I walked the small distance up the beach to where I thought they’d placed the dead sailor under a line of bushes. I fell to my knees in the soft sand so I could peer under the low-hanging leaves. The first thing I saw was a naked foot, then it moved and I heard a groan.
I RAISED THE LOWER branches of a bush from where I imagined the sound of the groan had come. It revealed a black head and torso lying face upwards. The sailor’s eyes were closed and from his nostrils two small mucus bubbles rose and receded with each completed breath. He had a nasty cut above his right eye that showed as a bright-red open gash against his oil-blackened skin and extended in length to the centre of his forehead.
‘Mate? You okay?’ I asked, unable to think of any other way I might gain his attention. No reply came, not even an acknowledging groan, although I noted that his chest continued to rise and fall in what I imagined was a pretty even manner. I reached out and shook his shoulder but got no reaction.
The distance to the mangroves and the creek was about three-quarters of a mile. If I was going to get him on board the Vleermuis I would have to carry him. I wasn’t prepared to wait until he came around; that is, if he came around. I’d heard of cases where people lay in a coma for days, even weeks. Fortunately he wasn’t a big man, in fact he was smaller than average — in the parlance of Australians he was a bit of a runt. I could heft him into a fireman’s lift, and with a stop or two along the beach I felt sure I could get him to the boat. What I needed like a hole in the head was a guy in a coma on a sailboat crossing the Indian Ocean. I didn’t want to think about it.
I was on my knees and I pushed the lower branches aside with my left shoulder until I could position myself more or less behind him so as to get a grip under his armpits. It was awkward work; I had to shuffle sideways with the branches springing back and slapping the unconscious man across the face. Fortunately the sand under him was soft and smooth. His head and shoulders still rested on the headless sailor’s shirt and this came away with him as I pulled him clear of the foliage.
It was then that I first saw his IDs, the two aluminium discs American sailors wear around their necks. I lifted one without removing it and rubbed the oil from its surface with the pad of my thumb. Stamped on the disc was his name and serial number and I would later learn the ‘C’ stood for Catholic and the ‘B’ was his blood type; USN, of course, stood for the US Navy.
Judge
K.
164834
C
B
USN
The little bloke was an American. I was surprised, having decided that the other sailors were, like myself, Australian. Then I noticed that his oil-stained clobber was different to the shirt and shorts the others had worn. He’d come off another warship. The last few inches of the tail of the shirt he’d rested on, the bit that tucks in, was still comparatively clean. I used it to wipe the mucus from his nose and to clean up around his eyes and mouth. I then attempted to give him water, pushing the neck of my water bottle into his swollen, cracked and partially open lips. But the contents simply dribbled from the corner of his mouth and down his neck.
The sun was now well above the horizon but there was some cloud; it would probably build later in the day and bring on a thunderstorm and it was already uncomfortably hot. At least K. Judge and I wouldn’t be spending it becalmed, wallowing out at sea. I was anxious to be well clear of the killing beach as soon as possible and decided I’d wait until we got to the boat before attempting to clean up the little bloke any further.
But then I did a very strange thing — which goes to show I wasn’t all that calm and in control. In truth, I was probably deep in shock. The little bloke, that is what I’d taken to calling him in my mind, was barefoot and I decided on the spot that he needed boots. Must have boots. It was imperative that he had boots to wear. This extraordinary notion may well have been prompted in my unconscious mind by thoughts of the deck which, the previous day, had been hot enough to fry the soles of one’s feet. I cannot think how else this bizarre compulsion could have entered my head. The attackers had removed the boots from five of the six men who had been on board the Carley float, while the four who had been hanging onto its side had been barefoot. Only the headless sailor had retained his boots and I can remember clearly thinking with some alacrity: Hey, without a head he’s not going to need his boots. I scrambled down the beach to where I’d laid him and quickly removed the boots, pleased with myself for my amazing perspicacity.
