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

by Timothy James Dean

  “We saved your bacon in this war,” he said hotly. “If we hadn’t, you’d be getting your orders from Tokyo right now.”

  “You arrogant bugger,” Footy spat, “you forget you’re my guest here—of me and all Australians.”

  “Oh yeh?” Johnny said. “Guests of Australia. What a joke. As it happens, I was there for the ‘Battle of Brisbane.’ You hear about that? Don’t tell me how you treat your guests!”

  “Were you then?” Footy fumed. “I was there as well, as it happens.”

  “Then you know,” Johnny said. “Thousands of you Aussies—soldiers and civilians—beat up every American servicemen you could get your hands on. You had to get all liquored up, naturally. We had to barricade ourselves into our buildings and fight for our lives. It went on for days. Australian hospitality! What a joke!”

  “We got tired of you bloody Yanks abusing our women, strutting around like you owned our country,” Footy said.

  “You jealous?” Johnny shot back. “Is it our fault the Australian women prefer us?”

  “Aww, is that it Yank?” Footy sneered. “You were out with one of our women?”

  “Your women? You? Huh! As it turns out, I did have a date. I was walking her home when six yahoos jumped me. Six to one!”

  “Aww, you get a black eye?”

  “Maybe more than that,” Johnny said, “but I got my licks in.”

  “You know what we say in Aus?” Footy said. “There’s only three things wrong with you Yanks. You’re overpaid—oversexed—and over here. And at the end of it in Brisbane, it was one of our lads who lay murdered in the street. Shot and killed by a Yank in the poor bloke’s own country. Yet not one bloody Yank was killed, was he?”

  “Yeah? Well I saw a lot of good friends die here in New Guinea,” Johnny said, “and for what? For a bunch of losers who can’t even say thank you? Now I’m getting mad. You better shut up.”

  Footy flicked the butt of his cigarette at the ground so hard, it exploded in a shower of sparks, and stormed to his bed.

  Johnny spoke to him once more that night, at midnight when he shook him awake.

  “Here,” he said, shoving his rifle at the pilot. “We’re going to have to get along ‘til we’re out of here. It’s your watch. It’s loaded. I’ve got three more shells and we’re out.” Johnny headed for his hammock without waiting for a reply. Footy glared after him, but roused himself and stayed on watch.

  Both men were up before first light. Johnny grabbed his rifle, and with ill humor, they threw their things together and took to the trail. The sun drilled down and they poured with sweat. At mid-morning, they found a stream and replenished their canteens. The land was flat and the mountains they’d come out of were far behind, no more than a distant blue ribbon under clouds. The Raub spread beside them, wide and sluggish, the banks gone to mud and reeds. It looked like a wilderness unchanged since the dawn of time.

  At mid-day, the river split into the first of many branches that would spread across the flats. The men had no choice but to follow the outer arm. Another hour, and Johnny felt his hopes surge when the first seagull drifted overhead, but his spirits sank again when he saw the mangroves in the distance.

  It seemed to take forever to arrive at the swamp. The trekkers were appalled by the magnitude of it as they drew close. Stagnant water flooded the horizon, choked by mangroves and waterweeds.

  This place is a crocodile’s wet dream, Johnny thought grimly. But if they were to reach the South Pacific, they must soldier on. He and Footy stood on the edge of the everglade, mustering the will to enter. They saw ridges of dry ground here and there, but whole sections were submerged. At last, miserable with their options and each other, the men waded in with their footgear on.

  At once, Footy discovered the mud sucked the sandals right off his feet. He had to bend and feel for them, his face almost in the slime. Fortunately, he found them, held them high, and walked on. Johnny did better in his boots, but on the far side, they were full of water. He had to sit, take them off, wring out his socks and towel dry his feet. If he didn’t, he knew from dismal experience that the wet leather would soon rub the skin off, not to mention the jungle rot that would eat them away. And any lame man out here was likely to be a dead one.

  Soon he, too, was wading with his boots tied around his neck. The men groped with their toes through dark water. If I step on a croc, Footy thought, first I’ll know about it will be me leg coming off.

