Remember Me (24 page)

‘Steady on.’

The voice was vaguely familiar but spoke in English, not German. Had he been wounded and captured? If so, how? And why was the voice familiar?

‘Nurse!’

The voice again. Christian realised he was awake but his eyes were still closed. He tried to open them. Nothing happened. He tried to reach down to his groin as the urge to pee returned even more pressing than before, but was stopped by a stab of pain from his ribs.

‘I…need to…urinate,’ he said.

‘Just a sec.’ A woman’s voice.

Christian was aware of blankets being lifted, a hand on his penis and a cold touch of metal.

‘Ready, set, go.’

Christian experienced an overwhelming sense of relief as his bladder relaxed and the dam broke. It occurred to him mid-stream that he was locked in a dream and inadvertently wetting his bed. His bed? No, not his bed. He tried to stop peeing but couldn’t.

‘Try to keep still.’

The woman’s voice again. In sudden panic he realised that it must be Sister Gloria holding his penis and helping him urinate. But just as shame threatened to overwhelm him he heard the voice again.

‘Keep still, for goodness sake!’

Not Sister Gloria’s voice. Then whose? And where was he?

‘Where…am I?’

‘That’s better. They should’ve catheterised you. I might have to change bottles.’

‘Please…where am I?’

‘You’re in hospital. I’m looking after you and you’re going to have to stop peeing. I do need another bottle.’

Christian obliged, now that the pressure on his bladder had eased.

‘My goodness! Look at that. You must’ve been holding on for a week.’

Fleeting memories of strange soft drinks and awful coffee crossed his mind. Bit by bit, he began remembering.

‘All right, here we go, finish what you started.’

Christian hardly gave a thought to the fact that a strange woman was holding his penis and helping him pee. The images infiltrating his mind were far more important.

‘Why can’t I see?’

‘You’ve got bandages over your eyes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’re cut and bleeding. Not your eyes, your eyebrows. And your nose is broken.’

He remembered falling, the punches, the kicks and his fear that if he passed out he’d never wake up again. But he had, and now he needed to know the extent of the damage.

‘You’ve got broken ribs and your right hand is broken as well. I suppose someone else is also feeling pretty sore. Finished?’

Christian nodded and let the nurse take the bottle away. Nodding was a mistake. The nurse hadn’t finished her litany.

‘And you might have some hairline fractures of your skull. So if I were you I’d just keep still until the doctor comes. You have to keep still anyway because you’ve got bruising around the kidneys. Your friend’s here, talk to him.’

Friend?

‘How are you feeling?’

This time Christian had no trouble recognising the voice.

‘Not so good. What happened?’

‘What I warned you might happen. Things could’ve been a lot worse if some women hadn’t come to your rescue and made your attackers back off. They stood between you and the mob until the police arrived.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You have nothing to be sorry about. The men who attacked you are known troublemakers. They just needed an excuse and unfortunately you provided one. They’re not typical of the rest of us. Some people are upset but that’s all. They’ll get over it. They’re good people.’

‘I know.’

‘How was the rest of your day?’

‘I’m not sure, but I think it was one of the best of my life.’

Captain Biggs laughed. Christian Berger tried to join him but the attempt opened up a split in his lips.

That evening Mum left Rod to mind the shop and without another word began walking up Richmond Road. Sometimes Mr Gillespie walked home across Grey Lynn Park and sometimes he walked straight down Rose Road. But mostly—and always on Fridays—he went by the newsboy on the corner of Richmond Road and Ponsonby Road to pick up a copy of the
Auckland Star
. Mum knew this just as everybody else knew this. There are no secrets in a small community. Everybody knew everyone else’s routines.

Mr Gillespie spotted Mum walking towards him and crossed the road to avoid her. Mum crossed the road as well. Mr Gillespie crossed back. Mum crossed back. At this point Mr Gillespie resigned himself to the inevitable. Mum marched straight up to him and stopped. She stood there face to face, not saying a word, waiting for him to apologise. I know this because Eric was riding home from having his hair cut and he saw the whole thing.

Mum just stood and stared at Mr Gillespie, eyeballing him. I can imagine the look on her face, the accusation and barely contained fury. Mr Gillespie wouldn’t have stood a chance. The armour plate on a Panzer tank would’ve buckled before her gaze. Probably even melted. The moment Mr Gillespie gave into his shame and bowed his head Mum struck. A cobra would’ve envied her speed. She slapped him. Not once, but twice. Not
token slaps, but with all the strength she could muster. Mr Gillespie just stood there, arms by his side, and took his punishment. His head jerked with the force of each blow but he made no attempt to protect himself. Mum never uttered a word. Job done, she turned and walked home.

Mum’s slaps would’ve really hurt but I don’t imagine for a second that was why Mr Gillespie’s face burned. Eric reckoned that if Mr Gillespie had opened his mouth people would’ve mistaken him for a letterbox.

