The Fighting Stingrays

by Simon Mitchell

‘Has to be,’ said Alf, reaching for his machete.

  Charlie squinted through the driftwood, a cold dread in his veins. When the Japanese found them, he and Alf would be killed, or taken prisoner at best. But what about Masa? Would the Japanese treat him as one of their own and help him, or would they just leave him there to die in the sand?

  But the craft zipping towards Gecko Island didn’t look like a Japanese navy vessel. Nor did it seem like something Captain Maddox or his military mates would use. Charlie breathed out slowly as he realised it was an outrigger canoe – a type of boat used by Torres Strait Islanders. They were magnificent things – long and narrow, with tall sails and a pair of long floats jutting out from the wooden hull. The floats kept the canoe stable enough that Islanders could fish and hunt on the open ocean with no risk of tipping over.

  The outrigger slipped through the gap in the reef and into the lagoon, heading straight for shore. There were two men on board.

  ‘I’m going to meet them,’ Charlie said.

  ‘What if the sub is watching?’ said Alf.

  ‘They might be able to help Masa,’ Charlie said. ‘Maybe even get us off the island.’

  Alf frowned. ‘They could be headhunters,’ he said.

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Charlie. ‘You know Islanders don’t do that any more. They’re Christians, like you and me.’

  Masa stirred in the sand. ‘Don’t take my head,’ he wailed, then fell back asleep.

  Charlie rose and stepped out from behind the wall of branches. He waved at the approaching canoe, and one of the men raised a hand in response. As the boat skimmed towards him like a water insect, Charlie realised who it was. ‘Iona!’ he called.

  Iona was Bill’s uncle. He’d done a few odd jobs for Charlie’s family back on TI and was an excellent gardener. Even Charlie’s father (who didn’t pay attention to anything except numbers) had been impressed by the carpet of colourful nasturtiums Iona had got growing in the Napiers’ back garden.

  The men jumped out of the canoe and waded onto the beach. The other man had grey hair like Iona, and both of them were wearing white shorts and no shirts. In the boat behind them was a wap – a long wood and bamboo spear used for hunting on the sea.

  Iona regarded Charlie with a wrinkled brow. ‘Charlie?’ he said. ‘What are you doing all the way out here? Thought you went south with the rest?’

  Charlie just shrugged. Iona scratched his grey beard and nodded. ‘What happened here?’ he said, eyeing the charred undergrowth and blackened palm trees.

  Alf stood up from behind the branch fort, eyeing the barbed wap suspiciously. ‘Captain Maddox is what happened,’ he said.

  ‘Captain Maddox is this army bloke –’ Charlie began.

  Iona held up a hand. ‘I know about him. Been giving Bill a terrible time back on Waiben,’ he said, using the native name for Thursday Island.

  ‘Bill is on TI?’ Charlie asked. ‘Have the Japanese tried taking it over yet? What about the rest of the country?’

  Iona shook his head. ‘They dropped a few bombs on Darwin and Broome, but they know better than to pick a fight with the Torres Strait.’ He grinned. ‘Bill’s joined the army. A lot of our boys have. Government’s left most of us to look after ourselves, so Bill’s just trying to protect our family. Means us old fellas have to do all the hunting and fishing though. We’re looking for dugong.’

  Islanders had been eating dugong meat for centuries, but the thought of anyone killing the peaceful sea cow he’d met yesterday made Charlie want to cry. ‘Well, we haven’t seen any,’ he said.

  Iona jerked his head at a big basket of mackerel in the canoe. ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘We won’t starve.’

  ‘Our friend’s really sick,’ Charlie said. ‘Can you help him?’

  Masa groaned. ‘One chocolate, one vanilla,’ he mumbled.

  Iona walked over to where Masa lay slumped under the corrugated iron sheet, kneeling in the sand beside him. ‘He’s in a bad way,’ Iona said.

  ‘It just came on all of a sudden,’ said Charlie.

  Iona put one hand on Masa’s forehead. Masa opened his eyes weakly. ‘Hello, Santa,’ he said, reaching for Iona’s grey beard.

  ‘Peo – kam ya,’ said Iona. The other man strode over and the two of them spoke quickly. The Islanders’ language used a lot of English words as well as their own words, so Charlie could usually grasp what they were talking about. But today Iona and Peo were mumbling too low and fast for him to understand much at all. Although he did catch one word: maskita.

