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

by Timothy James Dean

  The Japanese watched but said nothing. Johnny shrugged, put on his pack and picked up his Springfield. Footy wore his boots, so now Johnny’s own feet were bare. The marsh stretched away on all sides. It was not even pools of water, but more like a wide and putrid lake, standing with mangroves.

  Johnny waded into the rank liquid. The edges were tangles of roots. When he was up to his waist, he saw something move in the shadows and whirled with his rifle. A snake, body thick as his arm, undulated through the stalks and disappeared. Johnny shuddered and pushed on.

  He climbed out on the bank, turned with the Springfield ready and called for Footy to come. The Aussie limped slowly through, having trouble as his booted feet sank in the thick ooze. The sword waved in his free hand. The prisoner followed, carrying Dingo’s pack.

  They got across and continued, wading more often than walking. Footy’s pace was agonizingly slow and Johnny had to stop frequently and wait. He got an idea and began to study the vegetation. When he saw what he wanted, a mangrove that forked at shoulder height, he chopped it down. Johnny tried the crutch under Footy’s arm, trimmed it to fit and padded the fork with his towel. Footy passed the sword to Johnny and took some steps as rivulets of sweat streamed down his face.

  “Footy, that’s better,” Johnny said, “but what are we going to do about this?” He waved the sword.

  “You carry it mate,” Footy puffed.

  “No way,” Johnny said. “I’ve got enough as it is.”

  “Give it here then,” Footy glowered and Johnny handed it over. The prisoner’s eyes flashed between the men. The Aussie gripped the crutch in his right hand and the sword in his left. Johnny shrugged and strode away. The Japanese waited for the Australian to move and trailed him. They went on like that for several hours. Footy did better on the crutch, but still went at a turtle pace.

  Finally, and for the first time, the Japanese spoke directly to him.

  “I will carry the sword.”

  “Not a prayer in hell,” Footy frowned.

  “That has been in my family for three hundred years,” the Japanese said. “It has been handed from father to son all that time. Please—you cannot get it wet. And you are unable to carry it.”

  “I will bloody well do what I like with it!” Footy barked.

  “I have surrendered,” the prisoner said. “I have promised not to hurt you.” He took a breath. “The sword has a name. ‘Katsumushi-maru.’ I ask you—please keep Katsumushi-maru dry. Its value is beyond price.”

  “I’ll soak it in sheep-dip if I want,” Footy shouted, shaking the sword. “It's mine! ” Now Johnny was irritated.

  “What does it matter if we don’t get through? This is crazy! Let’s get out of this swamp!”

  Johnny marched to the next ford. It was another deep one. He raised his rifle and went in. The murk smelled like a sewer and swirled up to his chest. When he got to the far bank, once again he covered the other men while they crossed.

  Footy reached the halfway point, the Japanese a pace behind. Then the Aussie’s crutch stuck deep in the mud and pulled out from under his arm. Footy started to fall and the sword swung wildly. He would have gone facedown if the prisoner hadn’t rushed up and grabbed him. Footy half turned, still falling. For a long moment they did a slow dance, the sword circling wildly. Then the Australian brought the scabbard down hard across the other man’s head. The crack made Johnny wince.

  The prisoner steadied Footy with a fist in his shirt while his other hand shot out and snatched the sword. Blood trickled from the gash above his headband. When he was sure Footy was steady, the Japanese let him go and went back for the crutch. He pulled it from the mud and shoved it at the Aussie.

  “Take it!” he said. Footy squinted at the man's split scalp.

  “Crikey!” He said.

  “I will carry the sword across,” the prisoner said. The pilot stared at him. “Then you can have it.”

  Without waiting for a reply, the Japanese lifted Footy’s free arm and shoved his head under. He put an arm around the injured man’s waist and extended his other one holding the sword for balance. The twosome moved towards Johnny. Footy’s right hand worked the crutch and he was forced to put his own arm around the prisoner’s shoulders. He was struck by the physical reality of the captive, solid in his reluctant embrace. The two came through foul water up to their necks.

  When they were safely beside Johnny, the Japanese pulled away from the Australian. Johnny saw each man brush at the place where the other’s hands had touched him. Footy was panting and streaming with water.

