In Olde England, the knights once conducted their affairs by a code of Chivalry. So, too, did Japan possess a warrior class and Bushido. The Nipponese version of Camelot played out in the Age of the Samurai, one that lasted nearly a millennium.
Technology is the one aspect of industrial civilization that always progresses. And while it provides great boons, it is responsible for more profound alterations in society than war itself.
Bullets and gunpowder transformed the knight in shining armor into a target in a tin suit. So, too, did modern firearms destroy the Samurai as an elite warrior force—for what use is a champion with his sword against a rifleman?
While Chivalry died across Europe and the British Isles, Bushido did not disappear in Japan. The descendants of those fierce old warriors live on. Proud is the military family that can trace its lineage back to the now-outlawed warrior caste!
To the Samurai, a much-admired tactic is the devastating opening strike. As we might put it in the States, “the one-punch fight.”
In a story told to me by a military historian over sake and sushi one memorable evening in Tokyo, in this way did a Japanese boy with a stick slaughter a formidable sword master. His secret—the unexpected, fatal blow. That boy, I was told, went on to become Miyamoto Musashi, the most renowned Samurai of the 17th Century. Musashi was both a warrior and an artist, and was undefeated in more than sixty swordfights. His exploits are still recounted to this day in the land of the Rising Sun.
While the Samurai caste system is gone, Japanese strategists continue to admire the ancient code and its tactics. A prime example occurred in the opening years of this 20th Century. Russia, a great world power, craved a warm water harbor. To that end, the Tsar leased Port Arthur on the Chinese mainland. At the time, Japan was just another voice in an Asian chorus, but the fierce island warriors took offense at the Russian Bear’s intrusion. Nippon perceived a threat to its dream of destiny as the leader of all Asia, and indeed, for some, even of the world.
In 1904, without any warning (and allow me to emphasize, Dear Reader, without any warning), Japan suddenly attacked the Russians at their port. The action was so unexpected, it earned Nippon a stunning triumph.
Only after the deed was accomplished, did Nippon deliver its declaration of war to Moscow. The Tsar was caught flat-footed. A minor power had bested a great one, and while Russia tried vainly to regroup, Nippon rushed to heap victory upon victory. No doubt this sign of weakness encouraged the revolutionaries, and Tsarist Russia never recovered.
How do we know this? With other world powers of that time, we studied the action closely. The record is readily available. President “Teddy” Roosevelt himself was an expert in the matter, and won the Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts to broker a resolution between the parties.
Now let us jump forward to Pearl Harbor. The peacetime attack by Japan on our Pacific fleet at Hawaii outraged America, and rallied us to war. It will live forever as the “day of infamy,” in the words of our recently demised and greatly missed President, Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
Yet, no one can say the Japanese tactic of preemptive strike prior to declaration of war was unprecedented.
On the contrary. It was entirely in keeping with the mindset and history of Nippon.
Dingo Hawsey drove the jeep to his house and threw his swag together. Truth was, he was tickled by the promised action. Good on ya Henry! Dingo was forty-six and as tough as nails. He regularly lifted weights with the lads, and played tennis three times a week.
That said, it was clear his days in the field were numbered. His promotion to Major had meant a jump in pay grade, but it also tied him to a desk. As a man who’d run his own plantations all his adult life, Dingo was a hands-on type of bloke. But as long as the war ground on, he was stuck at HQ in Port Moresby. He knew the younger fellows needed a steadying hand, but the duty often wearied him.
Operation Teeth gave him the increasingly rare chance for a fight in the bush. It was only three days, of course. He’d be back in the office almost before the lads noticed he was gone. And while he’d never come out and say it this way to the Colonel, the outing sounded like a bit of serious fun.
Dingo was alone in the house. Alice, “the wife,” was in Australia under the wing of her parents, near Tamworth in New South Wales. The two children, teenage beauties, were boarders at Calrossy School. When things got a bit more settled, Alice had agreed to return to Port Moresby, but not so the girls. They were not little tykes any more, and there were no suitable schools in the Territories. They would stay on in Aus, and come up for the months-long summer holidays over Christmas.
