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

by Timothy James Dean

  “We’re friends?” Footy asked.

  “Yes,” Johnny said.

  “Good mates?” Footy pushed it.

  “Best of mates,” Johnny affirmed. “Now shut up!”

  Footy lay back with a smile. Johnny put the surfboard aside and got him fresh water. Then he went fishing and landed a single cod. He fried it with coconut for lunch.

  During the afternoon, Footy had a nasty pain attack and begged for another shot. Johnny warned him it was the end of the very last tube. Footy sweated bullets and said he must have it.

  Johnny injected him and waited. When Footy was able to lie back, he went and fished the giant seas some more, but the weather seemed to have scared off the catch. All he managed were two small perch, and that was it for dinner.

  Later on, Johnny fetched his Springfield. He might not have any ammo, but his life had depended on it so long, caring for it was second nature. Already, due to the salt air, there were rust patches. He kicked himself one more time for not bringing a cleaning kit. Of course, it was supposed to be a three-day mission. But at least there was Cat’s coconut oil. Johnny soaked a piece of his cut-off pant leg and rubbed each spot smooth.

  As he worked, he had an unpleasant thought. With the end of the war, the Army would want his Springfield. And that’s not going to happen, he decided. It’s mine. I paid for it with my blood.

  He put the scope to his eye and panned along the beach, and another realization came over him. I will never hunt another man with it. Never.

  He hadn’t expected that, and he was surprised by the intensity. It was something more than the war being over. It was like a key turning in a secret lock.

  I am done killing men! Something seemed to untie inside him, a knot he didn’t know was there until it let go.

  I have done my part. How did General MacArthur put it? Duty, honor, country. I’ve served all three.

  Then an incredible realization struck Johnny. It was so big, he could hardly take it in. The atom bomb will put an end to war! It hadn’t hit him until just now.

  How can soldiers, even nations, fight this thing? The answer is, they can’t. The mere threat of it would make a new Hitler throw up his hands and quit.

  That’s it! he thought with wonder. Because of this terrible bomb, war is finished!

  A ray of hope lit Johnny’s heart. This strange new world, reborn in peace, might be a better one after all.

  Five days passed. Footy’s leg continued to heal. The skies stayed blue, the breeze was stiff, and the waves were immense.

  On the morning of the twelfth day since the crocodile’s attack, Johnny unwound the bandages from Footy’s leg while the patient sat on a log and watched, both fascinated and repelled.

  “Give us a good gander,” he said. “I can bear it now.”

  Johnny did as he was asked, turning the stump this way and that. The scabs were falling off and the skin underneath looked raw, but whole.

  “Ugly as a wombat’s arse,” Footy observed. “Hell of a thing to have to show the Sheilas. But at least the bloody croc got the leg I hurt in the swamp. Always look at the bright side, that’s what me old Pa said.” He offered a ghastly smile.

  “You did a good job, Johnny. Thanks mate.”

  “Forget it,” Johnny said. He bandaged the stump again, then boiled a pair of his socks, wrung them out and let them dry. He took one and rolled it over Footy’s rounded calf. It made a neat cover.

  “Help me up,” Footy asked. “I need to start walking again, or as near as a crip like me can manage.”

  “Sure you’re ready?”

  “Shore I’m shore. Give us a hand.”

  Johnny got Footy balanced on his sound leg. Then, as Cat had done in the swamp, he put his head under the Aussie’s arm and helped him take a few steps. Footy started gasping, his face sagged and Johnny settled him back on his blanket.

  “That’s a good start,” Johnny said. Footy turned away.

  “I’ll try again tomorrow,” he muttered.

  The following morning, he did. With Johnny half carrying him, he managed a dozen steps. Then he needed to lie down again.

  Johnny decided to make another crutch. He searched the forest until he found the ideal forked sapling and cut it. He tore strips off an old blanket, wound a thick pad over the crotch and tied it tight. The next time Footy wanted to walk, Johnny got him up and tried it under his arm.

  “This feels too bloody familiar,” the Aussie grimaced, but he was able to move about on his own. Then he lost his balance and started to fall. Johnny jumped to him and held him up.

