A month later, they were on a ship for Australia. They went north to the Territory of Papua on New Guinea Island, a place Gwyn had barely heard of. At the military hospital in Port Moresby, at last Gwyn had more than enough to distract her from her painful memories.
When the young women did get a day off at the same time, they ventured to the beach. Under a layer of coconut oil, Gwyn browned like a hazelnut. Ruthie, however, had to stay under her parasol, or her peaches-and-cream complexion would soon rival her hair. The young women enjoyed the outings, but would not swim. They were given dire warnings of the sharks and crocodiles that patrolled these waters. Nor were they to venture down here at night, the Australians told them, because the crocs came out. The nurses shuddered and stayed well away from the waves.
As for nightlife, there were some very rough taverns they would not even walk by. But they did go to dances at the better hotels. The entrances and public rooms were segregated between “men” and “ladies and escorts.”
Of course, Port Moresby was still a military town. Again, the ratio of men to women was daunting. A girl could be danced off her feet all night, and still have a string of would-be suitors competing for her company, sometimes violently.
Both women preferred the invitation-only soirees at the plantations outside of town. The nurses became regular guests at the rather grand homes where the Aussie owners lived like rough royalty of the bush.
Sunday mornings, if they were not working, they went to church. Only the most hardened reprobates among the “expats” did not attend services. Ruthie went to mass at 8:00, while Gwyn attended the Methodist service at 10:00. She especially enjoyed the familiar old hymns, played by the minister’s wife on her prized pump organ. Sunday afternoons, Gwyn was always at the Orphanage.
In fact, it was because of this project that the young women found themselves spending more time apart. Ruthie was happy to help out with the children now and then, but she did not share Gwyn’s passion. As well, she now had a steady boyfriend.
He was nice enough, Gwyn thought, but she had her suspicions. He was an older man—all of twenty-seven, to Ruthie’s twenty-three, and Gwyn worried that he had a wife and kiddies back in Aus. It would not be the first time a fellow conveniently forgot to mention his obligations. And then there was the matter of his name.
“Never trust a man who starts right off by telling you he’s a ‘Dick,’” Gwyn cautioned her friend, only half teasing. She could see Ruthie was crazy about the government clerk, but she did not want her friend to get hurt again. Since she’d known her, she’d watched her Irish friend go through a number of painful dissolutions. Whatever Dick’s real intentions, they both knew it would soon come to a head. The man was due back in Aus in a few weeks, and then they would discover if Ruthie was part of his future, or once more, was left in the dust.
There was always something for Gwyn to do. She had a new child to settle in. Only yesterday, a friend of hers, old “Trader Ben,” had returned from another expedition through the far-off villages. He brought with him a seven-year-old girl whose entire clan had been killed in a mudslide. The rest of the village considered her taboo, and she had been abandoned. Gwyn did her best to calm the terrified youngster, introduced her to roommates her own age, got her bathed, treated her head lice, and talked her into wearing new clothes.
When Gwyn had volunteered for overseas service, she had planned to be gone from Canada for two years. After that, she expected to return and pursue her career in Vancouver. But already she’d already been gone longer than that, and her commitment to the children of the “Good Shepherd” grew deeper each day. Still, she had not acknowledged even to herself that she was going to stay on in New Guinea.
She did wonder what a life here had to offer. In this far outpost of the civilized world, could she find a good man to love? Would she ever have a family of her own? She decided that if and when she gave her heart to a man, there would be no half-measures. Therefore, she would not do it lightly.
Her solitary state was not for a lack of suitors. One in particular was a former soldier. When Gwyn first met him, he was a Corporal in the Australian Army. He first encountered the nurse at a party at a friend’s plantation. Immediately, he’d been smitten by the girl with the lovely green eyes. They danced together, and went out in a group of friends, and he soon let her know he was “dead keen” on her. But Gwyn gave the spirited rejoinder that she had zero interest in military men.
