America is renowned for its warmth and generosity. Our nation makes the best of friends, and the worst of enemies. As we continue to teach Nippon in the crucible of war, those who ignore this fact do so at their mortal peril.
At the time of this writing in mid-1945, only the second global war in history is entering its final chapter. Both occurred in the first half of this 20th Century. The cost, already inconceivable, will be much greater before we are done. It is estimated that between fifty- and seventy-five million people have perished in this handful of years, most of them civilians. Much of the old world lies in ruins.
But rising tall from the rubble, towers the United States of America. Only one other world power remains on its feet—our uneasy Ally, the Soviet Union. Of that brutal and repressive society under “the Butcher” Joseph Stalin, we will say little here.
Where have the others gone? Germany’s star burned briefly and flared out. Hitler’s dream of the Third Reich and a thousand-year reign did not even last a decade. And while the once great European nations will no doubt attempt to regroup, the world has changed forever. Their former colonies have sipped the heady nectar of freedom.
Even the glory that was once the British Empire continues to fade towards darkness. Vestiges can be seen here and there, in trains that run on schedule, a body of Common Law, and that greatest of legacies, the English language.
The United States of America remains the champion of democracy, freedom and justice for all. As a nation and a society, Americans know best how often, and how far, we fall short of our high ideals. Yet we will continue to fight, until we bring them to fruition.
This much is clear. America is the last great hope of the world.
Part 2
The River
"Can you pull in leviathan with a fishhook
or tie down his tongue with a rope? …
Who dares open the doors of his mouth
ringed about with his fearsome teeth? …
Strength resides in his neck; dismay goes before him…
He makes the depths churn like a boiling caldron…
Nothing on earth is his equal—a creature without fear."
– Job 41
“I had a vision…the phantom-bearers, the wild crowd of obedient worshipers, the gloom of the forests, the glitter of the reach between the murky bends, the beat of the drum, regular and muffled like the beating of a heart —
the heart of a conquering darkness.”
– Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
“A good plan, violently executed now,
is better than a perfect plan next week.”
– General George Patton
CHAPTER 1
The three men crawled away from the wreck as fast as they could, while machine gun bullets whined overhead. Then the explosion came, flattening the grass. It was followed almost immediately by an even louder boom. There was a roar of flame and Johnny felt the fierce heat on his back. Both wing tanks. A shower of twisted metal crashed down around him.
Footy wiggled into a shallow depression, pushing the box. Dingo slid in after him, while the machine gun chopped the grass over their heads. Johnny left his pack and the box and, rifle in his hands, crawled to the others. When he was close, he motioned for them to stay put. He wagged a finger at the machine gun, then to himself: I’ll take care of them! He slithered away.
Good on ya Johnny! Dingo thought, flat on his belly. Perhaps the Colonel had done right by him after all. He and Footy tucked their heads down as slugs struck just in front of their hole and showered them with dirt.
The land sloped away. Still in the kunai, Johnny stood, bent double and ran. The enemy rifleman saw the undulating grass and tapped the machine gunner’s shoulder. A line of slugs chased Johnny across the field. He heard them biting at his heels and began to zigzag like the football pass receiver he’d once been. Finally to the tree line, he threw himself behind a trunk. Bullets tore into it and a splinter nicked his face. He kept the tree between himself and the enemy and climbed. The gunner lost sight of him and went back to probing the field with lead.
Full of adrenaline, Johnny hauled himself up. Take the high ground! Fifteen feet in the air, he paused on a limb and peered through the leaves. What he saw chilled him. The enemy soldiers had fanned out and were walking fast through the grass. They were almost on the Australian’s hiding place—Johnny could see his trail coming away from them.
He grabbed the bark with his left hand and rested his rifle on it. He had both eyes open. One absorbed the whole scene—the Japs walking in the rain, the burning hulk behind them. With his other, he had a close view of the machine gunner. He aimed at the chest and shot. The man slammed over.
