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

by Timothy James Dean

  “How about staying for dinner?” Johnny said. “As you can see, we’re having Wrasse.”

  “Very kind—yes, let’s talk.” Chas holstered his pistol and Johnny gathered his tackle while the other men finished cleaning the fish. Cat sliced off the wide head and the men piled the guts on it and carried it between them into the waves. They heaved the mess out and there was a furious swirl.

  “Don’t mean to tell you your business,” Chas called, “but I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Not do what?” Footy asked.

  “Throw offal in the ocean,” Chas said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “This is saltwater crocodile country, gentlemen.” Chas said. “If you like large visitors, by all means, carry on.”

  “Bloody good point, mate,” Footy said. He and Cat shared a look.

  Johnny and Rutherford sat at the fire pit. The Brit nodded at the wrecked jeeps.

  “Bit of a story?” he asked.

  “Ahhh…” Johnny started. “A lack of road signs,” he finished.

  “Rather not talk about it?”

  “Just as soon not,” Johnny said.

  “Well, well, I see.”

  “Hey,” Johnny said, “do you have any thirty-aught-six ammo? I’m out.”

  “Sorry—Johnny, is it?” Chas said. “I’ve got my one revolver with me. I have a rifle in the village, but wrong caliber. What other firearms do you have?”

  “None,” Johnny said. “We lost the rest on the river.”

  “Seems odd. Again—rather not discuss it?”

  “Right,” Johnny said. “It’s a long story.”

  “And your business,” Chas nodded. “Never mind.”

  Cat and Footy arrived with heavy fillets draped over their arms. Cat went to work in the kitchen while Footy washed up and came and sat down. They recounted what they knew of the death of the Kissim priests and their adventures on the river.

  Cat heated oil in the frying pan and slid in the Wrasse meat. He opened cans of potatoes and distributed these around the fish. He did his magic with his spices. The odors permeated the campsite and the men’s stomachs rumbled.

  Soon Cat was ready to serve and they passed around the plates. Cat had cooked the last of their fresh beans to go with the fish and potatoes. The men tucked in and nothing was said for some time. The Wrasse was drenched in its marinade. It came apart in flakes, so tender it made their eyes water. When every plate was scraped clean, the men laid on the compliments to the chef. He nodded and brewed coffee.

  “You were here before the war?” Johnny asked their guest.

  “Correct,” Chas said. “I was born in New Guinea and grew up here. The plantation was my father’s,” he explained. “He was a British subject. This place…” he indicated the coconut palms around them, “…belonged to friends of my father’s, although I never met them. I was at school in England.

  “When the war came, dear old Dad abandoned the place. ‘Not worth dying for,’ he wrote in a letter I received in England. He left my mother in the village—she’s indigenous, you see. Now she lives with me. The family that had this place thought they’d stay on. Thought they’d be safe. They were killed. There was a lot of fighting in these parts at one time, and up the Raub and Sepik Rivers, of course.

  “I myself wouldn’t have this place for all the tea in China. Too many of the big crocs, you see.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, why’d you come back?” Johnny asked. “The men I fought with, not one wanted to see New Guinea again.”

  “In England I got along, but just barely,” Chas said, leaning back on an arm. “I was what my schoolmates kindly called ‘a mongrel bastard from the end of the Earth.’

  “Here, however, I’m a ‘Big Man,’ an important rank in New Guinea. I’m the son and heir of Master Rutherford. My father, by the way, never made it back to the old country. His ship was sunk by the blasted Krauts. So I own the plantation.

  “I have three wives and seven children there, with another two on the way—wives that is.”

  “Bloody hell!” Footy exclaimed. “You’ve gone native, mate.”

  “Well Footy,” Chas said mildly as he pulled off his hat to reveal tight black curls, “I am native, you see. Foot in both worlds. But not to concern yourself. I live like a king. I’ve got a house with electric lights and a diesel generator. I’ve got a kerosene refrigerator. I have a thousand acres and will soon have copra and coffee going again, and I’m planning to expand into peanuts. I believe there’s a world market.” Footy offered the cigarettes and the Brit accepted.

  “I believe I’ll try tobacco as well,” he said.

