by Derek Hansen
‘Your story reminded me,’ said Mack heavily. ‘I’ve got a story, too. Never told a soul, not even Anya. Not on your life. Spent years trying to put it out of my mind.’ Anya was Mack’s late wife.
I didn’t say a word. I just sat there quietly waiting for him to elaborate. I didn’t know at the time that this is a standard technique for reporters. It just seemed the right thing to do. Mack stared at his beer, stared at his hands, stared at his feet, clearly trying to make up his mind whether to tell me.
‘I got picked up by a submarine,’ he said eventually. ‘June, 1940. A German submarine. Can you believe it, a U-boat, straight out off Medlands Beach?’
It was as though he’d drawn a cork out of a bottle that had been sealed sixteen years earlier. It took a while for the story to realise it had finally been set free and the words came hesitantly, uncertainly. For me it was like slow torture. I knew Medlands Beach was on the southeast coast of Great Barrier Island. There was a map of Great Barrier Island on the wall of the school library and my pals and I knew it by heart. We’d studied it while teachers had tried to teach us about Latvia and Estonia, where the school’s newest arrivals—three astonishingly blond kids—had come from. And Mack had been picked up by a German submarine straight out from Medlands Beach. That was—and still is—the most enthralling, amazing, wonderful, stimulating, earth-stopping snippet of information anyone has given me. My pal, Mack, had been picked up by a German U-boat.
To put things into perspective, in those days a trip from the North Island to the South Island of New Zealand almost qualified as an overseas trip. We were twelve hundred miles from Australia, twelve thousand from Britain. When my parents went back to England in 1958 to honour a promise to their families, it rated a mention in the daily paper. New Zealand was so far away from everywhere. Even with a war on, you’d have to have said that the chances of being picked up by a German submarine in New Zealand waters was about the same as a Martian spaceship landing in the school playground. And here was Mack telling me that was precisely what had happened to him.
I’d been raised on war stories. I was born in London on the day the first flying bomb slammed into the city. When I was in Standard Two we were asked to write an essay about ourselves and I’d begun mine with that line. Talk about a showstopper. I earned a gold star for that essay. My father hadn’t been allowed to enlist because he made anti-aircraft predictors and the authorities told him he was making a bigger contribution to the war effort doing that than he ever would carrying a rifle. Even so the Luftwaffe nearly got him half a dozen times when they dropped bombs through the roof of the factory where he was working. He ducked under his workbench and that was all that saved him. One night he was riding his bike home from the late shift when a V-1 flying bomb ran out of fuel right behind him. It hit less than four hundred yards up the road. One less cup of kerosene in the V-1 and he’d have been a goner. All our English friends had stories like that.
It shouldn’t come as any surprise that war movies were my favourite. I saw The Dam Busters four times.
Names like Guy Gibson, who led the raid on the dams along the Ruhr, and Barnes Wallis, who invented the bouncing bombs, were as familiar to me as the names of my classmates. I read every book about World War II I could get my hands on, knew the names of all the Spitfire fighter aces and the names and silhouettes of every plane in the British and German air forces. I was brought up believing Churchill and Britain won the war, Montgomery was a military genius and the men of the merchant navy were heroes to the last man, including Mr Gillespie who’d survived being sunk by a German U-boat. But in all my reading about the war and all the movies I’d watched, there was nothing more threatening, more deadly, more fearsome or more calculated to send a shiver up my spine than tales about German submarines. And Mack had been picked up by one.
Holy cow.
‘What happened?’ I said.
Mack was miles away, lost in thought, with the expression on his face people get when they’re recalling unhappy or bitter memories. He gave no indication he’d heard me. He wasn’t even drinking his beer. I sat as still as a shag drying its wings.
‘Bloody motor conked out,’ he said eventually. ‘Some bastard had siphoned the diesel out of my tank. Reckon I know who it was, too. Didn’t find out till I was on the six-mile reef ready to come home. Jesus Christ, what a mess.’
Bloody? Bastard? Jesus Christ? Mack never swore or blasphemed, certainly not in front of me, but there was no way I was going to cover my ears.
