by Derek Hansen
‘My Dear Captain Malcolm Biggs,’ it began. I immediately regretted not being co-signatory on the letter we’d sent. Then my name would also be written at the top. Imagine that! I read on.
‘I was right,’ I said when I’d finished the first page. ‘He didn’t lay the mines that sank the Niagara. Mack’ll be over the moon.’
‘Keep reading,’ said Captain Biggs.
I did, and my excitement and disbelief doubled and redoubled with every word until I was almost incoherent. The U-boat commander wanted to come to New Zealand? I was going to meet a real live U-boat commander? The possibility blew me away. As far as I was concerned, that was even bigger than shaking hands with Elvis Presley or kicking a ball around with Stanley Matthews. It was even bigger than doing a lap around Monaco with my absolute hero, Stirling Moss.
‘Accommodation is no problem,’ said Captain Biggs. ‘He can stay here until he finds a place of his own.’ That was true. The Church Army building was like a rabbit warren stripped of all but a few of its rabbits.
‘What about sponsorship? What does sponsorship mean?’ I desperately needed all the ‘i’s dotted and ‘t’s crossed.
‘That just means he needs to have a job waiting for him when he gets here. It shouldn’t be too hard to arrange.’
‘Have you told Mack?’
‘Not yet. And I’ve only told you because you’ve proved you can keep a secret.’
‘What do you mean?’ I knew the other kids would be waiting for me out on the footpath and I was bursting to tell them the news. I knew it would blow them away. That was the sort of information that justified youngest-ever team captains becoming captain.
‘So far, this is just an enquiry. Nothing may come of it. I think we’re better off keeping this to ourselves until he’s on his way. Until then you’ve got to keep it secret. All right?’
‘All right,’ I said reluctantly.
‘God’s promise?’
‘God’s promise,’ I replied. It was a double blow. Not only had the prestige of being the bearer of such momentous news sailed out the window I was suddenly burdened with another secret. Just when I thought I was done with them.
That night marked the beginning of the second phase of my Phoney War, although I didn’t see it in those terms. I couldn’t wait for the news to become public. I was certain everyone would share my excitement and anticipation. No U-boat commander had ever set foot on New Zealand soil before. His arrival would be historic, monumental, unforgettable. I had no doubt that New Zealanders would feel privileged by his presence, as they did when Stirling Moss flew out for the New Zealand Grand Prix. The crowd that greeted him brought the airport to a standstill. Even the car he raced, a Maserati 250S, drew a traffic-stopping crowd at the Newmarket car dealer’s where it was garaged. The Springbok and British Lions rugby teams received the same adulation and so did the Australian cricket team, even though they only sent us their B-side. At that time, famous and notable people just didn’t come to New Zealand. It was simply too far from anywhere, too expensive to get to and any benefit they hoped to gain failed to outweigh the inconvenience. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in my mind that Christian Berger, U-boat commander, would be greeted as a major celebrity and feted.
In the meantime I had to get on with life. Guy Fawkes night was fast approaching and that was the secondbiggest event of the year as far as we were concerned. We had branches to dry out, old tyres to scavenge and a bonfire to build. Every group of kids built their own bonfire down in the park and their efforts were judged on size and the number of tyres in them. Work began on bonfires six weeks out from November the fifth. My mother turned over an entire window of her shop to a fireworks display and it acted like a magnet to my school pals. We skimped, saved and somehow managed to accumulate fireworks to let off on the big day. Sometimes on the edge of sleep, thoughts of the commander crept into my mind and I made a mental note to ask Captain Biggs how he was going at finding sponsorship, but I always forgot by morning. Truth be told, I was tired of carrying secrets and just wanted everything to fall into place. I assumed Captain Biggs would let me know when it did.
Mack came home in mid-November, as skinny as Heinz spaghetti but looking better than he had in ages. His speech was slow but no longer slurred except when he was tired. Mack had recovered well enough to be able to look after himself although, of course, his neighbours were desperate to spoil him. Mrs Bolger often made him dinner and women were always dropping by with soup, scones and cupcakes. Amazingly, he’d stopped drinking and he got a lot of points for that.
