I must take responsibility for myself. But my individual life is not important. Now there is only what I must do. He thought of his captors and decided: I will find them and I will take back my katana. Perhaps I cannot save my nation, but I can save my sword. I will hear it sing again. That will be my story. He felt relief and he thought, I have become the most dangerous of men, the one with nothing left to lose.
Gradually, he distinguished black trees against a charcoal sky. The world took form once more. In the early dawn, he saw legions of mosquitoes on his skin. They stood with legs splayed and drank his blood. He crushed dozens of them.
He stood upright, giddy with fever and urgent for water. With no path to follow, he covered his face with his arms and pushed forward, being torn by brambles. At last he stumbled across a trickle of water and knelt and drank. Now he knew he would live. He followed the rivulet, and when it formed a puddle, he pulled up handfuls of sopping moss and washed away the sting and the sweat. After that, he followed the water, ducking under giant leaves and climbing roots. The brook became a stream and, after many hours, it led him to a native path through the jungle.
The sun was a mere bright spot on the forest canopy and he could not tell which direction to go. He simply followed the trail and at last broke out of the trees and there was the Raub. He realized at once he had come all this distance in the upriver direction. His captors were traveling the other way, towards the ocean. If he wanted his sword, he must trail them.
He wondered if they had survived the sickness, and if so, what they had made of his disappearance. He hoped they thought he had been swept away by the flood or been eaten by crocodiles. This thought encouraged him, for if they thought he was dead he could surprise them.
But now he was starving and he must find food. He backtracked along the path. An hour later he passed the same stream he had emerged on, and knelt to drink. Then he continued and broke into a trot. The enemies could not be too far ahead.
Johnny felt the prick of her spear against his neck and he knew who the singer was.
“You’re Sarah!”
The woman cried out and her features contorted as if he had slugged her. She cocked her head, as though hearing a voice from far away.
“Sarah?” Her voice and spear wavered.
“Your husband is Billy,” Johnny said.
“Billy? Where is my Billy?”
Johnny glanced at Footy and saw him still on his back, three spears poised over him. When Johnny returned his gaze to the white woman, he found her eyes wide with grief and remembrance.
“The Japs!” she exclaimed. “They came to the Mission and....” She paused as the memory flooded in and Johnny saw her flinch.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “They killed Billy!” She sagged as if something snapped inside and she began to sob. Her spear drifted away from Johnny’s neck. “He is dust,” she said. She raked a hand through her long hair, “and I am ashes.” She was silent, and then gave a groan that wrenched Johnny's heart.
“There is a hell,” she said. “I am in it.”
“I’m sorry Sarah,” Johnny said. He felt compassion, but he and Footy remained in mortal danger and his mind raced for a solution. How do you threaten a person who wants to die? And then it came to him: you don’t.
Johnny swung the barrel of his rifle away from Sarah’s chest and put it under the chin of the nearest native girl. He pressed hard so she cried out and dropped her spear. The white woman raised her eyes in alarm.
“Esther!” she said.
“Sarah,” Johnny said in the soldier’s voice, “put your spear down. Right now! Order your girls to drop theirs as well! Or I will blow Esther's brains out.” He put pressure on the barrel and the girl choked. Johnny saw confusion, anger and fear play across Sarah’s face. This is the moment of truth.
“Sarah,” he barked, “I am a soldier and I have killed hundreds of people and I will kill Esther right now—unless you do exactly what I say. On three,” he said. He tightened his finger on the trigger. “One. Two…”
“Stop!” Sarah cried, and she opened her hands and the spear clattered down. She spoke in a tremulous voice in the native language. The girls stared at her and each other and began to withdraw. Johnny saw that the one with his pistol kept it pointed at him. The native women gathered behind Sarah but did not put down the weapons.
