Johnny had done a lot of fishing, both fresh and salt water, but not without a rod. At the water’s edge, Footy showed him how. They tied bits of broken coral to the end of the lines for weights, and knotted on their hooks a yard or two up. Over these, they wove strips of paper to cover the barb.
The men spaced themselves facing the ocean. Johnny watched Footy strip line off his spool and lay loops on the sand. The Aussie whirled the weighted line over his head, gradually paying it out, and let fly. The weight spun over the waves and splashed down. Cat cast in a similar way. Johnny watched them retrieve, tugging rhythmically. When the lures were close to shore, he admired the way they flashed and danced.
Johnny made his first attempt. He got the line spinning, but when he let loose, somehow it made an enormous snarl that barely hit the water. He spent the next twenty minutes unraveling the mess.
Cat gave a yell and jerked a little silver fish from the brine. It flipped on the sand until he pinched its head. He came to Johnny and asked for his clasp knife. He cut the fish into strips, leaving a bit of tail on each one.
“Now we catch big ones,” he grinned. He left a couple of pieces for Johnny and gave some to Footy. Johnny replaced the paper with a fish wedge. He got the weight whirling again and let it go. This time it went about twenty feet before it plopped in the water. That was not as good as the other men, but it was a start. Johnny retrieved and cast again, and each time, his technique improved.
Fifteen minutes later, it was Footy who whooped. His taut line danced across the water. He brought it in little by little, getting a good fight. Johnny and Cat wrapped in their lines so they wouldn’t tangle and went to watch. There was a flash in the shallows. Cat ran in and held up a fish as long as his forearm.
“Trevally,” Footy said.
“Naw, that’s a Jack,” Johnny called. He’d caught ones like it in Hawaii.
“Trevally mate,” Footy said. “Don’t bloody tell me about fishing!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t try to tell you anything,” Johnny replied. “But that’s a Jack.”
Footy collected his fish from the Japanese and whacked its head with a stick.
“Well, now it’s supper,” the Aussie grinned. He got a piece of banana leaf, soaked it in seawater, and wrapped the fish in it.
An hour later, Johnny was casting as well as the others. He let one burn out and the weight dropped into the swells. At once there was a strong hit and Johnny got the heart-leap that is the fisherman’s addiction. The line pulled tight and Johnny could feel every tremor between himself and the living thing on the other end. He hollered, and it was the other men’s turn to get their gear out of the way and watch.
Johnny was pulling in steadily when the fish burst through the surface. It looked like something from another planet—white, covered in polka dots. It submerged and jerked away, but Johnny brought it in. Footy waded out and grabbed it.
“Barramundi, mate!” he exclaimed. “A young one.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Johnny said.
“Nice fish!” the Japanese called.
Johnny took a break and smoked while the others kept casting. Then it was the prisoner who yelled.
“You’re on!” Footy said, and pulled in his line. The Japanese hauled away, but suddenly his arms jerked and the filament burned through his fingers. A second strike! Just as fast, the line went slack.
The prisoner muttered anxiously and kept retrieving. There was something silver in the shallows and then on the sand. It was a fish head, the mouth gasping, but only a stump of spine behind.
“Hit!” Johnny exclaimed.
“Shark?” Footy asked.
“Goni-kamasu!” the Japanese pointed.
The men saw the dark shape flick into deeper water.
“Barracuda!” Johnny said.
And that was the beginning of the end of fishing that day. Everything they caught came in chopped up. Then Footy’s line was cut and he lost his hook. Now they had nine.
“Better give it up,” the Aussie said. The men wound in their tackle. Next time the ‘cuda found them, they’d quit right away.
Cat said he’d clean the fish. He went close to the breaking waves, sliced open the bellies, scooped out the guts and flung them into the sea. Where they dropped, the water rippled with feeders. He scraped scales off and was silver to the elbows. He filleted the catch with sure strokes.
He carried the fish to his kitchen, lit the stove and poured coconut oil in the pan. He scraped in a spoonful of white fat he’d saved from the stew. When it was sputtering, he slipped in the meat. He drilled the eyes of a green coconut with a knife and splashed in some liquid. He sprinkled on ginger root and lemon grass.