‘It was probably about eleven at night, a westerly was blowing, not hard but enough to cause a bit of a chop. There was no moon and the night was as black as the lining of a mullet’s gut. I’d got onto a school of good snapper, all the perfect size, between three and four pounds.’ Mack took a massive swallow from his glass and retreated back into his thoughts. I kept up my shag impression while I waited for him to continue.
‘Couldn’t believe it when the motor conked out. Last bloody thing I expected. Nothing ever went wrong with it. Never thought for a second I was out of diesel. I’d upanchored and only gone about a hundred yards when she died. My torch battery was on its last legs and my running lights were no help. I wasn’t allowed to use them anyway. The last thing I checked was the dipstick in the tank, and I only did that because I’d checked everything else. By then the westerly had pushed me out another couple of miles and it was too deep to anchor. I threw out my sea anchor to slow the rate of drift and tried to figure out what to do. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going because it was a spot I’d found and didn’t want to share. Even with the sea anchor out, I figured I’d be twenty to thirty miles out to sea by morning. I was in a right pickle, let me tell you.
‘I suppose I drifted for a couple of hours. The submarine was on the surface but I never saw it coming.
The first I knew was the sound of its diesels and, because the wind was offshore, I never heard them until the sub was less than fifty yards astern. I shone my torch towards the sound. I didn’t give much thought as to what kind of boat it was. I just wanted to make sure it saw me and picked me up. Next thing I know I’m pinned in this searchlight. Strewth! Talk about going from the sublime to the bloody ridiculous. One second I can’t see my bloody hand in front of my face, next I’m staring into the sun. Just as quickly it’s dark again. I thought the boat was one of ours, some kind of naval craft or a small coaster. I called out and someone called back. Suddenly there’s this dark shape moving up alongside me, and people running around with torches and shouting at me in some foreign lingo. I hadn’t a clue what was going on but I threw them a line anyway. What else was I supposed to do?
‘The boat had eased up between my boat and the shore. Next thing I know, a rope ladder drops down into the bow. Before I get a chance to climb up it, this bloke climbs down. I can see by the light of the torches he’s holding a rifle and, do you know what, it still doesn’t dawn on me what’s happening. “Am I glad to see you,” I say. Instead of shaking my hand he points his bloody rifle at me and starts yelling at me in Kraut. Bloody hell! I didn’t know what to do. I thought he was going to shoot me. I looked up to where the blokes with the torches were, hoping someone would sort things out, and that was when I noticed the curved sides of the hull and realised I was looking up at a submarine; a German submarine. Well, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Someone threw me a stern line and I tied it off.
‘I’m standing there with my hands in the air when this officer type climbs down the ladder. Bugger me if he doesn’t speak English. He asks me my name and introduces himself. Christian Berger his name was, and it sounded like he was some kind of lieutenant. He finds my snapper and says, “Do you mind if I take these?” What difference did it make if I minded or not? He was taking them anyway. I told him I’d swap the snapper for some diesel. I know it was a bit cheeky but he grinned and started talking Kraut to someone in the conning tower, then turned to me.
‘“No one can know we are here,” he said. “So I have
a choice. I can shoot you now and sink your boat, or I can let you drift for the same result. Or I can take you prisoner.” He studied me for about fifteen seconds although it felt longer. “Or I can give you the diesel you want. Are you a man of honour, Mack?” It threw me, him using my name like that, like we was pals. But I could see he was serious and weighing up the decision. I nodded and told him my word was my bond. He took this in. His eyes weren’t hard or anything but they were unnerving. They never wavered. “If I give you diesel,” he said, “you must give me your word that you will tell nobody about us, about the U-boat, for forty-eight hours after you reach the shore. No one must know we are here. No one.
Understand?” I nodded. “Do you understand your choices?” I nodded again. “Can I rely on your word?”