The girls over Footy backed off as well. A few feet away, one handed her spear to a companion and picked up the Aussie’s rifle, and the revolver. She turned over the pistol to another young woman and checked the Lee Enfield in a way that told Johnny she knew what she was doing. She drew the bolt to confirm there was a round in the chamber, then locked it again. Walking backwards, guided by another girl, she kept the rifle trained on Johnny’s chest.
“Footy,” Johnny said, “we’re leaving.” The Aussie got to his feet and his fists opened and closed as he watched his guns depart with the natives. The one with the revolver cocked the hammer and aimed it at him.
A girl came to Sarah and helped her to rise. Something about the way she did it made Johnny wonder who was really in charge—the mad white woman or the natives? Sarah stared at Johnny with grief-stricken eyes.
“The Japs raped me,” she said. “Each one of us.” She nodded at her companions. “They put us to work as their ‘comfort station.’ I fought back.” Her fingers touched the scar across her chest. “They were too strong. I prayed to die, but I did not die.” She twisted a hand in her hair and wiped her eyes with it.
“I forgot myself,” she said, letting go of the hair and standing with her companions. “I am a thing that lays under men.” Her voice broke. Johnny and Footy stared at her, appalled.
“I stopped fighting,” she said. “Then, one day, there were a lot less Japs.” She smiled and looked at her girls, then back to Johnny.
“We used sticks and rocks to kill the ones who came to us after that. We took their guns and killed more.” She nodded and Johnny could not reply. He had nothing big enough to say. It was Footy who broke the silence.
“Come with us, Sarah.”
“You!” she frowned at him. “Swine!” Johnny shot a warning glance his way and saw the man look both sheepish and defiant, a tough combination to pull off.
“Sarah, we can take you to your people,” Johnny said. For a moment there was a flicker of hope in the mad eyes, but it went out.
“Too late,” Sarah whispered. “Much too late. Who is my family?” She sighed and came to Johnny. His rifle was still pressed under the chin of the girl she called Esther. Sarah put her hand around the barrel and pushed it aside. She took Esther's hand and walked with her to the women. She murmured to the others and they moved in a knot towards the far jungle. The two holding Footy’s firearms and the one with Johnny’s pistol shuffled backwards, aiming at the soldiers.
“Put down our guns!” Johnny shouted, setting the crosshairs on the one with the Lee Enfield. But the women went on. He thought he would put a warning shot over their heads, but recalled how short of ammo they were.
“Shoot them!” Footy told him. “Don’t let them take our guns!” Johnny sighed and lowered the Springfield.
“I’ve never killed a woman and I’m not going to start now!” he told Footy. “Besides, this is your fault.”
The women disappeared into the forest and they heard Sarah call.
“Unclean! Unclean!” And then she started to sing again until the song faded in the distance.
“Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy boy, Billy boy,
Can she bake a cherry pie, Charming Billy?
She can bake a cherry pie
Fast as a cat can wink an eye,
She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.”
“That’s the bloody world for you,” Footy said bitterly. “Whenever something good comes along, it’s usually too good to be true.” He grabbed his shirt from the grass and put it on, then stalked back the way they’d come. Johnny followed to where they’d left their things.
&nbs
p; Footy jammed on his hat, pulled out the Bowie knife and shoved it through his belt, then heaved the pack on. As he did so, the handle of the sword snagged his shirt and a button flew away. Footy stormed off. Johnny got his machete and knife back on his belt, swung into his own pack and went after him.
The pilot strode across the gardens towards the downriver jungle, Johnny on his tail. The men passed sixty yards inland from the place where the natives once went to wash. Johnny caught up with the Australian as they entered the trees.
“Look,” Footy said to him. “I reckon we’ll take turns carrying your rifle.”
“What do you mean, take turns?” Johnny snapped.
“I mean,” Footy said, “you keep the rifle half the day, and I’ll have it the other.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Johnny snorted. “Give my rifle to a man who let his be taken off him—by a girl?” He laughed scornfully and pushed by.
“And where’s your pistol?” Footy yelled. Johnny shook his head.