  Peo got to his feet. ‘He been bitten by any mosquitos?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, loads,’ said Charlie.

  The two men muttered to each other and Iona stood up as well. ‘Reckon it might be malaria,’ he said.

  Charlie’s mouth dropped open. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  Iona rubbed his beard. ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Is there anything you can do to help him?’ Charlie said. ‘You know, some sort of island medicine?’

  Iona shook his head. ‘He needs a doctor,’ he said. ‘You better take him to TI.’

  Charlie almost laughed out loud. Take Masa to TI? They might as well carry him straight up to Captain Maddox’s front door with a note pinned to his shirt that said ‘lock me up’.

  Masa half-opened his eyes, rolled to one side and vomited in the sand. ‘Please,’ he whimpered, gazing up at Charlie with a string of green bile dangling from his mouth. ‘Help me.’

  Charlie ran his hands through his hair. Malaria was a deadly serious disease, but there was no way they could take Masa to the army doctor on TI. Then he remembered that when one of his neighbours had caught malaria on a trip to the East Indies, the Thursday Island hospital had put a stop to the recurring fevers with something called quinine – the same stuff that was in tonic water.

  Charlie glanced at Alf. ‘When you broke your thumb last year and went to the hospital, did you happen to see where they kept all the medicines?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Alf. ‘So what?’

  Charlie’s mind worked frantically. If they could get to TI without being seen, they might be able to get Masa the medicine he needed, find a launch, and make a proper escape to the mainland. But if Captain Maddox or anyone else spotted them, the consequences were too horrible to think about.

  ‘Alf,’ he said. ‘Do you reckon you could find some quinine for Masa if we went back to TI?’

  Alf stared at Charlie as if he was completely off his rocker. But then Masa gave a groan of pain, and Alf sighed. ‘I could try,’ he said.

  Charlie turned to Iona and Peo. ‘Can you give us a lift home?’

  Iona nodded. But then Charlie realised just how much he was actually asking of the two men. ‘It’s dangerous,’ he said. ‘We saw a Japanese sub here yesterday.’

  Iona didn’t hesitate. ‘We better get a move on then,’ he said.

  The sun was starting to dip into the sea by the time Thursday Island appeared on the horizon. With the sails up and a strong breeze blowing, the outrigger canoe had shot across the ocean like a bullet, and there were moments when it felt like they were actually flying above the water.

  Any other time it would have been loads of fun, but Charlie had spent the entire trip scouring the sea around them for periscopes. But so far, the only thing he’d seen breaking the surface were a couple of leaping dolphins.

  Masa was huddled in the bow, cradling Judy in his lap. He wasn’t delirious any more, but he was in very bad shape. His face was as grey as a dugong’s backside and he was sweating furiously. Alf stood up straight, his jaw clenched as the outline of Thursday Island drifted closer. Charlie could make out some familiar landmarks now – the main jetty, the Green Hill Fort, and the verandahs of the Federal Hotel on the waterfront. He felt a pang of excitement about being home, until he remembered that none of the Fighting Stingrays were the slightest bit welcome.

  Iona whistled from the low bamboo platform where he was sitting. ‘Get down,’ he said. ‘Military fella coming.�
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  Charlie and Alf pressed themselves against the floor of the canoe. The sound of a boat engine got louder and louder until it cut out only yards away.

  ‘Oi!’ said a voice. ‘You’re not allowed here.’ Iona smiled. ‘We –’

  ‘Authorised persons only,’ snapped the soldier.

  ‘What’s in the boat?’

  Charlie’s stomach quivered. Surely they were done for this time.

  Iona stepped over Charlie to pull out one of the fish they’d caught earlier. ‘Some proper nice tucker for our boys,’ he said.

  The officer chuckled. ‘That’ll make a change from porridge and tripe.’ He paused. ‘Righto, carry on. But make it quick. And you’d better give me that nice fat one for being such a generous soul.’

  Iona looked at the big fish sadly, then tossed it towards the other boat, where it landed with a wet slap.

  ‘Cheerio, then,’ said the soldier. Charlie went weak with relief as the boat putted away into the distance.

  ‘Hope you young fellas know what you’re doing,’ Iona said.

