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

by Timothy James Dean

  The Father threw itself into the river, landing in a wide splash. Again the armored tail swung, and Johnny barely managed to hop over it. Footy rolled frantically to avoid being crushed under the belly. A back leg thudded down and the claws just missed his head.

  Johnny regained his balance and fired from the hip. The bullet carved a groove up the scaled back, and then the beast was submerged, a wavering darkness, moving off.

  Footy sat blinking in the mud. Again Johnny reloaded, but there was nothing left to shoot. The Father and Dingo were gone.

  “Bloody, bleedin’, ruddy hell!” Footy babbled. Johnny was the first to come to his senses.

  “It’s over! Get Dingo’s things. Let’s go.”

  He spun and went in search of the enemy.

  CHAPTER 3

  Johnny climbed the riverbank and found the enemy soldier sprawled on his back. He’d banged his head and was just coming to. Johnny loomed over him and put the barrel of his Springfield hard against the man’s chest.

  “Get up, Jap!”

  The man climbed shakily to his feet. He was skinny, Johnny noted again, about starved. His shirt had no buttons, his trousers were rags and he was barefoot. He’d lost his rifle, thanks to the croc, but he did have the sword in its wooden scabbard on his rope belt. Footy came up behind Johnny, Dingo’s hat on his head, the Bowie knife and revolver through his belt, the Lee Enfield in his hands.

  “Put your hands up!” Johnny told the enemy, not knowing if he’d understand. He indicated what he wanted with his free hand and Headband slowly raised his arms.

  “Go get that sword,” Johnny told Footy. He aimed at the foe while Footy sidled towards him. “Don’t get between us,” Johnny warned. The pilot nodded, pulled the loop on the man’s rope belt and drew the sword off, and stepped away.

  Footy slid out the blade and held it to the sun. It was a long curve of gleaming steel, free of rust. They saw the silver hilt and pommel, the ornate wrapping of the handle. A wavy line ran behind the cutting edge the length of the blade.

  “I’ll be a wombat’s second sister,” Footy said admiringly. “This looks like an old one! Proper samurai sword—not the usual factory rubbish. I claim it—it’s mine.”

  “You can have it,” Johnny said. “Ok,” he continued to Headband, who he was now thinking of as “the Jap.” “You can put your hands down.”

  The man’s pants were sliding off his hips and he grabbed them and retied the rope while he kept watching the helmeted soldier. He could tell by the accent the man was a Yankee. He observed those cold eyes and he somehow knew, this was the one who had slaughtered his countrymen—and that his own life still hung by a thread.

  Yes! The thought rushed through him then. Kill me!

  The shame of being captured was unbearable. After all these terrible years—this! He felt the urge to rush the man and as he did so, he would find himself in the next life.

  But my religion forbids suicide! Hard as it is, I must continue to live. So if I must endure the humiliation, I will do it for my country, and only for a time. I will watch, and when the opportunity comes, I will kill these enemies, even if I die trying.

  "You speak English?" Johnny asked. The captive stared back and said nothing.

  “Jap, you want to try to run, do it now. Otherwise, you’re my prisoner. Even twitch the wrong way,” Johnny told him, “and I’ll kill you.” He nodded at Footy. “He will too—you count on it. So what’s it going to be?”

  “The bloody heathen doesn’t understand!” Footy said. “Why waste your breath?” Johnny shrugged and he and the enemy continued to stare at one another, but the man made no move.

  “Let’s go.” Johnny motioned with his rifle and “the Jap” rose shakily to his feet and pushed through the foliage. He put a hand to his head on the angry knot rising there. Johnny came behind, barrel in his back. Footy followed, Dingo’s rifle in one hand, sword in the other.

  They approached the two bodies in the trail. The Japanese glanced down at the older man whose helmet had rolled off, and the other one with the reed hat. His face betrayed nothing as he stepped over. They went by the place where the third corpse sprawled in the undergrowth. Johnny drove the prisoner on, but Footy ducked into the bush and assured himself the enemy was dead. He saw the bullet hole through the body and realized Johnny had made the shot blind. He was impressed with the Yank, in spite of himself.

