by Derek Hansen
‘Hurry, Red!’ She ducked for cover as a wave top hurdled the bow.
A school of tuna had hooked up on the the second line and drowned. Red cut them free. There was no point in keeping them. He had no ice to stop the flesh from spoiling. Other than that, the second line was a repeat of the first. The birds simply didn’t learn. They spent all day every day scavenging for food, covering hundreds of miles in the process, and simply couldn’t resist easy pickings. Rosy finally threw up, sickened by the rocking of the boat and by the senseless slaughter. But seasickness could not excuse her from work. Once Red had released the last of a flock of birds, she relieved him on the line, standing like he had, feet apart, back straight, arms working like pistons. She heard Red curse and guessed there were more trapped birds ahead. Momentarily she felt glad, because it meant that Red would take over the line again and give her back and arms another chance to recover.
‘Gannets.’
Red engaged neutral and swapped places with Rosie. She shielded her eyes against the sun so that she could see them. Some were fighting the dead weight of the line, others had already given in, their golden heads flopping uselessly in the waves. It seemed so unfair and unjust. She wanted to help free them but didn’t know how. The double barb on the Japanese hooks made Red’s work all the more difficult. She winced as a struggling bird ripped the point of a hook across the back of his hand, gouging a furrow as it went. He seemed not to notice and ignored the injury until the bird was free. Then he reached over the side and let the sea wash it.
‘Rosie, pass me the bottle of meths. In the cupboard under the helm.’
Rosie threw him the bottle, guessing immediately why he wanted it. She winced once more as he unscrewed the cap and poured the raw spirit straight into the wound. She decided then that she’d let Red handle all the birds. He released the last of the flock and yelled at her to haul in the slack. His stamina seemed limitless.
‘Talk to me, Red.’
‘Not now, Rosie.’
‘I just want to know one thing. Tell me and I’ll get off your back. What was so good about the camps?’
‘There was nothing good about the camps. Nothing. Nothing!’
‘So how come you enjoyed it?’
Red seemed to ignore her. His arms swung backwards and forwards, hauling in the longline with metronomic precision. Beads of sweat and spray dotted his forehead, ran down his face and dripped from the point of his nose and chin.
‘I never said I enjoyed it, Rosie.’
‘Okay, okay . . . then what made you say it was the best time of your life? What made you say that?’
Red stared at the water in front of him as his arms pumped. ‘I can’t explain. It’s just that, after the war, there was nothing. Just emptiness. It was like I’d survived, but when the war ended they took away my reason for surviving. I didn’t know where I fitted anymore. In the camps everything was so clear. Every waking moment was dedicated to survival. Then they brought me home and just let me get on with it. But what was I supposed to get on with, Rosie?’ He cut more tuna free from the line.
‘A normal life, Red. Job, wife, children, football on Saturdays, the pub after work.’
‘That wasn’t normal to me! The camps were normal! The beatings were normal! Starving was normal! Dysentery, beriberi, malaria . . .’
‘That’ll do, Red!’
He began to haul in the line like a man possessed, so quickly that Rosie was forced to increase throttle to keep up. But that wasn’t what concerned her. She could see his body begin to shake.
‘Just one last question, Red, and then I promise no more questions today. But slow down. We have two more lines to pull in and I can’t do it by myself.’ She waited until Red’s breathing slowed and deepened and his work rate slackened. She eased back on the throttle to match his pace. ‘What’s the one thing you miss about the camps, Red? What’s the one thing you miss most?’
‘Belonging.’
‘Belonging?’ Rosie thought she’d misheard.
‘I miss belonging. I belonged in the camps.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I belonged to a group, Rosie. We survived for each other and because of each other. We made each other laugh when we had no reason to laugh. We lived our lives more intensely than you can ever imagine. We belonged to each other, Rosie, and I miss them. Every day of my life I miss them! I miss Archie! I miss them all!’
