by Derek Hansen
To put things into perspective, in those days a trip from the North Island to the South Island almost qualified as an overseas adventure. We were twelve hundred miles from Australia, twelve thousand from Britain. When my parents went on a round-the-world trip in 1957 to visit their families in England, it rated a mention in the daily paper. New Zealand was just so far away from everywhere. Even with a war on, you’d have to have said that the chance of being picked up by a German submarine in New Zealand waters was about the same as a Martian spaceship landing on Mt Eden. And yet here was Mack telling me that was precisely what had happened to him.
I had been raised on war stories. I’d been born in London during the Blitz. My father hadn’t been allowed to enlist because he made anti-aircraft predictors and the authorities told him he was making a bigger contribution to the war effort doing that than he ever would carrying a rifle. Even so the Luftwaffe nearly got him half a dozen times when they dropped bombs through the roof of the factory where he was working. He ducked under his workbench and that was all that saved him. One time he was riding his bike home from work late at night when a V1 flying bomb ran out of fuel right behind him. It hit less than four hundred yards on up the road. One less cup of kerosene in the V1 and he’d have been a goner. All our English friends had stories like that.
It shouldn’t come as any surprise that war movies were my favourite kind. I saw The Dam Busters four times. Names like Guy Gibson, who led the raid on the dams along the Ruhr, and Barnes Wallis, who invented the bouncing bombs, were as familiar to me as the names of my classmates. I read every book about World War II that I could get my hands on, knew the names of all the Spitfire fighter aces and the names and silhouettes of every plane in the British and German air forces. I was brought up believing that Churchill and Britain won the war and that Montgomery was a military genius. I was brought up believing that the men of the Merchant Navy were all heroes to the last man, and actually met a visiting sailor who’d been sunk three times by German U-boats. In all my reading about the war and all the movies I’d seen, there was nothing more threatening, more deadly, more fearsome or more calculated to inspire awe than a German submarine. And Mack had been picked up by one.
Holy cow.
‘What happened?’ I said.
Mack was miles away, lost in thought, with the expression on his face people get when they’re recalling unhappy or bitter memories. He gave no indication that he’d heard me. He wasn’t even drinking his beer. I sat as still as a shag drying its wings.
‘Bloody motor conked out,’ he said wearily. ‘Some bastard had siphoned the diesel out of my tank. Reckon I know who it was too. Didn’t find out till I was on the six-mile reef ready to come home. Jesus Christ, what a mess.’
Bloody? Bastard? Jesus Christ? Mack never swore or blasphemed, certainly not in front of me, but there was no way I was going to cover my ears.
‘It was probably about eleven at night. Westerly blowing, not hard but enough to cause a bit of a chop. There was no moon and the night was as black as the lining of a mullet’s stomach. I’d got onto a school of good snapper, all the perfect size, between three and four pounds.’ Mack took a massive swallow from his glass and retreated back into his thoughts.
I kept up my shag impression while I waited for him to continue.
‘Couldn’t believe it when the motor conked out. Last bloody thing I expected. Nothing ever went wrong with it. Never thought for a second that I was out of diesel. I’d up-anchored and only gone about a hundred yards when she died. My torch battery was on its last legs and my running lights were no help. I wasn’t allowed to use them anyway. The last thing I checked was the dipstick in the tank, and I only did that because I’d checked everything else. By then the westerly had pushed me out another couple of miles and it was too deep to anchor. I threw out my sea anchor to slow the rate of drift and tried to figure out what to do. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going because it was a spot I’d found and didn’t want to share it. Even with the sea anchor out, I figured I’d be twenty to thirty miles out to sea by morning. I was in a right pickle, let me tell you.
‘I suppose I drifted for a couple of hours. The submarine was on the surface but I never saw it coming. In truth, I wasn’t looking. The first clue I had was the sound of its diesels and, because of the way the wind was blowing, I never heard them until they were a hundred yards from me. I shone my torch towards the sound. I didn’t give much thought as to what kind of boat it was. I just wanted to make sure it saw me and picked me up. Next thing I know I’m pinned in this searchlight. Struth! Talk about going from the sublime to the bloody ridiculous. One second I can’t see my bloody hand in front of my face, next I’m staring into the sun. Just as quickly it’s dark again. I thought the boat was one of ours, some kind of naval craft or a small coaster. I called out and someone called back. Suddenly there’s this dark shape alongside me, and people running around with torches and shouting at me in some foreign language. I hadn’t a clue what was going on but I threw them a line anyway. What was I supposed to do?