  “When the war came along, I joined the Royal Marines. I saw action in Asia—Burma in the last year. Got a few stories to tell.”

  “All right,” Johnny said. “Let’s hear one.”

  “Yes mate,” Footy chimed in. “It’s not like we don’t have the time.”

  “Hmmm. Well, one might interest you—involves crocodiles.”

  “In Burma?” Footy asked.

  “Right,” the Brit said. “Place was ours before the war. Japs grabbed it. Short story—we took it back.

  “Any rate, I was with the engineers. In association with our British India troops, my last assignment was to help clear a God-forsaken island by the name of ‘Ramree.’”

  “Never heard of it,” Footy said.

  “Not a surprise. Middle of nowhere, all bog and pestilence. There were perhaps a thousand of your countrymen there,” he nodded at Cat. “We had ‘em surrounded. As we saw it, they had two options. Death by our guns, or surrender.”

  Cat sipped his coffee and listened.

  “The Nips were in a pickle. Through our Burmese translators, we gave them the opportunity to surrender. Yelled into the marsh—‘throw down your arms and come out.’ But the Japs made a third choice, one we had not anticipated. Retreat through a ten-mile swath of swamp.

  “What we didn’t know was that hellish place was home to an entire colony of saltwater crocs. By our reckoning, a thousand Japs went into the water. Then, like now, the night came on.”

  The sky over the camp had gone dark and stars winked along the ocean. A wave crashed and sighed up the beach.

  “In the dark we could hear the Japs pushing through the water.” Chas paused to light a cigarette and the match showed his face.

  “Then a gun fired and we heard the first scream.” There was silence and he continued.

  “Occasionally I heard a crocodile move—the sound of a heavy body rushing through the mangroves, and the splash as it entered the water.

  “Most particularly, we heard it when one of the brutes discovered a soldier. On my soul—the scream!” Again he paused.

  “In extremis, men sound the same, whatever language they speak, whatever tribe they’re from.” Footy lit the fire and the yellow light flickered over the men.

  “In the morning, we had no trouble rounding up the last of the Japs,” Rutherford continued. “There were only twenty of them. Twenty, out of a thousand! Of course, I have no idea how many made it through the swamp. Could have been most of them, could have been none. All I can tell you, we watched the crocs feed on corpses until we left the place. That was February of this year.”

  Johnny then told Chas about the carnage they’d seen just one crocodile inflict in the Valley of the Cannibals. Rutherford listened with keen interest.

  “You men came through the Valley of the Cannibals? And you and this big pookpook killed the Mambu-ato himself! By Jove!”

  “Do you think a croc will track a man over a considerable distance?” Footy asked.

  “Certainly,” Rutherford nodded. “I’ve become a reluctant expert on crocs of all kinds, particularly the saltys. My people have a saying. Goes like this: ‘by the time a pookpook chooses you, you are already dead.’

  “Your croc waits for his victim. It watches him—or her. It sets its ambush, and when the time is right—it strikes.” He clapped his hands and Johnny jumped.
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  “The mouth of the Raub is notorious for saltys. I must tell you, there’s an especially enormous one in these parts. It’s the dominant bull of the entire region. And you, gentlemen...” he spread his arms, “...have set up camp in the heart of his territory.”

  “Is this the Father—the one with the moon scar on its head?” Johnny asked.

  “Ahh, you’ve heard of him,” Chas said. “Quite right. Notorious on the Raub. My people tell me it disappeared during the war, but now it’s back.”

  “That’s the bugga that killed Bumay in the Valley of the Cannibals!” Footy said.

  “Indeed!” Rutherford said. “Your story grows ever stranger. But you should know, the Father’s been seen in these parts, very recently.”

  “Go on,” Johnny said.

  “On my way here, I came through a village that was mourning a fisherman. He’d been in his canoe when the pookpook swamped it and killed him. Strange thing—the Papa didn’t eat him. Left him floating.”

  “Did the natives notice anything unusual about it?” Johnny asked.

  “Apart from its extraordinary size and the scar on its head?”

  “No, not the scar. Its right foreleg,” Johnny said. “I shot the foot off.”

