by Derek Hansen
Their course took them west of Aiguilles Island where they could fish in the relatively calm waters of the lee. They didn’t use lights to warn of the nearness of shore in case they alerted unfriendly eyes to their presence. Instead, they slowed so that any change in wind or sea would be more apparent. Once they felt the softening of the sea and wind, they slowed even further, and moved in closer as quietly as their twin outboards would permit. The greater darkness of Great Barrier Island loomed up in front of them. Once they were within half a mile of shore, and two to three miles west of Aiguilles Island, they took up position and began fishing in their pre-arranged staggered pattern. By the light of hooded lamps, they released the end buoys. As they drifted away into the darkness behind them, they counted off the knots in the line until they’d released one hundred yards. Then, creeping slowly forward so as not to foul the props, they attached the weights that would hold the fishing lines to the sea bottom. The crews of each dory began to bait and lower the one and a half mile lines of double-barbed hooks, each set eighteen inches from the other. They worked with practised hands and enthusiasm. Half a mile from the island they lowered the last of the baited hooks, the lead weight and head buoy. One after another the dories turned westward to return to their start position to lay the second of their four lines, each two hundred metres out to seaward from their first. Away to the east, the new day was yet to dawn.
At first light they began to retrieve their lines. They caught the end buoys with their boathooks, turned and wound the lines twice around the winch drums. The lines tightened as the winch took up the strain. The men looked at each other, smiling, and shouted to the other crews. The lines sang from weights far greater than those they’d lowered a few hours earlier.
‘Tairyo!’ they shouted. ‘Good catch!’
They stared into the depths of the water, straining to catch the first glimpse of colour. It was there, flashing pink and silver and sometimes gold in the pale light. The lead weights came up over the side and were expertly detached. The first snapper came aboard to be unhooked and thrown into fish boxes before they were aware they were even out of the water. Fewer than half of the hooks came up empty and less than ten percent with by-catch. Fish after fish piled on top of each other, spilling over fish boxes.
‘Tairyo! Tairyo!’ they shouted, as they hauled in the snapper that justified the risk they’d taken, that ensured their end-of-trip bonuses, that brought profit and esteem to the company, that brought glory to them all. The crews worked as fast as they could and needed no urging. The fish flashing red in the water flashed gold in their pockets. Still the fish came up, some over twenty pounds, most over six. ‘Tairyo! Tairyo!’ Lengths of line where mako sharks had stripped both fish and hooks provided their only rest. The superstitious fishermen saw this as a good sign. The spirits of the water would approve of them sharing their catch.
The sun broke free of the ocean as they neared the heads of their second longlines. Eager hands tossed more ice over their haul and made room for the fish from their third lines. So many fish! The gods had smiled upon them. Some of the younger fishermen laughed at the superstitions and devotions to the old gods. But the gods had not let them down and they only had to look at the overflowing fish boxes to know who had the last laugh.
As the crew of the lead dory began to retrieve the head buoy of their third line and work their way back to the end buoy, the sun edged above Aiguilles Island, bathing them in its brightness and impressing urgency upon them. Their line crackled around the winch drum. They stared intently into the depths, looking for confirmation that this catch was as good as the last. Perhaps it was the grinding of the winches or their preoccupation with their work, but they were slow to hear the speeding motor. When the sound registered they turned as one towards the source. But the morning sun blinded them. They covered their eyes with their hands, peeping through the slits in their fingers. Then they saw it, their nightmare, and cries burst from their lips. There was a bow wave dead abeam coming out of the sun on course to ram them and cut them in half. But that was not what chilled their blood. It was their fathers’ and grandfathers’ fears and superstitions come alive before their eyes. It was the drawings shown by other fishermen whose terror they now shared. The local kami had turned on them for their theft, and a red devil riding a boat of pure white foam was upon them, hair ablaze, breathing fire from its nose, its whole body fringed by the flames of damnation, seeking vengeance.
