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

by Timothy James Dean

  “Yes mate,” Footy said, “but crikey, he can talk!”

  The party walked for several hours. They finished the water in their canteens and stopped at a spring. Johnny tasted it and found it funky, but that was normal. They’d had to make do with all kinds of sources on this trek, and he’d run out of purification tablets days ago. They drank their fill, topped up their bottles, and moved on.

  The day grew darker, which did not help their mood. Rain clouds gathered in the north, and they heard the boom of thunder. All three were subdued. They’d left the friendly Uhuli behind and were in unknown territory again. They toiled through the forest, and emerged beside more gardens. Women were digging in the distance, but when they saw the strangers, they fled into the jungle.

  Whenever the path drew close to the river, the men paused and scanned the banks for crocodiles, one in particular. Several times they passed a mudslide, and fresh dung. They saw eyes watching from the reeds, but none with the great span of the Father.

  At midday, they slumped on rocks to eat. The day was close, and they were all sweat soaked. Johnny untied the prisoner’s hands as Footy dug cold mumu food out of the packs. The Japanese ate mechanically and Johnny did the same. He wasn’t hungry. He had a dull headache and his stomach was queasy. He hoped it wasn’t a malaria attack coming on. Johnny retied the captive’s hands and asked how he was doing, and got no response but a twitch of eyebrows.

  As they took to the trail, the last patch of sunlight disappeared and the whole sky went dark. The trio pressed on while thunderheads piled overhead. Then, over the river, a shaft of lightning flashed and thunder ripped the sky. Another blinding arc zapped to earth ahead on the trail, accompanied by an explosion like artillery, and at once, they smelled rain.

  The first fat drops splashed on them and Johnny pulled his helmet lower over his eyes and walked into the oncoming storm. The trail approached another clump of jungle and the men ducked under the branches. All the forest creatures had gone silent and the only sound was drops spattering the leaves.

  There was a roar of approaching rain, and then it struck in earnest. The forest canopy absorbed the first barrage, but the water licked over branches and soon everything was running. The men were soaked and the path turned into a ditch of melted mud. Johnny and Footy's footgear pulled up clods and for once, the captive’s bare feet gave him an advantage.

  Eventually they emerged from the trees and slogged in torrential rain through a cane field. The sullen river ran forty yards off, the surface pocked by drops. The rain drummed on Johnny’s helmet and gushed down his collar. A sheet sluiced in front of his eyes and he could barely see his feet splash through deepening puddles. The flashes and booms were constant.

  Johnny’s head hurt and for some reason, he became fixated on the crocodile. He was peering ahead when his heart turned over. There it was! It rushed at him through the blinding rain, more massive than he remembered it that first time, when it killed Dingo. Somehow he knew it was not real, but the monster kept coming in the lurid lightning. Its mouth was open and he smelled putrid decay that made him want to heave. It was the reek of death he’d lived with for much of the war.

  The beast opened its jaws and thunder erupted from its belly. The sound vibrated in Johnny’s gut, and something turned in there. Lightning shot from the yellow eyes and blinded him. He shivered from head to foot, spots of light danced, and all his skin rose in gooseflesh.

  Desperately, he conjured a trick from the war in an attempt to drive the apparition away. When the horror of the endless days of killing threatened to overwhelm him—when Johnny woke in the morning knowing all he could look forward to was shooting more men—the only way he could keep going was to escape within his mind. Perhaps it was only for a minute or two, but if he could get respite, he could go on. That was how he fought the impulse to just stand up and take his final bullet.

  One of his best distractions was a memory of his mother. Not that he’d ever tell this to a fellow soldier, even under threat of torture. But in the private place in his mind, it was Saturday morning, and Mom was in her kitchen. She baked pies from scratch for Sunday dinner, whether his dad was ashore or not. That world—her world—was so safe and clean, contrasted to the stinking gore-soaked one in which he existed.

  Her Betty Crocker cookbook is open to the page, even though she knows each recipe by heart. She makes lemon meringue pie with golden peaks. Or maybe it’s cherry pie with a crust on top, pricked with a fork, pinched around the edges. She has her apron tied on, the flour sifter and rolling pin ready. She hums a tune, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

  But now as Johnny forced himself into the thunderstorm, Mother flashed in and out of view, crackling with electricity. Then something twisted inside him again, and Mom was overrun in a rush of gruesome dead men.