I was around at Mack’s discussing fishing prospects when Captain Biggs came by. Here we were together at last, the only three people privy to the biggest secret in New Zealand. I wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.
‘Have you found a job yet for Christian Berger?’ I asked.
‘Wait and see,’ said Captain Biggs.
I can’t think of any phrase in the English language I hated more. I’m sure Captain Biggs had picked it up from my mum. I’d ask what’s for dinner and she’d reply, wait and see. Are we going to the beach Sunday? Wait and see. Can I have a new soccer ball for my birthday? Wait and see. It was an evasion, pure and simple, and the last thing I expected from Captain Biggs. After all, I’d written the essay. I’d given Mack back his will to live.
‘Have you or haven’t you?’ I snapped.
‘Don’t you speak to me like that,’ said Captain Biggs.
‘You watch your lip,’ said Mack.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I tried but didn’t quite succeed in taking all the frustration out of my voice. There’s something wrong with a system where adults can treat children as morons and children can’t reciprocate. ‘It was a simple question I asked and I think I’m entitled to know the answer.’
‘The answer is maybe,’ said Mack. ‘Captain Biggs is working on it.’
I turned to Captain Biggs. ‘So why didn’t you just say maybe?’
A smile spread across three-quarters of Mack’s face. He looked away in an effort to conceal it.
‘Wait and see is what I said and wait and see is what I mean,’ said Captain Biggs pompously. ‘It’s not always possible to give a definite answer, no matter how badly some people want one.’
Another evasion. Something was going on between them but it was clear they weren’t about to tell me. It was hard to take. I thought we were friends, almost equals, but somehow I’d slipped back to being the boy from the draper’s.
‘I’m going,’ I said. I stood up and headed for the hallway.
‘Don’t be like that, laddie,’ said Mack.
‘See you, Mack,’ I said.
‘I’ll see you tonight,’ said Captain Biggs.
I was about to say wait and see but bit my tongue. I rode home furious but not altogether surprised. I said earlier Captain Biggs had a heart of gold but sometimes his head clocked off. I figured it was just another of those occasions and unfortunately it was. Captain Biggs had charted a course straight for the rocks and couldn’t see it. Neither could Mack. I admit I was just as guilty of misreading popular sentiment but in my case I had tender age and inexperience as mitigating circumstances. Mack also had an excuse. He would’ve agreed to anything in his eagerness to once more meet up with the commander. In his mind, Christian Berger had become the character I’d created in the story I wrote for him. I wondered how many times he’d taken my story out of his pocket and read it. Mack had an excuse but Captain Biggs had none.
Christian Berger’s decision to come to New Zealand was probably the biggest thing that had ever happened to Captain Biggs. It was a chance to trot out all the Christian principles he preached and he seized on it with missionary zeal. He became a cassocked crusader in the cause of reconciliation and peace between nations. Not bad for a humble, suburban Church Army captain. In his enthusiasm he usurped me as the major player in the drama and for that I suppose I should be grateful. He became the target, the bullseye, the rabbit in the spotlight. The spotlight cau
ght me, too, helpless and stupefied out there on the periphery, but caught nonetheless.
Captain Biggs chose the Sunday before Christmas to make his big announcement. He made it the mainstay of his sermon, almost a parable built around the seasonal message of goodwill to all mankind. When he told the congregation about Mack’s encounter with the submarine and its commander there was an immediate change in the atmosphere, as though people sensed where Captain Biggs was heading but were powerless to stop him. He told them all about my essay, my commitment to a friend and my part in Mack’s rehabilitation. People glanced in my direction, lips thin and drawn when they should’ve been smiling, wary when they should’ve been complimentary. My pals sensed something was wrong. There was no shuffling, no pushing, no exaggerated yawns, no sniggering because someone had dropped one. I started to get butterflies in my stomach but Captain Biggs seemed oblivious to the tension that was building. He dropped his bombshell with all the aplomb of a magician pulling doves out of his hat. Christian Berger, former commander of U-boats, was leaving England that very day on his way to New Zealand and would be staying at the Church Army. Captain Biggs looked up expectantly as he finished and was greeted with a silence so stony it could’ve been quarried. The silence didn’t last.