The third enemy threw himself down in the grass. Johnny watched the place while he reloaded by feel—a much-practiced move. He fired, hit his target, and the wounded soldier staggered up and tried to run.
Dingo’s head came into view. The Major leapt across the short distance, his big knife raised. The combatants locked together and fell. The blade flashed above the grass and down. Dingo stood, looked toward the jungle and beckoned with the bloodstained blade. Johnny climbed out of the tree.
By the time he got to them, Dingo and Footy had checked the enemy corpses and found they were almost out of ammunition. There was no point hanging onto their machine gun or rifle, but they wouldn’t leave them for others to find. They heaved them into the burning bomber.
They headed for the jungle. Johnny glanced back. The Miss Nippon-These flamed fiercely, smoke churning into the rain.
Soaked through, Johnny, Dingo and Footy sat under a lean-to hidden in the trees. They had tied a sapling across two trunks, propped more against it, then overlapped elephant ear leaves to make a roof. The rain fell steadily and night came fast. They ate a cold meal out of the cans, not willing to risk the stove without knowing where the enemy was. The group was grim: they were grateful no one of them had been hurt or killed, but all too aware of their predicament.
Footy was particularly downcast. He’d lost his aircraft and everything he’d poured into it. Here he was, deep in the unknown wilderness, with only the clothes on his back. It was chilly in the rain, but not cold, and Dingo offered to spread his blanket as a bed for both himself and the pilot. Johnny unrolled his hammock, took out the sheet, and offered it to them. He figured they needed it more than he did.
It was almost dark by the time Johnny got his hammock tied between two trees. He sharpened four sticks and wedged them through the grommets at each end of the hammock bed, and the waterproof roof. The water sluiced off. Stout mosquito netting formed the walls, and the part he would sleep on was a double layer of sturdy cloth. Johnny undid the brass zipper and slid in, then leaned around and shoved his muddy boots upside down through the web of strings at one end. He knew the Aussies were watching, although neither said a word. Dingo was faintly contemptuous of the need for anything but a bit of cover and a place to stretch out. Bloody Yanks and their bloody equipment! Footy thought.
Dingo made the bed with the Yank’s sheet and told his mate to lie down. He was concerned about their bad start, and he felt sorry for Footy, losing his aircraft like that, but otherwise, he was content to be here. Killing three of the enemy right off the bat boded well.
As he lay snug beneath the drumming rain, Johnny’s thoughts went to Gwyn and their last conversation. What did she mean, find your heart? Ok, I don’t feel things like I did when I was young, he was forced to admit to himself. Not even like I did when I first got to New Guinea. The soldier had something to say: that’s a good thing. Feelings! They’re worse than useless—they’ll turn you stupid, and stupid gets shot. You turn weepy every time a buddy gets his, and you’ll be next on the hit list.
Johnny thought about the enemy soldiers they’d taken out today and the familiar hatred welled up in him. See? the killer told him. You do have feelings—just not the kind a girl understands.
Dingo had said they must take turns on watch. He volunteered f
or the first shift. Johnny fell asleep quickly. He woke in deep blackness, his bed shaking. He remembered where he was, unzipped the hammock, fumbled for his boots and slid in his feet. He got up and felt the light rain on his buzzed scalp. It was letting up.
Johnny sat under the lean-to with his rifle ready while the others slept. When Footy started snoring, Johnny nudged him. The pilot rolled over and fell silent. Three hours later, Johnny shook him awake and crawled back to his hammock.
When he woke next, it was to dismal gray light. The rain had stopped, but water continued to run off the glistening leaves. Johnny got up again and rotated his shoulder. It felt pretty good, considering the workout he’d put it through. He nodded at Footy who was sitting red-eyed on the edge of the blanket, hair every which way. Dingo was still sleeping.