Dingo knocked the dust off his wood framed rucksack, rolled up a blanket, put in a square of mosquito netting for his face, balled up a change of clothes, cooking gear, toilet kit, and the rest of it. It made him feel younger—reminds me of the months fighting the Japs on the Kokoda Trail!
The enemy had attempted to invade Port Moresby by sea and failed. After that, the buggers had a go by land. They trekked all the way across the Owen Stanley Range. That took bollocks, you had to give them that.
Capturing Port Moresby would give them control of New Guinea, the ideal staging ground for a rush across the Gulf to take Australia. So they tried to take the Capital from the backside. That plan had worked for them at Singapore, where the Pommies had all their guns pointed out to sea. Ruddy scandal, that. But New Guinea was a different kettle of fish. The attack overland had not worked out here.
The hike across New Guinea took a terrible toll on the enemy. Only blokes like Dingo, who knew this formidable, pestilent land, had any idea of what they’d endured. The blighters ended up sick and starving. Put an end to the myth of the Jap superman, Dingo grinned to himself. He went to fetch his rifle.
Still, they’d gotten in sight of Port Moresby before they’d been turned around. Me and the boys were there to fight the bastards on the way over, and hound them all the way back. On both legs, I chalked up my share of kills.
That was the Kokoda Trail—“the Track,” the Aussies called it. In anyone’s book, it was a hellish fight under extreme conditions. But Dingo Hawsey was a man who thrived in the bush. Helps to walk barefoot like a bloody kanaka—been doing it most of me life. Better than boots that grow jungle rot to strip your toes to the bone. Bare feet let you slip up on a man and pull your knife across his gullet, before he even knows you’re there.
Dingo could sleep anywhere in the bush. Insects and animals didn’t put him off. Getting enough to eat was sometimes a problem. He preferred his meat fresh, and included croc on the menu.
Of course, it’s best to give the big saltys a wide birth—the brutes like “the Father” this Yank writes about. A bloke must know his limits. Still, I’d like to lay eyes on the bugger the kanakas yammer on about—but from a suitable distance.
Speaking of the natives, Dingo was an old New Guinea hand, and he knew how things worked here. Your kanaka doesn’t respect a man unless he shouts and waves his arms a bit. Both in the bush, and here in town, he insisted they call him “Master Dingo.” That was the rule. If some of the bleeding heart Yanks wanted to coddle up to them—let them call you by your Christian name, for example—well, they’d learn that was a mistake. There are only a few of us here, outnumbered ten thousand to one, and we must keep the upper hand.
In the Major’s experience, if you went soft, the locals were quick to walk all over you. The white man’s ways were not kanaka ways. If you want a worker to put in his ten hours a day, you must instill a healthy fear of Yours Truly. Otherwise he’d be off home at his earliest opportunity, and still expect his pay come Friday. No, in order to succeed here, you must have clear rules and a hard hand. That was the only way to bring a bit of civilization to the bush. Anyone who said different, Dingo snorted to himself, is blowing air through his arse.
The Major lifted his .303 Lee Enfield off its pegs and once again admired the fine grain of the English walnut stock. The rifle had a magazine of ten shells, inserted in clip
s or “chargers” of five shots each. The firearm was loaded, as always, and Dingo dropped some extra chargers in his kit.
He withdrew the Webley pistol from a drawer. It was a six-shooter, made so it opened like a shotgun and automatically ejected the spent cartridges. It, too, was fully loaded, and Dingo dropped in another handful of ammo in a pocket of his rucksack.
From the table beside his bed he picked up his one concession to Yank weaponry, a gigantic hunting knife. This he’d salvaged from a dead GI on the north coast. Not that the poor lad needed it any more. The knife had a leather sheath worked in a scene of a deer head against pine trees. He withdrew it and checked the sharpness with his thumb. The blade was a foot long, with a bone handle—a beaut! From the first moment he hefted it, it felt like it belonged in his fist.
