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

by Timothy James Dean

  Footy was in considerable pain and Johnny asked if he needed the morphine. Through gritted teeth, the Aussie said yes, but not yet. Footy lay quietly until he fell asleep. Johnny told the prisoner they would share sentry duty, and he could go first. There was no point giving the man an unloaded rifle, but he did have his sword.

  Johnny took over from him in the middle of the night. He was concerned the dead croc would attract big feeders, but fortunately, none showed up. The cloud cover lifted and Johnny watched stars that faded at last into the lightening dawn.

  Seagulls drifted overhead, coming from the north. As the morning light intensified, Johnny saw a far off ridge of trees. It had been too dim to make it out the previous evening.

  His spirits lifted—palm trees mean solid ground! He woke the others and shared the good news. Even Footy managed a smile.

  “Let’s get out of this hellhole,” the Aussie said.

  “Things will get better there,” Johnny promised.

  “They have to.”

  CHAPTER 29

  The Father swam through the balmy sea. The cyst in its foreleg had burst and saltwater stung, but the hurt was good. The crocodile carried its kill to the bottom. The body leaked from its punctures and the reptile was bleeding as well. Underwater, both kinds of blood appeared green.

  A festive crowd rushed up from the reef. All the fish, even the tiniest, had a significant advantage over the reptile. They could eat in this world, but it could not. It could bite, but it could not unseal its throat flap and swallow.

  A frenzy of feeders as bright as stained glass formed a ball around the crocodile’s head. Local reef sharks rushed on the blood scent, and a squadron of big Silvertips came in from the ocean. In its excitement, one extruded its jaws as it did to bite, and nervously pulled them in again.

  But the big fish stayed back when they saw the crocodile. The pelagic Silvertips knew they could not compete, and swept away, while the territorial Blacktips remained—at a distance. The Father approached the reef while a shoal of a thousand Barracuda drifted overhead, undershot jaws lined with daggers. They swam in cylindrical formation, head to tail, and stared down at the master and its kill.

  The Father cruised majestically on, ignoring all the lesser creatures. Its instincts directed it to store its meat and it swam to a place it knew. It swooped into a coral canyon and swam to an overhang. It settled on the reef and a million coral polyps fired their stingers without effect against the heavy armor.

  The Father pushed its head into a cave and observed the hole in the back wall. It had used this larder before and it nosed the carcass in. The prey’s crushed leg, still wearing a shoe and dress sock, sliced off and spun to the sand.

  The Father pulled back and stared at its victim. It saw the smooth head, the staring blue eyes, the purple tongue protruding, but it no longer perceived the one-prey.

  Earlier, the Father had been resting on the reef when it was startled to observe the smooth-headed man swimming above. At once, consumed by its obsession to kill, the giant rose. The prey tried to escape onto land, but that did not deter the predator. It pursued the man across the beach and took him down.

  But now in the cave, the Father no longer saw its enemy. Seething and unsatisfied, the crocodile withdrew, rose from the canyon, and surged across the reef. It went over the drop off and sank down the wall. It watched the waves pass a hundred feet up. It turned its head and looked down, and saw the sharks that cruised the sandy bottom another two hundred feet below.

  The instant the crocodile had pulled out of the cave, a thousand fish rushed in. They raced to the carcass and tugged at the ribbons of flesh. Now that the master was gone, the reef sharks dared approach. One ventured under the overhang but did not like the tight quarters and pulled out. The second noticed the joint lying on the sand. It went far enough to take it in its teeth, backed out and shot away, all its kin in pursuit. A tug-of-war ensued, great bodies charging in and out of the haze of blood and tissue. One bit off the foot, sock, shoe and all, and swallowed it whole.

  As if with a single mind, the shoal of barracuda circled over the cave. The lower ones peeled off and swooped under the overhang. Small fry obscured the corpse as the first barracuda fired in and struck. It plucked out an eye and zoomed away. The second one slashed off the nose. The third got the tongue, and all the brethren followed. The smaller fish surged aside each time, then rushed for the newly exposed flesh. Soon they were inside the skull and chest, then the pelvis, feasting on organs.

