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

by Timothy James Dean

  They stood at the mouth where the cloudy water poured into the blue sea. Thousands of water birds paddled or hovered along the swirling edges where the brown and blue mixed. Stately trees grew along the bank, and the trail ran beside them. The men stared upstream, looking for crocodiles, and they saw one. Seventy yards up, a fifteen-footer slid into the water.

  The men followed the trail. It ran about sixty feet and turned back into the jungle. Johnny made out croc tracks on it, but none that were fresh. He saw truck tires set in the water along the bank, spaced every few feet. A worn rope connected them and went to trees fifty feet apart.

  “For boats,” Cat observed and Johnny nodded. Tall grass had sprung up on the old road and where it turned into the trees, they disturbed a huge python. When it saw the men, it sucked in a breath that swelled it to double its girth, and let it all out in a menacing hiss. It flung out of its coils and squirmed into the brush.

  They followed the track back into the jungle. They came to a clearing, and the road disappeared. There was only the undisturbed forest floor, littered with leaves and palm fronds. The place looked serene, but something triggered Johnny’s inner alarm.

  He took another step as he puzzled it through, and then he saw it. On the other side of the clearing, the ruts picked up again. Just as he noticed that, his foot went through the earth as if going into quicksand. He lost his balance and began to fall forward. He yelled and would have gone on his face, if Cat hadn’t grabbed his belt from behind. For long seconds they stood there—Johnny tilted forward, the prisoner trying to hold him back with all his weight on his heels. But Johnny outweighed the Asian, and he continued a slow motion fall, dragging the captive with him.

  But then Cat crouched, jerked hard, and Johnny tumbled back. They both sat hard on the ground.

  “What the…?” Johnny exclaimed and scrambled forward. He shoved a hand through where his foot had gone, but instead of solid earth, his fingers snarled in something that had bounce.

  He realized what it was—a camouflage net, cleverly placed. Branches and fronds obscured the edges, and scattered with leaves and grown over with creepers, it was virtually undetectable. But now that Johnny knew it was there, he could see the shape, ten or twelve feet square. He and Cat grabbed the rope edge and raised it so they could look underneath. Johnny gave a whistle and air hissed in through the prisoner’s teeth.

  “Now you owe me another life,” Cat told Johnny.

  CHAPTER 2

  Johnny and Cat stared into a pit six feet deep that bristled with sharpened bamboo spears. The points were poised just under the net, fifty or more fixed in the earth. Johnny got a sick feeling just looking at what he had almost fallen onto.

  “Yes,” he said to the prisoner. “I owe you another life.”

  “But I owed you three,” the other man said. “Now you owe me two. I owe you one more,” he sighed.

  “Forget it! Who’s keeping score?” Johnny said. “And thanks.”

  “Who made this terrible thing?” Cat asked.

  “Soldiers—your side or ours,” Johnny said. “Let’s go around.”

  The men pushed through the foliage around one side of the booby-trap and rejoined the trail. Shortly, they were out of the jungle and into the plantation rows. The tops of the palms were heavy with nuts and the ground was covered, green ones on top, dark husks below.

  “There’s been no harvest for years,” Johnny said. Cat tapped his arm. A building loomed ahead. The men crept closer and saw the ruin of a house, constructed of palm trunks stacked log-cabin style. There was a dark entrance, the door lying in the scrub. It would be impossible to get in that way, Johnny saw, because the roof had fallen in.

  The house stood in a clearing choked in weeds. It was silent except for the hissing of cicadas. It didn’t look like anyone had been here for a long time, but Johnny put a finger to his lips and motioned for Cat to go one way, while he went the other.

  The Japanese was approaching the corner when there was outraged squawking and a bird exploded up, shedding feathers. In a heartbeat, the sword was out and slashing. The head spun one way, while the body went another, and Cat trapped it with his foot.

  “Sheesh!” Johnny said in a normal voice, no need to be quiet any longer.

  “Sorry,” Cat said. “It jumped and I....” He shrugged. He cleaned the sword on the vegetation and sheathed it again, then lifted the bird by the feet. It was skinny, but a real barnyard chicken.

