“The burdens of command,” he sighed and stood up. He personally walked the nurses to the front entrance and called his driver to take them home.
“It will all turn out,” he told them. “Then we’ll wonder what the fuss was about. I don’t depart for Australia for another week. I am sure we’ll have our happy ending long before that.”
Still unhappy, Gwyn and Ruthie departed. Henry Chambers watched them go, and only then admitted to himself how deeply worried he was. The minute his vehicle returned, he had it take him to Australian HQ. There he corralled Dingo’s Number Two and went over the situation. They agreed they would both do everything they could to find another aircraft to reconnoiter the Raub.
“But don’t fret yet Colonel,” the Australian said. “No one’s better in the bush than the Major. If Dingo can’t handle it, no one can.”
With all he had to do, the intervening days passed in a whirlwind. The Colonel had his feelers out, but it wasn’t until the following Wednesday that a DC-3 arrived at the Port Moresby airport. It was a private craft on a freight run from Cairns.
By then, the Colonel knew something was very wrong. He personally drove to the airport, and then stuck his neck out and commandeered the craft. As it turned out, the pilot was sympathetic. He was good mates with Footy Carmichael. He did say he would need a requisition form, and a formal letter to his principals from the American Colonel.
“There will be an account to pay, of course,” he warned. “But then, you Yanks are made of money.” The Colonel snorted. This was a common misconception among the Australians. They had no idea of the sharp-pencil boys who picked apart his expenses. But he agreed to everything. What choice did he have?
At first light the following morning, the DC-3 lifted off. On board were three of Dingo’s most experienced Patrol Officers. None of them had ever been up the Raub River on the ground—who had? But as it developed, it was moot. The entire region was smothered in clouds. The aircraft circled for some time, and then returned to Port Moresby.
Colonel Chambers had a truck standing by to bring the rescued men to his office, but it was only the pilot and the Australian officers who turned up. Henry told the aviator he would not force him to stay, but the US Army would count it a great favor if he would try.
“Please, talk to your owners and tell them this is a life-and-death situation.” The Colonel would give him the run of his own radio room.
The pilot was able to get through and get his answer. He could stay on for two more days, but that was the limit. After that, contracts would be broken and the cost would become prohibitive. He quoted a figure that gave Henry heartburn.
Still, The Colonel cabled the US Army superiors and requested authorization for the unusual expenditure. Within the hour, the General was on the radio demanding a conversation. The price for two additional days of aircraft charter would be covered, Henry was informed, but that was it. As it was, he would be called on the carpet to explain when he touched down in Australia. The General would expect a full account of what he was already calling “the incident,” before the Colonel could continue to the States.
What’s the worst they can do, Henry snorted to himself, fire me? Of course, he would do everything he could for the men of Operation Teeth, and take the consequences. Still, on Saturday, come hell or high water, he and his aides would be on that flight to Australia. If he was anything, he was Army to the core, and orders were orders.
Friday morning, the American Commander himself joined the others onboard the DC-3 for its final run. Operation Teeth was now a full-week overdue. This time, at least, the weather cooperated. The pilot was able to thread through the clouds and locate the Raub River. Flying visual, the aviator followed it upstream. At last, running close to the halfway mark on fuel, they passed over the burned and abandoned village. The Patrol Officers agreed, this had to be Kissim.
Then, their enthusiasm at locating the site was dashed. They saw the burned wreck on the airstrip. The pilot came back lower and personally confirmed it.
“That’s ‘Footy’s Folly,’ for shore,” he shouted. “No shred of a doubt.”
The bomber appeared to have crashed on landing. The observers knew that the chances of anyone surviving that violent impact were slim. One wing was bent around a bolder, and everything else was twisted and burned out.
The DC-3 could not land—the wreck blocked the way. The pilot made a few more passes while the observers craned through the windows, but they saw not a soul, not even a native or an animal. At last, the pilot shook his head, climbed through the clouds, and set a course for Port Moresby. It was a long and somber flight home.