  “Crikey!” Footy gasped. “I’m seeing firecrackers.” Johnny carried him back to bed.

  “Leg’s thumping like a drum.”

  “But that wasn’t bad,” Johnny encouraged him.

  “You’ll be your old self in no time.”

  Three more days, and Footy could walk around camp on his own. He went back to broadcasting their S O S and hailed Chas Rutherford directly, but got no reply.

  By Johnny’s count, it was seventeen days since the Father’s attack, and twenty-two since the Brit had gone. The skies were clear, but now the wind blew all the time and the waves continued high. It seemed to be a change of season, one that had a negative effect on the fishing. Johnny was forced to devote long hours to the attempt, and just managed to land enough to keep them going. He lost three more of their hooks to barracuda.

  There came a morning when Johnny woke to find Footy on his crutch behind the stove. He’d made coffee and was cooking “brecky,” chunks of fish fried with crumbled hardtack.

  After they ate, the two men sat and smoked and watched the day. Again, Johnny found himself holding his surfboard. The breakers frothed shoreward in dangerous mountains whose tops curled over on themselves. The barrel!

  Johnny laid the board on the beach and stood on it, practicing his stance. The wood was slippery with oil and he took handfuls of sand and roughed the places where his feet would grip.

  Footy watched all this and spoke again.

  “Look Johnny, give it a go mate,” he said. “I can see how much you want to. I insist. The truth is, I’d like to see surfing.”

  “Are you sure?” Johnny asked. Footy smiled broadly.

  “Shore I’m shore. If a bloody great shark, or even the Father’s brother, gobbles you up, I’m right now. No worries. I don’t need you.”

  “Thanks,” Johnny said dryly.

  “No mate, I’m serious,” Footy insisted. “Get on out there.” At last, Johnny gave in.

  “Ok!”

  “Off you bloody go, sport,” Footy grinned.

  Johnny was already barefoot in weathered shorts. He smiled broadly, white teeth in a deeply tanned face with a dark line of stubble. His curly hair was streaked by the sun. He whooped, grabbed his surfboard and ran for the ocean. Footy noticed that the Yank had filled out since they got to the beach.

  Johnny ran into the surf, turned his back and crashed through a wave. As soon as he was deep enough, he dove onto his board and shot up the incoming swell. It broke over his head and he was underwater, assailed by doubt.

  Will it float? Will it carry my weight? And then—do I even remember how to surf? It had been four years since he’d been an ocean rider. He hadn’t been on a board since December 7, 1941. That morning, he’d run towards Pearl Harbor, and he never saw his board again.

  Johnny exploded into sunlight and realized with joy that the board carried him high.

  Footy sat on his log and watched the Yank disappear into the wild and windswept South Pacific.

  CHAPTER 14

  The water rose and Johnny rode it like an elevator. The nose of his board cut through the top of the wave and he spilled down the other side into the trough. Every nerve tingled and he felt fully alive. He raised his chest and paddled. He was thrilled by how light the board floated.

  Footy watched the Yank go out of sight, and there was the lad again, drifting up the face of the curve. Johnny paddled on and was out of Footy’s
view much of the time.

  Johnny felt a rush of eagerness. He’d almost forgotten this, the twined cables of fear and excitement. The anticipation grew for the sweet instant he would stand and race away. During the war, all this had been left behind, but now he was immersed again.

  The Pacific was a living thing, a body that embraced the world. He was a mere speck on water that washed New Guinea, Hawaii and California all at the same time. He thought of the ocean as female, and he was separate from, but joined to her, and connected through her to all things.

  Footy watched Johnny become a dot on the rich blue. The Yank was out a hundred yards now.

  Over deep water, Johnny turned the point to the beach. He rested, hands gripping the edges, ready to stand. He looked over his shoulder, waiting for his ride. A giant swell flung him up and he let it pass. He studied the march of waves, knowing he’d recognize the right one.