  “I will cook,” Cat smiled.

  “Alright, let’s keep going.”

  The men went opposite ways around the ruin. Johnny passed a woven reed wall laced with bullet holes. It was torn at one end and he saw into the room. The pole rafters were intact and he went in. Light streamed through gaps in the grass thatch. The room’s dirt floor was littered with shell casings and dark stains that he knew were blood.

  He continued into the last room. It had another vacant doorway that looked into the overgrown backyard. Windows were cut into the log walls and Cat appeared in one.

  “No one here,” Johnny said. “This is where the plantation family once lived.”

  “Then soldiers come,” Cat replied.

  “I think a lot of men died here,” Johnny said.

  There was a fire pit in the center of the room and the remnants of broken up and partially burned furniture. Against a wall stood a makeshift bed with a rag of a blanket still on it. Johnny took a closer look and saw it had once been a massive desk, the splintered drawers buried in the clay. He pulled the cloth off and saw the soiled top carved with words in English and Japanese. He read one: “Davey was here, 1943.”

  “The plantation got its supplies from the river, but there must be a way through the coconut grove.”

  “Yes,” Cat nodded at the door.

  As they suspected, the trail led them through the rows of palms. They saw the jungle was reclaiming it. Wild trees and underbrush almost smothered the path in places. They continued, and heard the crash of the surf.

  They found themselves entering a banana orchard. The trees were heavy with several types of the fruit—long and short, red, green and yellow. They cut two bunches and each slung one over a shoulder. Their path intersected with another going to the beach and they took it. They passed their pool of water and emerged at camp. Footy was busy with the radio. When he finished, Johnny filled him in on the house.

  “Anything good there?” the Aussie asked. “Anything to get?”

  “Not much except these bananas,” Johnny said, “and Cat’s surprise.” The Japanese held up the chicken.

  “A chook!” Footy observed.

  “Wakadori,” Cat said. “I will cook.”

  “This place saw action, but now we’re alone,” Johnny said. “Let’s have a meeting.”

  The three hunkered down. The first thing Johnny wanted to talk about was where they should set up camp. Footy wondered if the house might not provide decent shelter.

  “It’s too far back in the trees,” Johnny said. “We might miss any ship or plane that does come by. Besides, a lot of people died there. Maybe the natives are right about things like that.”

  “Very many insects,” the prisoner spoke up. “It is better here.” Footy shot him a look. When did the Jap get a say in things?

  “Alright,” the pilot said. “I agree we have a better chance of being spotted out here.”

  Next they talked about food. Johnny figured they had enough for two weeks, but much longer, if they augmented it with what they could find in the area. Cat spoke up again. He said he would like to organize the kitchen and do the cooking. The other two were only too happy to let him have at it.

  Footy said they should build a big stack of wood on the beach, ready to light the moment they saw a chance of rescue. Johnny said they’d get to it the next day.

  “Next order of business. We need to wash our stuff.”

  “Right mate,” Footy agreed. “I’m about to pass away from me own stink.”

  “Yes,” the Japanes
e agreed. “Very bad smell.”

  They gathered all the clothes, old blankets, bars of soap, and went to the spring. First, they took turns lathering themselves and rinsing off, then they washed everything else. They carried the things back to camp and spread them on the branches to dry.

  That evening as another tropical sunset drenched the sky, Johnny offered to look at Footy’s cut. He removed the dressing and was pleased to see it had healed over, but the ball remained livid and swollen. He pressed on it, and Footy exercised his vocabulary.

  “I think it’s abscessed,” Johnny said. “You need a doc to open it up.”

  “Yes mate,” Footy said. “And while you’re at it, how about dancing girls and a lorry load of beer? But at least I can walk.”

  Cat went into the forest. During the hungry years in this country he had found some edible plants. He recognized one and pulled it up. Its ribbed roots tasted like peppery ginger. He discovered a patch of grass with a lemony taste and harvested a handful. He returned to camp with an armload of green coconuts. He had shaken each one to make sure it sloshed. The milky liquid made a refreshing drink, and he would use some to flavor his cooking.

