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

by Timothy James Dean

  They blasted out of the last of the trees and were churning deep sand. Now there was nothing between them and the water and the jeeps drifted across the beach. With the front wheels on a smooth band, Johnny killed the engine. The other jeep pulled up.

  And there was the South Pacific Ocean. At last, they had arrived! A breaker ten feet tall swept at them, fell on itself, and foamed up. They heard the roar of water, the hiss of the foam, and the call of gulls.

  Johnny and Footy shared a delighted smile and then Johnny was running for the surf. He stumbled out of his pants, threw aside his filthy shirt, and wearing only his boxers, he raced into the water. He dove in and swam a long way underwater. He burst up to breathe and turned shoreward. The jeeps sat side-by-side on the dune and the prisoner was already in the ocean, a bobbing black head.

  Footy was just limping in, wearing only his briefs and a grin. A wave knocked him down and then he was swimming strongly out to Johnny. The men luxuriated in the warm seas as it washed away the marsh stink, and the long journey. They swam side by side and began to splash each other. At the ocean at last, with his weight off the leg, Footy was in high spirits. He came up behind the Yank and pushed him under. Johnny grabbed back and they both went down. They played like the boys they’d once been, only on opposite sides of the world.

  The Japanese flipped onto his back and floated in blessed relief from the itch, and the stench of both the swamp and the hairy gaijin. He was caressed by the water and it brought potent memories of his childhood in his seaside city.

  Johnny and Footy splashed one another until they could barely breathe. Then Johnny caught sight of the Japanese floating peacefully off by himself. At once he dove under and swam. He came up below the prisoner and grabbed his leg—a little something we call ‘shark attack.’ Johnny heard a shout cut off in bubbles as the man came down. His eyes spread wide, and he saw the Yankee and kicked at him.

  Johnny shot up to breathe and saw outrage in the other face. He laughed and dove away as the Japanese lunged for him. He twisted out of his grasp time after time, but the man was relentless. At last the Asian got an arm around Johnny’s neck and choked him. Johnny found there was sand under his feet. He towered up with the soldier on his back, pried the arm away, and the smaller man crashed back in the surf. A big wave sent them both tumbling, then withdrew and left them beached.

  Johnny staggered up the hot sand and flopped onto his back. Footy came out chuckling and threw himself down. The prisoner stood and adjusted his ragged trousers. An unusual feeling came over him and he trotted out of the water as the noises burst from him. For the first time in months, he was laughing.

  “You know something?” Johnny said to him. “I don’t even know your name. What do they call you?”

  “My family name is ‘Takano,’” the Japanese said. “My name is ‘Katsu.’”

  “Cat-soup?” Footy asked.

  “Ketchup?” Johnny said.

  “Kat-su,” the Japanese told them. He lay down and turned away. The mirth passed out of him.

  He felt the blaze in the sky and, like a nightmare, he saw the cloud of a great bomb churning over Japan. He watched a city of people stare at the manmade sun, and they all burned away like blades of grass. He lay with the sunlight blinding him and pinched his eyes as saltwater leaked to mix with the sea on his face. Gradually, mercifully, he drifted to a hazy place somewhere beyond both pain and pleasure, and for a time, he knew no more.

  Sprawled on a wild and empty South Pacific beach, three men slept like babies.

  Part 3

  The Beach

  "Forgive your enemies, but never forget their names."

  – President John F. “Jack” Kennedy

  “I, Ishmael, was one of that crew…Ahab’s quenchless feud seemed mine. With greedy ears I learned the history of that murderous monster against whom I and all the others had taken our oaths of violence and revenge.”

  – Herman Melville, Moby Dick

  “To do right is heavy as a mountain but

  death is lighter than a feather.”

  – Emperor Meiji, Imperial Edict

  for Soldiers & Sailors, 1882

  Ö

  “Gi wa sangaku yorimo omoku

  shi wa komo yorimo karushi.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Johnny’s face was in the sand and he sat up and spat. He brushed off the salty stubble and squinted at the sunset blazing in the western sky. He saw Footy on his back, staring up. The Japanese was further off, turned away.

  “How’s the foot?” Johnny asked.

