The Fighting Stingrays

by Simon Mitchell

  ‘That’s Captain Maggots for you,’ said Charlie, and they all laughed at that one.

  But the smile soon faded from Masa’s face. ‘It’s not fair,’ he muttered, scuffing the toes of his shoes on the dusty road.

  ‘Not even close,’ said Charlie.

  ‘No,’ said Alf. ‘Although . . .’

  Masa stopped in his tracks. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Alf.

  ‘You think it’s good we’re getting sent away, do you?’

  ‘Course not,’ said Alf. ‘I know you and your old man are dinkum. But some of the Japanese divers are spies – everyone says so! That makes them our enemy, and enemies have to be locked up.’

  Masa rolled his eyes. ‘But not all of us can be spies. What about old Mr Miyazaki? Or the Yamashita girls from school? You reckon they’re spying on you during geometry class?’

  Alf stared at the ground. ‘I reckon we’ve got to trust what the army is doing,’ he said. ‘It’s just too bad you’re caught up in it.’

  Masa groaned with frustration. ‘You really are an idiot.’

  Alf looked at Masa and his lip curled. ‘Oh, am I?’ he said.

  ‘Cut it out, you two,’ said Charlie. He didn’t want yet another argument between Alf and Masa ruining the last few days the Fighting Stingrays had together. He turned towards the sea and something caught his eye across the water. ‘More luggers are coming back,’ he said.

  The line of double-masted sailing boats was gliding swiftly towards TI. But as the cream-coloured sails got closer, Charlie realised all the boats were flying their flags at half-mast. ‘Oh heck,’ he said. ‘Dead diver.’

  Harvesting pearl shell was dangerous work. There were as many different ways to die as there were days in the year. The air-pump motor might fail. Your air hose could snag on a coral reef and break in two. You might get torn apart by a shark or one of the gigantic, man-sized groupers that hunted around the reefs. Or the fearsome Torres Strait currents could simply rip your helmet and lifeline off and send you spinning into the blue abyss.

  But the deadliest threat of all was the bends – a strange sickness that affected divers who dived too deep, or who surfaced too quickly without taking the time to stop at different stages on the way up. A person with the bends might seem fine for minutes, even hours, but then they died in the most excruciating way – bubbles of gas built up in their veins, their limbs and lungs shut down, and their bodies writhed and twisted with seizures as their mouth frothed blood.

  Masa stiffened, using one hand to shade his eyes against the blazing tropical sun. ‘The lugger at the front,’ he said. ‘It’s not the Dolphin, is it?’

  Charlie squinted into the distance. From up here, all the boats looked the same. But as they got closer, he recognised the dark blue stripe painted around the hull as well as the piece of red cloth Mr U kept tied to the front mast for luck. ‘It’s the Dolphin,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean –’

  Masa was already sprinting down the road to the shoreline like a lizard over hot rocks. Alf shot a glance at Charlie and the two of them took off in fast pursuit.

  By the time they made it to the Napier & Co. slipway, a small crowd had gathered on the beach. Charlie spotted Ern among a group of soldiers as he pushed his way through the mass of people to where Masa was waiting, his face pale. The Dolphin had dropped anchor, and a wooden launch was carrying the crew back to shore. As it motored towards them, Charlie made out Masa’s Uncle Jiro, two Japanese tenders, a pair of Malay crewmen and Bill, the big Torres Strait Islander cook. But there was no sign of Mr U.

  The launch docked at the slipway with a soft crunch. The men clambered out, and Bill helped Uncle Jiro and another crew member lift a large bundle of grey blankets from the boat. Stone-faced, they waded ashore and laid the bundle down gently in the sand.

  Masa raced over. ‘Uncle Jiro!’ he cried. ‘It’s not him, is it?’

  But Uncle Jiro didn’t say anything. He reached inside the vest of his grey diving flannels, pulled out a bottle of clear spirits and gulped down more than half. Then he gave a strangled howl and collapsed on the sand, cradling the bottle to his chest and bawling uncontrollably.

  Masa knelt in the sand and peeled back the blanket to reveal the face of the man underneath.

  It was Mr U. His eyes were closed, his skin was grey and his lips were a purplish-blue, almost the same colour as the lilies that floated on waterholes in the wet season.