She’d offered friendship instead, and the man had settled for that. When he had Gwyn on his arm, he was the envy of all his mates. Then, a few months back, he told her his time in the service was over. He was a natural mechanic, and a mate had taught him to fly a plane, although he never had a formal lesson. Still, he got up in every crate he could, and boasted there was nothing men had made with wings that he could not fly. He announced to Gwyn that he intended to establish an air cargo service between Aus and the New Guinea Territories.
Glen, better known as “Footy,” let her know he had never given up on her. He even went so far as to say that he’d traded in the uniform for a chance with her. In return, all he wanted was an opportunity to prove himself.
In fact, Gwyn was very fond of Footy. He was colorful, cheerful, an interesting companion at a dinner or dance, and his prospects looked good. But Gwyn had not yet felt her heart move on his behalf.
Now, how bizarre it was that he should be lost in the wilds of the island with the one man to whom Gwyn truly was attracted! Johnny touched her somewhere beyond her intellect. She felt that, under other than the circumstances of war, he might be a fun guy. They both loved the outdoors, and had read a lot of the same books. When he described hiking in the California mountains, or surfing off Oahu, she’d seen the joy come alive in him. On top of that, he was determined and persistent, two admirable qualities. She observed how hard he worked to get mobile again, and how he’d lobbied for his dream, no matter how misbegotten she thought it was.
More than that, Gwyn knew he was attracted to her. She’d have to be blind not to see it. She probably knew it better than he did. She caught herself wishing she’d met him before the war, before the years of turmoil and death had changed him. If they’d met on a beach in Honolulu when they were both teenagers, would they have liked one another?
But there was no getting around it, he was a professional killer. More than that, he liked his work. He seemed to live only in order to kill again. When she’d discovered that, she had been extremely disappointed. And why was that? she asked herself. He was just one more soldier, one more patient. She barely knew the man.
When Gwyn contrasted the reality of Johnny with the love she desired, the differences were obvious. She wanted someone full of life and joy. Someone who could face the knocks that were sure to come, with resilience and enthusiasm. She desired someone who approved of her being the strong woman she was, but would be there to lean on when she needed him.
In her heart-of-hearts, she wanted a lover with whom she could be her true self. She longed for someone who would forgive her faults, and love her just as she was, and she would give the same in return. She waited for the man on whom she could lavish all she had to give, for as long as she lived.
It was a tall order, she knew. She was idealistic, maybe naive, compared with modern girls like Ruthie. In fact, although Gwyn told her friend most things, she did not reveal these deep secrets of her heart for that very reason.
All her ruminating came down to this question: was Johnny Willman for her? The fact was, she did not know. At times, she doubted it severely. Yet, when Ruthie told her Doc Mac had turned the soldier loose, it was she who’d gone looking for him! Then, face-to-face with the soldier, in spite of the defenses she’d built, she’d offered to have a date with him. What was I thinking?
He’d stood her up, but that did not change the fact that she had compromised her promise to eschew military men. Night after night, she lay in her solitary bed, pondering these things in her heart. But what was the point? Joh
nny was lost in the New Guinea wilderness. She wondered then, does he think about me? Does he care? And she was forced to lecture herself, she did not even know if he lived. Her intuition said yes, but she felt he was in terrible danger.
Protect him—she loosed it like an arrow into the night. I know he is damaged goods, but whether he’s for me or not, keep him safe! Gwyn strained to hear some sort of answer, anything at all, but the vast darkness brooded in silence. She lay aching until she was overcome by exhaustion.
The next day, all of Port Moresby was in an uproar. The news traveled like wildfire. The Americans had dropped some devastating new bomb on Japan, and it promised to be the end of the war. Gwyn joined in the general celebration.
But she worried that in all the commotion, Johnny and the others would be forgotten.