  “Give it back,” he said. The prisoner looked him over, nodded, and handed him the sword. The Aussie grabbed it and glared.

  “Come on!” Johnny said and led them across a dryer stretch of mud. The day was sweltering, the insects remorseless, and the men were famished.

  And as it turned out, it was the sword that was Footy’s downfall. Each time they entered water—and that was every few minutes—he had to hand it to the Japanese. When they came to dryer land again, he insisted he take it back. And so it went, on and on. When they were not in the water, Footy shoved the scabbard through his belt. The snarled mangroves caught it and made it thump across his shins. Finally it wedged against a branch and tripped him up. All his weight came down on his throbbing foot and he fell on his face.

  “Blast it all to bloody hell!” he shouted. He scrambled up and jerked the sword out of his belt. “I'd like to throw this far, far away!” The other men were watching him.

  “Footy, you’re a drag on us,” Johnny told him. “Either do throw it away, or let the prisoner carry it. He said he’d give it back when we’re out of here.”

  “Not on your life,” Footy snapped. “He’ll kill us with it, mark my words.”

  “Maybe we should stop talking like he wasn't here,” Johnny said. “You!” he said to the Japanese. “If we give you the sword, you promise not to hurt us?”

  “I already promised,” the Japanese said. “I will not hurt you.”

  “Give him the sword!” Johnny shouted, “Or we're going to have to leave you behind. We’ve got to find food!”

  “All-bloody-right!” Footy snarled. “Here, take the blasted thing! But when I ask you for it, you give it back at once! Agreed?”

  The two men stared until the Japanese spoke quietly.

  “I am your prisoner. When you say, I give it to you.”

  Footy shoved the scabbard into the man's hands and turned away, fussing with the crutch. The Japanese held his sword once more and Johnny saw the barest hint of a smile.

  “Sheesh!” Johnny said and headed off. Footy limped after him, and the Japanese came at the end.

  Stupid bloody turn of events, Footy fumed. Bloody Jap behind me with that carving knife! He thought of the way the prisoner removed those heads in the Valley of the Cannibals and he shivered. He took another step while the crutch jarred him under the arm.

  The bloody Yank! He shot a murderous look at the back of Johnny's head. He’s taking sides with the Jap! Yes, exactly mate, it came to him, what’s bothering me. The Yank is siding against me with the friggin’ Jap. What’s it coming to?

  Stupid hairy ogre, the Japanese thought, watching Footy's back. You are goshu-yaro, a rude peasant. I speak English better than you know. And you? You will never even begin to understand my language or the ways of civilized people. I could remove your head from your neck before you could turn around. But I will not do it because I have promised. You live, not because you deserve to, but because of my word, my honor.

  I am sick of both of them, Johnny thought. I am sick of this place, the Father, and I am fed up with these men. I am stuck in the middle of nowhere while my unit goes to invade Japan without me!

  And I’m so hungry I could eat a shoe. I’d give anything for a burger on a toasted bun. I want a thick meat patty running with juice, lettuce, sliced tomato, pickles and catsup. I’ll have a plate of fries and a frosty vanilla shake. He saw the vision so vividly, his stomach
whined. He clamped his empty jaw shut and made the hallucination go away by sucking in a lungful of rancid air.

  The men toiled across the sodden landscape. Always, they watched for crocodiles. Many times they saw them, but these were smaller ones they could scare away by yelling and smacking the water. Where is the Father? Johnny wondered for the thousandth time.

  They came to an especially perilous ford. It was long and deep and had numerous channels into the mangroves. Johnny crossed on high alert, but reached the far bank without incident. He clambered up and turned with his rifle.

  “Come!”

  Once again, Footy and the prisoner put their arms around one another and entered the water. They got halfway across before Johnny saw what he’d been half-expecting, but hoping not to see.

  A massive scaled snout came out of a channel. Head caked in sludge, lines of yellow teeth showing, it sped silently at the men. Johnny saw at once it was a massive saltwater crocodile, but he could not see if the eye was scarred.