  Masa slumped next to his father and hugged him.

  ‘No!’ he wailed. ‘Dad! No!’

  The Dolphin’s crew stood at a distance, while the gathered residents murmured sadly. Tears poured down Charlie’s face like monsoonal rain, and his chest shook with sobs. Only Alf didn’t cry. Alf never cried.

  Bill was standing to one side, jaw clamped tightly shut.

  ‘What happened?’ Charlie asked him, choking on the words. This didn’t make any sense – Mr U was one of the best and most experienced divers in the Torres Strait.

  Bill exhaled slowly, his whole body trembling. ‘We had to meet that bloody target,’ he said. ‘But the shallow beds were cleaned out, so the skipper was down at forty fathoms when our air compressor exploded.’ Bill clenched his fists. ‘We tried to tell Mr Napier there was something wrong with it last month.’

  ‘So Mr U drowned?’

  Bill shook his head. ‘We got him up before he ran out of air. But there wasn’t time for him to properly stage.’

  Charlie swallowed. ‘You mean . . . the bends?’

  Bill nodded. ‘He died on deck not long after.’

  Charlie’s legs nearly buckled underneath him.

  ‘Was it . . . really bad?’ he whispered.

  Bill didn’t say anything. He grabbed the rope tied to the launch and began dragging it up the beach with a lot more force than was necessary.

  So that was it. A broken air pump had made Mr U surface too fast, and the nightmarish bends had claimed the life of another Thursday Island pearl-shell diver. But this time, it wasn’t any old diver. Charlie covered his face and wept.

  One of the soldiers cleared his throat. ‘We’d better get this lot back to Japtown,’ he muttered to his friends.

  Charlie forced his hands away from his face as the troops rounded up the Dolphin’s three Japanese crew members. Apart from Uncle Jiro they didn’t speak English, so Bill, who knew a bit of Japanese, had to translate the soldiers’ commands. But the crewmen still seemed incredibly confused as they were escorted towards the barbed wire fortress at gunpoint. Only Uncle Jiro refused to go quietly, wailing and kicking as the two biggest soldiers carried him across the beach by his armpits.

  Ern laid a hand on Masa’s shoulder. ‘Come on, mate,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s time to go home. We’ll bring your dad along shortly.’

  Masa’s face was streaked with tears. He stared at Mr U for a moment longer, then slowly released his grip on his dad’s body. He got to his feet and Ern guided him along the road in the direction of Yokohama.

  ‘Masa!’ called Charlie. ‘I . . . I . . .’

  But Masa didn’t even look back. And soon, the small group of people drifted back to whatever they were doing, leaving Mr U alone on the beach with only Charlie, Alf and a one-legged seagull for company.

  Mr U was buried in the little Japanese cemetery on the other side of the island, where hundreds of pillars decorated with Japanese characters stood among the dry grass, every one of them marking the final resting place of a diver who had died in the search for shell.

  Apart from the half-a-dozen soldiers standing guard, Charlie and Alf were the only white people at the cemetery. Of course, that wasn’t particularly unusual – the death of another pearl diver didn’t raise too many eyebrows on TI. And besides, there was a war on.

  Masa didn’t even seem to notice Charlie and Alf during the burial. Charlie tried to catch his eye afterwards, but the soldiers were too quick to escort the Japanese mourners back over the hill to Yokohama.

&n
bsp; Masa didn’t show up at school for the rest of the week, by which time classes had finished for the term anyway. Normally the start of the Christmas holidays was a cause for massive excitement, but this year nobody felt much like celebrating. Miss Cassidy hugged each of the Japanese students in the school and wished them the best of luck. Then she told everybody else that she hoped to see them next year – not ‘would’, but ‘hoped’. Charlie suspected that might have had something to do with the wireless reports describing how quickly Japanese forces were making their way south through Malaya and the Philippines, taking airfields and towns and driving back the Australians, British and Americans.

  One evening a few days before Christmas, Charlie found himself alone with his father. His mum was off playing bridge at Mr and Mrs Kent’s, Rosie had gone home for the night, and Audrey was in bed complaining of a tummy ache (which Charlie suspected might have been caused by the three coconuts she had eaten that afternoon).