I returned to the still unconscious sailor and pushed the boots, splattered with congealed blood mixed with beach sand, into my knapsack. I shouldered the knapsack, whereupon I hoisted the little bloke in a fireman’s lift. It was at that moment that I remembered my butterfly net. With my arms fully occupied with the unconscious body across my shoulders I had no way of carrying it. I have already mentioned that stubbornness is not a pleasant part of my character and there was no way I was going to leave the net behind. If my mind had been functioning properly and I’d stopped to think for the briefest moment, I would have realised I had no further use for it. You don’t catch butterflies in the middle of the Indian Ocean. It wasn’t valuable and another would be easy to obtain. In fact, I could make one in less than an hour.
I lowered the sailor back onto the sand, picked up the net and placed it over his head, its long bamboo handle resting against his spine and extending to give his bum a bit of a tail. Then I lifted him onto my shoulders again. Silently congratulating myself for such clever thinking, I set out to carry him along the beach towards the distant mangroves.
What happened next was sufficient to stretch anyone’s credulity and if I didn’t still possess the evidence I would have put it down to a hallucinatory episode brought on by my heightened state of shock. I had moved to the top of the beach where the sand petered out and the ground was firmer. I’d gone about three hundred yards and was beginning to feel the strain from carrying the little bloke when I saw it resting on a low bush feeding on the nectar of one of the yellow star-shaped blossoms covering it. As it slowly opened and closed its wings the Magpie Crow was everything I’d imagined it to be, a truly beautiful butterfly.
May God forgive me! I swung the poor hapless sailor from my shoulders and dumped him roughly onto the ground at my feet where he landed with an audible thump, his head jerking within the butterfly net. I hastily and not over-gently removed the net from his head and shoulders and flung the knapsack from my back just as the butterfly flew off into the air. Crashing through the scrub I took off after it. Half an hour later, scratched and bleeding, I had the beauty safely in my net.
It took me a good twenty minutes to return to where I’d summarily abandoned the little bloke. The knapsack was there, but the recently unconscious K. Judge was missing. I scanned the beach in the direction from which we’d come and forward to the soft green line of mangroves. The beach was pristine, empty except for a dozen resting gulls, their reflections caught in the wet sheen left by a retreated wave. He was nowhere to be seen. Vanished into thin air. Gone. Vamoosed!
I was faced with a terrible dilemma. Do I go after him or do I process the precious butterfly? In less than a minute I could infuse tissue paper placed in the jar with ethyl acetate and keep the beautiful specimen intact. After which I would have to find the newly resurrected seaman in no more than an hour or the Magpie Crow could start to spoil — condensation from the heat could cause bits of its wings to stick to the glass sides. Shit! Shit! Shit! I chose to process the butterfly and take the chance that I’d find the disappearing sailor in time. To my confused mind it seemed a fair division of priorities. After all, I’d waited two months for the elusive butterfly and I’d been aware of the American’s existence for less than an hour.
My infusion of the Magpie Crow finally completed, I grabbed the bottle of water and slung it round my neck so that it rested on my hip. I soon found the sailor’s tracks. He’d headed inland, into the scrub and towards the coco
nut plantation from which I’d earlier watched the tragedy on the beach unfold.
For a while his footprints were reasonably clear, zigzagging in the slightly softer soil. Small feet — the headless bloke’s boots would be miles too big! But then the ground grew firmer and his progress was harder to follow. My heart began to beat faster. I found a freshly snapped twig and a place where the bushes had recently been parted, but soon I was beyond the waist-high coastal scrub and starting to climb towards the copra plantation. I knew that once within the coconut palms, he’d be almost impossible to spot. Multiple vertical shapes in a shady environment confuse the eye. Worse, once in the plantation there was a greater likelihood that he’d meet or be seen by a native.
I checked my watch. I had to find him within ten minutes or my specimen would be placed in jeopardy — ten minutes, then fifteen more to get back to the beach. Nearly half an hour! And I’d taken thirty minutes to catch the Magpie Crow and another twenty to get back to where I’d started the chase! If he’d regained consciousness shortly after I dumped him, he could have been gone almost an hour. I was beginning to panic on two fronts. I was going to lose both the little bloke and the Magpie Crow.
What was it about this fucking butterfly? Trying to find it had brought me nothing but bad luck. In medieval times both the magpie and the crow were considered to be bad omens. If either was seen as the first bird of the morning the day was certain to bring trouble.