‘I told him he could and we shook on it. Then he said the strangest thing. “Tell me about your home,” he said. So, as briefly as I could, I told him about Great Barrier. I swear he looked envious. Someone passed down a jerry can. I poured the diesel into my tank and handed the can back. “We are civilised people,” the officer said. “I am giving you your life in exchange for your word. Break your word and you put my life and the lives of my comrades in jeopardy. Do you want to kill us?” I told him I didn’t. I promised I’d keep my word. I gave him every reassurance I could. I still wasn’t convinced they wouldn’t blow me out of the water as soon as I’d untied. “Go home,” he said and shook my hand again. “But you must go slowly,” he added. I think that was his idea of a joke.
‘By the time I’d cast off and started my motor they were gone, swallowed up by the night. I drew some comfort from the fact that I’d be just as invisible to them. The horizon began colouring up as I headed in and it was half light as I swung around the point back into Medlands. By then I’d had plenty of opportunity to think. I had no doubt about the seriousness of the promise I’d made and its implications. On one hand I had a clear duty to report the presence of the submarine; on the other I’d given my solemn promise that I wouldn’t. There was a policeman waiting with my wife and a couple of my mates on the beach. They were about to launch their boat to go out looking for me. One word to the policeman and I knew he’d be straight on the radio back to Auckland and they’d have aircraft up looking for the U-boat within the hour. I couldn’t do it. The Germans had done the right thing by me and I was obliged to do the right thing by them.
‘Of course, my wife, my mates and the policeman wanted to know what had happened. I told them I’d fallen asleep. They didn’t believe me, but was that any less believable than saying I’d been picked up by a German submarine? I felt terrible about lying and it probably showed. My mates looked in my boat and saw I had no fish and, more to the point, no fish boxes. I saw them looking at each other, puzzled, trying to work out why that would be. They knew something had happened but I also knew they’d never guess what, not in a million years. I made my apologies, pulled my boat up onto the beach, and let Anya drive me home. I am a man of honour who kept his word. But I left that beach feeling like I’d betrayed my country, that I was a traitor.
‘The following day a liner, the Niagara, was sunk by German mines in the approaches to the Hauraki Gulf. Just inside the Mokes. It took fourteen souls with it when it went down. Fourteen!’ Mack buried his head in his hands again and his shoulders heaved suddenly as though he was sobbing. I didn’t know where to look.
‘I knew exactly who and what had laid those mines. I felt responsible for the deaths of those poor souls.
The next day I climbed Mt Tataweka and watched minesweepers working to and fro across the Gulf. It was too late. The damage had already been done. My fortyeight hours passed but I still didn’t tell anyone about the submarine. I was too ashamed. I never told anyone about it. After the war I found out a troopship left for Europe the same day I saw the U-boat. Some said it was the Queen Mary. I knew then it would have been the U-boat’s real target, why it had been sent all the way down to New Zealand. My silence could have cost the lives of thousands of soldiers. Jesus Christ! Imagine having that on your conscience. You talk about a burden of responsibility, laddie, but put that in your pocket and see how it feels!’ He turned away from me, his eyes brightly rimmed with red.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, though I wasn’t exactly sure what I was sorry about. It upset me to see Mack so distraught, but I also had to consider the possibility Mack had betrayed his country, that he’d placed his obligations to the enemy above his duties to God, king and the entire British Empire. I was torn between supporting Mack, my friend, and my own sense of what was right. I felt guilty for thinking Mack should’ve told the policeman straight away. That’s what I would’ve done. Yet that would have meant breaking a promise and you had to be a pretty poor type to do that. But on top of everything was an overwhelming feeling of disappointment. Mack had been picked up by a German U-boat, and I’d expected a Boy’s Own Annual story with Mack emerging as a hero. I hadn’t expected a moral dilemma.
I noticed his glass was empty so got up and fetched a bottle of Dominion Bitter from his cooler. He took it from me without a word. I could see by his eyes that he’d disappeared into another place and another time. I started to sneak away, through the back door and down the passage, towards the front door. He seemed oblivious to everything except what was going on inside his head. I didn’t think he’d noticed I’d gone until he yelled after me.