‘The boat turned into the wind so mine lay alongside it. Next thing I know, a rope ladder drops into my boat. Before I get a chance to climb up it, this bloke climbs down. I can see by the light of the torches that he’s holding a rifle and, do you know what, it still doesn’t dawn on me what’s happening. “Am I glad to see you,” I say. Instead of shaking my hand he points his bloody rifle at me and starts yelling at me in Kraut. Bloody hell! I didn’t know what to do. I thought he was going to shoot me. I looked up to where the blokes with the torches were, hoping someone would sort things out, and that was when I noticed the curved sides of the hull and realised that I was looking up at a submarine; a German submarine. Well, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Someone threw me a stern line and I tied it off.
‘I’m standing there with my hands in the air when this officer type climbs down the ladder. Bugger me if he doesn’t speak English. He asks me my name and introduces himself. Christian Berger, his name was, and it sounded like he was some kind of lieutenant. He finds my snapper and says, “Do you mind if I take these?” What difference did it make if I minded or not? He was taking them anyway. I told him I’d swap the snapper for some diesel. That got him thinking. He started talking Kraut to someone in the conning tower, then turned to me.
‘“No one can know we are here,” he said. “So I have a choice. I can shoot you now and sink your boat. Or I can let you drift away for the same result. Or I can take you prisoner.” He studied me for about fifteen seconds although it felt longer.“Or I can give you the diesel you want. Are you a man of honour, Mack?” It threw me, him using my name like that, like we was pals. But I could see he was serious and weighing up the decision. I nodded and told him my word was my bond. He took this in. His eyes weren’t hard or anything but they were unnerving. They never wavered. “If I give you diesel,” he said,“you must give me your word that you will tell nobody about us, about the submarine, for forty-eight hours after you reach the shore. No one must know we are here. No one. Understand?” I nodded. “Do you understand your choices?” I nodded again.“Can I rely on your word?”
‘I told him he could and we shook on it. Then he said the strangest thing. “Tell me about your home,” he said. So, as briefly as I could, I told him about Great Barrier. I swear he looked envious, or perhaps just wistful. Someone passed down a jerry can. I poured the diesel into my tank and handed the can back. “We are civilised people,” the officer said. “I am giving you your life in exchange for your word. Break your word and you put my life and the lives of my comrades in jeopardy. Do you want to kill us?” I told him I didn’t. I promised I’d keep my word. I gave him every reassurance I could. I still wasn’t convinced they wouldn’t blow me out of the water as soon as I’d untied. “Go home,” he said and shook my hand again.“But you must go slowly,” he added. I think that was his idea of a joke.
‘By the time I’d cast off and started my motor they were gone, swallowe
d up by the night. I drew some comfort from the fact that I’d be equally invisible to them. The horizon had already started to colour up as I headed in and it was half light as I swung around the point back into Medlands. By then I’d had plenty of opportunity to think. I had no doubt about the seriousness of the promise I’d made and its implications. On the one hand, I had a clear duty to report the presence of the submarine; on the other, I’d given my solemn promise that I wouldn’t. There was a policeman waiting with my wife and a couple of my mates on the beach. They were about to launch their boat to go out looking for me. One word to the policeman and I knew he’d be straight on the radio back to Auckland and they’d have aircraft up looking for the U-boat within the hour. I couldn’t do it. The Germans had done the right thing by me and I was obliged to do the right thing by them.
‘Of course, my wife, my mates and the policeman wanted to know what had happened. I told them I’d fallen asleep. They didn’t believe me, but was that any less believable than me being picked up by a German submarine? I felt terrible about lying and it probably showed. My mates looked in my boat and saw that I had no fish and, more to the point, no fish boxes either. I saw them looking at each other, puzzled, trying to work out why that would be. They knew something had happened but I also knew they’d never guess what, not in a million years. I made my apologies, pulled my boat up onto the beach, and let the wife drive me home. I am a man of honour who kept his word. But I left that beach feeling like I’d betrayed my country, that I was a traitor.
