by Derek Hansen
I had a bit of a headache, no worse than the kind you get if you spend all day in the sun without a hat. My head was sore where I’d cut and scraped it and it hurt most where the scab had stuck to the bandage. Otherwise I felt pretty good. All my fears and tears had evaporated as though they’d never existed. Some time during the night a line had been ruled under the previous day and a new chapter begun. I wanted to go home and see my pals because I had some serious bragging to do. Catching six gurnard was worth bragging about for a start. Getting attacked by Collitt and his crew was huge. But being taken to hospital in an ambulance and X-rayed, well, that was massive. I could imagine the looks on my pals’ faces. I could see myself holding court at school, Eric on one side and Judith on the other as a reward for sticking by me, telling my story to a rapt audience including girls and all the kids who weren’t allowed to talk to me. I was very forgiving that way. I was working out the structure of my stories and how to link them to the best effect when Mum came in. She wasn’t alone. She had two policemen with her.
‘Mum! What have you done?’ The words flew from my mouth before I’d had time to think about them. I don’t know if policemen are allowed to laugh on duty but these two cracked up. Even Mum, who’d come in biting her bottom lip, broke into a smile.
The Maori policeman introduced himself as Sergeant Rapana and the constable with him as Peter. Sergeant Rapana was about my Dad’s age but Peter didn’t look much older than Rod.
‘Heard you had a bit of an accident on your bike,’ said Sergeant Rapana.
‘Yeah, but it was no accident,’ I said. ‘I didn’t fall off, I got kicked off. At full tilt.’
‘Yeah, heard that, too. Want to tell me about it?’ Sergeant Rapana pulled up chairs for himself and Mum. Apparently constables have to stand.
I told them how Collitt and his gang had ambushed me and how Collitt had kicked me in the thigh and pushed my bike over.
‘Did anyone witness it?’
‘Yeah.’ I remembered seeing Mr Gillespie. He had to have seen everything. ‘There were a few people around,’ I said. ‘One was Mr Gillespie. He lives in Rose Road two doors down from Dickens Street, the brown house with the wonky letterbox. He was across the road when it happened.’
‘I’ll have a word with him. Now, do you know where this Graham Collitt lives?’
‘Summer Street,’ I said. ‘Up near the woodwork school.’ I gave the sergeant the street number and a bit of advice. ‘Don’t go down the side to the back door. They’ve got this mean black mongrel that attacks everyone. Collitt reckons it used to be a pig dog. Everyone says it’s a killer.’
‘I know the house,’ said the sergeant wearily. ‘And I know the dog. I’ve been there. I was just making sure we were talking about the same Collitt. Now, you’ve told me the boy Collitt kicked you off your bike, but why do you think he did it?’
As briefly as I could I told the sergeant about Mack, my essay and the U-boat commander.
‘Do you know something, young fella?’
Young fella? The sergeant called me young fella? That was a definite step up from ‘son’ or ‘laddie’. ‘Laddie’ made me sound like a male border collie.
‘What?’
‘You’re the most interesting kid I’ve ever interviewed. Most kids don’t think beyond football. Who do you take after?’
‘Dad says I take after the milkman.’
Sergeant Rapana laughed again. I really liked him.
‘You’ve been a great help. I think we’ll leave you alone now and go and see if your German pal’s regained consciousness.’
They say even condemned men get a surprise when the floor opens up beneath them. They know they’re going to be hanged but the moment it happens always comes as a shock. Dad said it’s all a matter of timing. I could feel the blood draining from my face. My head began to throb. Timing, timing.
‘What do you mean, regained consciousness?’
Mum was looking daggers at the sergeant. I thought she’d been arrested when she came in with the police but now it was Sergeant Rapana’s turn to look guilty.
‘Sorry,’ he said, looking at Mum.
‘He was going to find out anyway sooner or later,’ said Mum. ‘No harm done.’ The way she said it was typical of her. You got the feeling she meant exactly the opposite. The sergeant had let the cat out of the bag and now he had to catch it.
‘I’m sorry to tell you your friend got bashed walking home last night,’ he said. ‘We don’t know the full story yet but Graham Collitt’s dad was involved.’