I pushed my way through some tall scrub and there he stood, the ground rising behind him, his small black shape facing me. The lighter patches where I’d cleaned around his eyes, nose and mouth gave him a distinctly simian appearance. He stood facing me, adopting a threatening pose, his arms hanging, elbows bent and away from his body; in every sense he gave the appearance of a chimpanzee.
I was almost overwhelmed with relief. ‘Thank God I’ve found you!’ I cried, then hastily added, ‘Gidday, Mr Judge,’ as I took a step towards him.
‘Don’t move, sonny boy!’ he growled.
Then I saw he carried a rock in his left hand. He must have picked it up when he heard me coming. He’s left-handed, I thought to myself, apropos of nothing. ‘Come now, sir,’ I said, smiling and spreading my hands in a gesture of friendliness, ‘we have to go.’
‘I ain’t goin’ nowhere, punk!’ he said. ‘You ain’t takin’ me back. I ain’t gonna go back.’ He shook his head. ‘No way, José! Ya hear? The judge says I hadda join the US Navy, then I’m clean. You hear that, sonny boy? Clean! They gonna wipe my record. I’m gonna be a cleanskin! I’m navy now. American navy! I ain’t no dog you can push around no more! I’m Uncle Sam and I ain’t on the lam! Navy, sonny boy! You hear? US fuckin’ navy!’
He was talking in a rasp through cracked lips. It was the first time I’d seen anyone hallucinating and I didn’t know what to do next. ‘Here,’ I said, holding out the bottle of water. ‘I’m a friend; look, I’ve brought you water, Mr Judge.’
‘Don’t gimme that “I’m ya friend” bullshit, sonny boy! I know a fuckin’ cop when I smell one.’ He sniffed, drawing back mucus. ‘Lousy fuckin’ cop! You smell, you hear? Cop smell!’ He couldn’t take his eyes off the bottle of water I held out to him. ‘Throw it here,’ he commanded, nodding his head at the bottle.
I removed the water bottle from around my neck, at the same time taking a step nearer to him. He raised the rock above his shoulder. I held the bottle out to almost within his grasp. ‘C’mon, you need to drink. I won’t hurt you and I’m not a cop. I’m a butterfly collector.’
Even to his fevered brain this must have seemed funny. He lowered the rock and I took another step forward. He appeared to be bemused. ‘What kind of cockamamie… ? Did you say butterfly? Like wid the wings and the flowers?’ he croaked.
I sighed. ‘Yeah, don’t give me a hard time, Mr Judge,’ I said, grinning and taking a final step so that I now stood directly in front of him, holding out the bottle. He snatched it from my hand, but the metal-topped cork stopper remained on. He tried to pull it out with his teeth but was unsuccessful. Panting with rage and the urgent need to drink, he dropped the rock and withdrew the stopper. I made no move to grab him as he started to drink greedily, swallowing too quickly and choking, then bringing it up again. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ he gasped.
‘Take it easy, mate; sip at it slowly, that way you won’t throw it up.’
He took a sip and then another, gasping, bent double, his hands resting on his knees after each sip. ‘C’mon, sir, let’s get going, you can drink on the way,’ I said unreasonably, anxious to get back to the Magpie Crow. In my mind’s eye I could see the condensation forming on the sides of the butterfly jar.
He brought the bottle down. ‘You got a warrant?’ he demanded.
I sighed again, somewhat showing my exasperation. Using language I thought might get through to him and affecting an American accent, something I’d learned as a child at the American School in Tokyo, I said, ‘Listen up, sailor! We are surrounded by Japs. We’re deep inside enemy territory! We gotta get the fuck outa here and back to the boat pronto or you and me, we’re dead meat, sailor!’
To my surprise he sprang to attention and saluted me, the water bottle held stiffly to his side. ‘Yessir! Right away, sir!’
In his hallucinatory state I was no longer a cop but now a naval officer. He was no longer a tough guy but a sailor responding to an order.
‘Let’s go!’ I said, turning away and starting to walk back in the direction of the beach, hoping he’d follow.
