by Derek Hansen
‘Sit up. C’mon, sit up!’
Red opened his eyes slowly. The bathroom had shrunk and the tiles had disappeared along with the revolving fan on the ceiling.
‘Your soup.’ Rosie had put the soup bowl inside another so that it wouldn’t burn his hands as he held it. He took it from her. ‘Bon appétit!’ she said and left him to eat in peace. If there was one thing Rosie understood it was the sanctity of the bath.
Red dipped his spoon into a liquid thick with lentils, beans, carrots and cabbage. He spotted a piece of meat that had separated from the ham bone and instinctively seized upon it. A blessing! He thought back to how the men used to give their soup a quick stir to see what lumps it had, if any. Sometimes a piece of sweet potato, radish, or worthless white melon, but sometimes the rare treasure of a piece of meat. It didn’t matter that it was fish, buffalo, rat flesh, snake or dog. It was protein, and the recipient was grateful for it. The men were so starved for meat that they invested it with mystical powers. There was iron in meat, and protein. Meat brought strength and endurance, replenished muscle. Meat meant survival. But the unaccustomed treat sometimes triggered diarrhoea, and the meal and all its sustenance were often lost in sudden, foul rejection. Nevertheless, the unfortunate stirred their soup and bitterly resented the lucky. They’d risk diarrhoea. They’d risk a beating. Anything. All for a piece of meat.
‘Time’s up. Important bits are beginning to shrivel.’
Red dragged himself back from his reveries and handed Rosie his empty bowl. When had he finished it? How long had he lain there like a prostrate Buddha with his bowl cupped beggar-like in his fingers? His bath water had cooled and lost its comfort.
‘I’ll help you get dry, then you can put this on.’ She held up her white towelling bathrobe. ‘Then come and sit in front of the fire while I anoint you with antiseptic. By the way, Archie likes my soup.’
‘I like your soup, too.’
‘Good. Just don’t fart like him.’
Red laughed suddenly. The sound seemed to surprise him as much as her. Rosie had never seen him smile and never expected laughter. It ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving both of them feeling awkward. She held the towel wide and he stepped into it. She gently patted him dry like a mother tending a small child, while Red just stood, quietly accepting. He put on the dressing gown she gave him, unconcerned by how foolish it made him look. Rosie couldn’t help wondering if Red was displaying past conditioning or trust. Was she becoming his friend or just his nurse? She led him into the main room where the chair sat waiting in front of the Shacklock. Archie lay curled up on a sugar sack to one side watching, tail beating a rhythm on the floor.
‘I’m going to clean all these scratches and scrapes properly, and pare away some of the dead skin.’ She used tweezers to pick up cotton wool, dipped the wad in a little dish of Gentian Violet antiseptic and began swabbing the deeper gouges. She picked up a small curette blade and scraped away dead skin.
‘I could have done with some of this stuff in Burma.’
His comment surprised her but she didn’t let on. ‘How did you wind up in Burma?’ Rosie kept her voice as casual as she could.
‘We were heading for Egypt. Our troop ship ran into a cyclone up near the Solomons. Some of our equipment broke loose in the hold and I was one of the lucky volunteers sent down to secure it.’
‘What happened?’
‘We got smashed up. One bloke died, one had both his legs broken. I scored a fractured skull and broken ribs. They off-loaded us onto a British naval launch in the straits off Singapore.’
‘Didn’t they have any medical equipment in Singapore?’ Rosie worked away, swabbing and scraping, taking advantage of his distraction.
‘Yeah, they had plenty in Singapore.’ His voice trailed away. ‘Could’ve done with some at Thanbyuzayat.’
Rosie saw the elsewhere look creep back into his eyes, settling like a ground mist. She encouraged him to continue. Once, her father had got through to a patient diagnosed as catatonic, and managed to get him talking. The man had talked non-stop for four days. ‘Go on.’