‘Is Mr Berger all right?’ I was almost too scared to ask. Everyone knew Graham Collitt’s dad was a thug. He’d done time for assault.
‘He’s still in one piece but a bit worse off than you. That’s what I’ve been told. Got a banged head, broken ribs, broken nose, broken hand, more bruises than a case of apples fallen off a truck, but otherwise he’s good to pack into a scrum. What position do you play?’
‘I play soccer. Centre-forward.’
Sergeant Rapana grimaced. ‘Soccer,’ he said. He looked like he’d just bitten into a lemon. ‘Pity. Your build I reckon you’d make a great winger. Maybe an All Black one day.’
Me? An All Black? Nobody had ever suggested that before.
‘I’ll be in touch. There’s a good chance we’ll prosecute since you’ve got a witness. Thanks for your help. I’ll see you later.’ He got up and shook Mum’s hand. The constable gave me a nervous wave. Apparently they’re not allowed to speak, either.
‘See you later,’ I responded. I should’ve been worrying about Christian Berger but all I could think of was playing on the wing for the All Blacks. Blame the sergeant for that. He was a real clever bloke when it came to catching cats. When I looked up at Mum she had a proper smile on her face at last. I hate it when she reads my mind.
She told me that Ian, one of my classmates who weren’t allowed to talk to me, had been on the trolley bus that had passed by while I was stretched out in the gutter. He got off outside Mum’s shop, even though he lived two stops further on, and ran up to the Church Army to tell Captain Biggs I’d had an accident. He could’ve just told Mum but his mother had forbidden him from setting foot inside the shop. Captain Biggs ordered him to run back down the road and tell Mum while he raced up the road to help me. That’s how Mum found out. She left Rod minding the shop.
‘I thought Mr Gillespie told you,’ I said. Somewhere in the back of my mind I’d connected Mr Gillespie’s departure with Captain Biggs’s arrival. I thought Mr Gillespie had gone to get help.
‘Tell me about Mr Gillespie.’
I should’ve picked up the warning note in her voice, but I didn’t. The full extent of Mr Gillespie’s callousness only dawned on me as I related what had happened. It beggared belief that he, of all people, would just leave me lying in the street but the evidence mounted with every word. Mum’s eyes grew narrower, her lips thinner and her body more rigid as I told my tale. I recognised the signs. I’d seen Mum get angry plenty of times before but never like this. Her whole body shook.
‘Whatever you do, don’t tell your father,’ she said. ‘Promise me?’
‘I promise.’ I knew an order when I heard one.
‘All right. I’ve got to go now and open the shop. It’s late enough as it is. Try to get some sleep. You heal better when you sleep and the sooner those bandages come off the sooner you can come home.’ She gave me a kiss on my cheek. I thought it would be a special kiss like the one that turned off the lights but her lips skipped off my skin with the barest touch, like a skimming stone on water. Then she was gone, the heels of her shoes snapping like gunshots on the polished floor as she left the ward and headed off down the corridor. If she’d been an army marching off to war the enemy would’ve surrendered in an instant. Mum’s fierce love showed itself in different ways. She had the protective instincts of a mother grizzly bear but was somewhat less forgiving. Someone was going to get it, cop it right in the neck, and I had no doubt who that someone was. It
was hard to believe he’d once been one of my favourite dads. I almost felt sorry for him.
Pain forced Christian awake, not the pain of his injuries but a signal from his distended bladder alerting him to a desperate need to pee. He tried to sit up but warnings from a thousand distressed nerves drove him back.
‘Steady on.’
The voice was vaguely familiar but spoke in English, not German. Had he been wounded and captured? If so, how? And why was the voice familiar?
‘Nurse!’
The voice again. Christian realised he was awake but his eyes were still closed. He tried to open them. Nothing happened. He tried to reach down to his groin as the urge to pee returned even more pressing than before, but was stopped by a stab of pain from his ribs.
‘I…need to…urinate,’ he said.
‘Just a sec.’ A woman’s voice.
Christian was aware of blankets being lifted, a hand on his penis and a cold touch of metal.
‘Ready, set, go.’