  “Hurts like a bugga,” Footy said cheerfully, “but it’s better than a sharp stick up the bum.”

  Johnny nodded. “Pretty soon we’ll call you ‘Hopalong Cassidy.’” Johnny was thinking of the limping cowboy from the books his dad had read to him when he was a kid. “Hopalong” had gone on to be portrayed in a series of movies, although some Hollywood dim bulb had removed the limp, a sore spot with his father.

  “Aw yeh,” Footy said, “The cowboy. The Yank makes a joke. You feeling better then?”

  “Sure!” Johnny said. “I’m glad to be off the river, out of the swamp, and at the beach! Did I tell you I lived in Hawaii?”

  “Is that home then?” the Aussie asked. “Is that where your parents are?”

  “My folks are dead,” Johnny said curtly. He got up. “It’s getting late. We’d better make camp.”

  “Sorry mate …” Footy began as the American offered him a hand and pulled him up.

  “Not your fault. Hey!” Johnny called to the Japanese. “Hey… Kato!” The man rolled over.

  “My name is ‘Katsu,’” he said.

  “Cat-soo, let’s go!” Johnny called.

  They gathered their clothes as they went. Johnny stepped into his trousers and rolled up the legs. The Yank was thinner than when they’d started, Footy saw—all lean muscle, not a lick of fat. Footy pulled on his stained shorts. I’m a bit stringy meself. Johnny strode to the jeeps and the Aussie hopped on one leg to keep up.

  Hopalong, he thought, hoisting himself into the passenger seat. Could be mate. Except not a Yank—never in a million years! The Japanese climbed into the other jeep and they started their engines. Johnny aimed for the line of trees that marked the river’s course.

  “If anyone’s still looking for us,” he told Footy, “they’ll search around the mouth of the Raub.”

  “Yes mate—bloody big if.”

  Johnny tapped the gas gauge. The needle banged the “empty” post. The Japanese drove alongside and the jeeps ran together.

  Fifteen minutes later, not far from the fringe of jungle, the men saw an arrow on the beach made of coconuts. The sand around it was pocked by bootprints. Someone had been here! The jeeps slowed and the men scanned the palms where the arrow pointed. Footy saw it first.

  “There!” An enormous shade tree towered over the palms and something dangled from the branches. The vehicles pulled up below, and the men gazed at a bulging canvas bag, tied by a rope around the trunk. There was something stuck in the coils. Johnny jumped out and went over. He tugged out a canvas pouch.

  “What? You’re not going to believe this,” he called. “It’s got my name on it!” He held it up and the others saw “WILLMAN” in big letters.

  The men sat smoking Lucky Strikes, the tarpaulin spread open displaying a treasure trove.

  “Read it again,” Footy said. Johnny had the letter on his knee and he read the last part first.

  “‘The Japs have surrendered. The war is over. Good luck and God Speed.’” He looked up. “That’s what it says.”

  “Japan has surrendered,” The prisoner repeated in wonder.

  “And the war is over?” Footy added. “Bloody cryptic. Could have given us a few details.”

  “That’s all there is,” Johnny said. “It’s signed ‘Captain C. Karsh, US Marine Corps.’ Sounds like someone who should know.”

  “What else?” Footy asked, lighting a fresh ciggy from the butt in his fingers.<
br />
  “‘The request to look for you comes from Colonel Waters in Port Moresby,’” Johnny read. “Colonel Waters—I guess Chambers is gone.”

  “When was it written?” Footy asked.

  “August 17th,” Johnny said.

  “What date it is now?” Footy asked. “I’ve been trying to keep track. I reckon it’s August 21st.”

  “I’ve been doing the same,” Johnny said. “But I think it’s the 19th. ‘Course I might have lost track when we were sick. Any idea?” he asked the Japanese.

  “What bloody good will that do?” Footy hooted. “Nine hundredth day of the year of the pig?” But the prisoner was counting on his fingers.

  “Hachigatsu,” he said. “I believe it is hatsuka. You do not know we use the same calendar in Nippon?” he said scornfully to Footy, and turned to Johnny. “That is the 20th day of August. But also—I may be wrong.”

  “Well, whatever, we missed the rescue,” Johnny said. “But at least we’ve got food and all the rest!”

