by Derek Hansen
Red motored back and forth just beyond the spill of the stricken trawler’s lights. He thought they’d be too busy attending to other problems to bother firing at him. He watched the trawler turn sideways on to the sea as the stern crew severed the hawsers, then he held his breath while he waited to see if the anchors would bite and hold. He knew the bottom well and didn’t hold out much hope, unless the anchors snagged on a reef. The trawler’s bow snapped around as the anchors bit, faded when they failed to hold. He wondered if he should motor up and offer to take a rope and anchor out into deeper water, but hesitated, unsure of the reception they’d give him. He held off, saw the bow snap around once more, fade and kick back. His hopes sank as he saw the trawler drift backwards, then lifted when he heard the clanking of chain and realised they were laying more slack. It was a manoeuvre that won Red’s approval. Perhaps they had a good hold. But the crew gathering by the lifeboat preparing to abandon ship suggested otherwise.
Red reacted the way the digger from Melbourne had so many years earlier. He moved into position astern where he’d be able to assist if the launch of the lifeboat went awry. He could not stand by and let men drown, even if they were his enemy.
Shimojo elected to remain aboard and do whatever he could to save his ship. He still held hope that the anchors would snag and hold before the trawler bottomed and was rolled over by the swells, or was washed up onto the rocks. He was prepared to pay the ultimate price for his mistakes until Red took up position just off the stern. He didn’t see Red as a potential rescuer poised to scoop up desperate seamen if their lifeboat capsized, but saw instead a predator moving in for the kill.
‘Captain.’ Abe, the oldest man aboard, had volunteered to stay with him and called for his assistance in launching the lifeboat. Shimojo obliged, although his mind was elsewhere. The old man, who was a superb judge of the sea, timed the launch to perfection, and set the crew safely on their way to shore. Shimojo wheeled about and returned to the bridge. He broadcast one final distress call and heard a longliner respond. Their words of hope brought a grim smile to his face. Help was on its way, little more than two hours off, in the form of an old mine sweeper, the Kotaku. His enemies were gathering like wild dogs around a stricken calf. His anger stirred, surged and shaped into desire for revenge. He picked up one of the rifles the third officer had brought up onto the bridge. He still had use for it.
CHAPTER
FORTY
Red watched the Shoto Maru’s lifeboat swing out on its davits, saw the anxious crewmen crouching within, white knuckles showing over the gunwales. He was glad he wasn’t among them. The wrong wave at the wrong time and the lifeboat would roll over. He took out his knife, cut the floats off his remaining bombs and tossed them overboard. If their lifeboat foundered he’d need all the deck room he had. The two men who’d stayed aboard the trawler made the launch seem like child’s play and Red acknowledged their skill. With little fuss the lifeboat powered away from the stricken trawler and made a sweeping turn towards the sandy strip at the north-west end of Wreck Bay.
Red flashed his torchlight at the two men remaining on board, and moved in close so that they couldn’t mistake his offer of assistance. Under the circumstances it seemed the responsible thing to do. One man responded, the other had disappeared. Red assumed he’d gone to collect the ship’s log. He stood off until the second man reappeared, flashed his torch briefly once more and moved in closer. Without warning, Red found himself blinded, caught in a spotlight. He swung the wheel and rammed the throttle as far forward as it would go. The light wavered then went off him. He risked a quick look back at the boat and saw the two men confronting each other. He throttled back. To his utter amazement they appeared to be fighting, wrestling for possession of something, not the spotlight, because he could see that it had fallen on the deck. The shorter of the two men reeled backwards clutching his head, the taller man flailing at him with what appeared to be a stick. The shorter man staggered against the railing and Red watched, transfixed, as his attacker calmy lifted him and flicked him overboard.
Red gunned the throttle. He took his eyes off the trawler to scan the water, looking for the man who’d fallen. There! Red saw him struggling on the surface about forty yards from him. He glanced back up to the ship’s rail and realised his mistake. They hadn’t been fighting over a stick but a rifle.