The smell was bewitching and the men’s mouths watered. In less than five minutes, Cat handed around the plates. Johnny saw white flesh swimming in marinade. He took a bite that fell apart in his mouth.
“That’s the best I’ve ever tasted,” he said fervently.
“Cor, mate, fair dinkum,” Footy managed. The men forked it in while the prisoner’s eyes flashed between them. Then Cat ate as well.
Life is not half bad, Johnny sighed, since we left the Father behind.
CHAPTER 4
The following morning, Footy again put out the call on the radio while Johnny rinsed the breakfast dishes in the ocean. Cat came with him and said they would make some salt. They carried a little water back in the bottom of the pans and set them in the sun. Eventually, Cat scraped up the residue and put it in a twist of paper.
Footy finished up with his S O S and wanted to fish again.
“There’s no pub and no women,” he said. “We might as well enjoy the next best thing.” Cat prepared his gear but Johnny said he’d had enough of the twirl-and-throw method. He told the others to go ahead.
Johnny was tired of the beard he’d grown on their odyssey. He sharpened his clasp knife against a shell until the blade could take the hair off his arm. He warmed water, made suds and spread it over cheeks and chin. He had no mirror so he stuck Footy’s Bowie knife sideways in the tree and peered in. He went to work with his blade, pulling and nicking some, but he got the hair off.
Johnny returned to the bamboo thicket and cut a thin pole ten feet long. He tried it and liked the whip. He took a stick and inserted it to knock out the sections out of his bamboo so he had a hollow tube. He wrapped fishing line tightly around the outside of the tip to prevent it from splitting.
He scoured their garbage dump and chose a large tin can. He washed it and tied it sideways on the thick end of the pole. Now he had a primitive reel. He threaded his fishing line through the hollow rod and wrapped the excess around the can. With paper for a lure, he headed down to the beach.
Johnny hiked to the place where dark blue water came close to shore. This was a drop off and he figured the bigger fish were down the wall. He tied on a weight, dressed the hook and stood at the breaking waves. He pulled line off the can in spools at his feet, pinched it between finger and thumb of his left hand and cocked the pole back.
He whipped it forward and released. The weight soared high, by far the longest cast any of them had made. Footy and Cat were watching and the Aussie crowed. Johnny pulled the line through his pole and wrapped it around the can. He worked the rod’s tip to make the lure dance.
After a dozen casts, he was rewarded with a heavy strike. Johnny fought the fish towards shore. Again the other two brought in their tackle and came to help. The tip of Johnny’s rod quivered like a live thing. At last he worked the fish into shallow water and Cat wrestled it out. It was more than two feet long, shaped like a mackerel, but with blue bars down its side, and had an undershot jaw like a ‘cuda.
“It’s an ‘Ono,’” Johnny said, using the Hawaiian name.
“Oh, no mate, that’s a Wahoo,” Footy told him. It must weigh at least fifteen pounds, at least they agreed on that.
Once more they had an excellent dinner. The men were starting to put flesh back on their bones. Maybe the Jap
anese had been the most starved, because the change was most obvious in him.
The next day, Johnny helped the others make their own bamboo rods. By midday they had as many fish as they could eat and quit.
Hanging around camp, Johnny was restless. There had been no sign of a ship or plane, and it had been so long since he hadn’t been fighting for his life in battle, or hospital, he didn’t know what to do with himself.
I need a project, he thought, but what? He cleaned his rifle, and even though it didn’t need it, he organized his pack. He came across the brandy. He’d almost forgotten about it.
What did Footy say about a pub? The others were napping in the shade when Johnny brought the bottle over.
“We can’t help the lack of female company,” he smiled, “but at least the bar’s open.” He took a swallow and passed the bottle to the Aussie.
“Crikey!” Footy croaked, sitting up. “I wouldn’t say no.” He took a drink, studied the prisoner for a moment and passed the bottle to him. Cat sniffed it and took an experimental sip. He swished it around his mouth and swallowed.