  They arrived at a deep ford. Johnny stopped and stared unhappily at it. They had twenty yards to traverse and crocodiles could be anywhere—in the water, or lurking among the mangroves. He waded in, rifle high in both hands. Footy followed. The water surged to mid-calf, then to their knees.

  Three quarters of the way through, Johnny began to sink. He cried out and Footy watched helplessly as the Yank went down in black water to his shoulders. Gingerly, Johnny continued and was able to scramble up the bank.

  Footy stood swatting at biting flies that had joined with the mosquitoes in making life unbearable. Being the shorter man, he knew the water would go higher on him. He took off his pack and balanced it on his head. When he sank into the hole, the water lapped at his chin. Footy squeezed his lips tight to keep the muck out and pushed on. Johnny waited on the bank, rifle panning the mangroves. Footy crawled onto the bank and his worry overcame his vow of silence.

  “I don't like this—not a bit. Now we're truly in the Father's country. If it, or any croc, finds us in a stretch like that....”

  Johnny was still angry but anxiety gained the upper hand.

  “I hear you,” he said. “But what choice do we have? We’ve got to keep going.”

  Footy nodded grimly and the men forged on.

  CHAPTER 24

  Plagued by insects and anxiety, the men toiled through the swamp. The going was difficult and the knowledge that a crocodile could be waiting at every step wore them to a frazzle. The sun fried their heads under helmet and hat, and the hours were long.

  Footy slugged along in distress and at last his irritation turned inward with a vengeance. To let that kanaka seduce me—and take my rifle and revolver! Stupid chump, Footy, the voice taunted him. Useless little bugger! Always doing the wrong thing. You're going to pay for it now, and you deserve every bit of what's coming to you! These were the barbs that had wounded him as a child, words fired like javelins by schoolmates, even teachers and parents. Back then, they had cut him to the quick, and now they pierced the scars and hit the same nerves. Footy’s natural cheerfulness and confidence bled away.

  By the end of the day, both men were wrung out and famished. There were no gardens and all they had was what was in their packs. They would have to live on it until they found another source of food, or reached the end of their journey. Johnny figured they had enough yams for one more day, and still they’d be hungry. As for drinking water, they had not come across any since they entered the swamp.

  The haze over the everglade coalesced into a rag of cloud across the horizon. In the fading evening, the men searched for a patch of earth dry enough to camp on. The light was almost gone when they saw some higher ground, but to get there, they had to make another ford. There was no point in delaying. Johnny sloshed in.

  Footy had spent an absolutely wretched day. His energy was gone and he was at snapping point. The whine of mosquitoes even inside his ears threatened to drive him over the edge. He stood slapping and muttering to himself as Johnny pushed through deep water.

  When the Yank was on the far side and had turned with his rifle again, Footy crossed with sandals in hand, a swarm of insects dive-bombing his head. At mid-crossing, one landed on an eyelid and plunged in its needle. Footy slapped his eye and went blind for a moment. He lost his balance, staggered sideways, and put his foot down on something sharp. He felt the deep stab and yelped.

  “What is it?” Johnny asked. Tentatively, Footy wiggled the leg, but it was held fast. He panicked, gave a sharp tug and something snapped underwater.


  “Bloody hell!” He limped on, pulled himself out, dropped his pack and sat.

  “What?” Johnny asked again.

  “Stepped on something,” Footy croaked. “Cut meself.” Both groaned. The Aussie rinsed the foot as best he could by swishing it in the nasty water, turned it over in his hands and inspected the sole. Johnny sank beside him and they stared anxiously at the bloody ball. There was a gash with a jagged piece of black wood sticking out. Johnny dug in his pack and pulled out his towel and the first aid kit. He used a corner of cloth to wipe most of the slime away, while Footy winced.

  “I've got to get that out,” Johnny told him.

  “Go on, just do it!” Footy said between clenched teeth. Johnny opened the bottle of iodine and poured some around the splinter. Footy yelped and beat the ground. Johnny took the foot in one hand and pinched the stick between thumb and finger. He jerked out a two-inch wedge of sodden wood while Footy gasped.