‘I helped out in the camp hospitals from time to time. The Japs thought I was a doctor or orderly of some sort. If they’d asked Archie where he was from first instead of me I would have copied him and said Eighth AIF. Instead I said the Alexandra Hospital. The camp hospitals weren’t much by way of hospitals, just huts with more than their fair share of sick and dying.’
The images that appeared in his mind furrowed his brow. These weren’t pleasant memories borne on the soothing waters of his bath, of a nurse whom he’d come to love and who’d loved him in return. Instead he saw men rotting away with dysentery, cholera and putrefying ulcers. Saw his hands helping in the daily curettage, trying not to vomit with the stench. Saw the needle blackening in the flame before lancing boils. Saw pieces of clothing, threadbare and boiled, scouring infection from wounds. Heard men scream, scream, scream, plead for him to stop. He saw men no more than skeletons dehydrate in explosions of diarrhoea and seeping sweat. Saw men apologising with their eyes for the fact that their life was dribbling away down their legs and over their soiled sheets. Saw his hands scrubbing the shit off beds and off the floor of the typhus death house, scrubbing and scrubbing, cleaning and disinfecting so the stronger would have a chance. So the strong could survive.
‘That’ll do, Red. That’ll do!’ Rosie was shaking him. ‘That’ll do, hero.’ She held him by the shoulders as his eyes flickered and groped for recognition. Had she really thought it would be so easy? Soften him up with a hot bath then open him up like a steamed tuatua? Red looked up at her steadily, reality slowly replacing the images in his mind.
‘Welcome back, Red. Where did you go to? You keep disappearing on me.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea,’ he said automatically. He looked down at his chest and stomach, blotched purple with antiseptic, and wondered when that had happened.
‘A cup of tea before bed.’ As Rosie stirred the water in her teapot she casually undid the top buttons of her blouse. ‘A cup of tea before bed,’ she repeated, ‘and then, my good man, you are going to repay your nurse for her kindness.’
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Mickey Finn likened himself to a boxer who had no defence, and only one punch in his kit which he was rarely allowed to use. There were times when he honestly believed he was the most useless individual in the whole of New Zealand. He longed for the opportunity to prove otherwise, yet was wary when it seemed the chance had finally arrived.
‘When did this come in?’ Lieutenant Commander Mickey Finn asked cautiously. He studied the note with growing interest. He’d thought the day had delivered more than its quota of surprises when he’d found a radio fresh from stores – though hardly fresh from its maker – sitting on his desk with a tag earmarking it for the hermit on Great Barrier Island.
‘Eight o’clock this morning, sir. I took the call myself.’ Third Officer (PA) Gloria Wainscott ran her hands down the side of her skirt as if checking the straightness of the seams. ‘Your man on Cape Brett. Couldn’t sleep, got up to spend a penny and saw this heavenly vision appear out of nowhere.’ She was clearly excited and fought hard to contain it. ‘One moment nothing, next a foreign trawler lit up like a Christmas tree right outside his window, maybe three miles out. He put his binoculars on it and watched them haul their net in. A big catch too, according to him. He reckons he watched for over an hour before the lights went out. Two and a half hours later, they lit up again just inside the Poor Knights Islands. They’ve got a nerve, sir, you have to give them that.’
‘Did he get any idea of nationality?’ Mickey was beginning to share his young assistant’s excitement.
‘No flags, but says they could be Japanese. Could be anything. We’ll just have to find out what’s in the area.’
‘First get confirmation. I don’t know that too many of our spotters are teetotallers, if you get my dri
ft. Ring the local cop shop and see if they have anything. Once we’ve got confirmation I’ll try for air surveillance. Off you go.’ Mickey Finn watched Gloria scurry away, her enthusiasm, loyalty and devotion beyond question. In her next life she’d make someone a wonderful puppy, but it was the disposition of her present life that often had him wondering. How did someone his age get someone her age interested? There were times when he thought they came from different planets. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes to try to clear his head for the job at hand.