  He went back for brown coconuts. These he husked with the machete and cracked them in two. They were almost solid with white flesh. He scooped it out and chopped it fine. He searched along the beach and found a large, flat stone that he brought to camp. On this he piled the shredded coconut. He selected a fist-size rock and used it to grind the nutmeat. Oily liquid emerged, and he poured it into an empty can.

  Cat plucked and cleaned the chicken. He made a fire, split the carcass, and roasted it over the coals. He boiled the organs, strained out the meat, and made a soup with canned tomatoes and other vegetables. He fried yam slices, spiced with wild ginger.

  As the men ate, the swollen ball of the sun struck the horizon and squashed flat. The clouds turned mango and tangerine as the sun disappeared, and the sky went purple, then black. Points of light began to gleam through, and the heavens took on infinite depth.

  Cat made coffee, and Johnny and Footy lay on the sand and stared up. Each set of eyes focused on a small, brilliant constellation.

  “The Southern Cross,” Footy pointed. “That’s Aus, mate. That’s our flag.”

  “Above the equator, sailors navigate by the North Star,” Johnny said. “Down here, they use that one—also called the ‘Crux.’”

  “See the bright cluster inside?” Footy said, not to be outdone. “That’s the Jewel Box.”

  The prisoner came with mugs of coffee and sat. He gazed at minami-juji-sei as well. It was not visible from his home in the north, but it was a familiar companion from the hundreds of nights in New Guinea.

  Then a brilliant white streak shot from one side to the other. Within minutes, another followed, leaving a ghostly trail. Apart from murmurs of appreciation, the men did not speak. Johnny reflected that the term, “meteor shower” did not come close to doing justice to what followed. This was more like cosmic fireworks against a backdrop of a billion suns, with a soundtrack courtesy of the South Pacific.

  Eventually the show tapered off. In silence, unwilling to break the spell, the men crept off to their beds.

  They slept and Planet Earth added another measure to its passage through forever.

  CHAPTER 3

  Johnny woke again to fragrant coffee and hot breakfast. Once more, Cat was up early. The men talked while they ate and agreed that this morning, they would build their camp. Footy tried the radio, again without response.

  While he was occupied, Johnny and Cat climbed the trees with the tarp that had held their cache. They roped it between the big tree and palms to make a roof. Beneath it, Footy and the prisoner laid out mattresses made of several blankets. Each had a crate for a bedside table. Johnny was happy to stick with his hammock, enormously improved by a washed and sun-dried sheet.

  Under one end of the tarp, they set up their kitchen. Cat had seen a round from a felled tree back in the palms, and he and Johnny rolled it out and laid it flat as a worktable.

  Cat said he would do the rest. He made a shelving unit from crates and boxes, and lined up the cans. He put everything perishable into a box he could raise on a rope. He hung the bananas from a branch.

  Johnny and Footy went a few feet down the beach and built their fire pit. They scooped a hollow and lined it with rocks. They set boulders and logs around for seats. By noon, the camp was shipshape.

  After lunch, Johnny said he and the prisoner would build the signal fire. Footy, hampered by his leg, said he had another job. He wanted to spell a giant “S O S” with coconuts that could be seen from the air. Johnny and Cat collected armloads of nuts and piled them for him on the beach, including the ones that had formed the arrow. Footy began by marking letters with a stick, then laid the lines of coconuts.

  Johnny and Cat scoured the plantation for deadfalls and dragged them out. They made a waist-high cone of branches stuffed with dry moss and twigs. On top of this, they leaned larger branches. As they worked, Johnny considered his future.

  If the Marine Captain is right, the war is over. So what will I do? Once it had seemed clear. He would be a career Navy officer, like his father and grandfather before him. But now, Johnny knew that wasn’t his future.