Johnny stepped behind a tree and relieved himself. A cup of hot coffee sure would go down good. Can we light the stove? No, he answered himself. Not with the Japs out there. I wonder where the Kissim natives are?
He realized with a jolt that he was staring at one of them. A black man—no, it was only a boy—had materialized in the foliage. Johnny’s fist shot out and seized the kid by the throat. His other hand pulled the bayonet-knife with its sixteen-inch blade from his belt. The boy trembled but did not make a sound.
Good. I don’t have to hurt him. Johnny kept a hand on the boy and urged him around the tree. Dingo was just sitting up, twigs in his hair. Johnny forced the native down on his knees beside him. He appeared to be in his early teens. He wore only a faded red loincloth around his hips, a shell the size of a silver dollar tied on his forehead, and another bark string around his neck with a carving on it. In the center of his chest were four wavy lines of raised scar tissue.
“Can you ask him where the priests are?” Johnny said.
Dingo tried two of three different languages and at last the boy answered. After a minute, Dingo reported that he could not get any information about the priests. Whenever he asked, the kid clammed up. Johnny studied the carving on the boy’s necklace. He reached out a hand and touched it.
“Crocodile,” he said to the boy.
“Pookpook,” Dingo said in the trade language.
“Ka-him-ka,” the boy whispered.
“Father of the crocodiles,” Dingo translated.
“Ka,” the boy said, holding up the wood.
“The Father,” Dingo said.
“Is it near?” Johnny asked. Dingo spoke, and the boy peered anxiously around the clearing, but said nothing. He turned to Dingo and whispered some words.
“We’re to go with him,” the Major told the others. “He’ll take us to his people.”
The men broke camp and hid any sign they’d been there. Dingo handed his rifle to Footy, and pulled out his pistol. He ordered the boy forward and walked behind him, one big hand on his shoulder. Footy came next, Lee Enfield in hand, hefting a box of food. Johnny came at the rear, pack on, other carton under his arm.
The boy took them on a circuitous route that broke out at last among the burned huts. The men walked silently through the village and notice the remains of two larger edifices. The Major and the boy exchanged words.
“The priests’ house and church,” Dingo said over his shoulder. So much for the brave new world of brotherly love, Johnny thought. New Guinea could look like Eden, but to soldiers like him who’d fought here, it was more like hell.
The native boy was edgy out in the open, his eyes darting everywhere, and the men walked with their fingers on the triggers. Then they were in the rainforest again, going single file between the towering trunks. Johnny found he admired the way Dingo moved on bare feet. He had a confidence about him. Footy, too, looked like he had experience, Johnny had to admit. The pilot carried the rifle ready, watching the jungle.
The boy stopped abruptly and the men halted behind him. Native warriors stepped from behind the trees and surrounded them. They were armed with longbows, arrows on the strings. The white men aimed their firearms back at them.
“Easy!” Dingo told his companions. The natives wore the same red loincloths as the boy, shells on their foreheads, and similarly scarred chests.
The teenager talked fast, Dingo occasionally adding a phrase. An old man with a frizz of white hair stepped from the circle. He spoke, and the men let the tension off their bows. The white men cautiously lowered their guns as well. The old one said another word, and the warriors returned to the forest. The boy stayed by the old man’s side. The elder motioned the newcomers to follow and limped away.
Ten minutes later, they came to a clearing. Weak light filtered from the clouded sky. The men saw two mounds of fresh earth. In the gloom behind were two more hummocks, overgrown with creepers. Each one had a cross of peeled sticks lashed with vines at one end. The old man paused at the nearest one and turned, his face pulled down by sadness.
“Papa Chris,” he said. He pointed to the next. “Papa Bruno.” He moved to the overgrown sites.
“Papa Sid. Papa Bob.” The white men stared at one another.
“The four priests,” Dingo said.
“Bloody hell,” Footy put in.
The elder was moving again and they followed. They broke onto the open riverbank. The area was covered in graves, thirty to forty of them, Johnny guessed. About a third had crosses, and the rest, branches strung with bones and amulets. The old man spoke in his language to Dingo.