The helmsman screamed in warning. His crew, who had many times fled both plane and patrol boat, did not hesitate. No sooner had a knife flashed than the dory’s twin props bit into the ocean, throwing the bow high, scattering fish and ice across the deck and almost hurling one man overboard. The other dories saw the lead dory cut and run and did likewise. They rose instantly onto the plane despite their heavy loads and raced across the water. The helmsman risked a glance astern and saw that the Red Devil had fallen behind. Nevertheless, he held the throttle wide open, determined not to slacken off until they’d reached the sanctuary of the mother ship. Then he would have to face up to the loss of fish and lines. Then he would have to justify his actions to his captain.
The skipper of the Aiko Maru saw his dory crews in full flight and sounded the alarm. The longliner was waiting just beyond the six mile limit. He scanned the radar but could pick up nothing that would indicate a patrol boat or Sunderland. None of the lookouts had spotted anything, nor had the representatives ashore radioed in to say that the patrol boat at Devonport had slipped out during the night. Yet the skipper knew his crews would not run without good reason.
The number four and number three boats had cleared the limit when he heard a lookout call down on the intercom. He raced to the window and looked astern. He strained his eyes to see it, then spotted it, low and hugging the coast, using the land mass of Great Barrier to hide from his radar. Where were the number one and two boats? Half a mile astern and closing rapidly. They were safe. Just. Shimojo Seiichi breathed a sigh of relief that the last working day of their tour of duty would not end in disgrace, and kill his prospects of reassignment to command of a trawler. But he was curious. How had his dory crews known about the Sunderland?
CHAPTER
THREE
Red throttled back as the more powerful dories left him in their wake, hands shaking from rage and helplessness. ‘Bastards!’ he screamed. ‘Bloody bastards!’ His boat was no match for the Japs’ outboard-motor-powered dories and he knew it. Even at half-throttle their motors could leave him floundering in their wake. His fists clenched in frustration and his shoulders shook. He tried to pull back from his anger because he feared the consequences. But he was too late. Already his chest was tightening and throat contracting. His breath came in sobs and he could feel the panic coming on. He began to battle for breath, to fight the panic rising inside him. Cold sweat prickled his body, his hands turned clammy and the shaking intensified. Blood pounded in his temples and roared in his ears.
‘Bastards . . .’ he cried desperately, but there was nothing he could do. There never was. His vision blurred and he was back on the railway with Archie and the Big Bash Artist and imminent death. He could feel the heat and heavy, water-laden air. Taste his fear and helplessness, too weak to cry out, too weak to stand. His hand went up to Archie. For help? For comfort? Reaching, reaching for his mate and protector before the bullet’s hot passage ended his life. Archie could not save him this time, nothing could. He saw the little man with the long rifle and prayed that he would pull the trigger and end his suffering. Pull! Pull now! But it always ended the same way and there was nothing he could do to change it.
He knew the moment would pass and begged God to let it pass quickly. But it would never pass completely. The shadow would remain, never entirely out of his mind, never far away, always poised to haunt and claim him whenever it chose. His burden, his guilt, his nemesis. A thunderous roar filled his ears and the air around him pulsed and beat down on him in waves. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed. Archie
was barking. Barking. Barking. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented. He cowered down as the monster passed directly overhead. It took him a few moments to comprehend, to clear his mind and realise the enormity of the thing he had done.
‘Nooo . . .!’
He watched the lumbering seaplane swoop low overhead, knowing how the aircrew would be cursing him. He smashed his fist into the helm console. The Japanese had won again and it was all his fault. He watched the big Sunderland turn in a slow arc and pass once more over the Japanese longliner. It banked towards him no more than two or three hundred feet above the water so that he could clearly see the cameras mounted in the forward dome where the nose guns would normally be. It was also close enough for him to see the gloved fist shaking at him from the co-pilot’s window.