Christian experienced an overwhelming sense of relief as his bladder relaxed and the dam broke. It occurred to him mid-stream that he was locked in a dream and inadvertently wetting his bed. His bed? No, not his bed. He tried to stop peeing but couldn’t.
‘Try to keep still.’
The woman’s voice again. In sudden panic he realised that it must be Sister Gloria holding his penis and helping him urinate. But just as shame threatened to overwhelm him he heard the voice again.
‘Keep still, for goodness sake!’
Not Sister Gloria’s voice. Then whose? And where was he?
‘Where…am I?’
‘That’s better. They should’ve catheterised you. I might have to change bottles.’
‘Please…where am I?’
‘You’re in hospital. I’m looking after you and you’re going to have to stop peeing. I do need another bottle.’
Christian obliged, now that the pressure on his bladder had eased.
‘My goodness! Look at that. You must’ve been holding on for a week.’
Fleeting memories of strange soft drinks and awful coffee crossed his mind. Bit by bit, he began remembering.
‘All right, here we go, finish what you started.’
Christian hardly gave a thought to the fact that a strange woman was holding his penis and helping him pee. The images infiltrating his mind were far more important.
‘Why can’t I see?’
‘You’ve got bandages over your eyes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re cut and bleeding. Not your eyes, your eyebrows. And your nose is broken.’
He remembered falling, the punches, the kicks and his fear that if he passed out he’d never wake up again. But he had, and now he needed to know the extent of the damage.
‘You’ve got broken ribs and your right hand is broken as well. I suppose someone else is also feeling pretty sore. Finished?’
Christian nodded and let the nurse take the bottle away. Nodding was a mistake. The nurse hadn’t finished her litany.
‘And you might have some hairline fractures of your skull. So if I were you I’d just keep still until the doctor comes. You have to keep still anyway because you’ve got bruising around the kidneys. Your friend’s here, talk to him.’
Friend?
‘How are you feeling?’
This time Christian had no trouble recognising the voice.
‘Not so good. What happened?’
‘What I warned you might happen. Things could’ve been a lot worse if some women hadn’t come to your rescue and made your attackers back off. They stood between you and the mob until the police arrived.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You have nothing to be sorry about. The men who attacked you are known troublemakers. They just needed an excuse and unfortunately you provided one. They’re not typical of the rest of us. Some people are upset but that’s all. They’ll get over it. They’re good people.’
‘I know.’
‘How was the rest of your day?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think it was one of the best of my life.’
Captain Biggs laughed. Christian Berger tried to join him but the attempt opened up a split in his lips.
That evening Mum left Rod to mind the shop and without another word began walking up Richmond Road. Sometimes Mr Gillespie walked home across Grey Lynn Park and sometimes he walked straight down Rose Road. But mostly—and always on Fridays—he went by the newsboy on the corner of Richmond Road and Ponsonby Road to pick up a copy of the Auckland Star. Mum knew this just as everybody else knew this. There are no secrets in a small community. Everybody knew everyone else’s routines.
Mr Gillespie spotted Mum walking towards him and crossed the road to avoid her. Mum crossed the road as well. Mr Gillespie crossed back. Mum crossed back. At this point Mr Gillespie resigned himself to the inevitable. Mum marched straight up to him and stopped. She stood there face to face, not saying a word, waiting for him to apologise. I know this because Eric was riding home from having his hair cut and he saw the whole thing.
Mum just stood and stared at Mr Gillespie, eyeballing him. I can imagine the look on her face, the accusation and barely contained fury. Mr Gillespie wouldn’t have stood a chance. The armour plate on a Panzer tank would’ve buckled before her gaze. Probably even melted. The moment Mr Gillespie gave into his shame and bowed his head Mum struck. A cobra would’ve envied her speed. She slapped him. Not once, but twice. Not token slaps, but with all the strength she could muster. Mr Gillespie just stood there, arms by his side, and took his punishment. His head jerked with the force of each blow but he made no attempt to protect himself. Mum never uttered a word. Job done, she turned and walked home.