The Yanks called it a “Bowie knife,” he’d been told, although what that meant, he did not know. He had bloodied it in close fighting any number of times, and never went into the bush without it.
Dingo had everything ready in twenty minutes. Then he bellowed for his native cook to bring lunch. He got a plate of cold sliced mutton, a packet of Melba toast, and some pickles fished from a jar. After that, he’d get in three hours of tennis. Tonight at the pub he’d bend his elbow with his mates.
I’ll have a chinwag with Footy. He was a Corporal Dingo had chummed with on the Track, and now he was a private pilot. I wonder how “Footy’s Folly” is doing? Perhaps he’s got that old bomber ready to fly. If not, he’ll know the whereabouts of every available plane.
Come Monday, the Major would meet whatever Yank the Colonel had selected. Dingo liked Henry, but inwardly, he was scornful of the American’s ability to put together a fight. There was no question Henry was good at “admin”—his garrison ran like a clock. But when it came to action in the bush, the Colonel had been forced to rely on Dingo’s advice every time.
Whatever Yank he picks had better not be wet behind the ears, or I’ll make him sit in camp while I sort things out.
He was troublesome and bull-headed. And—strike three—he was a soldier. Yet, here Gwyn found herself, waiting for him.
In some ways, she knew Johnny as intimately as he did himself, but in others, he was a stranger. It was his body she knew best. After all, that was her job. She had taken care of his needs while he was comatose, his very life in her hands. She had even peered through his flesh to the bone. On numerous occasions, she had washed his hair, shaved him, and sponged him from head to toe. In that regard, he had no secrets.
But what about the man within? Early on, when he was unconscious, his battle reduced to simply fighting for the next breath, she’d kept watch. When he wasn’t out cold or raving, they’d spoken a little and she knew something of his past. Gradually she was forced to admit to herself—he was a manly man, and his looks attracted her.
But as he improved, the soldier came to the forefront, with his cracked-record plan to kill more of the enemy. This bloodthirsty GI drove her away. There was something bent in him, she decided, maybe broken, and she doubted it could be fixed.
But here she found herself, waiting at his tent. After Ruthie told her Doc had discharged the man, Gwyn had come looking for him. She hadn’t spoken with Johnny lately, not since he’d returned the books he’d borrowed, but she knew where his tent was.
And now here he came, like a kid with all his gear, looking more like a soldier than ever.
Just what am I doing here? she wondered again, while his buddies helped unload the equipment from the jeep. I’ve just come to wish him well, she told herself. After all, I nursed him back to health. Johnny spoke to the driver and the vehicle sped away, and then he came over to Gwyn.
“Will you give us a few minutes?” he asked the other men, and they retreated into the tent.
“Hello Gwyn,” Johnny said.
“Hello Johnny. I heard Doc Mac released you. I came to say goodbye. What’s your plan?”
“I’ve been ordered on a three day mission, somewhere in the interior of New Guinea,” Johnny said. “There are priests that need rescuing. I leave Tuesday and I’ll be back Friday. Then the Colonel promises to get me on a ship the following Monday, back to the Philippines.”
“Just what you wanted,” Gwyn said.
“What I want,” Johnny nodded. She looked away, but then her eyes flashed back at him.
“Is that all you think about, Johnny Willman? More killing?”
He was startled by her vehemence.
“I’m a soldier, Gwyn,” was all he could say. Lame!
“I know,” she said. “I just wondered—when will it be enough?”
Never. It will never be enough for what they did.
“Gwyn, this is war,” he replied slowly. “It’s over when it’s over.”
“Funny how some guys seem to find time for other things,” Gwyn responded. “But you asked me out. I’d like to know why.” Again, Johnny was caught off guard.
“I like you, Gywn,” he mumbled. “You’re smart—and about the prettiest girl I’ve seen.” I think about you all the time, even when I don’t want to.
“Well, thank you,” she said. He thinks I’m smart! Johnny stepped closer and took her hands in his.