  Within the hour, it was only a skeleton that loomed from the hole, arms hanging out, skull in a permanent grin that glinted gold at the back. With the buffet gone, the crowd drifted off. Only the diehards remained, picking over the gristle.

  An octopus flowed across the canyon floor, emotions flickering like light over its skin. It slipped under the overhang and when it perceived what was in the back wall, it went bright blue, then mottled green. It unfurled its tentacles, grasped the ribs and pulled up. It oozed between bones, and stared out from the ribcage. It flared scarlet and then faded entirely away. To the fish, it simply seemed to disappear, all except the black vertical bars of its eyes.

  Beside the coral wall, the Father hung weightless. It parted its jaws as Cleaner Wrasse, shrimp, and other small fish fanned over its body. Some nibbled at the edges of the wounds while others pulled off parasites. An entire bouquet of feeders flared around the anus. Others even dared to enter the mouth where they cleaned up the palate, tongue, and around each tooth. The crocodile was careful not to harm them.

  The most frantic feeding occurred at the foreleg. A hole gaped in the center of the clubfoot. Some fish stripped away the flayed flesh while tiny Wrasse wiggled inside to feed in the slick darkness.

  After Johnny had seen the palm trees on the horizon, it had required still a full day’s march to get out of the swamp. But that night, the travelers slept on terra firma. Johnny cut a new crutch for Footy, and he was able to walk in his sandals again. Johnny got his boots back.

  They headed out, following a defined watercourse once more. The sandy delta was covered in creeping grasses and minute flowers, and the men wandered between palms and new kinds of coastal trees.

  The first morning out of the marsh, they passed another empty village. They guessed the people had been gone a long time, because the huts were broken down and smothered in creepers. To their relief, there were some overgrown gardens. Footy rested, while Johnny and the prisoner gathered kaukau and all the vegetables they could find. Again Johnny struggled to light his Zippo. He shook and coaxed it for half an hour before he got a tiny flame and lit the tinder.

  The ravenous men cooked all they could eat, and then more for the trail. The last of the croc meat had gone off and they were forced to discard it.

  They went on over open land. Johnny and the Japanese toiled under packs weighted with vegetables, while Footy had enough to do just to haul himself along.

  If I can only make it to the Pacific, the Aussie thought as the crutch jammed relentlessly into the bruise under his arm, everything will be jake mate! One foot in front of the other, that’s the way.

  On and on they toiled across a deserted landscape. Another day passed and they made camp. That night, Johnny could not get the Zippo to fire at all, no matter how hard he and the others tried. In addition, they were out of cigarettes. The men ate the last of the cooked food, and in the morning, they were reduced to gnawing raw tubers.

  They continued. The skies clouded over and it rained on them, but it was a warm downpour that was as good as a shower. Unfortunately, the mosquitoes got worse.

  At noon they came to a wide and puddled plain. Johnny led off and heard snapping under his boots. He crouched and studied the pale shards. He pulled a rib up and threw it aside. They were human bones.

  “We’re on a battlefield,” he said.

  “Yes mate. We’re walking on dead men.”

  Does anyone even remember this place? Johnny thought. In the overall scheme, did it make a
speck of difference?

  Poor bastards, Footy thought. Part of the mud forever.

  How terrible to be lost so far from home, the prisoner thought as he hobbled on bare feet over the bones. But at least they did not know defeat.

  They saw bits of uniform, rusted rifles and helmets and broken down artillery. At last they got off the killing field and that was a relief, but the ocean remained tantalizingly over the horizon. They slogged the day away, passing burned out trucks, armored vehicles and even downed aircraft. They detoured by one to see if there was anything useable, but found nothing.

  That night they camped near a crashed Japanese “Betty Bomber” matted with jungle. Again they had to choke down a raw dinner. The potatoes were too hard to chew, but at least they managed the green beans. They slept hungry and when breakfast was more of the same, Johnny decided their bleak situation had become intolerable.

  “Footy,” he said, “we can’t even cook. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to leave you. The Jap and I will go for the ocean—or at least try and find help. We’ll come back for you.” Footy gave the Yank an anxious frown, but he’d arrived at the same conclusion.

