The Fighting Stingrays

by Simon Mitchell

  ‘Lucky!’ snorted Masa. ‘Lucky to live in a place that locks people up for no good reason?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Alf, his voice getting louder. ‘My brother reckons –’

  ‘Oh, who gives a toss what your brother reckons,’ snapped Masa.

  Alf leaned in so his nose was only inches from Masa’s. ‘My brother’s worth ten of any stinking Jap,’ he snarled.

  Masa’s punch caught Alf off guard. He reeled backwards, clutching his jaw as Masa looked at his own fist in surprise. Then Alf whirled around, eyes blazing. ‘You’re gone,’ he said.

  Masa barely had time to bring his other fist up before Alf charged him. The two of them fell right on the crystal radio set, splitting it in half and sending wires and bits of coil pinging into the sand. Judy, startled by the sudden violence, disappeared under a nearby coconut shell.

  ‘Cut it out!’ yelled Charlie. But Alf wasn’t having any of it – he kept laying into Masa, each blow making a sound like a ripe mango being thrown against a wall. Masa struggled to push him off, but he didn’t have a hope – Alf was close to twice his size.

  Charlie’s eyes fell on a log in the campfire. He yanked it out and jabbed it at Alf’s face. ‘Get off!’ he cried.

  Alf flinched as the flames almost singed his eyebrows. He raised his head and scowled at Charlie, top lip curled as he pinned Masa to the ground. Charlie thrust the fiery stick towards him again and Alf rose slowly to his feet, panting heavily.

  ‘Go on, clear off!’ shouted Charlie. ‘You can drown trying to swim to the mainland if you want, but keep us out of it. We didn’t drop those bombs on Darwin, and you know it!’

  Masa sat up gingerly. His eye was swollen, his lip was split open and his face was caked with sand and blood. ‘Get lost, Alf,’ he said, his voice whisper-quiet. ‘You’re nothing but an animal.’

  Alf roared and bolted into the jungle, and a few seconds later came the sound of splintering bamboo – Alf was taking his anger out on the walls of Old Nick’s shack.

  ‘He’s barking mad,’ said Masa, trembling. ‘He’s smashing up our only shelter.’

  ‘Let him,’ muttered Charlie. There was no point in trying to reason with Alf when he was like this.

  Charlie hurled the flaming log back on to the fire. It didn’t matter if the Japanese invaded Australia or not – the Fighting Stingrays were perfectly good at starting their own wars.

  Alf apologised first thing the next morning. ‘Sorry ’bout last night,’ he said, tracing a circle in the sand with his big toe.

  Masa didn’t even look up from his breakfast coconut.

  ‘It’s just that my brother’s the only family I have left,’ Alf said. ‘But it doesn’t matter – I shouldn’t have said all that stuff.’

  Masa kept ignoring him.

  ‘And what about knocking down Old Nick’s shack?’ said Charlie. ‘Or breaking our crystal set?’

  Alf’s chin dropped to his chest. ‘I’m sorry about that too,’ he said. ‘I’m a real mongrel.’

  Charlie ground his teeth. He was furious, but there wasn’t much point in holding a grudge when the three of them were stuck together on an island the size of a couple of footy fields. ‘All right then,’ he sighed, standing up to shake Alf’s hand.

  Alf nodded enthusiastically. ‘Masa?’ he said, extending his hand.

  Masa took another sip from his coconut, wincing as the juice stung his split lip.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ said Charlie. ‘Shake his hand.’ Masa scowled at Charlie, then took Alf’s hand without any enthusiasm. Eyes on the ground, he gave it a single pump.

  ‘Right,’ said Charlie, as cheerfully as he could manage. ‘Now let’s get that shack patched up, eh?’

  Alf was desperate to repair the damage he’d done to Old Nick’s shelter, and spent the rest of the day rushing about madly, straightening walls, mending the broken bits with fresh canes of bamboo, and doing his best to bend the corrugated roof back into shape. But Masa didn’t care – he just moped about on shore, chucking shells into the lagoon or gazing across the ocean, clutching the faded photo of Mr U he’d saved from Uncle Jiro’s house.

  The gloomy mood that settled over the island was made worse by the return of the rain. It poured down almost non-stop for two weeks straight, soaking their clothes, churning up the sand in the lagoon and drenching every last bit of firewood. The tinned food from TI was long gone, so the Fighting Stingrays had to make do with raw oysters and Japanese-style fish for every meal.