It was Friday afternoon when the Colonel got back in his office. At his house, his suitcases stood lined up beside a number of boxes, ready to go. In his office, he put his last few private pictures in his briefcase, and the room looked entirely anonymous once more. In an hour, Henry would leave Army HQ for the final time.
He and his aides had one last task. They went through the stacks of papers the Colonel had prepared for his successor. Henry took a sheet off the top, his report on Operation Teeth, and added a few sentences summarizing the day’s events. He replaced it and was done. He asked his men to allow him a minute alone. One more time, he went to the window and gazed across the Port Moresby harbor. Then he exited the office and closed the door.
It took another half hour to make the rounds and say goodbye to the staff. By now, he should be in his quarters. Although he had little interest in anthropology, he had some final packing of artifacts. He had to nail the lids down on crates containing longbows and assorted arrows. He had some fine stone-headed axes, an adze, and a collection of spirit masks. He had an hourglass-shaped drum, and his most exotic item, acquired from a Patrol Officer—a real human skull from a headhunter’s lodge.
This evening, there was to have been a farewell drink with his officers at the club. Dingo should have been there, Henry thought, but there was no use dwelling on that. But instead of being able to enjoy his last night, Henry had a distasteful task he must handle himself. He drove himself to the hospital, asked for directions to the Canadian nurse’s house, and proceeded. As it happened, he caught both Gywn and Ruthie at home. The Colonel accepted the seat at the kitchen table, declined the offer of refreshments, took a breath and launched in.
“I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you,” he said, and Gwyn got a bad feeling of déjà vu, “but I have listed Major Dingo Hawsey, Sergeant John Willman with their pilot, Glen Carmichael, as Missing in Action.”
“Officially missing?” Gwyn’s hand went to her throat.
“Is it true?” Ruthie chimed in.
“Unfortunately, yes,” the Colonel said. “Today I flew over their destination and personally saw the wreck of their aircraft. There was no sign of survivors, I regret to tell you.” The women’s faces blanched and he soldiered on.
“I must leave New Guinea first thing tomorrow. But this is not the end of the trail! No, no, not at all. Dingo, Johnny and—ahh—Booty, could very well have survived…”
“Footy,” Gwyn interrupted.
“Footy, yes,” the Colonel said. “I believe it is very likely they are alive,” he hastened on. “If anyone can survive on this island, it is those three.
“The efforts to locate them will continue. I have prepared a full report for the incoming Commander. I have left your name, Gwyn, and asked him to contact you the minute we have news.” The Colonel glanced at his watch and stood.
“I’m afraid I must go—I still have much to do.” He shook hands with each woman and departed. In fact, his suitcases had been packed for several days. His clothes for the trip were in one small bag, and Henry could hammer down those crate lids in fifteen minutes. There’s even time for that drink at the club – I owe that much to my men.
Sharp at 7:30 the following morning, the Colonel and his aides boarded their military transport, and within minutes were airborne, on the first leg of the long journey home.
; That same morning, Gwyn packed the last of her things in her shipping trunk and moved to the Orphanage. The day had come at last. Before she was even out the door, Ruthie’s boyfriend arrived. He cheerfully helped load the trunk into the “boot” of Doc Mac’s sedan. Gwyn’s staunch ally in her orphanage project had volunteered to drive her over.
Gwyn gave Ruthie a hug and both wiped away a tear. They would see each other nearly every day at the hospital, of course, and they would visit, but it was the end of something that had begun two years ago in London.
Doc turned into the hibiscus-lined driveway of the newly painted plantation house. As the car crunched up the gravel drive, the children who had been anxiously waiting, scampered alongside. This time, “Auntie Gwyn” had come to stay!
Once her trunk was in her room, she left the orphans under Doc Mac’s care in the living room. He took the opportunity to check their teeth, peer into their ears, and dress minor scrapes and cuts. Gwyn placed her things in the drawers and closet.
Doc Mac stayed for a lunch of sandwiches and lemonade, served on the lawn. Then he departed, and Gwyn found herself with all of Saturday afternoon before her. She had nervous energy to burn, and she threw herself into a few of the endless tasks required to care for a vast house and sixteen children. They spent the afternoon together, tidying the place, and there was time for a game of “rounders” in the yard, played with a tennis racquet and five bases.