  Mr Napier sat at the dining table, going over a stack of business papers. He’d changed out of the white suit that all Thursday Island pearlers wore, and was dressed in a loose cotton shirt and shorts. Charlie sprawled on the floor nearby with the latest Boy’s Own Paper, where advertisements calling for air-force recruits and radio operators filled the pages between cricket stories, stamp-collecting articles and tales of adventure in the South Seas.

  But Charlie was finding it difficult to concentrate – was it his dad’s fault that Mr U had died? After all, if Mr Napier hadn’t set such a big pearl shell target, and had taken better care of the Dolphin’s air pump, then Masa’s dad might still be alive.

  ‘Father?’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ grumbled Mr Napier, eyes fixed on the papers in front of him.

  ‘I saw them bury Mr U the other day.’

  ‘Who?’ said his dad, still writing.

  ‘Mr Ueshiba,’ said Charlie. ‘Masa’s dad.’

  Charlie’s dad stopped writing and carefully placed his pen on the table. ‘Yes, Ueshiba – a terrible accident. I’ll miss him a lot.’

  Of course, it was just an accident. ‘He was a good man, wasn’t he, Dad?’ said Charlie.

  ‘He was a very good diver,’ said Mr Napier, taking off his spectacles. ‘Dived deeper and longer than anyone else. Nobody brought in as much shell as Ueshiba.’

  Charlie’s stomach sank. ‘You mean, you’ll miss the money Mr U made for you.’

  ‘Oh, not only Ueshiba,’ said Charlie’s dad. ‘All of the Japs. They’re happy to do the work cheaply, and they do a good job of it. But now they’ve all vanished or been interned I suppose we’ll have to train up a few Malays for next season.’ He pointed at Charlie with the arm of his glasses. ‘See, these are the things you’ll have to think about when you’re running the company.’

  Charlie swallowed. ‘But I don’t want to run the company,’ he said. ‘I want to join the air force, like Biggles, or the army, like Ern.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Charles,’ said Mr Napier. ‘There’s no money in that.’

  Charlie didn’t know what to say. His dad saw everything in terms of pounds and shillings and pence – even people. Mr U was dead, and for what? A few more quid in his dad’s pocket and a handful of shiny buttons for a coat on the other side of the world.

  Mr Napier was eyeballing Charlie as if his son had made a bad smell. ‘I always thought Johnny would be the one to take over the business,’ he sighed. ‘If only –’ He trailed off, but Charlie knew exactly what he was thinking: if only you had been the one to die instead of Johnny.

  Mr Napier put his reading glasses back on and picked up his pen. ‘Please go and read in your room,’ he said. ‘I’m very busy.’

  Charlie took the Boy’s Own Paper to his bedroom and threw himself on the bed. He was starting to feel a bit sick in the stomach himself.

  The next morning, Charlie and Alf went down to Yokohama. Alf was sporting a fresh black eye, but Charlie didn’t need to ask him what had happened – he knew all about Alf’s dad’s shocking temper.

  Ern and another soldier were standing guard in front of the small gate in the barbed wire barrier.

  ‘Morning,’ said Charlie, admiring the men’s rifles and neatly pressed khaki uniforms. ‘We’d like to speak to Masa, please.’

  The soldier who wasn’t Ern sneezed loudly. ‘Who?’ he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand

  ‘Masaki Ueshiba,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s a mate of ours.’

  ‘Sorry, boys,’ said the soldier. ‘No one’s allowed out any more, not even kids.’

  ‘It’s all right, Jim,’ said Ern. ‘I know these lads.’

  ‘Well, they’re not coming in, and their cobber’s certainly not coming out,’ said Jim. ‘Fort Commander’s orders.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Ern. ‘Why don’t I nip down and fetch the Ueshiba boy? They can have a yarn through the fence – I’ll keep an eye on them.’ He opened the gate and disappeared into Yokohama.

  Jim yawned and propped his rifle up against a nearby tree, then pulled out a pouch of tobacco and started rolling a cigarette. On the other side of the wire, a few of Charlie’s dad’s pearl divers squatted on the ground in front of their long, corrugated-metal boarding house, playing a game with wooden tiles. Across the street, a mother held her giggling young son upside down by the ankles as a little white dog scampered around them, yapping with delight. The place certainly didn’t look like a den of enemy activity.

  Alf was eyeing off Jim’s rifle. ‘Nice gun,’ he said.