He heard the first sharp crack before he’d had a chance to react, heard the bullet thud into the timber in front of him. He headed for the trawler’s stern and powered in closer where the trawler’s sloping sides made it hard for Shimojo to get a clean shot at him, heard another crack from the rifle and another. More timber splintered. He crouched to make himself less of a target, trying to draw comfort from the knowledge that the pitching of the Shoto Maru and his own boat’s wild gyrations made him an elusive target. A bullet slammed into his console and shattered his compass. Apparently not elusive enough.
He skidded the boat sideways back into the wind, saw a flash of yellow, an upraised arm. Sixpenn’th of Jap. Either the trawler had drifted right or the man had floated left because he was a good twenty yards away. Red turned towards the drowning man knowing he’d be exposed in the spill of the arc lights. He gave himself only one chance for the pick-up, fed the motor full throttle, aimed slightly upwind of the bobbing splash of yellow, then throttled back and slammed the diesel into neutral. A bullet shattered what was left of his windshield. He threw himself against the port gunwale and reached down towards the water, met eyes staring urgently, desperately at his own, felt a hand grab his wrist, grabbed with his other hand and pulled. He gasped aloud at the explosion of pain from his ribs, and heaved with all his strength. Two more bullets slammed into the boat. He left the man lying on the deck while he engaged gear and gunned for the shore.
Crack! Crack! Crack! A bullet thudded into his right buttock and slammed him hard against the console. His mind reeled, stunned by the unbelievable force of the impact. So that’s how it felt! So much harder, so much more brutal than he’d ever imagined. Was that what Archie felt in the last instant of his life? Poor Archie.
His right knee buckled and he collapsed backwards onto the engine housing. Searing pain stabbed up his back and into his brain. He forced himself to sit up, to steer, to try to take a bearing from the fast-closing dark mass which was the lower slope of Bernie’s Head. He tried to spot the jetty and failed. Every bounce of the boat, every wave brought a surge of pain and nausea. He managed to turn the helm slightly to the right, but the effort of reaching for the throttle and pulling it back was beyond him. He braced himself. Running up onto the beach under full power would be bad enough. But at least he wouldn’t ram his jetty.
‘Red’s been hit!’ Rosie screamed. She’d watched through the binoculars, not daring to breathe as the wind carried the reports of the rifle to them. Red’s boat had ducked and dived but she’d known he was in trouble as soon as he’d stopped to pick somebody or something up from the water. She saw him pitch forward then slump back, loose as a rag doll. ‘Angus! Red’s been hit!’
Angus raced back up to the top of the rise. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s headed for shore. I saw him fall, Angus! I saw him get hit!’
‘Steady, lassie! Is he still driving the boat? Tell me! I can’t see him.’
‘I think so.’ The tears in her eyes blurred her vision. She thrust the binoculars at Angus. ‘You take them. You stay and tell Mickey we need help. I’m going down to the beach to find Red. Come on, Archie!’
‘Be careful!’ Angus called after her. ‘You might run into the rest of the crew. They mightn’t take too kindly to what has happened!’ He could hear her crashing into the bushes and ferns as Red had done, but he doubted she’d heard him or that it would make the slightest bit of difference even if she had. ‘Bloody madness!’ he said aloud. ‘Bloody madness!’ He wrung his hands and hopped from foot to foot in frustration. He thought of Rosie tripping, falling, losing the child. Running headlong into the trawler’s crew, b
eing beaten up and losing the child. Losing the child! His eyes watered, but not from the wind. Losing the child! He didn’t know what he’d do, how he’d ever recover if he lost Rosie and the child as well. ‘Red, you bloody madman! Don’t you realise what you’ve done!’ He sent a final message to Mickey, swung the radio and binoculars over his shoulders and set off down the track. He had a feeling he’d be more useful closer to the action.
Rosie slowed. She’d already scared herself badly with two near falls, saw the faint light still glowing in Angus’ bach and detoured. She found his medicine chest in his bathroom, grabbed two clean towels as well and a face cloth. She was close to panicking but still thinking, still a doctor as well as a terrified lover, still in control despite her galloping heartbeat. She found a milk bottle under the sink and filled it with water. Bonnie sat up, alert, watching her, wondering what on earth was going on. Rosie made sure she shut the door properly behind her.