Two women of the native staff had been busy all day in the laundry house, working the gasoline-engine powered washing machine. Now there were rows of sheets and children’s clothing billowing on the lines. The young ones’ best set of clothes would be laid out for church tomorrow. After that, Gwyn had promised them an afternoon at the beach, and a rare treat—ice-cream cones for all.
Come Monday morning, she would be back at the hospital—and on it would go. She could fill every minute of every day, and still have more to do. But as the hours grew into days, many times she felt herself being swept away by anxiety. Where was Johnny? Were he, Footy and Dingo even alive?
Monday morning at the US Garrison, Hala entered the corner office. Soon there would be a new boss-man! She carried a broom to make the final sweep she’d been ordered to do. The Colonel with all the rules was gone-finish, and the other officers did not seem to mind when she forgot to put on her one and only T-shirt. She despised the constriction, and could not begin to comprehend the terrible harnesses with which the white women bound their chests. It was natural, she thought, that a woman’s soosoo should be left as Papa-God made them—loose and uncovered.
Hala had been taught how to turn on the overhead fan, and then told to leave it alone. When she came in, she found the room stifling. She turned on the control, as far as it would go. A breeze began to stir the air and she hummed an island song and whisked her broom. But then the overhead contraption began to whiz faster and faster. Soon there was a wind howling. Hala watched in dismay as it peeled the stacks of papers off the desk and scattered them across the floor. It was a disaster! She might lose her job, and there would be no precious pounds to send home.
Worse, Hala had a terror of being yelled at by the white men. Her heart was pounding like a drum! She rushed to the control knob and spun it off. Thankfully, the tornado subsided, but the room was a mess. Hala froze in panic.
A brilliant question occurred to her. What would a white man do? The answer came, and a smile spread over her pretty tattooed face. She dropped her broom and gathered the errant papers, clutching them to her chest. She went to the filing cabinets where she had seen the men put these things. She yanked open drawer after drawer, but they were full. Finally, at the bottom of the end row, she found one half empty. She stuffed everything in and closed it up.
There, she thought. The room was tidy again. Hala, you are one smart girl! She continued to sweep, singing her happy tune. And then another thrilling thought occurred to her.
I wonder if the new boss-man is married?
CHAPTER 4
Johnny, the prisoner, then Footy, walked along the path beside the river. Johnny had his Springfield over his shoulder, helmet on, and his pack on his back. The Japanese came next, his hands bound behind him. Then there was Footy, Dingo’s Digger hat and wood-framed pack on, the samurai sword sticking from the top. He carried the Lee Enfield over a shoulder, and had the Webley revolver and the big knife stuck through his belt.
The first half-day’s walk south of Kissim took them along a well-worn trail, but by mid-afternoon, they entered less traveled territory. The jungle had reclaimed entire stretches, and Johnny had to shoulder through vines or slash with his machete. Insects fell on the men, mosquitoes drifted in clouds, and they had to be alert for thorny branches and stinging nettles.
Johnny remembered Father Bastion’s letter had said the Mambu headhunters had not been seen this far up the river during the years the priests had been in Kissim. Still, Johnny’s war experience told him not to take anything for granted. Warriors could be only feet away in the dense vegetation and he wouldn’t see them. In addition, there might be more of the enemy around—this was unknown territory, and anything could happen.
On top of that, there were all the dangers inherent in the rainforest. Snakes, for instance. Stepping on a Death Adder would be fatal. The serpent was another ambush hunter. It hid under leaves, and that made an overgrown jungle trail a perfect place. The end of its tail was an appendage that resembled a grub. The predator hid itself and raised the twitching tail. When a hapless animal or bird investigated, it found itself suddenly confronted by the poisonous head of the serpent.
When a man stepped on a Death Adder, even as the fangs went through the skin, it was over. Like its relative the Cobra, the Death Adder’s venom was a potent neurotoxin. The exquisite torture of it was that a man lived long enough to know what had killed him. Rapidly, he was paralyzed, stopped breathing and died. And that was just one of the thousand of fascinating and terrifying ways life was snuffed out in the jungle.