  And there it came, churning in from open ocean, a bearded giant above the others. It frothed toward Johnny and he saw sunlight along its flanks, glowing all turquoise and sapphire within. A mane of foam licked the top edge. Thirty yards away, it curled over and spilled down its face.

  The curl! Johnny’s heart beat faster as the water titan picked up and tossed him at the sky. He stood and at once was moving. The board shot away as he balanced himself over it and came to his full height. He adjusted his feet on the wood and raced along the wave.

  The board responded to the slightest pressure and Johnny laughed with delight. He bent his knees and found his rhythm. He was moving fast, whipping through the wind, the water frothing along the edges of his board. He held himself loosely, one foot forward, arms bent, hands out to either side.

  Johnny used his feet to turn the nose up and he climbed the wave. Just below the crest, he leveled out and rode the giant. All the emotion of the last days burst out of him in a wild yell. He stood twenty feet above the trough, the strength of the Pacific in his legs.

  Johnny glanced behind and saw the liquid tunnel, big enough to stand in. He stepped on his back foot, the board slowed and he drifted into the curl. The light went green and water whooshed over his head. Bathed in mist, Johnny reached out a hand and trailed his fingers through the rising brine.

  He shifted his weight and shot into sunlight. He stepped back and was in the curl once more.

  Footy watched the huge wave come, and there was a tiny shape flying on it. The breakers rolled shoreward and Johnny grew in size. The Yank hovered high, near the white-crowned peak, and disappeared. The wave rolled on and there was no Johnny. Just as Footy began to worry, the surfer came out as if shot from a liquid cannon, and he darted and dipped along the face.

  Footy had never been more impressed with Johnny than he was now. The Yank’s ability with a rifle was something to see, and the Aussie had admired that more than he’d let on. On top of that, Johnny was a good bloke in the bush, or a tight spot like the Valley of the Cannibals.

  But the skill Johnny demonstrated on his stick of wood put him in an entirely new league. In spite of Footy’s situation, his heart lifted. He watched the Yank ride that wave and a cheer broke out.

  “Good on ya mate!” Johnny rode with sureness, even a cockiness, which dazzled Footy. For these few minutes, his own suffering was forgotten.

  Johnny saw the beach get closer and there was Footy in the distance. As the breaker thundered over the shallows, the curl began to collapse.

  Time to get off this train, Johnny thought. A stab of regret went through him. It had been a perfect run. He scooted his board along the breaker until it was merely a hill, turned over the top and sank down in the sea.

  The wave unrolled its water carpet along the sand. Another fell on it, and churned back out. Footy saw the dark head on the waves. Johnny waved and paddled away.

  An hour flew by while the Aussie watched his mate make run after superb run. It was a treat to watch.

  Johnny was entirely absorbed in making the board dance. Time disappeared and the war washed out of him. Temporarily, at least, the South Pacific restored his lost youth.

  One of the things Johnny loved about surfing was the concentration required. He needed all his focus to remain in the bright world. One distraction, and the dark power would suck him down and grind him along the razor coral. The knife-edge between ecstasy and terror was what made the ride so sweet.

  Johnny only noticed the time when he felt all his muscles trembling. Sunset was painting the sky. He bucked the last water bull ashore, tucked his board under his arm and jogged to camp.

  “Crikey mate!” Footy crowed. “Don’t get a fat head, but you were brilliant out there!” Johnny chuckled, grabbed a towel and went to rinse off the salt.

  He developed a new routine. Johnny fished in the morning and surfed away the afternoons.

  Footy, left at camp, forced himself to walk a little more every day. It was an arduous and painful process, and often he returned discouraged. After the latest effort, a half-hour grind that left him panting and sore, he slumped on a log and raised his stump.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, staring at the foreshortened limb that used to kick goals. “I’ll never be ‘Footy’ again.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Johnny said from the kitchen. “You’re truly ‘Footy’ now.”

  The Australian put on a good front, but he was seriously depressed. He had to spend most of his days lying down, or at least propped against something. He had too much time on his hands and he spent a lot of it grappling with his future. The problem was, everywhere he looked, a one-legged cripple stared back at him.