  Back at camp, Johnny cut a length of rope and tied the prisoner’s hands behind his back. He forced the man to sit against a tree and lashed him to it. Johnny was the son of a Navy man, and he’d been taught his knots from an early age. He could tie twenty varieties before most boys could tie their shoelaces. In short order, he had the prisoner trussed so escape was impossible.

  For the first time since they’d come to Kissim, Johnny and Footy cooked a hot meal and brewed a pot of coffee. They tucked into plates piled with beef stew, mopped up with slices of bread. Johnny felt a tremor in his arms and legs, the aftermath of the unaccustomed exercise and the adrenalin. He was disturbed by Dingo’s demise, but he’d seen too much during the war to allow it to affect his judgment. He was encouraged by their triumph against the enemy, and preoccupied by the ferocious crocodile.

  He and Footy talked about the Major’s death. The pilot was distraught over the loss. Both knew that Dingo’s death might spell their own doom. The Major was the only one who knew the river, and had seen it to the coast. He had been the single member of the expedition who spoke a smattering of the languages.

  Johnny saw Footy’s hands trembling and recalled the bottle of brandy. Like I said, for medicinal purposes. He got it from his pack, poured a generous slug into two mugs, and topped them up with the coffee. He handed one to Footy and raised the other.

  “Here’s to the Major,” Johnny said.

  “Dingo! A good bloke and the best of mates,” Footy said. “Blast that bloody croc to hell! Here’s to him.”

  “To Dingo.”

  The men touched cups and drank, while the captive watched. They lit cigarettes and hunkered down for another powwow. Operation Teeth had taken another bizarre twist. Their expedition leader, the most seasoned of New Guinea hands, was dead in the river. They were on their own, short of supplies, deep in the savage and unexplored interior of New Guinea.

  “The priest warned about that croc” Johnny said. “Even then, I didn’t imagine it was so big!”

  “Struth! That’s gotta be the bloody Father,” Footy said.

  “For sure,” Johnny said. “There can’t be two that size! Did you see the scar on its head?”

  “Yes mate! I’ve seen saltys in Queensland all me life,” Footy said, “but never one like that! Blimey! The biggest I saw was one half his size!”

  “So much for staying away from the river,” Johnny grimaced. Footy saw the prisoner looking at them.

  “You, Jap!” he called. “What the hell you staring at?” He turned to Johnny. “Think the bugger understands English?”

  “Maybe,” Johnny said. “Some of the ones we captured learned it at school. A lot more than we learned Jap, that’s for sure! But what does it matter if he does?” he shrugged. “We’re all in the same boat.”

  They continued to mull over their options. The upshot was, they would wait in Kissim for three days. If no aircraft showed up, they’d move on. Thanks to Johnny’s foresight, they had food for that time and a little longer, but they both agreed, they would not sit in Kissim and starve to death.

  “This is Friday,” Johnny said. “If no rescue comes by Monday, we move. Our only hope is to follow the river to the coast. Can’t be more than a few hundred miles. At least we’ll have a fighting chance. At the ocean, we’ll be able to signal a plane or ship.”

  “I see your point,” Footy said, “but you’ve forgotten something. What about the bloody ‘Valley of the Cannibals’ poor old Dingo went on about?”

  “What did he call them? The ‘Mambu headhunters,’” Johnny nodded. “Yeh, well, they’re right in our path.”r />
  “We could try another way,” Footy said. “Didn’t the priest say the Japs came through the mountains further up?”

  “It won’t work,” Johnny said. “They had guides from the Sepik. And another thing. No rescuers will even think to look for us that way.”

  “I agree mate. And the Sepik has its own bloody savages.”

  “Ok,” Johnny said. “Our best chance is the Raub. No rescue by Monday, and we follow it to the coast. We’ll just have to take our chances in the Valley of the Cannibals.”

  “Right mate, bloody Mambu, here we come. At least, following the river, we can’t get lost.”

  The men left the prisoner tied to the tree and went to see if they could find anything at all in the native gardens. As soon as they were out of sight, the captive struggled frantically in his bonds, but made no headway. The Yankee is good with a rope.