To his growing resentment, Footy’s view was mostly the prisoner’s back. With hands bound behind him, “the Jap” could not ward off the canes that whipped him, and the Aussie took a little satisfaction in that. At one point, a writhing centipede dropped onto the prisoner's head. The man cried out and twitched it off, and Footy crunched it under his sandal. The bugger was lucky that time. The sting of the jungle centipede would put a man in agony.
Footy’s shoulders hurt from the pack and he hitched it up. The sword standing in it clattered. He resented the weight—but it’s a beaut, a real Jap samurai souvenir, and I will have it!
At midday, the men came to an open place in the forest. In it stood a betel-nut palm, branches loaded with the lime-size nuts. There was the sound of trickling water and they saw a puddle near the roots.
“Watch the Jap,” Johnny told Footy. He knelt, washed his face in the clear water, brought a handful up and tasted it. It was sweet and he drank his fill. He took the two canteens off his belt, spilled out the metallic dregs and refilled them. Then he made way for Footy, who drank deeply and replenished the bottle that had been Dingo’s. He soaked the Digger hat in the water and put it back on, and stood up. Johnny spoke to the Japanese.
“Drink.” The prisoner sank by the pool. He extended his bound hands behind his back and looked at Johnny. Johnny just stared back so the man put his face to the water and sucked some up. He choked and didn’t get much. Again, he stared at the Yankee and thrust out his hands. Johnny sighed.
“Untie him,” he told Footy, “I'll cover you.” Footy sniffed: who does the bleedin’ Yank think he’s giving orders to? But he did as asked. The Japanese nodded thanks, rubbed his chafed wrists, and cupped his hands and drank. He splashed water over his face, pulled the soiled headband off, rinsed it and tied it back on. Then, with a quick glance at the others, he stripped off his ragged shirt and splashed water on his chest and underarms. Footy grew impatient.
“Here!” he called. “We haven’t got all day!” The Japa
nese held up his shirt in one hand and pinched his nose with the other. Johnny laughed and even Footy chuckled.
“True,” the Aussie said, “you are number one stinky!” Johnny dug the bar of soap out of his pack and handed it over. The prisoner soaped up his head and body, scrubbed and rinsed his shirt and struggled back into it.
“Tie his hands,” Johnny told Footy.
“You do it, mate,” Footy replied, picking up his rifle and pointing it at the captive. “You’re better with knots.”
“My dad was a sailor,” Johnny grinned. The Japanese put his wrists together and held them out in front, not behind.
“Half a mo’ you bugga! Behind your back!” Footy called, but the captive was staring at the American.
“Why not,” Johnny gave in. He wrapped and knotted one of the prisoner’s wrists, and lashed it to the other. “You won’t get out of that,” he said.
“What are you doing?” Footy protested.
“If he tries anything, you know what to do,” Johnny said. “Let's march.”
“Who made you bloody king of the bush?” Footy muttered to his back as the Yank strode off.
Late in the afternoon, the pilot called a break.
“Oy, hold up, Johnny. Give us a ciggy, would you?” Johnny leaned on his pack against a tree, took the box from his pocket, handed a smoke to Footy, took one himself, and lit them. When he was done, Johnny threw the butt on the ground and went to stamp it out with his boot. But before he could do that, the captive scooped it up and took a few quick drags.
Johnny chuckled. He took a slug from his canteen, and offered it to “the Jap,” who held it in his bound hands and drank.
“Ok,” Johnny told him. “If you’re going to drink, you’re going to carry.” He hooked one of his bottles onto the man’s rope belt, and they hiked on.
Sunset came and the trail grew dim. The river had been running beside them through a series of roaring rapids, a mist in the air. As night fell, they made camp. With the Father possibly nearby, Johnny picked a place a good fifty yards from the river. He made the prisoner lie down by a tree and once again, tied his hands, his ankles, and roped him to the trunk. He hung his hammock while Footy spread his blanket. Over dinner of canned franks, green beans and potatoes, the pilot said they must already have descended a thousand feet in altitude.
TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy) Page 16