  His one respite was watching Johnny surf. When Yank-gazing got to be too much, he found himself searching the skies. Where is our bloody rescue? Will it ever come?

  And then what, mate?

  I’ll get meself to Aus, visit the family. Get fitted for a false leg. You can still fly a plane, he encouraged himself, don’t let anyone tell you different. You can do the cargo business—you’ve just got a better excuse to let others do the loading.

  With Cat gone, Johnny had become the cook, on top of every thing else. Now Footy insisted he lend a hand. Still, try as they both did, neither came close to Cat’s culinary creations.

  When it came to cooking, the prisoner had been another kind of artist.

  Johnny was home. It was the three-bedroom bungalow covered in flowering bougainvillea. When the warm rains came, there was a delicious scent of blossoms and lush growth, and Johnny smelled it now.

  He entered the house and saw himself as a teenager, sitting at the kitchen table. He was sun-browned, dressed in shorts and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, sandals on his feet. His mother was at the stove, making French toast. She put a plate in front of him, with a bottle of real Vermont maple syrup. Johnny spread butter and poured it on.

  Dad entered the room. Johnny had almost forgotten how impressive he was in his crisp uniform, bars of decorations on his chest. He was an executive officer who commanded thousands of men, and he looked it. He was freshly shaved, and his hair was short, clean around the ears and neck. Dad took off his cap, set it on the table, and breathed deep.

  “Ahh!” he said. “Heaven! And how are the two most important people in the world this morning?

  “Wonderful, Darling,” his mother smiled. “Come and sit.” Dad came to Johnny and put his hands on his son’s shoulders. He smelled of soap and aftershave.

  “And what is my number one son up to today?”

  “Your only son,” Johnny told him. “I’m going surfing—to the north shore.”

  His mother turned from the stove.

  “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t!” she said. “I heard in Honolulu—there’s been another shark attack.” She paused in her work and looked at him.

  “Mom!” Johnny said. “That was on Maui!”

  “Come here,” his dad told her kindly. She brushed her hands on her apron and brought another plate of toast that she slid onto the table. She came up beside Johnny and put a hand over her husban
d’s on their son’s shoulder.

  “I worry about you, Jo-Jo, that’s all.”

  “Now, Honey,” his father said, “who do you see sitting here?”

  “My little boy,” she said.

  “I think you better look again,” Dad said. “I see a man at our table.”

  Johnny watched his teenage self sit up straighter and positively glow.

  “Hard as it is, it’s time for us to start letting him go,” Dad said. He slipped his arm around his wife’s waist, as he often did, and bent to kiss her. She turned into him, a hand on his chest, and their lips met. It was only a moment, but Johnny saw how much love was in it and his heart ached.

  “I guess you’re right,” Mom said and turned back to her son. “But you’ll always be my baby. It’s a big world—you be careful out there!”

  She bent and planted a wet one on Johnny’s cheek.

  “Mother!” the teenager protested.

  Johnny opened his eyes.

  “Sorry mate, I’m not your Mum,” Footy told him from where he lay on his blanket. Johnny looked at the one-legged man, sunburned nose, reddish-blonde beard on his face.

  “Sheesh!” he said. “You can say that again!”

  A week since he’d started surfing, and almost a month since the Father’s attack, Johnny was on the water when fear swept over him.

  His sea legs were strong. He’d made six exhilarating runs and was waiting for the seventh. He was a long way out, watching over his shoulder for a wave, when fright surged up.

  Fear was always the surfer’s dark companion. Sometimes the primordial terror that a mouthful of teeth rushed from below got the better of everyone. Johnny had felt it often enough. It was nothing to be ashamed of, the Hawaiian surfers told him.

  “Fear of the Landlord,” that’s what they called it. Maybe today was the day he’d come to collect his due. Some days, the jitters got so bad, a fellow had to call it quits. Try again tomorrow, that was the only remedy.

  Why the shivers got him now, Johnny didn’t know, but he couldn’t deny it. He looked into the depths and saw his legs undulating against shafts of light that went to a point far below.