  “I’ll wait here,” he said. “The rest will do my foot some good. You blokes get along—find us some food.”

  They had camped beneath a shade tree near a spring. Johnny left his hammock strung and told Footy to use it. He placed the pilot’s pack of raw vegetables close by, and filled all available containers with fresh water. For defense, Footy had the Bowie knife, and Johnny handed him his rifle as well.

  “We’ve got no ammo, but if someone does come, they won’t know that. It may not be loaded, but you take care of it, hear?”

  “I’ll be right, mate. Not to worry.”

  “We’ll be back soon,” Johnny told him. “I’ll be gone a day, two at the most. Then I’ll come back, no matter what. Don’t wander off.”

  “On this leg?” Footy snorted. “Get on with you.”

  The two men departed. Without the pilot slowing them down, they made good time over flat land. In the early afternoon, a dense patch of jungle blocked their way, and they began to hike around it. They noticed something bright winking within, but could not make it out.

  “Let’s go see,” Johnny decided. He swung his machete and they worked their way in. Twenty minutes later, the silver patch was larger, and obviously metallic. They forged past a bamboo grove, stumbled into a clearing, and there it was.

  A crumpled wide-bodied aircraft lay pointed their way down the hillside. It had flattened the jungle when it crashed, although the foliage was making a comeback. Behind it was a swath of felled trees and the broken off tail section.

  They worked their way along the fuselage and Johnny noted the US Army insignia. The craft had been part of General MacArthur’s Air Force. They continued by the jagged place where a wing had ripped off. The one on the other side poked into the trees, the propeller blades bent back.

  The men came to the torn end and stared into the dark interior. The metal circle towered over their heads and vines covered the opening. Johnny slashed through, and he and the Japanese walked up the metal ramp. Their eyes adjusted to the gloom and Johnny whistled.

  Two jeeps were lashed there. They were held in place by straps, and vines curled around these and almost covered the vehicles. Johnny pulled a load of foliage out, watching for snakes and spiders, and dropped his pack in. He left the Japanese checking the vehicles, and went forward to the cockpit. He stepped through into harsh sunlight and was momentarily blinded.

  Then he saw the pilot. Or at least, what’s left of him. It was a skeleton, skewered through the chest by a splintered tree that lay over the instrument panel. The man wore a flyer’s cap and a jungle rotted bomber jacket. Johnny made out the US flag on the shoulder. The pole continued through the smashed windshield.

  He turned to the other seat and saw the co-pilot, a heap of bones and clothing on the floor. The prisoner came up behind and grunted in surprise.

  Johnny had the distasteful task of checking the aviators’ pockets, but the damp and rot had destroyed anything useful. He did collect one each of their ID tags and pocketed them. He’d turn them in when he could.

  “Let’s get the jeeps running,” he said. “I’ve done enough walking to last a lifetime.” The vehicles faced the torn end of the fuselage. They opened the hoods and checked the oil. Both were topped up. He sat in the metal driver’s seat and saw the key in the ignition. He turned it and was not surprised when nothing happened.

  “Flat battery,” he said. “We’ll have to push-start them.” He wiped webs off the dashboard and saw the fuel gauge at about half full. “We’ve got gas. Let’s get the straps off. You drive a stick-shift?” The Japanese nodded.

  “Ok,” Johnny said. “You take the other one. Give me a hand with this. Then we’ll get yours going.” The men dropped all tie-downs but two, one on each side. Johnny took a seat again and pumped the accelerator until he smelled gasoline. He pulled the choke, turned the key on and put the transmission in second.

  “Drop the ties,” Johnny said, “then push!” He kept the brake on while the Japanese removed the last hooks, ran to the back and put his shoulder to the spare tire. Johnny let up the brake and pressed down the clutch.

  The vehicle started to roll. When it picked up enough speed, he popped the clutch and the transmission clunked in. The engine caught, quit, started again, backfired, and began to chug. Johnny cheered and ducked his head as the jeep rolled through the creepers. Outside, he put the stick in neutral and worked the gas. The engine sputtered unevenly and blue smoke belched from the exhaust pipe, blowing out insects. Gradually, he increased the pressure until it was roaring. He drove it to one side and left it idling.