  On the few occasions the rain stopped for an hour or two, they were set upon by plagues of fat mosquitos. The plucky insects particularly liked the taste of Masa, and he was constantly slapping mozzies or scratching the itchy bites they left behind.

  Despite his efforts, Alf’s repair job was pretty shoddy, and the shack was constantly springing new leaks. Charlie often woke up with water pooling underneath him, or dripping onto his face like some sort of Chinese water torture. And the never-ending damp meant all sorts of colourful moulds and fungi grew on the walls of Old Nick’s shelter, making the whole place look more like a Martian’s greenhouse than somewhere to sleep.

  Every night, Charlie dreamed of faceless soldiers crossing the lagoon in grey boats emblazoned with the blood-red sun of the Japanese flag. He found himself frozen to the spot, unable to move as the enemy marched over the beach towards him as a single mass, bayonets glinting in the moonlight. He always woke up just as the faceless men reached him, biting his tongue to keep from screaming in fear. But it was never more than a few seconds before the fear was replaced by a deep sense of shame seeping into every part of him. He bet Biggles never had nightmares like that – Biggles wasn’t weak.

  Without the crystal set, they no longer got any news about the war. They had no idea if the Japanese had bombed more cities, or if enemy ships were on the way or if Australia had already been overrun. But they heard the roar of planes every now and then, and sometimes they could even see black specks zooming across the overcast skies.

  ‘I reckon they’re Flying Fortresses,’ said Alf one day, pointing their field glasses at a group of airborne dots in the distance. It hadn’t rained all day, and the sun was trying to break through the dark grey clouds above them. Masa was perched on a big piece of driftwood under the fig tree a few yards away, carving something into it with a sharp shell.

  ‘Must be Americans,’ said Alf, ‘heading off on a raid to New Guinea. Aren’t they beaut?’

  Masa snorted, and Alf lowered the binoculars to glare at him. ‘You right?’ he said.

  Alf and Masa might have officially made up, but the tension between them was as thick as treacle, and they were always looking for a chance to bicker and snap at each other.

  Masa glared back. ‘Never better,’ he said.

  ‘Cos it sounds like you’ve got a problem.’

  ‘A problem?’ said Masa. ‘Here I am, stranded in the middle of the blasted ocean with a billion mosquitos and bugger all to eat. Why on earth would I have a problem?’

  Alf huffed. ‘So you’d rather be a prisoner, would you?’

  Masa shrugged. ‘I’d rather have Cousin Kiyoko nagging me all day than listen to you yammering on about bombers and battleships for one more second.’ Alf went beet red. ‘Is that right?’ he said, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice.

  Masa jumped off the driftwood log and sprinted onto the open beach, cupping his hands to his mouth. ‘Hey!’ he called at the departing bombers.

  ‘Come back! I surrender!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ yelled Charlie. He followed Masa and put a hand on his shoulder to guide him back towards the fig tree. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  Masa shook Charlie off. ‘Leave me alone,’ he mumbled. He grabbed Judy and wandered further down the beach, picking up shells and hurling them into the water.

  Charlie was staring after him as a new noise reached his ears. It was only a light rumbling, barely audible. But Alf noticed it too, and pointed the binoculars back at the sky.
‘I can’t see anything,’ he said.

  Then Charlie spotted a brown dot out to sea beyond the reef. Squinting, he made out a pair of tall masts coming straight towards them.

  ‘It’s a boat!’ he said in a strangled voice. His nightmares were coming true – the vessel was speeding in their direction under full engine power, and in a few minutes the beach would be swarming with Japanese troops brandishing bayonets. But this boat wasn’t like any warship he’d ever seen. ‘Hand me those glasses,’ he said.

  Alf passed him the field glasses and Charlie trained them on the boat. It was a large wooden vessel with a dark blue stripe around the hull. ‘It’s one of my dad’s luggers!’ he exclaimed.

  He adjusted the focus of the binoculars as the lugger got closer, and soon he could make out about a dozen people on board. A few moments later, he recognised the figure standing in the bow. He breathed sharply and dropped the field glasses like they were on fire.

  ‘Oh strewth,’ he said.

  ‘Is it your old man?’ said Alf, eyes widening.