  “No one mentioned that,” Chas said, “but then, the croc was in the water.”

  “I believe the Father has been stalking Johnny,” Footy said, “ever since he shot it at Kissim.”

  “Is that right?” Chas asked.

  “It’s possible,” Johnny admitted. “But we haven’t seen it lately.”

  “Well, I’m here to tell you, the Father has returned. I advise you to leave,” Chas said.

  “Suits me,” Johnny said. “And that’s where you come in. We need a rescue.”

  “Right you are,” the Brit said. “Soon as I get home, I’ll get the word in. I have a powerful radio, powered by my generator.

  “Now I’d like to sleep, if it’s alright by you. I’ve been on the trail here for days, and I will leave at first light. Perhaps you men should consider coming with me? Leave the Father’s territory?” The others thought about it.

  “In my opinion, thanks, but no thanks,” Johnny said. “Now that we’re finally off the river, I’d like to keep it that way. And I don’t think Footy can handle a hike.”

  “Not on mate,” the Aussie agreed. “And from a pilot’s point of view it makes sense to stay here. Easier to find at the mouth of the Raub.”

  “There’s merit in that,” Rutherford acknowledged. “As you wish.”

  The men gave him a blanket and Chas lay down with his back to the fire and promptly fell asleep. Footy stretched out, propped his injured foot on a log and drifted off as well.

  Johnny and Cat sat up a few minutes longer. The moon rose, almost full, and its cold light made the ocean ghostly. The men stared at the glittering darkness and thought about the great crocodile. Still, they’d seen no sign of it.

  They hoped it would stay that way.

  CHAPTER 7

  Johnny woke to the sound of voices. He peered through the hammock netting in the early light and saw Chas Rutherford with a group of natives. There were five armed men, three women and some mixed-race children. Chas had his arms around a boy and a girl and another little one clung to his leg. Johnny got up and went to the kitchen where Cat poured him coffee. Footy lay near the fire pit, sipping from a mug.

  “Looks like our Pommy friend has the wives and pikininis here,” the Aussie said. Chas and his entourage came closer. The native men had white beads woven in their hair, cowrie shell necklaces, a pair of bound croc teeth through their noses and their bows and spears.

  The Brit made the introductions. These were some of his wives and progeny, and the warriors were his clan one-talks. The group of them had camped inland, Chas explained, while he came alone to reconnoiter the situation. He had expected to rejoin his people up the trail, but, well, they came to find him.

  Cat filled every available container, including some empty cans, with sweet coffee and the people passed these around. Johnny took the men into the jungle to cut bunches of bananas for their journey. They brought back leaves as well and Cat cooked and wrapped more Wrasse. The warriors accepted the food, but stared at the Japanese with dislike. Cat observed that and stayed in the kitchen.

  Rutherford announced they would leave. He reaffirmed he would radio for a rescue aircraft as soon as he got home. If he was lucky and the weather was right, he’d talk directly to Port Moresby. Otherwise, he’d relay the message through Wewak, Madang, Mount Hagen or Goroka.

  “However it must go, I’ll get the message through. Although, of course, I can’t say how long the authorities will take to find you.

  “By the way. Any issue with me salvaging your jeeps at some point? I may be able to make one good one from the two.”

  “Help yourself,” Johnny told him. “Though I guess they’re not ours to give away.”

  “I’d like a word, mate,” Footy said. “I’m setting up an air cargo business. I lost my aircraft at Kissim—pranged beyond all hope, unfortunately, but I’ll buy another. Your plantation will need my services, am I right?”

  “Right you are,” Rutherford agreed. “When you’re ready, Footy, reach me by wireless. We might make a few pounds together.”

  At last the farewells and handshaking were done. As always in New Guinea, that took time. Rutherford noticed Cat hanging back in the kitchen, went to him and offered his hand. They shook.

  “The war is over,” Chas said. “Difficult as it is, we must let bygones be bygones. Cat, I wish you luck on your return to Japan.”

  “Thank you,” Katsu said, and bowed.

  “By the way, I visited Japan with my father. What city are you from?”

  “Beautiful port city,” the Japanese smiled. “Do you know Nagasaki?”