  Slower now, the men sorted through the cache. Footy had gone directly for the cigarettes, then found the big box of matches. All three were grateful for that. Not being able to cook had been the last straw. There was no ammunition, Johnny saw, and that was a disappointment, but the rest made up for it.

  There were boxes of canned food—stew, soup, rice, potatoes, various kinds of meat, including a full cooked ham, wieners, chicken, green beans, corn, carrots, baked beans, and more. There were cans of fruit and desserts and packages of hard tack biscuits, and several bars of chocolate. There was even a percolator coffee pot with a glass knob and inner metal filter, with three big cans labeled “coffee,” “sugar” and “powdered milk.”

  Wrapped inside a half dozen new Army blankets was a kerosene two-burner stove, cans of fuel, assorted pots and pans, metal plates, and cutlery. There were bars of soap and terrycloth towels. They had spools of fishing line and hooks. There was a large medical kit and various bottles containing water purification tablets, Atabrine for malaria, and morphine tubes and needles.

  The pièce de résistance was the radio in four wooden crates with batteries for it.

  “Look at how small they’re getting!” Footy exclaimed. “Two men could carry it. Imagine!”

  They turned to their pressing priority—something to eat. The prisoner fueled the stove and lit it. Johnny and Footy opened four cans of beef stew and two more of baked beans and dumped them all in the biggest pot. They put it on the heat, but as soon as the steam started to rise, the smell was too much. Johnny grabbed it and slopped the contents onto plates. As fast as he could pour, the others shoveled it in.

  The prisoner wiped the stew pot clean with his fingers, licking every last bit. Johnny opened three cans of cling peaches. Each man took one and slurped down the slices. The Japanese volunteered to make coffee using water in their bottles. When it was ready, he poured the fragrant brew into the new enamel mugs and dosed them with powdered milk and sugar. The men dunked sticks of chocolate in the steaming liquid.

  Satiated at last, they lay on the sand and smoked. The sun had set and the sky blazed with stars.

  “I still can’t believe we’re here!” Johnny sighed. “I’m beat. I vote no watch tonight. We haven’t seen any sign of life for a long time, and we left the crocodile way back.”

  He barely had the energy to rope his hammock between palms while the others spread new blankets on the sand. Within minutes, they were all sound asleep.

  Monumental waves curled in and Johnny was on his favorite surfing beach. Hawaiian music played, ukuleles plinking over steel guitars. And there was his father! Dad wore swimming trunks and he came dancing to the music, a hibiscus flower behind his ear, which was not like Dad at all.

  His father smiled and whisked from behind his back a platter. It bore a whole roast piglet with baked pineapple rounds all over, a maraschino cherry spiked in the center of each one. Johnny’s mouth watered.

  And here came Mom! She was doing the hula moves she’d learned in class, wearing a grass skirt, bikini top, a flower lei and sequined sunglasses.

  “Here’s our gal!” Dad grinned. Mom held out a steaming mug.

  “Coffee Jo-Jo?” she asked, using her private nickname for him.

  “Mmmumph?” Johnny mumbled.

  “Coffee?” Mom asked, and her voice changed.

  “What?” Johnny protested.

  “Coffee?” Mom asked in a deep voice with an accent. Her skin went yellow and black hairs sprouted on her lip. Johnny grunted awake and there was Cat, holding a mug.

  “Coffee?”

  Johnny sighed, slid out of the hammock and accepted the cup. He sipped while the Japanese returned to the stove and brought back a plate. It was piled with corned beef fried with canned potatoes. There was a pile of fresh clams, open and steaming, and fruit cocktail with wedges of coconut. On top was a purple jungle flower. Johnny shot the man a look of astonishment.

  “What in the world…?”

  “Breakfast,” he shrugged and handed Johnny a fork. Footy was just sitting up and the prisoner fetched a mug and another portion for him.

  “Hells bells,” Footy croaked, “It’s the bloody Cairns Hotel!”

  After the men had cleaned their plates, there were second helpings and more coffee. The prisoner brought the cigarettes. The sun was already hot and all three were shirtless. The Japanese fetched his own plate and ate on the sand.