He blitzed through the jungle and did not care if the Aussie followed or not.
CHAPTER 23
Johnny walked hard for many hours without a pause. Footy fell far behind. At last Johnny made himself take a break, ate a sweet potato and took to the trail again.
Only as night was falling did exhaustion make him stop. He chose a campsite some distance from the river where there were trees to string his hammock. Over the day, his rage had simmered to general exasperation. He felt stupid for losing his pistol, but at least he’d kept himself under control. And he still had his Springfield. Night dropped quickly as he gathered firewood. When Footy puffed up red-faced twenty minutes later, Johnny was building the fire and would not look at him.
The men moved separately into the nearby gardens and dug sweet potatoes. They laid them on the coals without speaking and sat apart. When their dinner was cooked, they ate in silence. Footy spread his blanket and muttered to the sky.
“Well, no bloody point in me keeping guard without a rifle.” He lay down and turned away. Johnny was not about to argue with the fool. Instead of crawling into his hammock as he longed to do, he sat against a tree, rifle across his lap. From time to time, his fatigue overpowered him and he dozed fitfully, waking every few minutes.
Footy had rolled on his back and was snoring loudly under his patch of netting. Johnny slapped at mosquitoes and thought he might go and put his boot up the man’s backside, but he did not. The night seemed interminable.
From the river, the Father watched the man in the patch of light. It had remained in its previous ambush place until it knew the prey had eluded it. Then the crocodile had gone in pursuit. It spied the enemy in the distance and trailed him, submerged like a drifting log.
As darkness came, the smaller two-legged creature came into view. The crocodile maneuvered as close as it could while remaining in the river. Its leg was sore and the pain kept the reptile from wanting to walk across land.
The predator kept watch while the night passed, but it knew this was not a good ambush place. The animal trail passed inland, and then there were cliffs. Gradually, an image grew of a better place. It was in the swampland ahead. There it had hunted frequently at a ford where all land animals that wanted to pass, must venture into the water.
The desire to take the smooth-headed man there grew in the hunter. When the stars were beginning to fade in the sky, it nosed out into the channel and swam away.
Daybreak found Johnny tired and irritated. He lit the stove and boiled water from his canteen. They were low on coffee and out of almost everything else. Johnny felt like brewing a cup just for himself, but he made two and slopped one down beside the sleeping Australian. He gulped his own quickly and stuffed his things in his pack.
As he was tying his hammock on, Footy stretched and rubbed his eyes. Johnny found he was still mad. Even the way the pilot stood and scratched his belly aggravated him. And when he hawked and spit, Johnny was ready to hammer him. He threw his pack on and strode away. Footy had to rush to get up, scramble his things together and trot, just to keep the Yank in view. He could barely get any of the coffee in his mouth.
For his part, the pilot felt it was a fine morning. His dreams had been laced with erotic images, and the euphoria was still on him. He felt badly about the loss of his firearms, but that was his problem, wasn’t it? The Yank should be over himself by now.
It was a fresh morning, the sun a golden halo over the red-tinged forest. The wide surface of the river reflected the warm light. Water birds of all kinds were in abundance. Footy watched a kingfisher skim over the river and dive. The men passed through grasslands that gave way to wild scrub, without any sign of humans.
As Johnny walked, he peeled a yam with his fingers and tossed the black skin off the high bank into the river. Fish fed, making rings on the surface. He did not realize the Aussie had trotted close until he heard the foolish giggle. Johnny spun around and crossed his arms.
“What’s so funny?”
“Aww, nothing,” Footy said.
“Out with it.”
“Alright then,” Footy smirked. “I had a go. At least there’s that.”
Johnny’s stare could have made icicles.
“You are not talking about that girl, are you?”
“Well yes,” Footy said. “Cor blimey, that...”
“You lost your rifle and your pistol, you moron!” Johnny barked. “Without me you’d be dead—and all you can think about is...”
“Listen,” Footy cut in. “A bloke’s gotta do what a bloke’s gotta do.”