“I’d like time with you,” he said. “Away from…” he glanced around, “…away from this. But I’m not going to get the chance. I have this job, and then there’s the ship back to my unit.”
Gwyn looked down and did not reply. He was still clutching her hands. At last she stared into his eyes.
“Johnny, what happened to you?” she asked. “Oh, I know you’ve been through a lot. I can’t even imagine. But all you think about—all you talk about—is killing. Do you have any heart left?”
“I—I…” Johnny trailed off. He thought about what she was asking. Do I have a heart left? Can I feel—really feel—anything anymore? Something made him want to be honest with her.
“I guess I don’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry Gwyn. You’re something special. And you deserve—well, you deserve much more than I can give.” Chagrinned, he dropped her hands and turned away. He felt a touch on his arm and looked into her face.
“When did you say you’d be back?”
“Friday.”
“Then I’ll save Friday night for you. We can go for dinner—if you still want to.” What am I saying? She was scaring herself.
“Yes!” Johnny said. “Dinner, Friday night.”
“But…” she added.
“Ok, give it to me.”
“But I want you to do something while you’re gone. Will you do it?”
“Yes,” Johnny said at once.
“Will you try and find what you’ve done with your heart?” She saw him frown and smiled to take the sting out.
“Not this.” She touched a finger to his chest. “I’m talking about the place where you’ve hidden the best of you.”
“Like what?”
“Oh—like hope. And laughter. Enjoying people, life. Being kind. You know—that heart.”
Johnny thought hard. When was the last time I laughed? I mean, really laughed? He couldn’t remember and he shook his head.
“Gwyn, a soldier can’t go around feeling everything!” he protested. “You’re right—you have no idea what I’ve gone through. The things I’ve done. But I’ll make you a promise. I’ll think about what you said. Ok?”
“Friday night,” she said. “You’ll pick me up?”
“At 6:00,” Johnny said. “I’ll come by. I know where you live.”
He knows where I live? Gwyn felt a flutter of something that might have been excitement, or perhaps fear.
“Ok,” she said. “Take care of yourself, Johnny.”
She turned to leave and he surprised both of them by leaning forward and planting a kiss on her. She was in mid-turn and his lips landed on the corner of her mouth. He got a glimpse of startled eyes and then she was walking away. It was a sight he’d seen all too often. Johnny watched her go.
You went too far! But
if she looks back, it’s ok. If she doesn’t, she’s mad. He stared at her back, willing her to turn around. But she did not. She walked fast around the corner and was gone.
There were whistles and catcalls from the tent. Johnny’s buddies had watched the whole exchange through the net windows. Now they spilled out and surrounded him, calling him a lucky son-of-a-gun and worse, while they helped drag his gear inside.
Gwyn walked fast, not even sure where she was going. She could feel the place where he had brushed her lips and cheek. She had been almost overcome by the urge to spin around and stare at him, but she’d fought it off. She knew the reason. Her face was on fire.
What am I doing? she wondered. What have I done?
Johnny’s mood peaked. I have a date with the loveliest girl in New Guinea! That, on top of everything else, made him feel he was floating.
But he might have been deflated if he saw what Gwyn got up to a few hours later. She was strolling arm-in-arm through the marketplace with another man.
After she left Johnny, Gywn returned to her apartment. She changed into a light dress and sunhat, and went out to meet him. As they often had, they wandered through the market so she could buy groceries for the Orphanage. They filled the string bilum she carried over her shoulder. The place was still busy, even though some vendors had sold out and left. After that, Gwyn and her companion wandered onto the road along the harbor.
There, Johnny would have seen the fellow take her hand, and it might have disturbed him that she did not pull away. The man, about Gwyn’s own age, a little older than Johnny, guided Gwyn out of the stream of traffic to stand beside the water. They were lost in deep conversation. Then, as Johnny had done a few hours previously, the fellow took Gwyn’s hands in both of his. He spoke earnestly for several minutes, while she searched his face and did not interrupt.
TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy) Page 11