Heavy grey clouds scurried across the sky as low as five hundred metres, promising rain but not delivering, limiting visibility and offering little protection. Two hours of daylight remained. If they got through that safely they still had to face the possibility of aircraft equipped both with radar and powerful searchlights. With the stern planes jammed ten degrees down, they couldn’t use their surface speed of sixteen knots to get away. With the rudder jammed they were at the mercy of the sea and unable to run at speed anyway. If the enemy delayed using lights until the last minute, their machine guns could rake the deck, killing his gun crews before they even got a shot off and leaving them exposed to low-level attack by depth charging. It was a nightmare scenario.

Captain Berger was confident that the stern planes could be manipulated at least to a neutral position if not repaired. The rudder was another story. On the stern deck, crew were hauling in the divers, blankets at
the ready to warm their frozen bodies. In a few minutes they’d make their report and he’d know exactly where he stood. In the meantime the U-boat rolled and wallowed in the rising sea.

The Chief Engineer pronounced the death sentence. The damage to the rudder was beyond their capability to repair. Worse, it was bent and jammed at such an angle the U-boat was committed to an endless turn to port. Limited function had, however, been restored to the stern planes. The U-boat could at least dive once the batteries were recharged. Captain Berger received the news and duly logged it in his
Kriegs Tage Buch
. He gave the order to proceed at onethird speed. Once under way the pitching and rolling would ease. The last patrol of U-487 would at least end in relative comfort.

A
N EXTRACT FROM
‘D
EATH OF A
U-B
OAT’

I won’t say that I thought I knew everything but I didn’t think there was much I didn’t know. I flattered myself I had a writer’s insights, not that I even knew they existed until Mr Grainger had made us look for them during an English lesson. In truth, I fell in love with the notion that I knew people better than they knew themselves and had the inside running on why they behaved one way and not another. But the night I was taken to hospital in the
ambulance it soon became apparent I was no cleverer at reading people than anyone else.

Nigel broke down and cried after he took my bike home. Who would’ve thought? The devil must’ve been pulling on sweaters as hell froze over. Nigel never cried but apparently it took all of Rod’s persuasion and comforting to make him stop. Mum came home from the hospital too teary and upset to speak. Who would’ve thought that, either? In later years people called Margaret Thatcher the Iron Lady but she was tinfoil compared to Mum. I was stunned, but there was more to come. Apparently even Dad was shaken. I simply couldn’t picture that. I thought he’d be cracking jokes about how the council would have to repair the road where my head hit it. But no. Once they got home he kept giving Mum hugs, which was unusual to say the least. He even hugged Nigel and, amazingly, Nigel let him. Our family didn’t go in for displays of affection. We didn’t feel any need. We knew where we stood. We loved each other and that was that. It was a given, an immutable fact and we didn’t need reminding. Rod, Nigel and I drew courage from Mum’s and Dad’s strength. As far as we were concerned, as long as they stood firm nothing could harm us. They were our protective shell. They were what made us safe. Although upset by my injuries I think they were equally shocked that the attack on me had occurred; that, despite all their best efforts, we were as vulnerable as any family.

The next step was anger. Of course they wanted to
know who the boys were that had forced me off my bike. Nigel reckoned it had to be Collitt and his gang but nobody had any proof. They also wanted to know who had seen me lying in the gutter and turned away. I think the fact that people we knew had seen me there and just walked on by without offering to help affected Mum and Dad more than anything. It was a betrayal of friendship, trust and decency. To them it was inconceivable that any adult could ignore a child in such circumstances. Even in the prickly climate of anti-Christian Berger sentiment they found it hard to believe. Yet family acquaintances, people my parents had socialised with at school and church, people who’d stood next to them at soccer and athletics, people who were Mum’s customers, people who were parents of kids Rod, Nigel and I played with, people we thought we knew and respected, had been among those who’d turned a blind eye. Dad wanted names and wanted to have it out with them face to face but all he had was speculation. In truth, his anger wasn’t just directed at individuals but in response to the fact we’d been betrayed, let down and left unsure of the ground upon which we stood. The sense of betrayal was both overwhelming and numbing. No amount of anger could change that.

Looking back I guess there were two possible responses. We could circle the wagons and shore up the defences while things settled down. Or we could move on. Since we were in no position to move anywhere we
dug in. But the seeds of the latter option were sown as I lay in the gutter, of that I have no doubt. There was no coming back from the depths of disappointment and disillusionment that followed the anger.

Not all was gloom, however. My prang was big news and some nice things happened. I reckon there wasn’t a kid in the neighbourhood who didn’t know I’d been carted off in an ambulance by the time the sun had set. Next day, there was a steady stream of kids through the shop at lunchtime and after school bringing comics for Mum to take to the hospital. Judith headed a delegation of girls who handed Mum a ‘get well soon’ card for me, which the whole class had written messages on and signed. Ryan had drawn a cartoon of me in bed covered in bandages with my bike covered in bandages alongside. Ian, who wasn’t supposed to speak to me or set foot in the shop, brought Mum a bunch of flowers from his mother and apologised again for telling Captain Biggs before he told her. My old teacher, Mr Grainger, and new teacher, Mr Ingleby, dropped in to sympathise and offer Mum whatever support they could. Mack came by, of course, and so did the mothers of my closest friends. Mr Holterman came in on his crutches and handed Mum a colour, cross-section diagram of a Sunderland equipped for anti-submarine duties.