  Jim nodded as he lit the cigarette. ‘Say,’ he said, shaking out the match. ‘You kids haven’t seen a clip of bullets lying around anywhere, have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Alf, innocently. ‘Why?’

  Jim took a puff of his cigarette. ‘No reason,’ he said.

  Ern came back with Masa trailing a few steps behind him. When they reached the fence, Masa jerked his head at a large, thirsty-looking wongai plum tree next to the wire about twenty yards away. The Fighting Stingrays slouched towards it until they were out of earshot of the two guards. Charlie faced his friend through the coils of barbed wire – Masa had dirt on his face and big dark circles under his eyes, and Judy was perched on his shoulder, her fur slightly matted.

  ‘Masa, I’m really sorry about your dad,’ said Charlie. The words weren’t nearly enough, especially when Charlie’s own father was partly responsible.

  Masa shrugged and scratched Judy behind the ears.

  Alf tried to lighten the mood. ‘How’s it going?’ he said.

  ‘Awful,’ said Masa. ‘Uncle Jiro’s been drinking non-stop since Dad’s funeral, and that’s made Auntie Reiko even worse. She’s switched from using an umbrella to clobber me to a proper walking stick.’ He rubbed his backside.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Alf. ‘My old man prefers a belt.’

  ‘What about Kiyoko?’ asked Charlie. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t burnt the place down with her dragon breath!’

  Masa didn’t even crack a smile. ‘Well, I’m stuck with them for good now,’ he said. ‘Captain Maggots reckons a ship’s coming to take us down south tomorrow. Some place called Tatura. That’s why nobody’s allowed out any more.’

  So it was happening already. Charlie couldn’t believe that the Fighting Stingrays’ adventures were going to end with Masa being locked up, possibly forever, just because of where his family came from. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he was going to be stuck with his cruel, heartless relatives. ‘We’ve got to stop this,’ Charlie said.

  Masa snorted. ‘How?’ he said, kicking at a pebble.

  Charlie looked to Alf for help, but his friend stared back blankly. ‘I dunno,’ Charlie mumbled.

  Masa nodded wearily, and the three of them stood in silence for a while. ‘Well, I’d better go then,’ said Masa. He trudged over to Ern and Jim before turning back and raising one hand towards Charlie and Alf. Then he vanished behind the row of sagging boarding houses.

  ‘Cripes,’ said Alf. ‘I wish there was somethin
g we could do.’

  Charlie leaned against the narrow trunk of the wongai tree and gazed up at the leaves. He tried to imagine what Biggles would do in this situation. Would he sit by and watch as one of his squadron was captured and imprisoned, despite not having done anything wrong? Of course he wouldn’t – Biggles would do everything he could to make things right, even if it meant risking his own neck.

  Charlie looked at the gate where Ern and Jim stood guard, rifles in hand. He ran his eyes along the evil-looking strands of barbed wire to the spotlight and machine gun mounted at the corner. He counted about a dozen soldiers loitering around the area, then squinted up at Milman Hill, where he knew there was an enormous, fat-barrelled cannon hidden just beyond the gum trees.

  Charlie’s pulse quickened. ‘Alf,’ he said. ‘I reckon there’s something we can do. But it won’t be easy.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Alf.

  Charlie lowered his voice to a whisper, barely daring to say the words out loud. ‘You and I are going to break Masa out of here.’

  Sneaking out of home was never much of a problem on TI – it was so hot that everyone slept with their windows open, so it was easy for Charlie to clamber out of his bedroom just after midnight. The moon was half-hidden behind a thin blanket of cloud as he tiptoed past the darkened wooden houses of the township, feeling like he really was a soldier on a stealthy rescue mission.

  Alf was already under the tamarind tree, arms crossed. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Charlie.

  ‘It’s not right,’ he said. ‘Stealing the odd war souvenir is one thing, but busting out an enemy prisoner? I’d feel like a traitor.’

  ‘But he’s not an enemy prisoner,’ Charlie spluttered. ‘He’s our mate!’

  ‘I know,’ said Alf, and even in the darkness Charlie could see how miserable he was. ‘But if my brother ever found out –’

  ‘Alf,’ said Charlie. ‘Do you remember when your dad turfed you out of the house?’