‘The following day the liner Niagara was sunk by German mines in the approaches to the Hauraki Gulf. Just inside the Mokes. It took fourteen souls with it when it went down. Fourteen!’ Mack buried his head in his hands again and his shoulders heaved suddenly as though he was sobbing. I didn’t know where to look.
‘They thought it was the work of a German Raider — one of them heavily armed cargo boats — but I knew better. I knew exactly who and what had laid those mines. I felt responsible for the deaths of those poor souls who went down with the ship. The next day I climbed up Mt Tataweka and watched minesweepers working to and fro across the Gulf. It was too late. The damage had already been done. My forty-eight hours passed but I still didn’t tell anyone about the submarine. I was too ashamed. I never told anyone about it. After the war I learned that a troopship had left for Europe the same day that I saw the U-boat. Some said it was the Queen Mary. I knew then what had been the U-boat’s real target. That was why it had been sent all the way down to New Zealand. Just think: my silence could have cost the lives of thousands of young men. Jesus Christ! Imagine having that on your conscience. You talk about a burden of responsibility, young fellow, but put that in your pocket and see how it feels!’ He turned away from me, his eyes brightly rimmed with red.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, though I wasn’t exactly sure what I was sorry about. It upset me to see Mack so distressed, but I also had to consider the possibility that Mack had betrayed his country, that he’d placed his obligations to the enemy above his duties to God, King and the entire British Empire. I was torn between supporting Mack, my friend, and my own sense of what was right. I felt guilty for thinking Mack should’ve told the policeman straightaway. Yet that would have meant breaking a promise, and you had to be a pretty poor type to do that. On top of everything was a feeling of disappointment. Mack had been picked up by a German U-boat, and I’d expected a Boy’s Own Annual story with Mack emerging as a hero. I hadn’t expected a moral dilemma. Some of Mack’s guilt settled on me.
I noticed his glass was empty so got up and fetched a bottle of Lion Red from his cooler. He took it from me without a word. I could see by his eyes that he was miles away. I sneaked away down the passage, out the front door and home. My mum was a bit anxious because I hadn’t come home when I’d said I would. I told her Mack had been telling me fishing stories and that I’d got carried away.
That night we sat around the radio listening to Take it From Here with Jimmy Edwards and an episode of The Day of the Triffids. I loved John Wyndham stories but couldn’t concentrate because my head was full of Mack’s story. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted to write it down, but even then I sensed that the story was incomplete and unbalanced. I started thinking of ways to extend it and give it a better ending, one that let Mack off the hook. I didn’t want my story to end with Mack a traitor.
A couple of days later, the school broke up for the May holidays and I was free to write Mack’s story. But, once again, I had to take up my burden of responsibility. I didn’t consult Mack because I didn’t know how to face him or what to say. Besides, the high tide was at three o’clock and I knew it was best to fish two hours either side of it. The butcher sold me skirt steak because he was out of liver and claimed it was dynamite bait. I wasn’t happy about that. Nevertheless, Mum was counting on me to catch dinner so I set off on my old Rudge bike that had no gears, a back-pedal brake and a front brake on the handlebars. I thought about Mack’s story as I pedalled to the breakwater, trying to picture it as a movie and what would have happened next if the story had gone on a bit. It used to annoy my pals went we went to the matinee at the Esquire Cinema because I could nearly always guess what would happen next. They reckoned I ruined the serials for them. But that skill seemed to desert me as I thought about Mack’s story.
My hopes plummeted when I unwrapped the bait the butcher had sold me. I couldn’t believe it. It was nearly all fat and everyone knew snapper hate fat. My spirits sank even further when I started to trim it. I was left with about a third of the amount of bait I needed. What could I do? I baited my hooks, cast out as far as I could and hoped for the best.
It’s often quite cold in May but this day was an exception. There were no clouds for the sun to hide behind and the sea had that flat, oily look it gets when there’s no breeze. They were exactly the sort of conditions Mack always claimed were good for fishermen but bad for fishing. Once again, it seemed that he was right. The tide came in but didn’t bring any fish with it, at least none that were tempted by my fatty bait. I left the strips of meat out there until they turned grey, rebaited and tried again.