  The living dead came at him, riding on the rain. Here were his brothers in arms the instant they were shot and dying, stabbed and dying, blown up and dying. And here, too, were the ones he had chosen with his scope before he touched them with his killer finger. They came with the others, heads and bodies ripped apart, but somehow alive again.

  It’s my nightmare, he realized, but this was all wrong. The dead only haunted his sleep, and here he was awake on the river.

  And then it was Bumay who drifted across the flooded plain. But it was only half the chief—the upper torso, with its guts looped down, dragging through the puddles. Johnny stared at the cannibal, unable to turn away.

  Bumay cocked his arm back, the one holding the black spear, and he grinned his black grin and aimed at Johnny’s heart.

  CHAPTER 15

  With all his will, Johnny braced himself against the rain that cut into him like broken glass and tried to make Bumay disappear. He looked down between flying splinters to the place far below, where boots splashed through dirty water.

  An angry buzz swelled in his ears and an animal jumped in his gut. Bumay floated at Johnny, grinning his dark grin, his spear back. He came to Johnny, who ducked, and the chief drifted right through him. He felt the tug of the guts as they passed. And now, running in exaggerated slow motion, came the Mambu warriors.

  Johnny found his rifle in one hand, pistol in the other, and he fired again and again without reloading. He shot the men point blank and flesh roses bloomed on them. He saw each bullet go in—into the chest, the neck, the skull—and explode out in showers of bone. A man with a fierce and noble face raced up and Johnny put his pistol to his jaw and fired. The chin shifted and bullet and teeth blew through.

  There was a pounding of village drums in the rain, and behind it rose whistling radio static. Johnny heard a cheerful Aussie say, an atom bomb went off this morning, an atom bomb, a bloody big bomb went off.

  A long way down, far too far to control, boots knocked together. Fear shot up from his feet and he shuddered like a tree under the bite of the axe. He struggled for balance, scraped up the poor shreds of his will, and staggered on, into whatever hell awaited him.

  Footy was thoroughly wretched. When the rain began, he unhooked the brim of the hat, but the water poured off it and ran under his clothes. The mud squelched and his feet slid inside his sandals. The storm beat him down, and his world shrunk to the back of the prisoner’s head. He saw the bristles and the knotted cloth, all running with rain.

  When he glanced beyond the enemy, he made out the Yank, still grinding on. He glanced around and noted they were in a cane field. He skidded through the mud as they came down onto a low stretch close to the river. Alarm spiked as he watched the floodwaters breach the riverbank and spill across the field. It drowned the path, and swirled between grassy hummocks.

  Then he saw the Yank stumble. Johnny almost fell, and swayed to a stop. The prisoner, head down, ran into his back, and that set the Yank lurching off like a drunk.

  “Johnny!” Footy called, “hold up, mate!”

  The face came around like a moon against the darkening day. Footy took in the slack lips and rolling eyes. The prisoner froze as
well, and his head spun back.

  “You, Jap!” the Aussie snapped, “go by! Then wait.” The man sidled around Johnny and turned. Footy splashed to the Yank’s side and grasped his bicep, but it was wrong, all slack.

  “Mate,” Footy said urgently, “you're ill!” The American’s lips moved, but nothing came out. Johnny felt the fist pinch his arm while another reached into his guts and twisted. The rumble was so loud, Footy heard it over the downpour.

  “Sick!” Johnny said, and the word banged around his head but did not find his mouth.

  We’ve got to seek shelter! Footy thought, and he stared wildly for a place. There in the field was a small hill, turned into an island by the flood. It had a tree that would provide some cover.

  “There!” the Aussie barked at the Japanese, pointing with his rifle, “go!” The man led off while Footy dragged Johnny through the knee-deep water. They reached the slope and climbed.

  “Sit!” Footy ordered the prisoner, motioning to the tree. The man put his back to the trunk and slid down, bound hands on his knees.