  Johnny and Footy went carefully through the dug-over vegetable mounds, but did not turn up even one bug-eaten yam. They were surprised not to see a single native.

  After that, Footy wanted to take another look at the airstrip. He was preoccupied by the fact that the wreck compromised any rescuers’ ability to land. They passed through the destroyed village and came to the grassy strip. They paused and gazed at the burned out hulk of the Hudson. As they remembered, it sat square in the middle of the field.

  “No good,” Footy said. “No aircraft can land, even if they do find us.”

  “Even worse,” Johnny said. “If they see that, they will probably think we died in the crash.”

  “Crikey! Hadn’t thought of that,” Footy said. “If we’re here, of course, we can wave.”

  The rain had let up and the dark cloud cover had lifted a little. Johnny was staring up the mountain when he saw movement.

  “Look! That’s where the people went.” There were about forty men, women and children, strung along the high trail.

  “They’re leaving the place,” Footy said. At the end of the line were the old man and the boy. “Cooeeee!” the pilot called through cupped hands. The pair turned and the boy pointed down. The old man raised a hand, and then they resumed toiling behind the others. Johnny and Footy watched until they were lost in the clouds.

  “Nothing left for them here, I suppose,” Footy said.

  “Just the Father,” Johnny said, “and more death.”

  The men returned to camp and found the prisoner where they’d left him. Johnny noticed again how starved he looked. He opened a can of baked beans, wiped his spoon on his shirt, and fed it all to the man. “The Jap” gulped it down, and Johnny gave him a drink from his canteen.

  Meanwhile, Footy sorted through the Major’s pack. All I have is what Dingo brought. It has to do until we’re rescued, or we make it to the coast. If we make it to the coast. The knife’s sheath and pistol holster had gone with the Major to his death, but at least he had the knife itself, and the revolver and rifle. In addition, there was Dingo’s rucksack, bedroll, some clothing that would be too big, and the hat, which would be a blessing in the sun. His eyes misted up, holding his mate’s things, and he turned away so the others would not see.

  The mood in camp was somber. Neither man said what they were thinking. In all likelihood, there was a perilous journey to come that they were unlikely to survive. And now they had an added burden—the prisoner. Neither said it, but both thought about simply doing away with him. No one would ever know, and in many battles here, captives on both sides had died that way.

  That night, Johnny and Footy divided up the watch. It looked like they were alone in a deserted village, but they could not take the chance. Johnny adjusted the prisoner’s rope so he could lie on the ground, hands lashed behind his back to the tree. It was not the most comfortable arrangement, but as it turned out, he was the only one to get a full night’s sleep.

  The next three days were long and dreary as the men waited. It rained most of the time, a chill deluge that soaked everything and dampened their spirits. There was no sign of an aircraft.

  The following morning—Johnny reminded himself that it was Tuesday—they broke camp and prepared to hike. He was already fed up spoon-feeding “the Jap.” Footy made it scornfully clear that he would not help. Johnny untied the prisoner’s hands and told him to feed himself. He gave the man the same thing they had for breakfast, a plate of warm hash and the crust of their last loaf of bread. Footy glared daggers at the captive with every bite he took.

  “We don’t have enough food to go around, Johnny,” he complained. “Now we’ve got to trek all the way down the Raub with a prisoner? You must be bloody joking! I think we should shoot him and be done with it. No one will know. He died in the battle, that’s all we say, if we say anything.”

  “I hear you,” Johnny said. “But I’ve never executed a man who’s surrendered.”

  “You don’t mind shooting them in the back,” Footy jeered. “I saw you do it.”

  “That’s different,” Johnny said. “That’s battle. But like it or not, he’s our prisoner of war.”

  “If you can’t do it, I will,” Footy said. “Are you going to stop me?” He pulled Dingo’s revolver, aimed it at the man’s head, and cocked the hammer. The Japanese stared back at him.

  “That’s not right,” Johnny said. “But I won’t stop you, or report it. Do it now—or this is the last time we talk about it.”