He spread his charts out on the table. If the sighting was confirmed he was certain the incursion would not be a one-off. It was too well thought through. No running lights, no lights at all until the catch was up to the stern ramp. That spoke of a well-drilled crew and clear intent. The question was, what pattern would the trawler skipper adopt? He’d had one good haul, so would he backtrack for a second run? Or would he go out wide and fish the depths before striking in close again? Random incursions would be impossible to anticipate and set traps for. Or was the skipper so arrogant that he thought he could run south, appearing and disappearing at will? If so, they stood a fair chance of catching him. Mickey wished he had more people strung out along the coast, but he’d never thought he’d need them. Too many people lived along the north-east coast for foreign boats to risk fishing in close, where they could be easily spotted. But nobody had thought to try the lights-out trick before, and that changed everything. The skipper’s audacity made Mickey pause and draw a long, deep breath.
‘Action stations.’ Gloria almost danced into his office. She beamed down at him with a cat-like look of satisfaction, hazel eyes shining with excitement. The chase was on.
‘Top tart! What have you got?’
Gloria winced. ‘Police at Russell have a report from three fishermen in a runabout who claim they were nearly run down by a foreign trawler under way without lights. Two and a half miles out from Cape Brett and they never saw or heard a thing until one of the men picked up the bow wave less than one hundred yards from them. Apparently it was as dark as the inside of a cow. Their description, sir, not mine. They barely had time to cut their anchor rope and start their outboard.’
‘Nice of the police to phone and tell us.’
‘They rang the fisheries.’
‘They’d have been better off ringing my mum. Anything else?’
‘Report from a woman in Kawakawa who saw a submarine surface and disappear near the Poor Knights Islands about five-thirty this morning. Came up in a blaze of light and disappeared. She’s convinced it’s the Russians. Several more reports of bright lights appearing and disappearing out at sea. I think we have confirmation.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of keeping any of this out of the papers?’
‘No, sir. The Bay of Islands papers are already onto it. And I think you can count on the Herald or Star picking up the story.’
‘Thanks, Gloria.’
‘Some good news.’
‘Ahhh . . . I thought you were a bit smug. Let’s have it.’
‘Well, we could request a search and photo reconnaissance by one of our Sunderlands. We’d probably get knocked back or delayed so long we might as well have been knocked back in the first place. On the other hand, if the Commodore accepts our recommendation and we do get our Sunderland, overflying them would only show our hand. It would be like sending the skipper a telegram saying we’re on to him.’
‘So?’
‘One of the men in the runabout is an Auckland businessman. And a pilot. He flew up there in his own Cessna. The police are trying to get hold of him for us. They say he’s a bit of a character and will probably jump at the chance to help.’
‘Thank you, God!’ Mickey put his hands together in mock prayer and cast his eyes heavenward. ‘When the pilot calls, put him through to me. And Gloria, good work.’ He smiled, she saluted. What hope did he have?
Mickey settled over his charts to try to work out the trawler’s likely position. He didn’t want the Cessna whizzing around in circles all over the place, warning off his quarry. A good arrest now could win the public over, put pressure on the politicians to support the fisheries protection squadron, and maybe secure the means by which they could do their jobs properly. The opportunity was God-given, and he was determined not to let it slip away.
He tried to put himself in the position of the trawler skipper. Clearly the man wanted to play phantom, so logically he’d want to be as far from shore as possible by morning. Out of sight and out of mind. Mickey plotted a course for the Cessna beginning thirty miles south of the Poor Knights and thirty miles out to sea. It was important that the pilot flew low enough to take a decent photo, but even more important that he didn’t deviate from his course. Mickey knew the bridge watch would follow the flight of the light plane on their radar to see if it did anything suspicious. He’d have to make sure the pilot understood the nature of the game and didn’t try any John Wayne stuff. He settled back to spend the morning on the phone.