  “Where did you learn to cook like this?” Footy asked.

  “Cook?” The Japanese said. “No, this is not cooking. This is only opening can, and…” he made a sound and mimicked pouring.

  “And the shellfish? My boy Tojo!” Footy said.

  “Not Tojo,” the Japanese objected. “My name is ‘Katsu.’”

  “Cat,” Johnny suggested.

  “My boy Cat,” Footy said.

  The prisoner sighed. “Katsu” was a noble name denoting “victory,” but given his circumstances, he would not insist.

  How like the gaijin to shorten a man’s name! A “cat,” he knew, was a small creature, but at least it had sharp claws.

  After they’d eaten, Johnny got the new medical kit and set it by Footy.

  “You should clean your foot and change the bandage,” he said. “Meantime, me and—Cat—we’ll go find drinking water.”

  “I know where,” the prisoner told him. “I found it this morning.” They left, going into the trees, and Footy went to work. He turned the sole over and peeled the old bandage off. The ball was purple and swollen, but the gash had knitted. He used the tip of his knife to cut the stitches, pulled out the bits of thread, and wiped the area with iodine.

  Johnny and Cat carried the containers through the trees. The prisoner led to a place thirty yards from the campsite. There, a trickle of water ran from a clump of shrubs. Taking turns with the machete, it took half an hour to clear the brush away. They exposed a bank down which water dripped onto a bed of stones. There was a puddle there, and Johnny tried a handful and found it sweet. He drank his fill and Cat took a turn.

  A stand of bamboo grew nearby and Johnny cut a thick column three inches in diameter. He split it lengthways and knocked out the walls. He cut forked sticks and wedged them between the stones. He took his bamboo trough and shoved an end into the sodden moss where the spring emerged. He and Cat used the sticks to hold it in place, and shored them up with rocks.

  Water flowed along the tube and splashed into the pool. They filled their water containers and rinsed themselves under the spout.

  When they got back to camp, Footy was operating the radio. Wires were strung between the boxes, and the dials and the tubes glowed. He had on headphones, and had a microphone and Morse key plugged in.

  “S O S,” Footy said into the mike. “S O S. This is Footy Carmichael and Sergeant Johnny Willman of the Allied mission ‘Operation Teeth.’ We are located on the ocean at the mouth of the Raub River. Come in, over. Come in, over.” He changed the frequency and repeated the whole thing. Then
he tapped away in Morse code. He left the radio on for a response, but there was only static.

  “I reckon I’ll put out our call each morning and night,” he said. “I’ll leave the radio on a half hour each time, but we must conserve the batteries.”

  It was broiling hot. Johnny figured he was done with the jungle. He took his knife and cut his pants off just above the knees. He’d made the long-legged shorts called “Bermudas.” He got his shirts and sliced the arms off at the shoulders, and put one on. He fetched his boots and cut the leg tops away, and carved out the toes, sides and backs, leaving straps. Now he had sandals and he tried them on.

  “Hey, I’m a beachboy again!”

  “So I see,” Footy observed. “Ruddy fashion plate.”

  Cat asked to use the knife. He slit the legs off his own trousers and had shorts as well. The prisoner no longer even had a shirt and Johnny threw him his spare.

  “Try that,” he said gruffly. Cat put it on. It was too big, but the man could have passed for one of Johnny’s friends from Waikiki.

  “You both look utterly ridiculous, of course,” Footy observed.

  “Sure Footy,” Johnny said. “Now, with that leg, you better stay and keep an eye on things. Cat and I will take a look-see around the neighborhood.”

  “This is an old plantation, mate,” Footy said. “There might be a house.”

  “We’ll make the rounds,” Johnny said. He stuck his machete and bayonet knife through his belt.

  “Bring the sword,” he told Cat. The prisoner nodded and got it, glancing at the Australian.

  “Yes, go on then,” Footy called after him. “I lend it to you.”

  The two walked along the beach toward the river. The line of jungle ended in another enormous shade tree that dominated the point. The men wandered under its wide branches. Beneath the fallen leaves was a rutted road. Johnny cut through hanging vines and chest-high weeds, and after about ten yards, they broke into the open, and there was the Raub once more.