  “Croc!” Johnny yelled and aimed for the heart, into the body behind the foreleg, and shot. The bullet flew true and the swimmer shuddered as though hit by a sledgehammer, but kept on coming.

  His shout and the clap of the shot made the other men flinch. In unison they swung their heads where the smoking rifle pointed and saw the crocodile coming for them. Instantly they ran, but in slow motion, impeded by deep water. The predator slid across the surface.

  They won’t make it! Johnny inserted another shell as some scorekeeper in his head began to call. One gone, three bullets left!

  The brute might be big enough to be the Father. Johnny couldn’t tell with the mud on it. Now it was almost behind the men. In seconds, their bodies would shield it as it maneuvered to attack from behind.

  Johnny shot again and hit the jaw in front of the eye. The attacker hissed and kept coming. Johnny chambered another shell as the scorekeeper called—two left!

  Footy and the Japanese ran on, faces contorted. Footy held his crutch out of the water while the Japanese raised the scabbard on the other side. The croc was almost behind the prisoner and it dove as Johnny fired again. The bullet whistled by the captive’s arm, glanced off the top of the rock-hard skull and ricocheted away.

  One left! The scorekeeper screamed as Johnny loaded it.

  Footy was taking long strides and the Japanese almost carried him. But the croc was too fast, right behind them now, and they were still fifteen feet from the bank.

  Johnny felt the first urge to run and let it go by. Urgently calm, he peered through the scope but all he could see was the men, and the wake of the croc behind them as it rushed to attack.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Get aside! Dive!” Johnny yelled at the men in the water. It seemed to take forever for his words to reach them, and even longer for them to grasp his meaning. At last Footy and the prisoner let go of one another. A space opened between them and Johnny put the crosshairs there. The Japanese ducked under Footy’s arm and pushed the Australian towards the bank, while he fell aside, trying to maintain his balance and keep his sword from getting wet.

  Johnny’s crosshairs found the croc’s head and he squeezed. He heard the clap of the shot and the instantaneous crack of bullet striking thick bone.

  Footy twisted, fell onto his back in the slop, and ran up against the bank. The crocodile rushed him with open jaws. The Japanese fell into the dark water and his head went under, but he kept the katana dry. He sprang to his feet and drew the blade. Johnny had no bullets left, and he put down the rifle and pulled his machete.

  Jaws lined with jagged teeth surged up Footy’s body. With his crutch, the pilot stabbed into the dark mouth. The point struck the reptile’s palate so hard the vibration hurt the pilot’s arm.

  One hundred billion synapses fired randomly when Johnny’s last bullet twisted through the crocodilian brain. The long jaws slammed shut and pulverized the crutch. But the snout kept coming until it slammed Footy back and pushed against his chin. He was pinned against the bank, unable even to turn his head. The water swirled a last time as a croc leg kicked underwater. The death sigh blasted into Footy’s face and he choked.

  The Japanese stood with his sword ready but the crocodile was dead. The crack of the shots still carried across the swamp and a thousand water birds lifted in a wide circle and flew away.

  “Get the bastard off me!” Footy wheezed beneath the weight. In its final rush, the water had washed the scaled head and there was no moon scar. Now it was not moving, Johnny could see it would measure about twenty feet.

  “It’s not the Father,” he observed. He left his machete and crouched behind Footy.

  “It’s friggin’ heavy enough!” the Aussie sputtered. “Get the bastard off me!” The Japanese put his sword down and kneeled beside Johnny. They grabbed Footy under the arms and pulled hard, but he did not budge.

  “We’ll have to lift the head,” Johnny told the Japanese. They entered the water on each side of the croc and got their fingers under the edge of the lower jaw. Johnny saw that the skull was about as long as he was tall.

  “Lift!” Johnny called and the two put their backs into it. The head floated just a little and Footy tried to jerk his body out, but could not get free. Neither could the men hold up the weight, and it settled back on the pilot.

  “Bloody hell!” Footy gasped. “By all the bleedin’ saints, try again!” Johnny wiped the sweat from his eyes and took a breath. Already, blowflies were gathering on the croc’s wounds and eyes.