He collapsed backwards onto his seat in despair. They’d set a trap for the Japs and he’d sprung it prematurely. Dear God! His hands still shook from the attack he’d had and he still felt light-headed. Dear God! Would there ever come a time when he was not at war with Japan? He spotted a buoy floating off to starbord, seized upon it as his salvation. There was work to be done and work was his sanctuary. So long as he could work he could keep control. There’d be time for recriminations later.
Red began the task of hauling in the miles of abandoned longlines. Without a winch to help him, the work was slow and back-breaking. He knew the lines would be heavy with snapper because he’d planned to fish there himself. He threw the dead and near-drowned fish into his fish boxes and set free all those he found that were still in reasonable condition. He could afford to release the live fish because he knew the proportion of dead ones would increase the further he worked out from shore. The snappers’ air sacs would rupture in the haul up from the deeper water. The dead fish from the first line half filled his boat despite the fact that he’d thrown forty to fifty percent back. The efficiency of the Japanese fed his bitterness.
It took him all morning to retrieve the remaining lines, setting free the few survivors and throwing the remainder overboard for the sharks and stingrays, the octopi, crabs and the crayfish. The second line had filled his boat, but Red wanted the remaining lines out of the water where they could do no more harm. The slaughter and waste appalled him.
He regretted the fact that he hadn’t brought ice with him because now he had no option but to motor straight around to the fish processing plant at Okupu. He couldn’t allow the fish he’d kept to add to the waste, but he was also concerned about Bernie. It would be evening by the time he got back and the old man would have been on his own all day. He wondered briefly if the Scotsman had thought to take him something, then dismissed the thought. There was a better chance of the sun rising in the west and the Japanese fishermen becoming conservationists. He fired up his diesel and set off to Okupu, fish piled high in his boxes keeping cool under soaking wet sugar sacks, longlines stored in buckets. Nothing was wasted. Ever. He wished he’d left Archie behind again to keep Bernie company.
‘That you off Aiguilles this morning?’
Red looked up into the smiling face of Jack Lampton and discovered the bad news had preceded him.
‘Whole island’s talking about you.’
Red threw him his bow line. The low tide meant that he’d have to manhandle the fish boxes high over his head to lay them on the jetty. Given their weight and the fact that his back hadn’t yet forgiven him for his earlier exertions, he knew it would be no easy task.
‘Navy wants a word with you, too.’
‘Give us a hand with these boxes.’
‘Hang on. I’ll get you a cray tank. Off-load them into the tank and we’ll haul them up with the winch.’ The fish factory wasn’t really set up for fish but for crayfish – the delicious red crays they sent to the mainland whole and the giant packhorse crays which they tailed first. But Jack had the means to help the snapper fishermen and make a few quid for himself in the process, so he did. He was a young man in his early thirties, married with two small kids, and determined to make a go of the factory, even though everyone said it would fold soon enough, which is what usually happened to business ventures on the Barrier. He looked at the load of fish as Red transferred them into the steel cray tank. ‘You’ve been busy.’
‘Japs have been busier. There were four dories, Jack, four lines apiece, and they were using those double-barbed hooks. They hardly ever missed. Snapper won’t stand a chance if they keep this up.’
‘Bastards.’
‘I freed the live ones and took all the dead fish I could, but I had to throw ten times as many away. Kingfish, kahawai, gurnard, trumpeter, trevally and blue cod as well as snapper. Would’ve given you a yell but by the time you got there the sea lice and crabs would’ve ruined them. It’s just not right!’
‘Bloody waste,’ said Jack. ‘But you did what you could, that’s the main thing.’ He could hear the tension rising in Red’s voice and knew it was time to hose him down. ‘You did good, Red, letting the live ones go. I’ll get you another tank and chuck this lot in the freezer till I get some ice.’
The two men worked diligently for half an hour until the boat was unloaded. Then Jack reminded Red of his obligation.