  It was nearly dark when the outrigger pulled into a quiet, rocky beach on the eastern side of Thursday Island. Landing near the main town was far too risky, so the plan was to go ashore and cut across to the township on foot. Alf would go to the hospital and find quinine, while Charlie and Masa would make their way to the relative safety of the Bowens’ shed. They could hide out there until Masa was better, then track down a launch and escape TI for the second time. It would almost be easy if it weren’t for the few hundred troops between them and freedom.

  Iona and Peo helped Masa out of the canoe. He leaned heavily on Charlie as they waded ashore.

  ‘This is fun,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘That’s one word for it,’ muttered Charlie, struggling to stay upright.

  The men turned the canoe to face the sea, and Iona raised a hand in farewell. ‘Good luck,’ he called quietly.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Charlie. ‘Thank you for everything.’ The two men waved as the outrigger disappeared into the gloomy dusk.

  ‘See you at the Bowens’,’ said Alf. He took two steps, then stopped and glanced back. ‘And remember – if I’m not there by sunrise, do not come looking for me.’ Charlie nodded. Alf gave him a mock salute and jogged along the narrow dirt track that led towards town.

  ‘Well, just you and me now, mate,’ said Charlie to Masa, hitching the backpack onto his shoulder.

  ‘Judy,’ wheezed Masa. ‘Where’s Judy?’

  ‘She’s tucked up safely in the bag,’ said Charlie. ‘Why don’t you save your strength and not talk?’

  They lurched slowly down the track and into town. Keeping to the shadows, they made their way from one backyard to the next, squeezing through a gap in one fence, using an old tree stump to clamber over another and carefully avoiding any areas that were too exposed. But the number of troops on TI had swelled since their escape, and more than once they had to duck behind a bush when a uniformed silhouette appeared in a window.

  It was slow going. Masa had to stop and catch his breath in almost every yard, and by the time they emerged onto the Bowens’ street, he could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

  ‘I need to rest,’ said Masa.

  ‘We’re almost there!’ said Charlie.

  Masa stumbled sideways and collapsed in the shadow of a small frangipani tree. ‘Two minutes,’ he mumbled.

  Charlie nodded reluctantly. The street was completely dark except for a few lights in the house where the Chen family used to live. Squinting ahead, Charlie could make out a pair of army trucks outside the Chens’ place and the silhouettes of several men milling around. What were they up to?

  Charlie knew he should wait with Masa until the soldiers had gone, but something about the way they were traipsing back and forth between the house and the vehicles made him suspicious. ‘I’m going to go and have a peek,’ he whispered.

  Masa had already dozed off, curled up in a ball at the base of the low tree. Leaving the backpack beside him, Charlie snuck down the street and ducked into the front yard next to the Chens’, finding a dark spot behind a shrub where he could peer through the fence palings.

  He saw half-a-dozen burly men in army boots trampling Mrs Chen’s beautiful garden as they lugged pieces of furniture out of the house and into the waiting trucks. Sergeant Livingston helped heave a dressing table with pearl-shell inlay into one of the vehicles, then turned to relieve a red-haired soldier of a large blue-and-white vase.

  ‘Bloody ugly thing,’ said the man who delivered the vase.

  ‘Ugly as a hatful of monkeys’ bums,’ agreed Sergeant Livingston. ‘But it should fetch a good amount down south. The captain will be happy as Larry with this lot.’

  Charlie couldn’t believe what he was hearing – the soldiers were looting the house of a family they were supposed to protect! He watched Sergeant Livingston load the vase into the truck, followed by a painting, a hefty wireless and two enormous wooden trunks.

  ‘That everything?’ asked Sergeant Livingston, as two men hoisted the last trunk on board.

  ‘Only a few saggy mattresses left, sir,’ said the red-headed soldier.

  ‘Another good haul,’ said Sergeant Livingston. ‘All right, lads. Back to camp.’ He slammed the back of his truck and the men piled into the other one, started the engine and drove off towards town.

  Feeling sick to his stomach, Charlie crept back down the hill to the frangipani tree. But Masa was gone. ‘Hello?’ Charlie hissed, panic rising in his gut.

  A nearby whimper caught his attention. Charlie spun around and saw a tall, uniformed figure emerging from the darkness with Masa in a headlock. Masa’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates, and his face went pale as the man pressed a black revolver to his temple.

  ‘Hello, Charles,’ said Captain Maddox, cocking the gun with a chilling click. ‘Welcome home.’

  ‘You!’ gasped Charlie, his stomach lurching.