  Johnny got his thumbs on either side of the wound and pressed hard. Footy let out a string of colorful words, some Johnny had not heard. He kept the pressure on until the black flecks were gone and the blood ran pure.

  He poured more iodine into the wound while Footy called down damnation on all swamps and several kinds of marsupials. When the worst of the bleeding had stopped, Johnny tipped sulfa powder into the gash.

  How will I be able to go on? Footy wondered. How can I wade through the bleeding muck like this? Hopefully, the iodine has sterilized it. If the ruddy foot gets infected mate, you’ll not walk at all. I get a bit of crumpet and what—I’m forced to pay for it with me life?

  Johnny told Footy he’d bandage the cut, and they were here for the night. He unrolled the pilot’s blanket for him and helped the Aussie lie down. Johnny figured he should elevate the injured foot. He chopped a forked mangrove branch, stuck it in the mud and rested Footy’s heel in it.

  “How is it?” Johnny asked.

  “Hurts like a bugga,” Footy growled.

  “Do you want morphine?” Johnny asked.

  “You’ve got morphine?” Footy sputtered. “Bloody morphine? Why didn’t you say so? Yes, dose me up mate.”

  Johnny selected one of the three small metal tubes called “syrettes.” He broke the seal, attached the needle, inserted it in Footy’s arm and squeezed the tube. The Aussie’s eyes soon glazed over and he sank back.

  “Better?” Johnny asked.

  “Much, ta,” Footy murmured.

  “I’ll sew it up,” Johnny said.

  “Take it off, for all I care,” Footy said. Johnny got a needle and length of thread from his pack. He soaked both in iodine, crouched in front of the Aussie, and said he was going to begin. He got no answer and saw Footy had nodded out.

  Johnny pushed the needle through the thick skin. He looped stitch after stitch, eight of them, until the gash was drawn tight. He soaked a pad of gauze in iodine and laid it over the wound, then cut strips of tape from a roll and stuck the square down. He ripped more strips and covered the patch, trying to make it watertight. He fetched his spare pair of socks—none too clean, unfortunately, but they’d have to do—and pulled them over the Aussie’s feet.

  Johnny gathered firewood. The fallen branches were spongy and again, he had trouble getting a flame from his Zippo. At last he managed to get a pinch of dry moss to burn. He fed it with twigs and got a fire going. Water sputtered out of the ends of the sticks, and the smoke was thick, but with the insect squadrons flying low, that was all for the best. Johnny cooked the last of the yams on the coals. One for tonight, three for the whole day tomorrow, and that’s it.

  While they roasted, Johnny gathered wood for the long night ahead. He unrolled his hammock upside down on the ground so the waterproof roof would serve as a tarp. He spread his sheet on top of that and used a spare shirt for a pillow.

  While Footy slept, Johnny took a pot to the pond. He could see where their steps coming across were gray mushrooms in the black. With his hands, he parted the wiry mangroves and palms until he found a trickle of clearer water. He was able to get the edge of the pot under and filled it. He took it back to the fire and piled branches around it. When it had boiled for ten minutes, he set it aside to cool. It would be their drinking water for the day to come. When the kaukau were cooked, he pulled them out and ate a single one.

  He lay down, still starving. Clouds obscured the stars and the ember glow was the only light. Johnny gazed into the coals as the swamp frogs sang. Something rustled through the reeds and plopped into the marsh. Johnny hadn’t been able to get enough sleep for days, but he was determined to remain on guard. He was staring mesmerized at the flickering coals when he heard Footy’s disembodied voice.

  “About that girl...”

  “That’s done,” Johnny told him. “Let it go.”

  “That was me first time.”

  Johnny grunted in surprise. He waited for more, but the Aussie was silent and he made out in the glow that the man was asleep. The mosquitoes were ferocious and Johnny adjusted the Digger hat over Footy’s head. He pulled the square of netting from the man’s pack and tented it over the hat and face. He got Footy's spare shirt and spread it over the Aussie's hands.

  Johnny lay back, rifle across his lap, and thought about Gwyn. He wondered if she believed he was still alive. Many times on this journey, he’d wondered why she asked him to look for his heart. He still didn’t know what to do about that. It was just the sort of thing a girl would do to torment a guy.