The Father drifted in the darkness. It held its torn leg stiffly and let the current carry it. Only when it had to breathe did it rise. Its head broke the surface, it unsealed ears, eyes and nostrils, and sipped the air. It observed a dull gray day and felt the beat of raindrops on its skull.
Forked lighting struck a tree beside the river and it exploded in a fireball. The Father experienced a gush of fear at the sound, very like the attacks that had hurt it. At once it sank into liquid silence. It drifted deep with the scent of the rain in its lungs.
When the crocodile rose again, there were no more explosions, but the shower continued. It navigated close to the bank and found it flooded. The current was swirling into wide new territory. On impulse, the great predator let the water push it along. As it slid over the lip, it brushed its flayed leg and hissed. Then it was coursing through the shallows.
Ever since its injury, its body had attempted to heal. But recently, the leg had been brutally damaged again. Now something was deep inside it, worrying the joint. A cyst had formed around the alien object. The bullet damage to its foreleg had been severe, but in the reptilian way, it was regenerating a foot. It would never re-grow the toes and claws, but skin and scales were forming a clubfoot.
The energy to cope with the agony, and the process of healing, consumed its stores of energy. The infection that made it nauseous came in waves, but at this time, the Father was hungry. Across the muddy shallows it saw a hump of land with a tree on it. Suddenly its senses were on high alert. Its eyes tracked prey there. One of the two-legged animals stood near the water. The crocodile submerged and sped that way.
The man looked across the flood, wondering when he could leave. The flashflood had turned the mudflat into a lake covered with torn vegetation.
Alarm spiked. Lines of ripples were coming at him. It might be driftwood, but that was wrong. This cut across the current!
The wake stopped at his feet. A gigantic head, bigger than he was, burst from the water. He barely glimpsed the scarred eye as the jaws flew open. The teeth embraced him before he could scream. All his flesh quivered and came apart.
The other men marooned on the island woke with hideous death stalking among them.
CHAPTER 17
The Japanese stood up on the island created by the flood. His time had come. His enemies had been conquered by the belly sickness and it would be easy to kill them. The American was unconscious and the other, the rude one, had just fallen in the mud. These two had treated him well enough, the prisoner thought. In return, Katsu would give them the gift of a swift death—his sword across their necks.
He took a step, his tied hands reaching for his katana in the Australian’s pack, but suddenly he felt carved in two. The intense agony knocked him on his knees and he vomited, while filth blasted into his trousers. I am sick as well! But he was samurai, and an officer of the Empire. He forced his body to crawl to the Australian. But again, weakness betrayed him, and he fell on his side while the inner storm rattled his limbs.
After a time, the intestinal tumult eased, if only a little. Again, he ordered his limbs to move, but they were wooden and belonged to someone else. The Australian was almost within reach, yet the distance was interminable. He lay hyperventilating, mustering his strength. He stared at the enemy and saw the vacant eyes, the loose neck.
With supreme effort, Katsu raised himself to seize his katana, but as his hands came up, they seemed to draw a sword through his own entrails. The affliction knocked him flat on his back once more. Again, he soiled himself as his body tumbled uncontrollably down the slope and into the water.
Rise! Take our katana and do your duty! It was his father’s furious voice. Katsu tried to obey, but his body jackknifed repeatedly and his eyes stopped displaying the world.
I will do it soon, I promise, Father. He lay half submerged in the flood. Now he was unconscious, with only the merest flutter of his chest to betray that any life remained.
Above him, a man sat slumped on a rock, also senseless. The rain continued to fall, and gradually this one toppled sideways and fell. A third man curled in the mud beneath the tree.
All were oblivious, exposed to the elements and whatever else would come their way.
By degrees, Johnny returned to his senses. He was aware of a wretched smell, but could do nothing except breathe through his mouth. Rain continued to fall on him, but it had eased a little. It came to him it was late afternoon, night was coming on, and he had been lying on the rock for a very long time. His whole side was numb. He stretched out his legs and felt the painful prickle of returning sensation. At last he was able to sit up. His pack lay in the sludge, but he did not remember taking it off. He stared up at black tree limbs against a bruised sky, and then at the reddish lake all around.