  Johnny groaned and thrust his rifle to Footy. Urgently, he began to undo his pants. There was a boulder in the rain and he stumbled to it and dropped, pack still on. His body began to convulse and he moaned in distress. The sound and the smell were atrocious and Footy, standing beneath the tree, felt a wave of nausea—from the stink, he told himself. He stood fretting, feeling hot and anxious. Of all the times, Yank!

  The thunderstorm bellowed and crashed, and the sky ran with water. One second it was garishly lit, then dark twilight. The flood expanded until it seemed to fill the world.

  Johnny forgot where he was. He turned his head to see what was hitting him, and drops fell out of the eggplant sky and struck his eyeballs like pebbles. He dropped his chin on his chest and sat panting while the spasms wracked his body.

  Footy suddenly felt leaden with fatigue. A rifle in each hand, he sat on a buttress root. He felt the prickle of heightened danger as he gazed from Johnny to the prisoner. He found the Japanese staring back, black eyes unreadable. And then the pilot felt the first cramp tear his own belly.

  Johnny felt as if his life force was draining out and his eyelids came crashing down. Outwardly, he seemed to be unconscious, but within, the nightmare raged. Again, the cannibal chief floated across the flooded field, yelling unintelligible words that were too loud. His face is proud and cruel. Everything is black except my green helmet on his head. His skin is black, his teeth shine black, his spear is black against the night.

  Johnny raised his rifle and shot the horror in the face, but the bullet boomeranged in flight and slammed into the shoulder. Bumay spins—and there is the Father! It leaps up below to take him. There is the moon cut on the head, and it bites the hanging guts and drags him down. He comes down like a balloon, and the Father bites the chest. Bumay screams, how he screams! My helmet pops off his head and flies away. The scream never ends, but now it is laughter, crazy laughter. Bumay laughs while the Father eats him and it is the best joke! The crocodile bites and swallows, bites and swallows.

  Johnny tasted what he knew were raw human brains and he leaned forward and vomited. Thunder rattled his bones. Another blast of lighting lit up the inside of his skull. It was white hot and he felt his brain begin to bubble. His skull cracked open, and his awareness shot up into the blaze of light.

  The prisoner sat with his back to the bark and knew the Yankee was finished. He had been laid low with the belly sickness many times, and had seen countrymen die this way, with nothing to expel but black water. He felt a wave of pity, and rejected it.

  Pity is weakness—his Father’s voice. Katsu made his thoughts stern and considered his duty. He must throw off the disgrace of being a prisoner. I am a soldier, and I will kill my enemies and escape. Yes, he thought, but not quite yet. The Australian is watching.

  The man had the rifle pointed at him, very close. He saw what looked like a snarl on the white face, and knew it was a mask over fear, and was encouraged.

  The storm raved on, and the Japanese made his muscles relax and thought about the atom bomb. The news had set off a profound conflict inside him. Part of him thought it was possible such a gruesome thing existed. The destruction of Hiroshima is true. His captors, he could see, believed it totally, and this was hard to refute. If it was so, the Empire of Nippon was finished, for who could fight such a hideous thing? It left him sad and desperate.

  But there was another possibility and it rose like anger, a core of steel within his disgrace. This part rejected the poisoned words of the radio. It is a trick—the enemy is a master liar. Nippon has beaten them all. All we have done is take the living space my people need so desperately. And we have taken control of weaker, lesser people who lack discipline. We will be their firm but benevolent leaders. We will have a better life, and we will share it with all those in Asia!

  Now, in spite of setbacks, in spite of being cut off from High Command and any word from home, I believe in our Empire! I give my life to the Emperor. I serve him, and the sacred Empire of Nippon. If my poor contribution means anything, we will prevail!

  There is no such thing as a single bomb that wipes into oblivion hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of humans. Humanity has not sunk so low that it will wipe entire cities from existence at a single blow!

  These feelings were so strong, they made him nauseous, like the sickness on the ships coming here. He wished with all his being for a truth to cling to in this flood of confusion. True news from home! His eyes had closed and he returned his gaze to the Australian. Again, he stared down the dark hole of the rifle. It was still not time and he closed his eyes and waited.

