feet again, but too late. The wing plowed him under.

  The bomber continued in a din of shrieking metal. The jungle was coming at them fast now, and then the wing smashed into a giant boulder. The fuselage drew a circle around it and at last it ground to a stop. In the comparative silence, there was only the pinging of metal and the whoosh of the fire consuming the engine. Johnny glanced back: Dingo sat on the floor, bleeding from a cut on his cheek, but apparently ok.

  “Get out!” Footy screamed, fumbling with his harness. “She’s gonna blow!”

  Johnny threw himself back at his equipment, pulled his slipknots and his stuff tumbled loose. He jammed on his helmet, got his Springfield over his shoulder, and bent to help Dingo with his knots. Everything was taking too long.

  Footy dashed up, scooped up a box, threw open the door and bailed out. Dingo, rifle in hand and pack on his back, followed. Johnny had his pack in one hand and a food box in the other. He tossed the things out and, holding his Springfield, he jumped. He hit hard, rolled and felt the jolt in his shoulder, but protected his rifle. He gathered the spilled cans and bread back in the box, got his pack on and ran after the others.

  The machine gun opened up again and they dove onto their bellies. The kunai provided cover, but no protection, and the bullets cut through the grass, searching them out.

  FROM THE JOURNALS OF COLONEL HENRY CHAMBERS, JR.

  The Samurai and the Cowboy

  Dear Reader, in order to illuminate the profound difference between East and West, Japan and America, I beg your indulgence in a metaphor.

  If Japan is the Samurai, then America is the Cowboy.

  Just as the Asians have their traditions, so too do we have our unique mythology. America has the legendary Cowboy who tamed the Wild West. He is the frontiersman who rode the range and brought order to a hostile land. Somehow he managed this without organized law enforcement, and none of the niceties of civilization.

  As to his character: the Cowboy is self-sufficient and a man of few words, but when he does speak, you do well to listen. He has hard fists and six-shooters on his belt, and he is not afraid to use either set. He is slow to anger, but when push comes to shove, he comes out blazing.

  In the face of bullies, bandits, gunslingers and mercenaries, he is the ordinary folks’ only hope. He is the champion of a woman’s honor, even when it is somewhat tarnished, as it might be on the frontier. He is the defender of the innocent and the helpless. Circumstances at times force him to become both judge and executioner, and then it is his bullet fired through a black heart.

  The Cowboy is part outlaw, part marshal, and all man. In this regard, America is unique. No nation loves a good-hearted rogue quite like we do. We admire the principled man who finds himself on the wrong side of the law. Our Cowboy-hero demonstrates the deep truth on which, in part, our nation was founded. Corrupt institutions and men will bend righteous laws to evil purposes.

  It is not words in a law book, but the Cowboy’s conscience, under God, that dictates right from wrong. Eventually he must take the high road, even if that results in his own destruction.

  So where do we find our hero of the Wild World in the mid-20th Century? Where was he when the Samurai swung his sword, and our boys died by the thousands at Pearl?

  For Nippon, that strike was born of an ancient, honorable tradition. Our Cowboy, however, had no knowledge of that oriental code. In fact, our Western hero’s ultimate contempt was reserved for the kind of lowlife who would sneak his gun out and shoot a man in the back.

  Therefore, when Japanese warplanes fell from peacetime skies onto Pearl Harbor, the Cowboy Nation perceived the heinous act of a despicable coward.


  On December 7th, 1941, the Samurai committed the worst error in its two-and-a-half thousand years of Empire. Nippon imagined a bold blow that would cripple its enemy. America would be forced to sue for peace on Nippon’s terms. Instead, it merely thrust a needle into the eye of a giant.

  Most certainly, America felt the sting. With a roar of outrage that rocked the world, the Cowboy climbed to his feet, drowning out the cooing of the Doves and Isolationists.

  Through a sheen of blood, the Cowboy glowered across the oceans. He intoned the names of his enemies and called down righteous war upon them. Both the Samurai Warrior and the jackbooted Nazi must have felt the icy winds of destiny change at that moment!

  America would rush first to England’s side and do battle against Hitler’s hordes, but the Cowboy’s special fury would be reserved for Japan. The slaughter of the two thousand, three hundred in Hawaii, the destruction of our Pacific fleet, the invasion of our Philippines and the egregious assault on our sons there: these affronts would burn hot in the mind and heart of America.

  Now, in mid-1945, the Japanese Empire has paid dearly, and will continue to pay, for its actions. It does not matter how long it takes or how steep the price. America has determined that the future of Nippon has been reduced to two ineluctable words: “unconditional surrender.”

  Indeed, at the time of this writing, America and its Allies have bested the Nazi beast. Now we batter on the very doors of Japan. The Samurai Warrior fights on, but he is grievously wounded, and already he must feel his imminent doom.

  And it is here, Dear Reader, that our metaphor ends. For as Japan is not merely the Samurai, America is much more than the Cowboy. Both nations are composed of thousands, if not millions, of competing and divergent voices. Your Author has attempted only to establish what the 18th Century German philosophers called “Zeitgeist”—the spirit of the age.

  In reality, America is a sophisticated and complex society composed of more than one hundred and thirty-three million citizens. These are the product of every ethnic group and nation on Earth. Together we form one great Republic. America is our world’s most potent and prolific industrial force. Our love of freedom, our power, influence, and business interests, cover the globe.