Slowly, Johnny recalled what had happened. He saw Footy in a fetal position among the tree roots. The pilot still had his pack on, the two rifles beside him.
The Jap! A wave of distress shot through Johnny and he stared around the knoll, but there were only two of them on the island. The day grew darker and Johnny saw the Aussie fight for consciousness. Eventually Footy’s eyes flickered open, and he groaned and struggled to rise. His lower body was exposed and he got his shorts up. He managed to shrug out of his pack and then keeled over and passed out.
Johnny forced himself to stand. His legs quaked as he reeled to the water, crouched, and rinsed himself and his trousers. He stood, got his sodden pants done up, wobbled to Footy, and slumped against the tree. He fumbled for the rifles and propped them upright. He sat stunned while night came on. Eventually the Aussie cracked a bloodshot eye and squinted at him.
“Bleedin’ hell. Reckon I blew me arse off.” He wrinkled his nose. “What a pong! Who died—was it me?” He got on all fours, crawled to the water, sluiced out his shorts and scrubbed his bum, then crawled back and lay shivering under the tree.
“That was ghastly,” he muttered. “I'd rather have Christmas with the nuns than do that again.” His eyes fluttered shut and he began to snore.
Johnny forced himself to crawl to his pack. He dragged it back and stood it against the trunk, then propped Footy’s beside it.
There was something clamoring in his fevered mind for attention, and he tried to grasp it, but it would not come. He slumped lower as the rain marched in sheets across the black lagoon.
Johnny found he was famished. His belly felt caved in, but the prospect of digging out something to eat was too much. His head felt huge and he thought he would remove his helmet, but his hands would not rise.
The night crept over him and stole his mind.
Johnny awoke in a dull and dismal morning and gazed across a field of mud. Where am I? He was only vaguely interested. After some minutes, it came back—the dysentery, the rain, the island. He turned and saw Footy asleep on the dirt.
At last Johnny remembered—the Jap is gone! His eyes darted over the island that had become a hill again, but there was no enemy. Panic jolted him and he checked the rifles—both against the tree. He pushed himself to stand and gazed around.
He was on a hill of dirty grass in a sea of mud. Fifty yards off, the surly river flowed between its banks once more, under
a leaden sky. Johnny forced himself to walk in a full circle. No Jap. He was anxious and his still-tender stomach did flip-flops. He knelt and went through his things—pistol and knives on my belt. Everything is in my pack. He checked Footy and the man seemed to have his gear as well.
The sword! Johnny saw it standing in Footy’s backpack, and relief flooded him. But the prisoner wouldn’t leave without his sword—or our guns! And why are we alive? He pondered that every which way, but could not explain it.
Johnny shook the other man. “Come on buddy! Wake up!” At last Footy opened his crusted eyes.
“Bloody hell! Are you still here?”
“Listen!” Johnny said. “The Jap is gone.”
“Ooo, I've been through the wringer,” the pilot groaned, propping himself on an elbow. “What do you mean—gone?” He pulled his hat off and knocked the clods of mud against the tree.
“Gone. As in scrammed, vamoosed, skedaddled.”
Footy grunted, worked his way to his feet and tottered to the edge of the mudflat. “Why didn't he kill us? Why didn't he take his bleedin’ sword—or our guns?”
“Or the food?” Johnny asked. “But he didn’t.” Footy scratched a bite in his whiskers and suddenly sucked in his breath.
“Crikey! Company!” He pointed and Johnny looked, but saw nothing. Then the mud shifted, and he made out the crocodile. It rushed in their direction and froze again, and Johnny saw the alien eyes staring at him. He noticed motion in another direction—another croc.
“Look!”
“Struth!” Footy was pointing as well. There were at least a dozen predators coming from all sides, intent on the men.
TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy) Page 28