“Oh shove it!” Johnny said. He stalked away, but Footy wouldn’t leave it alone and scuffled up again.
“Mind you, takes a cool head with spears at your back...”
“I said-shut-your-pie-hole!”
Johnny strode fast until there were a hundred yards between them once more. It was Footy’s turn to be annoyed.
The bloody Yank’s no better than me! I saw him all over that poor mad woman—and he lost his pistol, that’s a fact. I saw him put down his rifle. Sheerest chance he got it back. Who the hell does he think he is, getting high and mighty with me? Not that I’m proud of meself. No, not the best thing you’ve ever done, Footy me lad. But then, not the worst either.
The miles and the hours wore away and Footy had a change of heart. He had to admit—only to himself—that he’d been stupid to lose his firearms. He was naked in the bush without them. But I don’t need bloody-Johnny-come-lately, lord-of-the-bush, to tell me that!
When he turned sixteen his dad had said to him: “Footy, you're a man now mate—get it wherever and whenever you can. By the time you reach my age, you’ll find there’s never enough strange quim for a lifetime.”
But wanting it and getting it were two different things, Footy had discovered that for himself. Yes, those women had their own buggered plan—but I had me agenda. What’s a bloke meant to do, turn down a sure thing? Not likely mate, he told himself. Not bloody likely!
By mid-afternoon Footy had stirred himself into a rage. Bloody Johnny, just like a bleedin’ Yank—always acting like they’ve got the right to run the world! Forget the ruddy Nazis mate—it’s the Yanks who believe they’re the master race! Footy glared at Johnny's helmeted head in the distance. All right then, if the wanker won’t talk—I won’t either. Fine with me mate. Bloody fine with me!
Footy deliberately let the American get out of sight as he plodded through the wavering heat. I'll be glad when this is over, he though. Glad when the Nips and Yanks all go back to whatever hole they crawled out of. New Guinea belongs to Australia! Aus rules!
Up ahead, Johnny's thoughts buzzed like hornets. That dipstick is going to get us killed! Why do I always have to be the responsible one? This is just like the war. Fine talk about “Allies,” but it’s the U S of A that gets the job done. We beat the Japs here, by land and sea, and were the Aussies grateful? No—the opposite in fact. Johnny remembered that bad time with the fighting in Brisbane when he’d been on
leave. The memory brought a sour taste to his mouth and he spat.
He knew Footy had fallen way back and he didn’t care. He had his Springfield and his food—and the last two packs of cigarettes. If the runt couldn't keep up, that was his problem.
Late in the day, having covered a lot of distance, Johnny looked for a campsite. It was real scrub wilderness now, no native gardens for a long time, but at last he found a place with a few yam mounds beside the river. He dug some and proceeded with the setup.
By the time Footy came along and rooted up his own supper, Johnny had his hammock strung. Again, they didn’t speak while Footy unpacked his bedroll. They ranged out for firewood, returned with their arms full, and moved around one another with the exaggerated courtesy men give to strangers.
Johnny lit the fire with his Zippo. The fuel was drying up and it took several tries. Not for the first time, he wished he’d brought some matches from the depot. The evening was close and mosquitoes were out in force. The men placed the kaukau on the flames and sat in the smoke and waited. An egg-shaped moon floated into the sky. When the tubers were ready, they speared them with their knives, each careful to take only his own.
When they’d eaten, Johnny pulled out two cigarettes. After about ten flicks of his Zippo he gave up, picked up a flaming piece of grass, lit both smokes and passed one to Footy, all without a word.
“Give us a few ciggys to carry,” Footy broke the silence, “if you’re going to be miles off all day.”
“We’re almost out,” Johnny said. “And besides, how’re you going to light them?”
“And who put you in charge?” Footy snapped. “Trouble with you Yanks, you think you run the world.” Johnny instantly regretted sharing his cigarettes and all the pent up animosity boiled over.
TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy) Page 32