  “Ok,” Johnny said, “let’s get yours.” The men returned to the aircraft, and this time the Japanese got in the driver’s seat while they repeated the process. Soon there were two jeeps purring in the sunlight. Johnny climbed into his again and put his helmet down.

  “Let’s get Footy,” he grinned. He gunned the engine and shot off through the brush, weaving between the trees. The Japanese came after him and soon they burst onto open country. Johnny spun the way they had come and the Asian sped up beside him. They glanced at one another and smiles split their unshaven faces. They drove fast, and ate up in an hour what had taken them all day to walk.

  Footy was dozing in the Yank’s hammock when he heard the motors. He struggled out, got up on his crutch, and gawked open-mouthed as two jeeps raced up and skidded to a halt.

  “Like a ride?” Johnny drawled.

  “Crikey mate,” Footy crowed, “it’s the bloody Jungle Express!”

  CHAPTER 30

  Johnny and the Japanese piled out of the vehicles and quickly broke camp. Footy limped to the passenger seat of the Yank’s jeep and climbed in. Shortly, all the gear was stowed in the back and the drivers got in. Footy’s mood improved enormously. He even spoke to the prisoner.

  “How’s it going then?” The man responded with a small smile and a nod. Johnny gunned the engine and the wheels spun, heading north. The Japanese came on his tail and they raced among the trees, eating up the miles. The wind whipped Footy’s hat back, pulling on the tie under his chin, and dried his sweat-soaked hair. Johnny shouted an explanation of how they’d found the vehicles.

  “There are wrecks all over New Guinea,” the pilot observed.

  “They’ll never get them all cleared away,” Johnny said.

  “Well, good for us mate. Our luck has changed!” The fact was, he’d spent the day fretting he’d never see the Yank again. He had to admit—only to himself—that he’d seldom seen anything as good as the Yank, cruising up in that jeep.

  “The Father can eat our dust!” Johnny shouted.

  The jeeps sped between the palms, sometimes splashing through streams and dodging around deeper gullies. They went by a patch of jungle, and Johnny yelled this was where they’d found the jeeps. They were by in a flash, and he thought
how lucky they’d been to see the glint. A slight change of light, and they would have missed it.

  The hours blew by and the men’s desire soared to see the Pacific. The Japanese thought the same ocean washed his homeland, only a few hundred miles to the north. Footy longed for the South Pacific that lapped his doorstep down in Queensland.

  Johnny was flooded with memories of his younger life around this ocean. The closer they came, the more vibrant the images that washed through him. I learned to swim off the beaches of San Diego. In southern Cal and especially Hawaii, I surfed its breakers.

  Johnny thought he could smell the ocean and it brought his boyhood exuberance sweeping into him. It even cracked the shell of the tough soldier he’d become killing men in these jungles.

  Johnny was distracted by his memories as he rushed up too fast on a deep channel of water. He was forced to stand on the brake and the other vehicle fishtailed behind him. They skidded to a stop and almost ran over a beefy basking salty. It hissed and flung itself down the bank into the water.

  “Better up here than down in the mud with it,” Johnny said.

  “When you’re right mate, you’re bloody right,” Footy grinned.

  The Aussie called the slough a “billabong” and said it was a loop the river had cut off. The jeeps turned and went around it.

  The terrain changed again. The soil was sand and there were new trees. Then they began to run through orderly rows of coconut palms. Thousands of the nuts were strewn on the ground and when the tires hit them, they shot out like cannon shells. After a few near misses, the Japanese dropped back and they went single file.

  It was afternoon and the light went golden. Seagulls dipped over their heads, crying in the breeze. Then, ahead through the palms, Johnny got a glimpse of shimmering blue. He gunned the jeep up a sand dune, hit the top and got air. He and Footy saw the ravishing South Pacific. Both men cheered and there was a shout from the other jeep. Rich blue filled the world, and gigantic rollers marched towards them as far as they could see.