  ‘Worse,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s Captain Maddox.’

  ‘Masa!’ cried Charlie.

  Fifty yards down the beach, Masa ignored him.

  ‘Maggots is coming!’ Charlie yelled.

  That did it. Masa took one look at the approaching masts and sprinted back to the shack. ‘We’re done for,’ he said.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Charlie. ‘Hide everything.’

  Masa kicked sand over the fire pit while Alf grabbed the backpack and stuffed their meagre belongings inside it. Charlie picked up an armful of dead palm leaves and scattered them around the floor of the hut, trying to make it look as neglected as possible.

  By the time they finished, the lugger was anchored just outside the gap in the reef. A few men had already lowered a dinghy into the water, and Charlie heard gruff voices on the wind as they started crossing the lagoon.

  ‘Into the bomb shelter,’ he hissed to the others. The Fighting Stingrays dashed into the scrub behind the shack. Alf lifted the cover of their makeshift bomb shelter, and Charlie and Masa piled in to discover the bottom was covered in dense, sloppy, shin-deep mud.

  ‘Yuck,’ said Masa, holding Judy with one hand and his nose with the other. ‘It’s almost as thick and smelly as Alf.’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ snapped Alf. ‘Unless you want some of that mud in it?’

  ‘Knock it off, both of you,’ said Charlie.

  Grumbling, Alf leapt into the hole and pulled the bamboo cover on top of them. Wedged between his two feuding friends, Charlie poked one of the palm fronds up enough for him to peer out.

  Half-a-dozen soldiers piled out of the dinghy and onto the beach. Captain Maddox was first ashore, and Charlie recognised a couple of the other men – there was Jim, the miserable guard from the gate at Yokohama, and Sergeant Livingston, the gruff voiced soldier who had almost stumbled on them in the chicken coop when they were breaking Masa out.

  Captain Maddox was berating one of his underlings. ‘You had one job, Private!’ he roared.

  ‘To fill up the water bags before we left. How are we going to beat the Japs if we’re dying of dehydration, eh?’

  The private cowered. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I –’

  ‘Bah!’ said Captain Maddox. ‘You’ll be sorry when you’re polishing my boots every morning for the next three months.’ He turned to the rest of his men and pointed into the jungle. ‘According to the chart there’s some sort of spring in that direction. You know what to do.’

  The soldiers began grabbing empty goatskin water bags from the dinghy and carrying them across the beach. Sergeant Livingston was the first to notice Old Nick’s shack. ‘Strike me pink!’ he said, dropping his water bag in the sand. ‘What’s this?’

  Charlie’s fingernails dug into his palms as Captain Maddox strode over to where Sergeant Livingston was circling the bamboo structure.

  ‘Sir, you said this island was deserted,’ said Sergeant Livingston. ‘But some bugger’s built a house here. Japs, you reckon?’

  Captain Maddox inspected the shack closely.

  ‘Doubt it,’ he said, kicking a wall. ‘The Japanese may be devious little worms, Sergeant Livingston, but they’re no slouches when it comes to construction. These walls look like they were put up by a drunk chimpanzee.’

  Alf grunted quietly.

  One of the other soldiers stopped under the fig tree in front of the shack. ‘Sir, there’s a message carved into this log.’

  Masa gulped. ‘Oh no,’ he whispered.

  Captain Maddox strolled over to the piece of driftwood where Masa had been sitting only moments before. ‘What does it say, Private?’

  The young soldier kneeled beside the log. ‘It says “Antenna Alf is a big fat . . .” I can’t quite make out the next word, but it looks like it starts with an “F”.’

  Charlie shot a glare at Masa, and Alf muttered through gritted teeth.

  Captain Maddox was gazing thoughtfully at his minion. ‘Did you say “Alf”?’ Maddox said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered the soldier. ‘Antenna Alf, to be precise.’

  Captain Maddox studied the log for a few seconds and a cruel smile unfurled across his face. ‘The Jap boy and his traitorous friends are here,’ he said. ‘Men – search the island!’

  The soldiers spread out. Charlie shrank further into the pit as footsteps and rifle butts bashing through overgrowth sounded only a few feet away.

  ‘Those little bastards are here somewhere,’ called Captain Maddox. ‘First man to find them gets ten pounds.’