  Katsu had come to New Guinea under the inspired, if somewhat fanatical, General Yazawa. In spite of the Commander’s aura of invincibility, and the white stallion he rode, he was soon proven to be mortal. Katsu had seen the Commander shot out of the saddle by an enemy sniper. What an absolutely irresistible target he must have made! Since then, Katsu had served under a string of officers.

  At last he had joined the tens of thousands of his countrymen near the town of Wewak. It was in this general region, further north-east on the coast. The Raub River would deliver him within hiking distance of the stronghold.

  Katsu was a Captain, Rikugun Taii, in the Dai Nippon Teikoku Rikugun, the Imperial Army of Japan. Under his superior officer, Rikugun Chūsa (Lieutenant Colonel) Yuudai Matsui, he and three hundred troops were assigned to capture and hold an area of the Sepik River that encompassed five villages.

  Katsu and the Colonel did not get along well. More accurately, it was the Colonel who found reason to bait Katsu. It was all because of the sword. Katsu had been born into a samurai family. The ancient warrior caste had remained Nippon’s elite for the better part of a thousand years, until gunpowder and modern weaponry had rendered them obsolete. In the 1870s, the samurai were stripped of their privileges, and outlawed.

  Still, Katsu’s family was the very flesh and blood of the old warriors. The Takano had been samurai for more than five hundred years. On the day before Katsu departed with the Army for the New Guinea islands, his father had honored him by presenting to him the ancient katana, the samurai sword, to carry into battle.

  The Lieutenant Colonel, on the other hand, came from a wealthy family, but of lowly merchant lineage. He made it clear in a thousand small ways that he despised his junior samurai officer and his precious sword! Katsu believed the man was envious, but for whatever reason, his superior seized every opportunity to belittle Katsu and brutally exert his authority.

  Their occupation of the Sepik had been successful, but as the months dragged on, neither food, supplies nor relief came. In fact, there was no contact with higher command. What could the troops do but wait? What little rice they had left, damp, rancid and full of weevils, the Colonel reserved for himself and the officers. Katsu found this offensive and would not partake. With the men, he scavenged for sweet potatoes in the native gardens. There was never enough. />
  The fetid place by the river swarmed with mosquitoes and vermin so at times, Katsu thought he might go mad. Once every last vegetable, pig, chicken and even the dogs had been eaten, the troops began to die. Starvation was abetted by malaria, dysentery and a host of fevers, and men fell like flies.

  Then, when it seemed things could not possibly get worse, the enemy found them. The fighters screamed out of the sky and strafed the men, who scattered into the jungle. They heard motors on the river. Gunboats sped into view, machine guns blazing.

  Colonel Matsui seized his samurai underling and ordered him to round up what men he could. They would run for their lives. Katsu was able to collar only seven soldiers. The Commander leveled his rifle at the native men still in the village and ordered them to guide him upriver. They were unwilling to venture into other tribal land, so Matsui shot one. The other four fell into line.

  The party trekked away, robbing gardens where they could. Each night, they must stand guard over the natives, or they would run off. But the enemy gunboats followed and more of the fighters thundered over. Numerous times, Katsu and his group were forced to throw themselves down in the jungle and hope they would not be seen. From time to time, they heard the machine guns hammering, and knew others of their countrymen had met their end.

  The enemy was all over the river. The Colonel ordered the guides to lead them away. They struck out overland, and eventually found themselves climbing the forbidding mountains. By the river, they had been too hot. Now they were too cold. Finally, all of them sick and near death, they encountered a stream that turned out to be the headwaters of the Raub River. They followed it down and came upon the village.

  Their urgent priority was food, and they went in search of the gardens. There they stumbled across the gaijin, two white men, surrounded by natives. The Colonel knew Katsu spoke some English and ordered him to interrogate the enemy.

  They were Australian, the white men explained, but Christian priests, men of peace. Katsu translated and Matsui listened with his face pulled into his usual sour frown. The Colonel replied he did not believe them. They were spies, like all the hairy ogres, and they would be executed—at once. Katsu began to speak, and the Captain called him a fool and told him not to translate this. He barked orders, and the troops seized the white men and made them kneel. Protesting anxiously, the priests were forced on their knees and made to look at the dirt, which stretched their necks.