  As for the Army, Johnny had sworn he was in the fight against Japan to the finish. He’d been convinced this required the invasion of the enemy homeland. The truth was, he hadn’t expected to live through that, and so he had made no plans for the future. But now he had to grapple with life in this brave new world. He remembered a quotation his father liked: “peace shall destroy many.”

  Johnny’s hometown was San Diego. But his family had left, and now his grandparents were dead, the house sold. He realized that was a closed chapter. His mom’s family was from Colorado, and while Johnny had visited as a boy, he felt no connection there.

  What about Hawaii? Johnny had spent a year on Oahu when he was sixteen. He’d learned to love the island. Or at least until the end, he thought. But because of that, he had a powerful aversion to the place. I’ll never go back.

  So what about the States? Most of his life, he’d assumed he’d end up somewhere in the U S of A. Once he’d dreamed of life in the big northern cities he saw in the magazines—Chicago or New York. Glamour, babes in hot fashions.

  But no, he decided. That had always been a vague daydream. Truth was, he loved the outdoors. Living crammed on top of millions of others would not work for him. In fact, the war had shown him a bigger world.

  Johnny and Cat went back to the grove, looking for fallen palms.

  I’ve learned to like hot climates. The fruit is sweeter, the flowers and birds more colorful. Everything is bolder in the tropics! What about something totally different?

  Johnny spoke some Spanish he’d picked up from his Mexican amigos in Southern Cal. He got a picture of himself trekking up the Amazon River—or maybe hunting in Africa like Hemmingway. He’d carry his rifle and wear a hat like “Idaho Jones.”

  Johnny and Cat leaned the tall poles against each other like a teepee.

  What am I qualified to do? What are my skills, he wondered seriously. I can surf, he thought. And I can shoot men. Neither struck him as a reasonable way to earn a living.

  Maybe I will sell life insurance! He’d had a war buddy who bragged on how much he could make doing that. Johnny hoped the poor fellow had bought himself a good policy, because he hadn’t made it home. But the harder he thought about selling door-to-door, the more it seemed about as much fun as latrine duty.

  Maybe cars! He felt more enthusiasm about that, because he liked automobiles. With the war over, the government’s ban on manufacturing was bound to be lifted. By heart, he listed the great companies. Buick, Cadillac, Chevrolet, Chrysler, Dodge, Essex, Ford, Hudson, Jordon, Lincoln, LaSalle, Mercury, Nash, Oldsmobile, Packard—my dad’s favorite. Plymouth, Pontiac, Studebaker and Willys. They were constellations in the car-manufacturing firmament, and Johnny figured the
y’d always be there. With the war won, they’d be raring for business again!

  But then, Johnny recalled the man who’d sold his dad his last sedan. The twelve-year-old Johnny had tagged along. The salesman had a loud voice and an even louder jacket. Johnny figured, from the way the man acted, that he was good friends with his dad. But later his father told him he didn’t know the fellow. He said he was the kind of man who would clap you on the back with one hand, while his other rifled your wallet. Johnny guessed all salesmen weren’t like that, but when he tried to see himself spending a life under the flapping flags, waiting for the next sucker—err, customer—it just didn’t turn his crank.

  The problem was, it came to Johnny, once you’d spent your days fighting for your life, everything else seemed too tame. More than a little boring. Strange—during the years of fighting, there hadn’t been a day when he didn’t wish it was over. Now that it was, he didn’t know what to do with the long road of years that suddenly stretched ahead.

  The signal fire was done. Johnny and Cat helped Footy finish the “S O S.”

  Cat’s entree that night was the ham, simmered with potatoes and fresh beans, flavored with lemon grass. Dessert was custard folded with sliced bananas, coconut, and chunks of chocolate.

  Again the men slept with full bellies. They were fast recovering from the extraordinary exertions of their trek, although the Aussie’s foot still gave him grief.

  Over breakfast, Footy had a plan.

  “Let’s go fishing!”

  “Sure thing!” Johnny said.

  “I go too,” the Japanese said. They dug out the spools of fishing line and counted ten hooks on a card.

  “We need to make lures,” Footy said, and they tore strips of brightly colored paper and foil from their growing garbage pile.