“Oh, good!” he said, and took a long drink. The men lit Lucky Strikes and continued to pass the brandy. It took an hour to accomplish their task, but they drank it dry.
“Why didn’t you bring that out before, mate?” Footy asked, sprawled on the sand, eyes a little unfocused. “Trouble with you Yanks—too cautious.”
“Cautious?” Johnny sat up, nettled. His eyes went to the jeeps in front of them.
“Too cautious?” he repeated. “Can you drive a car?”
“Of coursh—course,” the Australian replied. “I can drive or fly anything built by man.”
“With that foot?”
“Bloody right,” Footy said, also sitting bolt upright. “Born mechanic and operator, that’s Yours Truly.”
“You ever play ‘chicken?’” Johnny asked.
“Chicken?” Footy said, blinking reddened eyes. “Here chook, chook, chook!”
“Naw,” Johnny said. He stood, swaying a little. “Chicken. With vehicles.” Footy just stared at him, so Johnny explained the time- hallowed American tradition.
“You got it?” Johnny asked.
“Bloody right,” Footy said, also lurching up, fire in his eyes.
“Alright pal,” Johnny told him. “You drive that way, I’ll go the other.” He pointed down the beach. The Japanese listened, totally bewildered. Perhaps it was the strong drink, but the gaijin had stopped making sense. Footy strode barefoot to a jeep. Johnny noticed he walked without a limp.
“How’s the cut?”
“Don’t feel a bloody thing,” Footy grinned. He climbed in and turned the key. The engine roared to life. Johnny came over, folded the windshield flat and hooked it down. He did the same with the other vehicle, got in the driver’s seat and fired it up. His head was spinning as he stared at the Aussie.
“May the best man win!” he called and drove off, spewing sand.
“I’d like to thank me ma and pa,” Footy began, rehearsing his winning speech. He ground his jeep into gear and burst in the opposite direction.
About seventy yards apart, they wheeled to face each other. Johnny goosed his engine. Footy did the same. Johnny slammed the jeep into first and drove at Footy, fishtailing.
“Coooo-eeee,” the Aussie screamed and his jeep lurched into motion. He aimed at the Yank and floored it. They hammered through the gears. The Japanese stared.
What are the crazy red men doing? Footy saw Johnny’s jeep come at alarming speed, but steered straight at it. Just when it seemed they must crash, Footy jerked the wheel over. At once Johnny turned the other way and the vehicles narrowly missed. The drivers fought for control and stopped.
“You turned first!” Johnny bellowed with laughter. “You’re the chicken!” Footy’s face turned beet red.
“Come on Yank!” the Aussie shouted, “go again!” Johnny waved derisively, headed down the beach and turned as he had before. Footy did the same.
Again the vehicles faced one another. Again, the men gunned the motors and came at each other as fast as they could. This time, at the last second, it was Johnny who veered off and the men pulled up.
“Now who’s the chook-chook-chook?” The Aussie cawed. Johnny pointed his finger like a gun.
“Pow!” he said. “Go again!”
The men made several more close passes. They were high on booze and hormones, yelling insults and having a great time.
On about their eighth pass, their fenders touched and one of Footy’s headlights exploded. A shard of glass flew back and cut his eyebrow. He wiped it and when he looked up, the Japanese was standing directly in his path, waving his arms. Footy had to stand on the brake in order not to run the man over and pain shot up his leg.
“Are you bleedin’ thick?” he shouted.
“My turn,” Cat said. Johnny had stopped some distance off.
“What’s he say?”
Footy wiped the blood from his eyebrow.
“He wants a go,” he shouted.
“Let him,” Johnny said and roared off. Footy shrugged and got out of the jeep.
“Alright, let’s see if you’re the one Oriental who can drive.’”
Cat climbed behind the wheel and Footy noticed the crazed look in his eye.
Johnny spun his vehicle and waited. The Japanese got to where Footy turned around and did the same. From a distance, the drivers stared at one another. Then the prisoner shoved his jeep in gear and the tires spun. Johnny jammed the stick in first and shot down the beach as well. They put the pedals to the floor and the engines screamed.