  For a time he thought about Dingo, reminded of him by the things spread around Footy. He realized he didn’t even know if the Major was married or had a family. If so, they had no idea yet that the man was not coming home.

  Then Johnny thought about the Father. He had never imagined such a horrifying predator would be on the hunt for him. How could you fight something that massive and savage, and in a place like this? If it came for him now, as well it could, he was done. No man could go hand-to-hand with a brute like that.

  Suddenly Johnny’s head jerked up. He’d dropped off, and he shook his head and slapped his face to rouse himself. He peered into the swamp but could see nothing outside the little orange glow of the coals. He sat up, and it seemed to be forever before he saw the hint of lighter gray in the east. That was the instant his eyelids fell. He even knew for a few seconds it was happening, but he could not stop it. He fell on his side and it was too late. He was sound asleep.

  He did not see the cold eyes that stared at him from the darkness. Nor was he aware when the watcher began to glide for him through the water, intent on his death.

  Dawn found the Father in the delta. The river split into various branches and it chose the one most traveled by the two-legged prey. The crocodile surged deep into the marsh to the ambush place.

  This ford had been haunted by generations of crocodiles. Here the topography and jungle conspired to form a bottleneck. All animals that wanted to pass from one side to the other must go through the water itself. And then they were in the domain of the aquatic reptiles. For tens of thousands of years, this had been the site of uncounted predations.

  At first light, the Father arrived. In that neck of water, it sensed several of its own kind. One of them lay in the very place the Father wanted for itself. Without pause, the giant launched at the incumbent, but this was no minor freshwater reptile. It was a muscular saltwater male in its own right, and it felt the disturbance in the current and knew what it meant. Enraged, it stood through the surface and, with a territorial bellow, turned to confront the newcomer.

  The Father’s huge head burst up by its flank. At once, the defender knew it was undone. The challenger was at least twice its size. Bravado flipped to terror, and the smaller one tried to bolt. But the Father snatched the tail in its teeth and lifted the entire hind end out of the water, the webbed feet pedaling.

  The defender corkscrewed in agony as its tail came off. The Father dropped the appendage, charged up and bit the bull’s neck. Its jaws more than reached from one side to t
he other, and the conical teeth crushed through.

  Its grip sure, the Father rolled into deeper water, dragging the victim. The whole river churned, waves slapped the bank, and the surface became a blur of scales and legs.

  The combatants sank and the surface settled. Then a crimson gout shot up and the froth went pink. Again the river’s surface calmed, and finally, floating up through the murk came the pale underbody of the dead crocodile. The head hung to one side, barely connected. The entire neck was missing. Belly up, the carcass drifted away, bumping its detached tail. Blood dripped from its grievous wounds, and ripples formed all around it as eels and fish rushed in to feed. The body rounded a bend in the mangroves.

  The entire length of water along the bank lifted and the Father stood in the wash. It parted its jaws and roared its triumph. At once, the other crocodiles burst from hiding and flung themselves away. For several minutes, there was only frantic splashing, the snapping of branches, and the scream of watching birds.

  Again the Father settled, leaving eyes, ears and nostrils exposed. It slowed its huge four-chambered heart until it beat only once every five minutes.

  And so the hunter waited for the one-prey. Light and darkness came in their turn, and it did not move.

  At last it heard what it craved—the unmistakable approach of the two-legged animals. The Father ducked its head entirely underwater and stared at the place where the spindly legs were bound to appear.

  CHAPTER 25

  A sound at his ear penetrated Johnny's sleep and he struggled for consciousness. He was on his back and his eyes opened into bright sunlight. Something loomed over him, and Johnny squinted, trying to make out the silhouette against the glare. He blinked and regained focus.

  With a shock he realized it was the Japanese. He was very much alive, and he held his sword, a shaft of light over Johnny’s neck. He was gauging where to strike and the blade went high for the killing blow.

  Johnny’s mind reeled: the sword was at the top of its arc. He wrenched his gaze from it to the Asian eyes and said the first thing that came to him.