A bloke I knew by sight set up on the wharf along from me. He was using strips of trevally for bait but wasn’t having any more luck than me. I started thinking about Mack’s story and, because of the combination of sun on my back and lack of activity on my line, got right into it. I remembered how the German officer had asked about Great Barrier Island and become wistful as Mack had described it. The ‘what ifs’ began to scroll through my mind. The last words the German officer had spoken were, ‘Go home. But you must go slowly.’ That was good, but what if he’d said,‘Go home, Mack. Maybe one day, when this war is over, we’ll meet again.’ My heart leaped. I knew I was onto something. That’s what the German would’ve said if it had been a movie. My mind raced with possibilities. Of course! They had to meet up again after the war. But how? When?
‘Want the rest of my bait?’
I jumped. I nearly dropped my fishing rod. I was so deeply immersed in my imagination I hadn’t heard the other fisherman come up to me. He’d packed up and was leaving.
‘Nothing out there,’ he said. ‘But if something does come along, I reckon you’ll do better with trevally than you will with the meat you’re using. What happened to your liver? You usually use liver.’
I thanked him for the trevally and again silently for bringing me back to reality and reminding me of my obligations. I had fish to catch for tea. I had to put Mack’s story out of my mind.
My first cast with trevally was productive. I brought in a small snapper. It was undersized but I kept it. I tucked it into the cotton flour bag Mum had given me to put the fish in. I caught another the same size with my next cast and kept it as well. All I needed was another two or three and I could go home and write. But the school the two baby snapper had come from had moved on. It went as dead as a dodo. I changed baits and directed my next cast inshore. I tried to concentrate but I couldn’t s
top my mind returning to Mack’s story and the wonderful options that were opening up. Maybe ten minutes later, while my mind was ablaze with possibilities, something hit my line. My rod doubled over and line fizzed off my reel despite the fact that I’d set a fairly heavy drag. I was late striking because I hadn’t been concentrating. And I paid the penalty. The line stopped running out and went limp. I nearly screamed with frustration. It could’ve been a big snapper, could’ve been my first kingfish, and I’d missed it through not keeping my mind on the job.
I cast again and wound up the slack as soon as my sinker hit bottom. Bang! Talk about a strike! This time I was ready and hooked up. I knew straightaway that this fish was a good size, the sort you expect to catch way out in the Gulf on the La Rita. I was so scared of losing it I didn’t dare play it. Against all the rules I tightened the drag and winched it in. The snapper still had plenty of fight in it when I began to lift it out of the water. It wouldn’t stop thrashing its tail about. I would’ve given anything for a gaff but I’d never owned one, and didn’t even know if they made them seven foot long — just over two metres by today’s reckoning — which was how far I had to lift the fish to get it onto the wharf. The line snapped just as I swung the snapper over the edge of the wharf and, mercifully, the fish’s momentum carried it onto the planks. Even so, I had to dive on it to stop it skidding back into the water. I dragged it away from the edge towards my tackle box, grabbed my knife and shoved the blade up through the gills into its brain, the way Mack had taught me. The snapper stopped flapping, but there was no way I could. I was shaking with excitement. The snapper was a good four pounds, a muscular two kilos, what Mack called the perfect size. I was absolutely ecstatic.
I didn’t waste time trying to fit it into my flour bag because I realised there had to be a school going past and I fancied my chances of catching another. I re-rigged, cast again and hooked up immediately. Unbelievable, when you think how slowly things had begun. The fish took off on a run that I thought would never end. It headed inshore and I had to walk with it to save line. When it turned, I had to walk back the way I’d come, past my tackle box, right to the far edge of the wharf. I’d thought the four-pounder was big but this was the four-pounder’s great-grandfather. This was a Mack special. I had no choice but to play it. I slackened off the drag to make sure the fish had no fight left before I brought it up near the piles. I could afford to be patient because I already had the four-pounder and I was all too aware of the chances I’d taken with that one. So I concentrated on bringing in the fish to the exclusion of everything else. I never gave Mack’s story a thought while I was reeling it in, never thought about anything but catching that fish.