‘Don’t you dare tell anyone!’
The sudden boom of his voice scared the daylights out of me. Mack had never shouted at me before.
‘I won’t,’ I called back.
‘Promise me!’
‘I promise.’
‘God as your witness!’
‘God as my witness.’
I ran home like a frightened rabbit but not sure why. It’s not as if I was scared of Mack. He’d never hurt me if you paid him. Maybe I was frightened for Mack’s sake. Maybe I was frightened by his confession and what would happen if his secret ever got out. Mostly I think I was frightened because I didn’t think I was up to the challenge of keeping my promise. Mack had shared his burden with me and the weight of the knowledge was unbearable.
Far too much for one small boy.
CHAPTER THREE
My father always claimed my Uncle Vic owed his life to his incompetence. He used to say it as a joke but it wasn’t far from the truth.
AN EXTRACT FROM ‘SAVED BY THE SKIN OF MY TEETH’
‘Don’t you dare tell anyone!’
The tone of Mack’s voice had left no room for manoeuvre. I’d always thought I was pretty good at keeping secrets, but the secrets I’d been charged with keeping didn’t amount to a fart in a thunderstorm alongside what Mack had told me. Mostly they were along the lines of who liked whom, who didn’t like whom, who’d slipped under the girls’ dressing sheds at Herne Bay Beach and who’d broken what and wasn’t telling. Nobody had ever asked me to keep a secret as big as Mack’s, and the more I thought about it the bigger it got. I was bursting with it, almost in pain from the effort of containing it. But what choice did I have? I’d given Mack my solemn promise, God as my witness, and I knew it would be just like God to take a special interest in this one.
That night I got into an argument with my brother Nigel and burst into tears. My mother heard the commotion and came running into the bedroom where we’d been playing marbles. She grabbed hold of Nigel’s arm and dragged him to his feet.
‘What did you do to him?’ she demanded. I guess it’s only reasonable that she assumed Nigel had done something to me because if there was ever any mischief going round you could bet he was up to his neck in it. He’s only eighteen months older than me but back then he was years ahead of me in maturity and street smarts. He knew how babies were made long before the rest of us had even thought to wonder about it. But this time he had no case to answer.
‘I didn’t do anything!’ he protested.
‘He’s right,’ confirmed Rodney, who was lying down on top of his bed reading a book. Hearing hi
s voice spooked me. Rod was so quiet we tended to forget he was around. He was the eldest son every mother dreamed of having. Some kids his age used to call him ‘queenie’ which was another word for sissy because he had different priorities. But nothing could be further from the truth. He played fullback for Mt Eden’s fifth-grade soccer team and, let me tell you, nobody tackled harder or defended more resolutely. For all that, it was embarrassing having a brother who read all the time, still wore the long shorts my mother favoured and his shirt buttoned up to the collar. After school, that most precious time of day when kids are entitled to run a bit wild, he was tied to Mum’s apron strings. He was the one who had to do the shopping or drag a huge bag of washing to the laundrette. This did nothing to enhance his image. Rod was the rock my mother depended upon. She relied on his help in preparing dinner, this at a time when real men weren’t seen dead in the kitchen. She used to boast to her friends about what a good little cook he was. Hell’s bells! If word had got out around school that my brother cooked I never would’ve lived it down. He also had the job of keeping an eye on Nigel and me when Mum was tied up in the shop or out at the warehouses or, as often happened at night, out visiting friends with my father. Given the fact that Rod was four-and-a-half years older than me, he couldn’t have been much older than ten when he first assumed the responsibility of baby-sitting. Let me tell you, the nameless, faceless fear that Spielberg later exploited in Duel and Jaws was also well and truly alive and thriving back then, and it took a lot of guts for a ten-year-old to baby-sit a seven-year-old and a five-and-a-half-year-old. Rod’s acceptance of his role bound him but liberated us. It enabled Nigel and me to do what we wanted to do. In return we grudgingly accepted his authority as de facto parent. So when he supported Nigel’s claim of innocence I had nowhere to turn.