‘You’ve got to be bloody joking!’
I spun around, shocked by the vehemence, and that anyone would dare to swear in church. Mr Gillespie was on his feet, his face tomato red. He pushed his way past stunned parishioners into the aisle, his grim-faced wife hot on his trail.
‘You bloody fool!’ he shouted at Captain Biggs. His fists clenched and released, clenched and released. ‘How dare you!’
Gary pushed past me to join his mum and dad. They left together. At first there was silence but the sound of shuffling feet soon filled the chapel as other parishioners rose and walked out. At least half of the congregation left this way. Captain Biggs watched them leave, too stunned for words. Mack was left sitting alone on his pew, doubtless wishing he had a couple of bottles of DB draught to go home to. I knew the sermon was supposed to be followed by a hymn and Captain Biggs had chosen our favourite, ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. At least he’d retained enough wit to skip it. He mumbled a prayer, lost track halfway through and finally concluded the service. His hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t close the pages of his Bible.
As I was leaving the chapel I passed the pew where Mr Holterman was sitting. He was always one of the last to leave. He jabbed out a crutch and stopped me, his face dark with anger.
‘I told you to leave it alone, son,’ he hissed. ‘I warned you what might happen. But you had to interfere. Now see what you’ve done.’
And so it began.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘Torpedo one, fifteen seconds to target.’
Captain Berger turned to face his lieutenant, Gustav Richter, who was counting down the clock. Gustav, at twenty-three years of age, was already a veteran of three patrols.
‘Ten seconds.’
The needle on the depth gauge moved beyond fifty metres. Depth improved their chances of escape.
‘Five. Four. Three. Two…’
The sound of the torpedo exploding reverberated
through the hull of the U-boat. The needle moved beyond sixty metres. The captain caught the eye of his older crewmembers, who nodded their approval.
‘Torpedo two, fifteen seconds.’
Seventy metres, eighty metres.
‘Destroyer closing one-eighty degrees!’
Captain Berger braced himself for the unnerving ping of the asdic signal off the hull of his craft. He glanced at the depth indicator.
One hundred metres, one hundred-and-ten.
‘Ten seconds.’
‘Five. Four. Three. Two. One.’
Nothing.
Captain Berger closed his eyes in anger and dismay. So much depended on the torpedo aimer keeping his nerve but the newcomer had let them all down. A second sinking might conceivably have justified the risk.
A muffled crushing sound reached the U-boat, momentarily raising hopes of a second kill, but it was the sound of bulkheads collapsing in the stricken freighter. It was a sound that nowadays they heard all too rarely. The second torpedo had missed and the captain had already abandoned hope for the third.
Up on the surface seamen were dying, some burning, some drowning, some already dead. Now it was the turn of the U-boat crew to face the music.
AN EXTRACT FROM ‘DEATH OF A U-BOAT’
Christian Berger boarded the Rangitiki in Southampton. Content to watch his fellow passengers board first, he was among the last to step up the gangway. Just over a decade earlier the Rangitiki had been a prime target for U-boats, a troop carrier fitted out to carry 2,500 soldiers. In 1940 it had narrowly escaped being sunk by the pocket battleship the Admiral Scheer. Returned to peacetime duties, it fulfilled a dual role as passenger liner and cargo ship. On the outward leg it carried immigrants. On the homebound leg it crammed its refrigerated holds full of lamb. The crew joked they carried live meat out and frozen meat back.