The vehicles picked up speed, throwing up rooster tails of sand. They shifted gears, hit top speed and came on. Footy stood at midpoint and watched them howl together. Cat half stood, shook a fist and screamed.
“Banzai!”
Johnny raised himself as well and shot up a fist.
“Geronimo!”
The grille of Cat’s jeep filled Johnny’s vision and then, too late, he knew the man was not going to turn.
He wasn’t even going to try.
Desperately, Johnny yanked his wheel hard over, but Cat saw what he did and turned in the same direction.
It was all over in a split second.
CHAPTER 5
It was like a bomb going off. The jeeps hit dead on and Footy watched both men fly through the air. Johnny’s jeep got instantly shorter while the other one tipped on its nose.
One second Johnny was behind the wheel and the next he was airborne. There was the blur of the other man going by and then the back end of the jeep was rising to meet him. He just cleared it and was soaring over the sand, the tremendous bang ringing in his ears.
And that was all he would ever recall of his brief solo flight.
The next thing he knew, he was staring into Footy’s face. The Aussie was glaring at him as Johnny discovered he was on his back on the sand. He tried to sit up and it was as if a wrecker’s ball swung into him. He was knocked flat, his arm went over his eyes and he groaned.
“You great bleeding idiot!” Footy shouted. “You could have killed yourself!”
“And the Jap?” Johnny asked.
“No idea,” Footy said. “Probably dead.”
Johnny sat up and checked himself over. He rotated his head gingerly, felt his neck and decided nothing major was broken. He cranked around and looked at the jeeps. He could see only the exposed chassis of the one the prisoner had driven. It stood on its nose, one back wheel spinning, the other missing entirely.
With help from Footy he was able to get up. Leaning on the Aussie, he staggered to find Cat. They came to the jeeps and Johnny knew both were totaled. The hood of his was squeezed like an accordion and the smoking engine sat in the front seat. He looked for the wheel missing off the other one and saw it bouncing far down the beach. Johnny put out a hand and patted his jeep.
The body was lying some distance away. They hobbled to it. The prisoner sprawled face down, at a b
ad angle, an arm bent beneath him.
“Cat!” Johnny croaked, falling on his knees. “Katsu!”
The Japanese lay like a corpse and Johnny put a hand on him, expecting the worst. Suddenly the man sat up. He put his hands to his head and twisted and there was a rippling crack. Sand was caked down his face and he dug a little finger in his ear and shook out a shower. Then he leaned over and spat out a bloody tooth. He stared at it in dismay, picked it up and put it in his pocket.
Slowly, a wide smile split his battered features. He looked triumphantly at Johnny.
“Now who is the chicken?” he asked. “Hey? Who is the chicken now?”
“You bloody fool!” Footy shouted at him. “You wrecked our jeeps!”
Johnny frowned severely at the prisoner and shook his head.
“That is not how you play chicken!” Johnny lectured him. “You hear me?
“C’mon Footy,” he turned to the Aussie. “Let’s go.”
Leaning hard on each other, they staggered back to camp. Sunset stained the sky blood red. They sat at the fire pit and lit cigarettes with trembling fingers. Johnny felt like he’d been on the losing end of a prizefight. They smoked in silence as a monster hangover crept over them.
Some time later the prisoner shuffled up, dragging his leg. A mottled bruise covered one side of his face and chest and he clutched his side. He stopped in front of the men and bowed.
“Sorry,” he said. “So sorry.”
“The point is to miss, not hit!” Johnny griped. “Sheesh! That is not how you play chicken!”
Hurt as he was, Cat insisted on making dinner. The men ate in silence. All were suffering the aftereffects of the brandy, and Johnny and the Japanese were badly beaten up. They bedded down shortly after dark.
Cat lay on his blankets aching all over. There was a stabbing pain in his neck and his head pounded. He lay awake and smelled the breeze off the ocean and at once, he was transported home.
Of course, he thought. This air was over my city only hours ago. He imagined his wife and family and was flooded with longing. Eventually he drifted to sleep and found himself in a recurring dream.
TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy) Page 40