Rosie knew she’d pushed too hard, gone too far. There was nothing she could do but try to hold the helm steady. She began to digest the implications of what he’d said while Red hauled furiously on the line. She didn’t try to slow him down. It was doubtful he’d have heard her, doubtful he was even aware of her any more. Red had gone back to Burma. To his mates. To the hell that had reshaped them, and still held him prisoner.
They laboured throughout the morning and well into the afternoon, working automatically, speaking only when work made it necessary. The further they went out to sea, the more dead birds they found. There were no survivors at all on the fourth line, but the effort of pulling in the miles of line had dulled Rosie’s brain to the point where conversation was out of the question. Red had added another half-dozen kingfish to their catch and a few yellowfin tuna which he kept for bait.
The journey back to Wreck Bay was easier with the wind behind them and a following sea. Even so, Rosie crouched behind Red and snuggled into him, arms around his waist. She was numb with cold and weariness. Time and again she found herself rocking off into troubled sleep. There was no joy for her in thinking about the number of birds they’d saved, just despair at the needless slaughter. She wondered how the Japanese felt when they pulled in their tuna lines and found birds instead of fish impaled on the hooks. Didn’t they care? Maybe she was beginning to understand Red in more ways than she’d intended, understand what drove him to protect the waters around Wreck Bay, what fuelled his hatred. After all, it was her patch of water, too. She’d be damned if she’d let the Japs destroy it.
The change in engine note aroused her from her stupor. She opened her eyes, relieved to find she was back inside the bay. The half-cabins were leaping about on their moorings as if the water was boiling. She knew she should get the mooring rope for Red but lacked the will to move. Her hands and arms seemed set in concrete, her eyes were swollen, and the skin on her face was sandblasted and stretched drum tight. She hadn’t worn a hat, sun glasses or sun cream and was paying the penalty. All she could think of was a hot bath and bed. She didn’t care if she didn’t eat, all she wanted to do was sleep, and the longer the better. She heard the creak of rowlocks and saw Angus rowing out to meet them, and was overcome with relief.
‘How was it?’ Angus threw his painter around the stern cleat and tied off.
‘Bad, Angus. They killed hundreds of birds.’
‘Aye.’ He turned to Rosie critically. ‘And what about you?’
‘Had better days. Could you get me ashore and call a cab?’
‘I did warn you.’
‘You should have come with us and helped.’
‘It’s as well I didn’t. It seems all I’ve done all day is talk on the radio.’
‘They sending a patrol boat?’
‘Sorry, Red, they’ve none nearby to send. Mickey’s hoping to do something by the end of the week. There are no boats and no planes available. He asked us to do what we can.’
‘Do what we can!’ Rosie’s voice was unexpectedly shrill. It seemed to surprise her as much as the two men. ‘Angus, what the hell does he think we’ve been doing?’
‘I’m going out again tonight.’ Red spoke quietly but with finality. ‘The Japs will come back for their lines and set others. Better I go alone. Angus, can you keep watch while I get some sleep? Call me as soon as you see anything.’
‘Aye, I suppose it’s my duty and I’ll not shirk it.’
‘Red! You must be joking.’
‘You get some rest, Rosie. This is only the beginning. We have to stop them now or they’ll
fish here all summer. We’ll need you on other nights.’
Rosie lacked the strength to argue. ‘Help me into the dinghy, Angus. Take me home. You can come back for wonder-boy later.’
‘There’s one other small matter,’ said Angus. ‘Mickey asked me to tell you that your old friend is on our doorstep – Shimojo Seiichi. Mickey insists you keep clear and leave the Shoto Maru to him. You hear me, Red?’
Red closed his eyes. He tried to imagine the damage a two-and-a-half thousand ton trawler would do. He tried to imagine the three hundred foot wide net scouring the tuatua and scallop beds, stripping them, ripping through the seagrass and destroying the sea bottom. He pictured the thousands upon thousands of snapper in roe snatched away before they had a chance to spawn. There was no choice, no choice at all. He turned to face Angus, jaw set, eyes cold. ‘Tell Mickey to get stuffed.’