Four hundred migrants—mostly optimistic young couples, many with children—boarded ahead of him, burdened with cabin baggage and everything they thought they might need during the voyage. Threequarters were British, but there was also a smattering of Irish and displaced persons from all parts of Europe. Some were bound for South Africa, the majority for Australia and the remainder for New Zealand. The greatest burden they carried was their apprehension, their wariness of the unknown and their fervent hopes for a new and better life.
Once the Church Army captain had confirmed his sponsorship and his papers had come through, Christian Berger booked the first berth he could get. He was assigned to an inside cabin on the lowest deck, a fourberth which he would have to share with three others. With no one to farewell him, he waited until the railings were lined with cold, teary-eyed passengers clinging to streamers, their last fragile link to the past, before seeking out his cabin. He expected to find it empty, but instead encountered a man lying on the lower bunk on the corridor side. Bags lay on the two bunks opposite.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Christian in his best English. He was determined to speak only English for the duration of the voyage in preparation for life in the new land. ‘This must be my bed.’ He heaved his bags up onto the top bunk. ‘My name is Christian Berger. How do you do?’ He extended his hand.
The man lying on the lower bunk sat up and swung his feet to the floor. The deliberate way he moved, his thinness and the tired slope of his shoulders struck an immediate chord with Christian. He’d seen that look many times among the constituents of the Centre, the look of men who’d been driven to the very edge. When the man spoke Christian wasn’t surprised to discover he was about the same age as himself, much younger than he’d seemed at first glance.
‘Good afternoon. My name is Jichak Kovacs.’ His English was heavily accented and Christian had to concentrate hard to understand him. ‘From Budapest.’ As he extended his hand to Christian, his sleeve rode up revealing a number tattooed on his wrist.
Christian managed to keep a smile on his face despite the alarm bells that instantly sounded in his head. He had never considered for a moment that he would share his cabin with a survivor from the death camps. On active duty for most of the war, he’d only learned the truth about the extermination camps when the war had ended, while still a POW interned in South Wales. The camps were Germany’s shame, a monstrous indictment of his race, and he didn’t know what to say to his new acquaintance or even if there was anything that could be said. He was suddenly aware the Hungarian was waiting for a response.
‘I am from Hamburg. I am German.’ Christian looked for a reaction but found none. ‘I couldn’t help noticing the tattoo on your wrist. I’m very sorry.’
Jichak Kovacs shrugged noncommittally.
‘Are we enemies?’ asked Christian. He thought of the five weeks they had to spend together sharing the cabin. If necessary he would make imm
ediate arrangements to be moved. The man from Budapest swung his legs back up onto his bunk and lay with his hands tucked behind his head.
‘Enemies? I think not,’ he said evenly. ‘But I have been wrong before.’
Christian slowly unpacked. He hung his spare suit and overcoat in the built-in wardrobe, wondering how he would manage with just two coat hangers. He opened drawers until he found one empty. Two hangers per person and one drawer, not much more storage space than he had on the U-boat. The drawer had room for his toiletries, his underwear and socks, a spare shirt and little else. He re-locked his suitcase and tucked it beneath the bottom bunk, the only space available. He noticed his companion had rolled over and faced the wall. A blast from the ship’s horn signalled imminent departure. He checked his watch. Three fifty-five. The Rangitiki would leave port on schedule. Checking his watch also reminded him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. With passengers still jamming the rails he decided to take the opportunity to explore the ship, his priority to find the dining room and the times meals were served.
Christian expected to meet his remaining two cabinmates at dinner, assuming they’d be assigned to the same table. Instead he discovered he shared a table with Jichak Kovacs, two young couples from Holland, one of whom had two children, and a Polish couple around the same age as himself.
‘The English have some strange ideas about foreigners,’ said one of the Dutchmen, who’d introduced himself as Theo van Stomm. His eight-year-old son Peter sat between Christian and himself. ‘They think all foreigners can understand each other but not understand English. They put us together so we can talk to one another. The irony is English is the only language in which we can communicate.’