  There was a murmur of excitement and the scrub-bashing sped up. Charlie, Masa and Alf huddled in their hole, breathing fast, and Charlie prayed they had done a good enough job camouflaging the bomb shelter. But after a while, the noise of breaking branches faded away, with only the occasional voice drifting back through the jungle.

  The Fighting Stingrays waited quite some time. The sun finally emerged from the clouds, and little fingers of sunlight started creeping into their pit through the palm fronds. But that meant the hole became an oven, and Charlie felt like the three of them were plucked chickens wedged into a pan for roasting.

  ‘I need some air,’ gasped Masa.

  Charlie nodded and carefully lifted the pit cover. The area was deserted – the only sign that Maddox’s company was even on the island was the dinghy on the beach and the lugger anchored just offshore. But then Charlie heard voices nearby and ducked back into the bomb shelter, pulling the cover down so fast it smacked Alf in the head.

  ‘Oof,’ said Alf.

  Charlie put a finger to his lips as footsteps clumped into the clearing.

  ‘What is it with the captain and those bloody kids?’ grumbled a voice. ‘They’re either long drowned or halfway to Brisbane by now. I dunno why he’s got to waste our time with this rubbish.’

  ‘Maddox is a funny one all right, Cedric,’ agreed another soldier. ‘Oi, let’s have a smoke.’

  There was silence for a moment, broken only by the sound of a match being struck. Charlie raised his palm-leaf peephole a fraction of an inch. Not more than ten feet away, miserable Jim and another young fellow were puffing on cigarettes as they lounged on a vine-covered log, legs stretched out in front of them.

  Jim exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Still, I s’pose being in Maddox’s company does have a few advantages,’ he said. ‘How’s that new watch going?’

  ‘Very bloody well,’ said the soldier called Cedric. ‘And Elsie wrote to say she loves the silk dress I sent her. Ought to keep her away from those smooth-talking Yanks, at least.’

  New watch? A silk dress? What were these two on about?

  Cedric leapt to his feet. ‘Hold my smoke a tick, will you?’ He passed his cigarette to Jim and headed straight towards the Fighting Stingrays’ hideout.

  Charlie let go of the palm leaf as Cedric’s boots crunched only inches from their heads. The soldier’s shadow darkened the tiny gaps between the bamboo and Charlie’s hea
rt pounded in his ears – a couple more steps and Cedric would fall right on top of them!

  But then the footsteps stopped. Charlie didn’t dare to blink, let alone breathe. In the corner of his eye, Alf was clenching the machete so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then it started to rain, a heavy sun-shower that pitter-pattered against the leaves of their hideout cover and trickled through onto Charlie’s head. He wondered why Cedric was just standing there getting soaked, and why none of the drops were hitting Alf or Masa. A split second later, he had the horrible realisation – it wasn’t rain at all. For one thing, it was much too warm and, for another, it smelled a bit funny.

  ‘Ooorgh, that’s better,’ said Cedric. ‘I’ve been holding this in since we left TI.’

  Alf pressed himself against the dirt wall, getting as far away from Charlie as possible as he bit his lip to stop from laughing. On the other side of him, Masa was stuffing a fist into his mouth to keep his own chuckles at bay. Charlie glared at both of them.

  After what seemed like a year, Cedric finally finished up. He trudged back towards Jim as a large number of soldiers entered the clearing.

  ‘Found anything?’ said Captain Maddox.

  ‘Not a dicky bird, sir,’ said Jim.

  ‘Blast it,’ said Captain Maddox. ‘No sign of their boat either. The sly little buggers must have cleared out already.’

  ‘Shall we get a wriggle on then, sir?’ said the gruff voice of Sergeant Livingston. ‘Murphy and Taylor have filled the water bags, and we’ve got a lot of supplies to deliver.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ said Captain Maddox. ‘I want to make sure those little traitors will never come back here again.’

  Sergeant Livingston cleared his throat. ‘How, sir?’

  The captain’s voice dripped with venom. ‘By burning this place to the ground. Fetch the fuel cans!’

  ‘Sir?’ said Sergeant Livingston. ‘That fuel is for our trucks and boats.’

  ‘That fuel is the property of the Australian Army’s Forty-Ninth Battalion,’ said Captain Maddox. ‘Which makes it as much mine as anyone else’s.’