  ‘Yes, me,’ said Captain Maddox, smirking as he pressed the revolver against Masa’s head. ‘Where’s the third member of your crew of turncoats – that criminal Alfred Hurley?’

  Charlie suddenly felt very tired. Of course Captain Maddox had finally got Masa. It was stupid to think that their escape would end any other way. Now Masa would be shipped off to the camps, or worse, and Charlie would probably be hanged for treason. The Fighting Stingrays were done for.

  But maybe there was still a chance for Alf. ‘No idea,’ lied Charlie. ‘We haven’t seen him in weeks.’

  Captain Maddox snorted. ‘A likely story,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll track him down, don’t you worry.’ He tightened his grip around Masa’s neck and aimed the gun at Charlie. ‘Now, I think you’d better come with me.’

  Masa tripped as Maddox dragged him into the middle of the street. ‘Please,’ he gasped. ‘I can’t . . .’

  ‘Lazy sod,’ muttered Maddox. ‘Pick up the pace.’

  ‘He’s got malaria,’ said Charlie. ‘He needs a doctor.’

  ‘He needs a bloody good slap in the face,’ said Captain Maddox.

  ‘Please, sir, we need to go to the hospital.’

  ‘Shut it!’ snapped Maddox, raising the gun higher in Charlie’s direction.

  Sergeant Livingston’s truck pulled away from the Chens’ house and drove towards them. Maddox held one hand up and the vehicle screeched to a halt. Sergeant Livingston leaned out of the driver’s window. ‘Sir?’ he said. ‘Is that . . .?’

  ‘Our enemy escapee!’ crowed Captain Maddox. ‘And his treasonous friend Charles Napier.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be,’ said Sergeant Livingston.

  Maddox nudged Charlie with the gun barrel and pointed at the covered rear of the truck. ‘Get in,’ he grunted.

  Charlie swallowed and climbed into the army truck, which was filled with stolen property. Maddox gestured for Charlie to sit on one of the Chens’ big trunks and shoved Masa next to him. He parked himself on a carved armchair opposite the
two boys and the vehicle rumbled down the hill.

  Nobody said anything as they drove slowly along Douglas Street. Charlie was cursing his stupidity for creeping up to the Chens’ house to spy on the soldiers – if he’d stayed behind with Masa, he might have spotted Maddox before he nabbed them.

  Peering dejectedly out of the truck’s narrow windows, Charlie saw that Mr Mendis’s shop remained open, and that there were still a few civilian blokes floating about under the silhouettes of palm trees. But for the most part, the island had been completely taken over by men in uniforms. Soldiers and sailors were wandering around with picks and shovels, clattering away on typewriters in former shops or hanging about in the pool hall, which was so thick with tobacco smoke that the men inside looked like shadow puppets. Charlie scanned the figures they passed for Ern or Bill, or another friendly face, but all he saw were tired, sullen-looking strangers.

  The truck ground to a stop in front of an old butcher’s shop at the deserted far end of the street. Captain Maddox opened the door and climbed down. ‘Out,’ he snarled, the gun still trained on Charlie.

  Charlie climbed down onto the dusty road. Masa followed, but his legs collapsed beneath him and he sprawled in the dirt. Captain Maddox cackled with laughter.

  ‘He’s really sick,’ said Charlie, helping Masa to his feet. ‘Please, you have to help us.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything of the sort,’ retorted Maddox, yanking the backpack out of the truck. ‘Sergeant, you can go now.’

  Sergeant Livingston nodded and drove away. Maddox unlocked the door of the butcher’s shop and pushed the boys inside. He drew the curtains and prodded them past the counter into a darkened back room, which still had a faint smell of meat. Closing the door of the room behind him, Maddox pulled the cord to turn on the overhead light.

  Charlie gasped – every inch of the windowless room was packed with stolen goods. Carved wooden chairs lay stacked on velvet couches, picture frames were piled on tables and refrigerators, and shelves sagged under the weight of china plates, vases and other ornaments. A rack of silky dresses lined one wall, a beautiful butterfly collection leaned against a dozen expensive-looking fishing rods, and there was even a brand-new diving suit and shiny copper helmet hanging on a big hook near the door. Charlie fumed silently – he knew the Fighting Stingrays had done all right out of the things Alf ‘found’, but Alf only ever pinched small bits and pieces. Captain Maddox’s crew must have ransacked dozens of family homes for this lot.