  Once more they bent. Again they lifted with all their strength, tendons standing out on necks and arms. Footy grasped the snout, wedged his fingers between the teeth and pushed up. He worked his feet out on each side of the jaw, and then was able to crab up the bank. Johnny and the prisoner let the head splash back in the glop and climbed out as well.

  “On top of everything else, we’re out of ammo,” Johnny told a shaken Footy. “If the Father comes now....” He shrugged, picked up his machete and gave a wolfish grin.

  “At least tonight we eat steak!”

  On the beach near the mouth of the Raub River, Captain Cleveland Karsh of the United States Marine Corps strode among his men. They jumped to meet his orders, the way he liked it.

  This, Karsh knew, was a truly momentous day and he had a celebration planned for his marines. But first, he would see to the completion of their task. This morning the Captain brought fifteen men ashore. The launch, skippered by Karsh himself, came in from the ship. Now it bobbed at anchor while two smaller tenders with outboard motors were pulled up on the sand.

  Before he’d selected this site, Karsh had the boats run in both directions along the beach and the delta mouths of the Raub River. They’d searched for any sign of the men he’d been sent to find—three Allied soldiers and two civilians. Priests, of all things. The men had gone missing far up-river, in the unexplored interior of the island. It had been an Army scheme gone wrong, Karsh had been briefed. Now the men were MIA and presumed KIA. Karsh’s assignment had been described to him as a long shot. Still, whatever we can do for our boys.

  In fact, Karsh would rather be headed north to observe one of the most momentous days of the decade, even of the 20th Century. But, as always, Cleveland Karsh did his duty competently and with a positive disposition.

  His attention was on the cache of goods they’d brought—emergency supplies in case the missing men got this far. He’d picked the logical place to leave it, near the widest branch of the Raub. Beneath a shade tree so tall it would be a landmark in every direction, he had the marines spread the tarp. On it, the men had piled an assortment of items.

  The Captain’s two aides stood beside him, both 2nd Lieutenants. The tropical sun was fierce in spite of the breeze off the Pacific. Karsh tugged off his cap and ran a handkerchief over his egg-bald head. He folded the square of cloth and returned it to his pocket, then stood at ease, powerful legs apart, hands clasped behind his back. The cache was almost ready. Karsh checked his watch and told
his aides to call a break.

  It was midday and the Captain had arranged for lunch on the beach. He brought the cooks and materials on the launch and now the meal was ready. Karsh and his officers returned to where the Commander’s tent had been pitched. They sat on folding chairs at a folding table.

  The cooks served them first—china plates piled with pot roast made from frozen Texas beef, canned peas and instant mashed potatoes swimming in gravy. Not far away, the enlisted men sat with Gunny on the sand. They would enjoy the same fare, served on metal plates. This was one of the Captain’s rules. My men eat what I eat.

  The sun blazed in the brilliant sky, the South Pacific sparkled and the coconut palms swayed. Most of the men had stripped to the waist. After they plowed through their chow, they lay back and smoked, or simply suntanned.

  At 16-hundred hours, three hours from now, the Captain was due back aboard ship. Karsh would be there early, as always. The motto of the marines was “Semper Fidelis—Always Faithful.” The Captain added his own: “Semper Promptus—Always Early.”

  “Bring me pen and paper, and the waterproof pouch,” he ordered. His senior aide was Alexander “Chip” Calder. Chip had been with the Captain for two years, a lifetime out here. The other young man was Blair, who’d been with them a month. Now Chip nodded at the younger man and he trotted to the tent and fetched the requested materials. Karsh took them, uncapped his fountain pen, and prepared to write.

  “What was the name again?” he asked. Chip had his notebook ready.

  “The officer in charge of ‘Operation Teeth’ is an Australian, Major D. Hawsey. The American is Sergeant John Willman. Then there’s another Aussie—the pilot, former Corporal Glen Carmichael.”

  “August 17th, 1945,” the Captain read as he wrote. “Attention: Sergeant J. Willman, and Party.” He went silent.

  “These things are for you,” the pen scratched across the page. “Try the radio. The request to look for you came from Colonel Waters in Port Moresby.” Below this he wrote a few more sentences, then signed his name with a flourish.