The pilot rang from Russell, understood his instructions and the reason for them. He was ex-Airforce. Once Mickey had the pilot on side, he decided to alert his counterpart at Hobsonville airbase. Afterwards he called a contact at the National Airways Corporation with his usual request for pilots on scheduled flights in the area to report any sightings of foreign trawlers. The pilots were usually only too happy to oblige. Again he cautioned against them deviating from their flight path, a necessary precaution given that many of them had also flown combat missions in the Second World War and had retained their enthusiasm for engagement. He hadn’t forgotten the occasion when an over-enthusiastic DC3 pilot on a regular service from Tauranga to Auckland with a near full complement of passengers, had put his aircraft through a switch-back dive to have a better look at an intruder. He made a final call to Captain Fred Ladd to ask him to keep an eye open around the Gulf and Great Barrier. Then he kept his line free for a return call from the Cessna pilot.
While Mickey waited, he prepared a report for his commanding officer, and a request for information to the Japanese Embassy in Wellington. It was time to update his file. He wanted the names of all the Japanese fishing vessels operating around New Zealand along with the names of their skippers. The embassy staff had made an art of procrastination. They were always obliging and always gave an excellent impression of co-operation, but by the time they responded the information was always a little old – ‘so sorry’. Nevertheless, it was useful. Mickey Finn was a firm believer in knowing his enemy, and kept a dossier on every skipper who ventured into his territory. He studied their operational methods as best he could, determining who was law abiding, who wasn’t, who was cautious and who was aggressive. Apart from anything else, it helped fill in the blank spaces in his reports and never failed to impress his superiors.
Was the skipper a new chum, he wondered, or one of his old adversaries? He opened his filing cabinet and rifled through for suspects. The lights-on, lights-off routine led him straight to the file on Shimojo Seiichi. The profile was spot on, but Shimojo was a longliner. Or had he been reassigned? Mickey winced when he recalled their abortive attempt to catch the Aiko Maru off the tip of Great Barrier. The man was a known poacher, but there was a vast difference between running dories without lights and an operational trawler. If not Shimojo, then who? Were other skippers adopting the same practice, was it a directive from Japan? Mickey could hardly imagine a more chilling prospect. He kept Shimojo’s file in his pile of suspects on the sound principle that he was guilty until proven innocent.
The Japanese trawler backtracked north thirty miles off shore in search of mackerel under the command of its new skipper, Shimojo Seiichi. Though not in the class of snapper, the mackerel were still a valued catch and the trawler had plenty of freezer space. The night’s trawl had netted twenty tons of snapper and there were many more to be had. With no patrol boats within two hundred miles, another fruitful night beckoned. But a thief did not advertise his intentions and
, as a natural precaution, Shimojo kept the trawler out of sight of land by day. Life aboard the Shoto Maru had settled into a routine when the radar operator alerted the skipper to an incoming aircraft. It was approaching low and to starboard, less than half a mile away. Shimojo immediately ordered the off-duty crew to the foredeck to wave to the passing aircraft. It was a friendly gesture calculated to obscure the trawler’s identity, which was painted across the superstructure. But there was nothing anyone could do to obscure the name emblazoned on the stern. All eyes on both deck and bridge watched carefully to see if there was any deviation in the plane’s course. It passed by without showing any apparent interest.
Captain Shimojo Seiichi dismissed the aircaft as nothing more than passing traffic. It gave him no cause to change his mind. When night fell he would again take his new command inshore and plunder the schools of snapper close in, taking more fish in a single night than his old longliner took in a week.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Rosie woke at first light. She was tired, snug and happy as a kitten. Her bedroom was still dark and chilled by the morning air. Rain beat a soft and soporific rhythm on the iron roof. She had no reason at all to wake up or get out of bed. She reached across to put her arm around Red and snuggle into him for warmth, but came up emptyhanded. It took a moment to register on her sleepy mind that Red was no longer there. Realising his side of the bed was still warm, she lifted her head from the pillow and forced her bleary eyes to focus. What she saw in the pale light by the window made her wonder if she was still dreaming. She watched spellbound as Red performed his silent, slow-motion ballet, balancing first on one leg and then the other while his arms and body writhed to an unheard melody. The sheer grace and fluidity of his movements, and the intensity with which he performed them, amazed her. She felt guilty for watching, an outsider intruding on something immensely private, but she could no more drag her eyes away than give up sex.