Shimojo saw the lifeboat pick up speed and surge beyond the range of the arc lights and lowered his rifle. He made his way back up to the bridge and swapped it for another with a full magazine. He checked the depth recorder, found he’d drifted into around fifty feet of water. The question was, was he still dragging anchor? The bows faced head on to the wind, which was a good sign, even though they tossed and pitched wildly. The anchors appeared to be holding. But as quickly as hope flared the wind dispelled it. It caught the bow and swung it wickedly towards the beach. The trawler rolled heavily, throwing Shimojo against the bridge wall. Just as quickly the anchors bit once more and snapped the bows back. His fingers gripped tightly around the rifle stock, turning white at the knuckles. It was over. He was finally convinced his ship was lost.
He fought his way back to the stern deck, made straight for the liferaft, a buoyant, airtight box covered with cork and canvas and looped with rope for survivors to cling to. He used his pocket knife to saw though the ropes lashing it to the rail and tossed the raft overboard. He followed immediately after, grabbed hold, and let the wind and waves carry him towards the shore. Sea water washed over his rifle and flooded the barrel. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. Shimojo only needed the rifle to fire one more bullet, the bullet which would end the life of the man who had destroyed his ship, his career and everything he’d worked for.
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
Red’s boat fluked the back of the shore break, which softened the impact of the hull hitting the sand. It bounced twice before coming to rest, well clear of the high water mark, motor screaming. Red had been pitched forward, unable to stop himself, and lay gasping for breath, waiting for the pain to subside, waiting for his head to clear. Someone turned off the diesel and leaned over him. A hand touched his neck, searching for a pulse. He sensed the dark presence of someone looming above him.
‘I’m okay, okay . . .’
The hand reached beneath his shoulders, another behind his knees. He felt himself being lifted, felt foolish in his helplessness.
‘Domo arigato,’ Red said weakly. ‘Thank you.’
‘Un!’ More a grunt than a word.
Red heard the man hissing through his teeth at the effort of lifting him over the gunwale and onto the beach. The man laid him down on the sand then collapsed alongside him.
‘Domo arigato gozaimasu!’ An exhausted whisper. The Japanese trawlerman thanking him.
‘Namae Red.’
‘Abe.’
Red reached out and found the man’s hand. He gripped it weakly, resisted the temptation to follow up with konnichi-wa, and instead lay still waiting for the pain to dull. His body stiffened and warned against any movement. He could just make out the shape of Abe alongside him, trying to sit upright, head in his hands. Red recalled the beating the man had received and speculated on the damage. He heard an excited yelp, a familiar snuffle, and something wet across his face. Good old Archie! He lifted a hand to ruffle his mate’s ear.
‘Red! Red!’
Red tried to turn and look towards the track but the pain discouraged him. It didn’t matter. He could hear her feet on the sand, see the beam of her torch flicking from Abe to him, hear Archie whining excitedly.
‘Red! Are you all right?’ She was by his side, kneeling, another hand reaching for his pulse.
‘I’m okay, Rosie.’
‘Where were you hit?’
How did she know he’d been shot? ‘Right buttock.’
‘Tasty. Roll over.’
‘Roll me over.’
Rosie pulled him towards her, rolled him face down and shone the torch on the sickening mixture of sand, saltwater and blood. ‘Bloody hell, Red!’ she said, but the relief in her voice was clearly evident. She shone the torch at Abe, pulled his hand away from his face, saw the pulpy mess of his right ear, the split above his right eye. ‘Oh Christ, Red, your mate’s no better.’ She poured water over the face cloth and handed it to Abe so he could start cleaning his wound while she attended to Red.
‘The bullet’s ripped right through the cheek and muscle. Damn you, Red, I’m getting tired of patching you up.’ She made him swallow some aspirins, then began to clean his wounds and tried to staunch the flow of blood. She wished she had more water. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Abe stagger to his feet and stumble around the bow of Red’s boat back towards the sea. He obviously needed more water as well.