  He returned to roping his hammock onto his pack. Footy’s arm was straight out, finger on the trigger. The Japanese stared into the barrel of the gun and Footy got the strange feeling the crazy bastard was hoping for the end. After a long moment, the Aussie scowled and let his gun arm drop.

  “Bloody hell,” he snarled. “I can’t shoot an unarmed man! Blast it to hell!”

  “We’ll take him with us,” Johnny said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “And when we get to the bleedin’ cannibals?” Footy asked. “No man’s ever gone in there and—well, you know. And here we come, with a prisoner in tow!”

  “We’ve got guns,” Johnny shrugged, “and surprise on our side. Dingo said they’ve never even seen a white man. We’ll just march in like we own the place, and bluff our way through.”

  “Against a thousand bloody cannibals?” Footy asked. “Sounds more than iffy.” Something occurred to him and he brightened a little. “If it comes to it, we can trade the bleedin’ Jap to the bloody kanakas. Our lives for his.”

  “Might work,” Johnny said.

  “Alright mate,” Footy said. “But I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”

  Footy’s mates gave it until Wednesday morning, but when there was still no sign of the Hudson, they took the news to Australian HQ. They, in turn, sent word around to the US Garrison.

  When Colonel Chambers heard about it, he got a sinking feeling. But he resolved to wait at least another day or two before he did anything precipitous. These things have a way of working themselves out. Dingo Hawsey and Johnny Willman are some of the best fighters in New Guinea. And the pilot too—the Major had vouched for him. What was his nickname, Booty? The three knew the jungles far better than the Colonel ever would.

  Furthermore, New Guinea was notorious for abrupt weather changes. Many a pilot had been forced to put down somewhere and sit it out. Henry would lay dollars to doughnuts the men would show up, with the priests in tow.

  But then, come Friday afternoon with no sign of Operation Teeth, Henry’s alarm ballooned. His main concern was the safety of the men, but he had not bothered to mention the little action he and Dingo had dreamed up to his superiors in Australia. The Colonel did not want to have to explain an unapproved operation gone wrong. Much better to bring it up once the thing had resolved itself, which he fully expected it would.

  The problem was, he had no aircraft to send looking for them. The only planes that showed up in Port Moresby these days were under other orders.

  It dawned on the Colonel that he had a very sketchy idea of where Kissim might be. Dingo had shown him on the map, but where the M
ajor’s finger had touched down could cover hundreds of miles.

  Why did I talk myself into this escapade at the eleventh hour? I didn’t get this far in the Army by showboating!

  Friday afternoon, Gwyn showered, slipped into a sage green summer frock she’d purchased in London, pulled on the single pair of stockings she possessed—they were hard to come by with the war on—and slipped on shoes. She dabbed “Evening in Paris” perfume behind her ears and at the base of her throat. Ruthie came home, changed, and headed out with her boyfriend. 6:00 o’clock turned into 8:00 and still no Johnny. By then Gwyn knew in her heart he wasn’t coming. But still she waited. By 11:00 as she stripped off her dress and washed her face, she found she was furious—with Johnny, of course, but even more so with herself.

  Once again, she’d climbed out on a limb for a military man. Gwyn blew out the lantern and lay on her bed, but sleep would not come. She was still awake when she heard her friend let herself in after 2 a.m.

  At 8 o’clock Saturday morning, Gwyn roused a sleepy Ruthie, cajoled her into throwing on some clothes, made her a cup of strong tea, and dragged her along for moral support. Together, they walked the thirty minutes to US Army Headquarters. Gwyn demanded of the Sergeant at the desk that she be allowed to see the Colonel, and at once.

  An hour later, they were shown into the Commander’s office. They found the Colonel behind a stack of paper on his desk, file boxes open all around. He came over, greeted them cordially enough, and sat with them on the sofas.

  Yes, “Operation Teeth” was overdue, there was no question, but the men were more than competent. Did anything in New Guinea happen on time? He allowed himself a chuckle. The Colonel assured the women he was monitoring everything closely. As soon as he could arrange it, he would send an aircraft to check on the mission. In the meantime, he fully expected them to show up at any time. The women were not to trouble themselves. His aides came in carrying more piles of papers requiring the Commander’s signature.