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Mickey flattered himself that he was an astute tactician, and liked to believe that others in the Navy also shared his opinion. Many did, but no one ever considered him anything other than naive in the tactics of office politics. He’d tied the noose and was preparing to stick his head through it when Gloria had intervened. She’d read his report, flatly refused to type it, and suggested an alternative course of action. Gloria didn’t come on strong very often, but when she did he’d learned she was worth listening to. He’d agreed, though not without misgivings. But any doubts had vanished the instant Gloria’s father had opened the door to him.
He’d convinced himself he’d find an older version of Lieutenant Commander Scriven, someone whose tactical sense hadn’t advanced since the Battle of Trafalgar. He’d glumly resigned himself to an afternoon of being indulged, patronised and bored to his back teeth, becoming increasingly depressed as Gloria’s father became increasingly vocal on the wisdoms found in his bottle of port.
Commander John Cunningham Wainscott had proved the antithesis of his expectations. Though tall and patrician, he was anything but patrician in attitude. He’d welcomed Mickey with a warmth that seemed genuine and put him at ease with a casual, unaffected charm. He had the knack intelligent people have of listening and giving the impression that every word they hear is valued. Mickey had warmed to him immediately. Besides, the Commander wore a cardigan and Mickey was a cardigan man himself. He loved them when the elbows had stretched and they hung as shapeless as potato sacks and, obviously, so too did the Commander. It was precisely the sort of cardigan wives hate to see their husbands wearing when their daughter brings home the man in her life, particularly when that man is in the same business, of junior status, and comes bearing a problem.
Mickey launched into a review of Phil Scriven’s prevention not apprehension strategy, and then presented his ambush theory. He tried to be fair minded and acknowledge the pros and cons of each but, despite his best efforts, the pros of the current strategy as he presented them were tissue-thin. The Commander listened attentively without interruption, nodding as Mickey made his points.
‘I see,’ said the Commander at length. ‘I’m inclined to agree with your theories on ambush, though not necessarily for the same reasons. The truth is, there is no real will in the government for a campaign of arrests. The desired end result is as few incursions and arrests as possible. Do you follow me? If your ambush strategy is successful, then one should logically lead to the other. That would suit the Department of Marine and our primary producers who sell to Japan. The question is, do we have enough resources to sustain a viable threat of ambush?’
‘No. But we have resources to introduce sufficient doubt to make foreign vessels think twice. The fact is, after our attempt to trap the Shoto Maru in the Gulf – I’m sure Gloria would have brought you up to speed on that – the number of incursions fell away dramatically. They picked up again until we caught the Japanese dories red-handed off Ninety Mile Beach. The incursions dropped off again immediately after. But now that we’re patrolling the coast as predictably as the guardsmen outside Buckingham Palace, it’s open slather.’
‘It would have to be an ongoing tactic, then?’
‘Of course, but it needn’t involve so many arrests that trade relations become strained or the government embarrassed.’
‘Explain.’
‘The ambushes themselves would not be our greatest weapon, rather the ongoing fear of an ambush. Sure, we’d have to strike hard at the commencement of our campaign to let them know we mean business. Beyond that, there would still be occasions for apprehension. But the real point of the exercise is to maintain the element of surprise. For example, have patrol boats suddenly pop onto their radar screens when they least expect it. Use the Orions to catch them by surprise and blow their hats off with their prop wash. It wouldn’t matter whether the Japanese were within the twelve mile limit or not. The object is to let them know we know where they are, but leave them uncertain about where we are. Make them think twice about encroaching.’
‘How do you propose to do this?’