Understandably the poor bugger wasn’t in great shape and we were forced to stop several times. On each occasion I made him sip from the water bottle. Not wanting to chance my luck and have him fall back into the cop-and-delinquent routine, except for my crisp command ‘Drink!’ each time we stopped, I remained silent until we’d regained the beach. ‘Take a rest, sailor!’ I said in the peremptory manner I’d adopted.
The little bloke collapsed gratefully onto the beach as I ran towards where I’d left the killing jar in the shade of a low-hanging bush. A merciful angel on duty in heaven must have decided that I’d had enough trouble for one day. The beautiful butterfly rested in the tissue paper in the centre of the jar, completely intact.
My field kit lay where I’d left it in the sun, the jar of ethyl acetate still open, the contents all but evaporated. It was careless in the extreme and I should have reprimanded myself — meticulous attention to detail makes a successful butterfly collector. But for once I didn’t care. Game, set and match! I’d finally snared my quarry.
From my paraphernalia box I withdrew a small triangular envelope, one of several I’d prepared two months previously at the onset of my (hooray!) now not entirely disastrous expedition. Using a pair of tweezers I extracted the Magpie Crow from the jar and carefully placed it in the specially folded envelope and then into a sleeve in the box where it would be protected from being damaged. Now all I had to do was to get it home. Get us home! I can’t say I felt ashamed or remorseful for my behaviour. I know I should have, but I didn’t. The two things were separate, the butterfly and the sailor. As long as I can remember I’ve possessed the capacity to keeps things in separate compartments. My mother’s death when I was five, my father’s stoic and bewildering silence afterwards, the loneliness of a Caucasian child growing up in Japan, my father turning from a cold academic into an equally passionless missionary where God was always angry and redemption was more punishment than joy, the shock of going to school in Australia and the cruelty of the kids who referred to me as ‘the Jap’ or as ‘Yellow Belly’, the constant derision when they heard I collected butterflies. All these things, I had told myself as a child, must be kept separate, so they did not collectively overpower me. Now it had become a habit.
I turned to where I’d left the little bloke. We hadn’t been formally introduced and so I still didn’t know his Christian name. He now sat with his elbows resting on his knees and hi
s head hanging forlornly, chin on his chest, his nose dripping. My water bottle rested on the sand beside him.
Deciding to abandon the superior officer routine and the phoney Yank accent I squatted down beside him. ‘Mr Judge?’ At the sound of my voice he glanced briefly up at me, then returned to looking down at the sand between his knees. ‘My name is Nick… Nick Duncan. And yours is… ?’ I asked softly. His fingers fumbled for one of the dog tags around his neck and, stretching the bootlace that attached it to its extremity, he held it out to me. ‘No, no, Mr Judge,’ I laughed. ‘Your Christian name?’
‘I ain’t telling you nuthin’, sonny boy!’ he snarled, reverting back to being a hard arse.
I picked up the water bottle and shook it. It was empty. There was no choice, I decided. I had to revert to an American accent so he would understand me and go back to the peremptory manner I’d previously affected. ‘Okay, Mr Judge, this is how I see our situation.’ I picked up the water bottle and shook it. ‘We’re fresh out of water. If you remain here you’ll die of dehydration. You may as well give me one of your dog tags so I can report you dead. Your ship has gone down. You’ve been shipwrecked. The Japs are coming to get you. If they don’t get you, the savages will.’ With the reference to savages he looked up quickly with a frightened expression. Seeing his sudden fear I added, ‘You’ll be soup by tonight: big black three-legged soup pot and you in it stewing and boiling, plop, plop, plop!’ I was letting my imagination get carried away. The threat of being eaten would, I hoped, penetrate his confused mind. ‘Now, listen, Mr Judge, I’m here to save your ass! Come with me and we may escape. Stay here and you are certain to die. Dehydration! Japs! Terrible torture! Or soup for savages! You choose, because I’m not hanging around any longer. I’ve got to try and save my own sweet ass!’ I concluded, deliberately using the American ‘ass’ and not ‘arse’.
The Persimmon Tree Page 7