Mum’s slaps would’ve really hurt but I don’t imagine for a second that was why Mr Gillespie’s face burned. Eric reckoned that if Mr Gillespie had opened his mouth people would’ve mistaken him for a letterbox.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Heavy grey clouds scurried across the sky as low as five hundred metres, promising rain but not delivering, limiting visibility and offering little protection. Two hours of daylight remained. If they got through that safely they still had to face the possibility of aircraft equipped both with radar and powerful searchlights. With the stern planes jammed ten degrees down, they couldn’t use their surface speed of sixteen knots to get away. With the rudder jammed they were at the mercy of the sea and unable to run at speed anyway. If the enemy delayed using lights until the last minute, their machine guns could rake the deck, killing his gun crews before they even got a shot off and leaving them exposed to low-level attack by depth charging. It was a nightmare scenario.
Captain Berger was confident that the stern planes could be manipulated at least to a neutral position if not repaired. The rudder was another story. On the stern deck, crew were hauling in the divers, blankets at the ready to warm their frozen bodies. In a few minutes they’d make their report and he’d know exactly where he stood. In the meantime the U-boat rolled and wallowed in the rising sea.
The Chief Engineer pronounced the death sentence. The damage to the rudder was beyond their capability to repair. Worse, it was bent and jammed at such an angle the U-boat was committed to an endless turn to port. Limited function had, however, been restored to the stern planes. The U-boat could at least dive once the batteries were recharged. Captain Berger received the news and duly logged it in his Kriegs Tage Buch. He gave the order to proceed at onethird speed. Once under way the pitching and rolling would ease. The last patrol of U-487 would at least end in relative comfort.
AN EXTRACT FROM ‘DEATH OF A U-BOAT’
I won’t say that I thought I knew everything but I didn’t think there was much I didn’t know. I flattered myself I had a writer’s insights, not that I even knew they existed until Mr Grainger had made us look for them during an English lesson. In truth, I fell in love with the notion that I knew people better than they knew themselves and had the inside runn
ing on why they behaved one way and not another. But the night I was taken to hospital in the ambulance it soon became apparent I was no cleverer at reading people than anyone else.
Nigel broke down and cried after he took my bike home. Who would’ve thought? The devil must’ve been pulling on sweaters as hell froze over. Nigel never cried but apparently it took all of Rod’s persuasion and comforting to make him stop. Mum came home from the hospital too teary and upset to speak. Who would’ve thought that, either? In later years people called Margaret Thatcher the Iron Lady but she was tinfoil compared to Mum. I was stunned, but there was more to come. Apparently even Dad was shaken. I simply couldn’t picture that. I thought he’d be cracking jokes about how the council would have to repair the road where my head hit it. But no. Once they got home he kept giving Mum hugs, which was unusual to say the least. He even hugged Nigel and, amazingly, Nigel let him. Our family didn’t go in for displays of affection. We didn’t feel any need. We knew where we stood. We loved each other and that was that. It was a given, an immutable fact and we didn’t need reminding. Rod, Nigel and I drew courage from Mum’s and Dad’s strength. As far as we were concerned, as long as they stood firm nothing could harm us. They were our protective shell. They were what made us safe. Although upset by my injuries I think they were equally shocked that the attack on me had occurred; that, despite all their best efforts, we were as vulnerable as any family.
The next step was anger. Of course they wanted to know who the boys were that had forced me off my bike. Nigel reckoned it had to be Collitt and his gang but nobody had any proof. They also wanted to know who had seen me lying in the gutter and turned away. I think the fact that people we knew had seen me there and just walked on by without offering to help affected Mum and Dad more than anything. It was a betrayal of friendship, trust and decency. To them it was inconceivable that any adult could ignore a child in such circumstances. Even in the prickly climate of anti-Christian Berger sentiment they found it hard to believe. Yet family acquaintances, people my parents had socialised with at school and church, people who’d stood next to them at soccer and athletics, people who were Mum’s customers, people who were parents of kids Rod, Nigel and I played with, people we thought we knew and respected, had been among those who’d turned a blind eye. Dad wanted names and wanted to have it out with them face to face but all he had was speculation. In truth, his anger wasn’t just directed at individuals but in response to the fact we’d been betrayed, let down and left unsure of the ground upon which we stood. The sense of betrayal was both overwhelming and numbing. No amount of anger could change that.