“These are the Kissim people, most killed by the Japs. We got here too late,” the Major said sourly. He sat on a rock and stared at the river.
“Ok,” Johnny told him. “But we’ve still got work to do.”
“Let’s get the bastards who did this,” Footy said in a strangled voice.
“Right,” Johnny nodded at him. Maybe I can learn to like the pilot after all.
“There’s that, of course,” Dingo said. “Let’s have a chinwag.” Johnny and Footy went down on their haunches. Johnny extracted and passed around a box of cigarettes.
“We can risk it out here in the open,” he said.
“Right you are,” Dingo agreed. He and Footy each took one and passed the box back. Johnny saw the old man watching and handed him the pack. He gave a toothless smile, took two and gave one to the boy. He went to hand the box back and thought better of it. He pulled out two more and stuck one behind each ear. Johnny flicked his Zippo and lit them. When they were all puffing, including the boy, Dingo spoke.
“Operation Teeth is buggered beyond all recognition. There’ll be no aircraft to pick us up on Friday, because here’s Footy, sitting with us.”
“More’s the shame,” Footy said dejectedly.
“By now they’ll know in Moresby you didn’t make it back mate,” Dingo told him. “They’ll have sent word to my office—and to you Yanks as well,” he nodded at Johnny.
“They won’t forget us,” Dingo said. “They’ll stir up an aircraft and come looking.” He paused. “Of course,” he went on thoughtfully, “I’m the only one who really knows where Kissim is. The Colonel has only a vague idea, I’m afraid.”
“Then there’s the weather,” Footy added, glancing up. “We’re socked in—for who knows how long?”
“Ok,” Johnny said. “They’re going to look for us. We can’t do anything about that. We’re too late for the priests. So why don’t we get on with the rest of our mission? Let’s take out the Japs.” He withdrew Father Bastion’s letter from his pocket and unfolded it.
“The priest said there were seven enemy soldiers when he wrote this. Assuming they were still alive when we got here, we knocked off three yesterday. That means four left.”
“Four, Johnny—that’s what I reckon as well,” Dingo said.
“How do we find them?” Footy asked.
“That’s the easy part, mate,” Dingo replied. “We get a kanaka to show us.”
As it turned out, the natives knew exactly where the Japanese camp was. The boy led the white men as close as he dared to a bald hill. The men saw the low profile of logs a
t the top. The enemy had dug a bunker three-quarters underground. Through his scope, Johnny saw the gun slits that covered every approach.
“They’ve picked the place well,” Dingo said. “You can count on your Jap for that.”
“We could try sneaking up on them at night, but that’s risky. There’s a better way,” Johnny said.
“What do you reckon?”
“Ask the boy where they go for water,” he replied. Dingo did. The native led them to a trail that went to the river. Johnny suggested a plan. After all, he was the expert at this particular kind of warfare. Dingo approved.
It was the afternoon of their third day of waiting. Johnny was fifty feet up a tree with a view of the path. Dingo and Footy were hidden in the jungle below. The three of them had waited like this through the long days. It rained frequently and the cloud cover stayed dark and heavy. There had been no sight or even a sound of any aircraft.
This is Friday, Johnny thought. Tonight I’ve got a date with Gwyn! Does she even know I’m not back? And maybe, he thought, I won’t be, for a long time to come. In his mind’s eye he saw Gwyn in a pretty dress, wearing jewelry. They were in a fine restaurant, facing one another across a linen tablecloth. He got a pang of regret and forced his thoughts in another direction.
The prior afternoon, Johnny had glimpsed the Japanese patrolling a distant trail. He’d confirmed there were four of them, each carrying a rifle. He could have shot at least one of them—he tracked the man through his scope. But he did not want to take out just the one, and give away their ambush site. No. Get them all!
TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy) Page 13