  “Nagasaki?” Chas repeated, with sudden strain in his voice.

  “Yes—Nagasaki,” Cat said. “You probably have not heard of it. It is not well known.”

  Johnny and Footy had wandered over and were listening.

  “Oh, I’ve heard of it,” Rutherford said. “The whole world has heard of it. Do you know Nagasaki was bombed?”

  “Bombed?” Cat repeated. “I imagine many Japanese cities suffered bombs.” Rutherford’s silence made Katsu unbearably anxious. There was something very wrong with the way the Englishman was staring at him.

  “You’ve not heard,” Chas said at last.

  “Spit it out, would you?” Johnny told him. Rutherford nodded.

  “Yes, right. As you say, many Japanese cities were bombed, including Tokyo. But that was with conventional ordnance. Cat, I am very sorry to be the one to tell you this, but there were two atom bombs dropped on Japan.”

  “We heard about one,” Footy said. “On—what was the place?”

  “Hiroshima!” Cat said, not taking his eyes off Chas.

  “Yes. That was on August 7th.

  “Then—on August 10th, the Americans dropped another atom bomb. On Nagasaki.”

  “Nagasaki!” Cat exclaimed, thunderstruck. “This is true?” He looked at Rutherford’s face and read the reality.

  “This atom bomb, what does it do?” he asked urgently.

  “Afraid I can’t tell you precisely,” Chas said. “But the news reports say those cities are destroyed. The people—well, most of the people are gone. Simply—atomized.”

  “My family,” Cat said in horror, “my wife, my children, my parents...”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry old chap,” Chas said. Cat’s face showed such naked anguish the others looked away.

  “Thought you knew,” Chas said lamely. “Thought you’d heard.”

  “We heard about the one—not the other,” Footy repeated. On the beach, one of the children called for his father.

  “Look Chas, there’s nothing you can do about it.” Johnny took Rutherford’s arm and guided him toward his group. Chas nodded, shot Cat a final look and rejoined his party. With a last wave, they disap
peared into the trees behind the camp. The Japanese sat with a hand over his eyes.

  “Listen,” Johnny said to him. “You can’t know what happened there. With the war over, you’ll be sent home with the other P O Ws. Then you can find out for yourself. Maybe your family is ok.”

  “Johnny’s right,” Footy said. Cat looked up at the men with shock and grief on his face.

  “Please,” he said, “leave me alone.” He lurched up and stumbled down the beach, head bowed. The others let him go.

  Things had been bad for the prisoner, but now they were infinitely worse.

  Cat was gone for many hours. Footy went fishing but Johnny did not. He watched Footy limp far down the shore, then sharpened his knives and straightened up camp.

  Eventually Cat returned, looking as downtrodden as a man could get. He did not look at Johnny and slumped at the fire pit.

  Johnny eyed the man and knew what kind of anguish he was feeling. He recalled that terrible morning when he was sixteen. In some ways it seemed a lifetime ago, but in others, it was as fresh as yesterday.

  That horrific memory was buried within him all this time, agony he could not fix, so he had shoved it aside and hoped it would go away. While that had allowed him to cope, it had not dealt with the problem.

  What Gwyn had asked him to do had bothered him all the way down the river. Add that to the news the war was over, and the core of anguish was coming closer to the surface. It was an emotional wound that was worse in many ways than the physical ones he had endured. They had been treated, and had healed. But this had simply grown a tough layer over it, while beneath, it remained a festering sore.

  Johnny sat beside Cat and saw the depths of his suffering, and his heart went out to him. He lit two cigarettes and nudged the man. The prisoner took one without looking up. Then Johnny started to talk, and once he got going he could not stop.

  “Maybe you’ve heard me say I lived in Hawaii,” he began. The Japanese gave no sign, and Johnny went on.

  “My family moved there when I was a teenager. I grew up in San Diego, a Navy town on the border with Mexico. My Grandfather was a Rear Admiral who retired before the war. He died last year. My father was a Lieutenant Commander of a battleship. In early 1941, Dad was assigned to a new ship. It had just been refitted in Washington State, and was sent to join the fleet stationed in the Hawaiian Territory.