The east coast is full of islands and promontories. We can use them as radar shields. If the Orions tell us a trawler is heading in a certain direction, we can anticipate them and dispatch a patrol boat to a suitable hiding place before they have a chance to pick it up on their radar. Then we sit and wait. Hopefully, the Japanese will wake up to our tactics fairly quickly. They always have in the past. The trick then is to keep them guessing as to who has been targeted. Right now they have two demersal longliners, a pelagic longliner and a trawler operating between Coromandel and the Bay of Plenty. The question they’ll be asking themselves is, where will the patrol boat pop up? We’ll have not one but four boat skippers looking over their shoulders, hesitating to risk encroachment. Repeat that around our coastline and we have an effective force. We’ll never completely eliminate poaching but we can have a significant impact on the number of incidents.’
‘You mount a persuasive argument. Let me think about it a little longer and I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, keep your report in your pocket.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Mickey smiled, chastened.
‘By the way, that business with the Shoto Maru. It was an excellent piece of intelligence work on your part and your planning was first rate. It deserved to succeed. The tragedy is, we don’t always get what we deserve.’
‘Thank you. The real tragedy is that the Shoto Maru’s back to its old tricks. If its skipper starts making record hauls you can expect all the other trawlers to follow his lead. One way or another, the captain of the Shoto Maru is going to get what he deserves, even if I have to swim out and plant a bomb on board. Which, incidentally, is about all I can do at the present.’
‘Where is the Shoto Maru now?’
‘Just south of Colville Channel.’
‘Is there nothing we can do?’
‘Well, not entirely, Commander. I have two coast watchers on the northern tip of Great Barrier armed with a radio. One is an ex-police inspector turned recluse. The other is Red O’Hara, a veteran of the Burma Railway with more hang-ups than a wardrobe. But he has a determination to protect what he regards as his patch of ocean. However, I’m not sure there’s much he can do to frighten off a two-and-a-half thousand ton trawler.’
‘I can’t promise miracles, but I’ll get onto it.’
‘I’d appreciate that, sir. Red worries me. If the Shoto Maru decides to raid his patch, he’s not going to sit idly by and watch. He’ll take the law into his own hands. God only knows where that might lead.’
‘Dinner.’
Gloria stood at the door of the Commander’s study looking as pretty as he’d ever seen her. She wore her ‘I told you so’ smile, which Mickey had to concede was entirely justified.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
The skipper of the tuna boat cursed silently. He watched the beam of his spotlight sweep back and forth over the choppy water but knew they were wasting their time. Someone had taken the line closest to shore and stolen their catch. He
hoped that was the only one they’d taken and slowly worked to seaward in search of the others. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that the warm currents which attracted baitfish had swung inshore and carried the tuna with them. His instruments showed a four degree rise in water temperature. He was tempted to lay a new line but decided against it until he’d discovered the fate of the others. He cursed again. No patrol boats for miles, yet he couldn’t follow the schools in and fish. Perhaps the rumours were right. Perhaps the waters were protected by kami.
Shimojo ran northwards beyond the twelve mile limit, not even bothering to put his nets in the water. The nights had been fruitful as he’d swept up the snapper in close. Yet the hauls had still disappointed. The numbers suggested the main school was elsewhere and he’d set out to find it. As night fell, he ordered his ship to change course and begin a long sweeping trawl that would take them in an arc across Great Barrier’s south-eastern beaches, before swinging wide around Arid Island. If they failed to find fish in quantity the course gave them the option of trawling past Whangapoua Beach and Wreck Bay to Aiguilles Island. Somewhere along their path he was certain they’d find their quarry.
He waited until nightfall before dispatching his lifeboat to fish the reefs along the shoreline west of Arid Island, where the risk of snags put trawling out of the question. He waited until the lifeboat had been safely lowered before ordering lights out. Clouds that had been building during the day hid the new moon and many of the stars. The thief in Shimojo welcomed the darkness, even though it made navigation difficult for the crew in the lifeboat. They were under strict instructions to use their lights sparingly so as not to attract attention. Reports placed the nearest patrol boat more than one hundred miles to the south but he was still cautious. Shimojo had nearly been caught napping once before fishing Barrier waters.