‘Are you going to call the Navy?’
‘Suppose.’
‘Just get Kate on the exchange. She knows the number and name of the bloke you have to talk to.’
Red walked into the half-partitioned corner of the corrugated-iron shed that constituted the office. He lifted off the handset and cranked the handle, then waited anxiously. Only four lines connected Great Barrier Island with the mainland and there was usually a queue. For once Kate answered almost straight away.
‘Yes, Jack.’
‘It’s Red.’
‘Hello, Red, have you got any pants on?’
‘No.’
‘Ooohhh . . .’
‘I have to call the Navy, Kate.’
‘All right . . . keep your hair on.’ He heard Kate giggling. ‘Stay there, Red, I’ll call you back.’
Red hung up and stood by the phone. The mess on Jack’s desk distracted him, and he couldn’t help himself. He gathered the scraps of paper into a pile and weighed them down by putting a pad over them. The dregs in Jack’s coffee cup had evaporated, leaving a caked crust. He reached over to the wash basin in the corner, rinsed the cup, filled it and left it to stand in the bottom of the basin. He straightened the calendar and crossed off the last two days of February, which Jack had omitted to do. The phone rang.
‘Red here.’ Red could feel a tingling grow in the pit of his stomach and his neck muscles tighten.
‘Lieutenant Commander Michael Finn.’
Lieutenant Commander. Red could feel his throat begin to tighten. ‘You want to speak to me, sir?’
‘No, I bloody well want to kick your arse! What the hell did you think you were doing? Do you know how many strings we had to pull to set up that ambush? Do you know what it costs to get a bloody Sunderland airborne?’
‘Please don’t shout.’ Red lined up Jack’s ruler parallel to his pad.
‘Jesus H. Christ!’
The fist in Red’s stomach tightened. His hand trembled. There were too many memories beating on the door inside his brain. Screaming officers, screaming guards, and a body that couldn’t obey. His voice shrank to a whisper. ‘Don’t shout. You don’t have to shout.’ Perhaps some of his desperation reached down the line to the naval officer, because his attitude changed.
‘Sorry. My turn to apologise. I guess we’re on the same side, Red, but we’ve got to find some means of keeping out of each other’s way.’
Red waited for the officer to continue. He laid Jack’s ballpoint pen and pencil neatly alongside the ruler.
‘What I mean is, we’ve got to work together, pool information. You with me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any chance you could come over to Devonport?’
‘No.’ Red gathered up Jack’s wayward paper clips and returned them to their
home in a little plastic bowl.
‘What if I sent a boat for you?’
‘No. I have a boat.’
‘Don’t like cities?’
‘No.’ Red closed his eyes. ‘I don’t like cities.’
To say Red didn’t like cities was a colossal understatement. He couldn’t stand the cars, the noise, the crowds, the milling and disorderliness. He’d had to leave Auckland when he’d become too frightened to go outside his own front door.
‘Do you want me to come to you?’ The officer worked hard to keep the exasperation out of his voice and only partially succeeded.
‘You coming alone?’
‘Alone, but with a crew. If you want they can stay aboard the patrol boat while I come ashore.’
‘Okay.’ Red was beginning to feel more confident. ‘I took their lines.’
‘I guess that’s something. I’m sorry for shouting. Don’t feel too bad about this morning, you weren’t to know. But look, if we can get something worked out together, we could really nail the bastards next time. You’re in the ideal position to help us. Do you have a number I can ring you on?’
‘No. Call Col at Port Fitzroy and leave a message. He’ll know what to do. Goodbye, Lieutenant Commander.’
Red hung up too quickly, before the officer had a chance to respond. He stood silently in the gloom of the shed while he gradually calmed down. He’d fulfilled his obligation. His duty was done. If the Lieutenant Commander needed to find him he knew where to look. More than anything he just wanted the whole thing to blow over. Like the hermit he was, he just wanted to crawl back into his shell.