‘Move over, Archie! Give me some elbow room!’ But Archie had rejoined his master and his master was in trouble. It didn’t matter what Rosie said, there was no way he was going to budge.
Shimojo saw two lights on the shore, one far to the right on the third of Wreck Bay’s little beaches, which was where his crew had landed in the lifeboat. The other was virtually straight ahead, a single torch attracting him like a magnet. He could hear the shore break clearly, feel it sucking him towards it. The liferaft was designed to support the weight of many men and scudded along the top of the waves, pushed by wind and sea. It didn’t require much imagination to know what would happen once it caught the shore break. The tumbling raft would announce his arrival as surely as a ring on a door bell. Shimojo let go. The raft could serve as a decoy while he washed ashore further down the beach.
Without his weight holding it back, the liferaft galloped away, bucking and tossing on the waves like an unbroken pony. Shimojo did his best to kick his way further down the beach, rifle held high.
‘What’s that?’ Rosie heard the raft thud into the sand and tumble in the rush of the wash. She spun around and shone her torch at the sound. She held the beam as steadily as her shaking hands would allow. ‘It looks like some kind of big box with rope.’
‘Don’t worry, Rosie. It’ll just be something that’s washed off the trawler. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to see lots more.’
Rosie turned her attention back to Red’s wounds. The exit wound badly needed stitching but she lacked the means. She poured antiseptic directly into it, saw his buttock spasm involuntarily as it registered the sting, dried the surrounding skin and began pulling the wound closed with strips of adhesive plaster. Red didn’t complain, but then she didn’t expect him to. All she could do until Mickey arrived was make him as comfortable as possible.
‘That’ll do for now,’ she said. ‘You’ll live. You won’t be able to lie on your back for a while so you’ll have to lie on me instead.’ She thought she heard Red snort. ‘I’m going to tend to your mate with the sore head.’ She went to stand but Archie beat her to it. He leap to his feet, snarling, charged two yards and propped, fore legs rigid, rear legs bent ready to spring.
‘What is it, Archie?’ Her blood turned cold. Whatever had worried the dog had to be bad news for them as well. She saw a shape silhouetted against the glow from the trawler’s lights and aimed her torch at it. She saw a man pointing a rifle at her, no more than fifteen yards away. She screamed but had the presence of mind to kill the torch. The first shot thudded into the sand alongside her.
‘Ugokuna! Ugokuna!’
Rosie froz
e. She didn’t speak Japanese but knew hysteria when she heard it. ‘Oh Christ, Red,’ she sobbed. She tried to drag him away but he immediately cried out in pain. What else could she do? She thrust both hands under his arms and heaved. Archie snarled, leaped and retreated, darting one way and then the other trying to draw off the attacker.
Shimojo was confused and disoriented. He no longer had the the light to guide him, and when the torch had shone straight at him it had deprived him of what little night vision he had. He rubbed away sea water that had dripped into his eyes, stinging them and blurring his vision. He wasn’t accustomed to dogs and Archie worried him. He realised he’d have to deal with him first. He aimed at the sound of the snarling, the scuffing sounds in the sand, but the beast wouldn’t stay still. It circled to his right. He fired! Fired again! Fired again!
Archie’s sudden yelp of pain split the night.
‘Archie! Archie! Nooo!’ Red couldn’t bear it! Not again! Dear God, not again! It was happening a second time. How many times did Archie have to die for him? How many times! ‘Nooo!’ He screamed. ‘No! Shoot me! Shoot me!’
Shimojo allowed himself a grim smile. He stepped closer to his target, slowly brought the rifle up to his shoulder and concentrated on the sound.
‘Iie! Iie! Watashi! Watashi!’ Red screaming, Archie whimpering. ‘No, no! Me! Me!’ All the suffering, all the years, and it was all going to end as it had begun, in Burma at the One-oh-five. The little man with the long rifle. His namesake.