‘Give that to the lad for his essays,’ he said. ‘And give him a kick in the pants for all the trouble he’s caused.’

Mum accepted all the goodwill with her normal good
grace and then, when the time came, went out and slapped Mr Gillespie.

The afternoon prior to the slap, Nigel and Maxie rode up to see me after school and managed to sneak past the dragon up to my ward. Eric would’ve come too if he didn’t have to have his hair cut. They brought the first instalment of comics, which I couldn’t read because my hands were still wrapped up like Easter eggs. Nigel and Maxie were bubbling with news that the police had been to the school and interviewed Collitt and all the members of his gang. They reckoned Collitt would be sent to Borstal for sure. Borstal was a boys’ reformatory, sort of a gaol for juveniles. At the very least they expected him to be put on probation and half of his gang with him. They also claimed the police had been to see Collitt’s dad, Veronica’s mum had seen them, and the Collitts’ pig dog had been taken away to be destroyed. Veronica was in Nigel’s class. Her mum said the dog had attacked a young constable.

When Captain Biggs arrived after Nigel and Maxie had been kicked out for being too rowdy, I passed the news on to him. I was pleased and excited by the fact that Mr Collitt would be sent back to gaol for beating up Christian Berger and that Graham Collitt would end up in Borstal. It seemed both just and inevitable. I never doubted for a second that Sergeant Rapana would do his job and that would be the outcome. It was another tenet of faith; if you broke the law you went to gaol. End of story.

Captain Biggs wasn’t the last of my visitors. Sister Glorious and Mack were also allowed in to see me. Sister Glorious fussed over me. She held my glass so I could have a drink of water, peeled an orange and split it into segments, which she fed to me one at a time. Mack wanted to talk about the six gurnard, which gave me an opportunity to impress her. I told Mack all about catching the fish and how many meals they’d make but she was my real audience. She’d kissed me, hugged me tight against her glorious breasts and cried her heart out while I was lying in the gutter. Now she was visiting me in hospital and cradling my bandaged right hand in her lap. She made me feel as if I was the most important person in the world. I blushed like a beetroot when she kissed me goodbye before going off with Captain Biggs to see Christian Berger. More fuel for my fantasies. Mack stayed and we talked more about fishing while another writer’s insight slipped through to the keeper. I might as well have had bandages over my eyes as well.

Captain Biggs, Mack and Sister Glorious had spotted Mum walking up Richmond Road from the trolley bus as it brought them home and thought it rather odd. After all, Friday night was late-night shopping and they knew her routine. Sister Glorious waved but Mum didn’t see her. At least she didn’t wave back. Captain Biggs was sufficiently curious to pause at the Church Army’s front door and look back up Richmond Road. He saw Mum cross over and cross back again. He noticed a man
was doing the same odd dance and realised moments later that it was Mr Gillespie. He told Mack later it was like watching trains racing towards each other on the same track. The collision was inevitable and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

The doctor came on Saturday morning and told me I was allowed to sit up. I begged to be allowed to get out of bed to go to the toilet because it was so embarrassing to have to pee in a bottle. Everyone knew what you were doing and sometimes it’s impossible not to fart.

‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘Sit up.’ I sat up but it was a lot harder than I thought. My head had felt like lead when I had my prang but now it felt as though the slightest breeze would blow it away. ‘Now slip your legs over the side of the bed. How do you feel?’

‘Terrific,’ I said. My head felt like an emptying bath. Everything inside it was draining away.

‘Try to stand.’

I tried but the curtains came down before the show even began.

‘Whoa!’ said the doctor. He caught me as I pitched forward. ‘I thought that would happen.’ With the help of the nurse he put me back into bed and made me lie flat. ‘Wait five minutes before you try to sit up again, kiddo. I think we’ll leave getting out of bed until tomorrow.’

Kiddo. You’d think my name wasn’t written in block letters on a card above my head. Nevertheless I was happy to obey. My head thumped. Apparently feeling dizzy and
fainting was normal when you have concussion. I resigned myself to another day in bed, hoping Sister Glorious wouldn’t visit me while a half-filled bottle of pee sat on the cabinet alongside my bed, waiting for a nurse to collect it.

Mum, Dad and Rod came to see me at the morning visiting time and brought Eric with them. They were so pleased to see me sitting up that I didn’t tell them about my attempt to stand. I asked Dad if the Collitts had been arrested.

‘Not yet,’ he said.

‘Then when?’ I asked.

‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ he said. He didn’t look too happy.

For once I didn’t get exasperated by Dad’s ‘wait and see’. It was Saturday after all and I thought maybe the police were waiting until Monday. Rod told me the tip of my fishing rod had broken off in the crash but that he’d managed to glue and bind another tip on. He reckoned I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Mum helped me drink some cordial she’d made up and fed me some chocolate brownies she’d baked that morning. Dad got permission for Eric to stay behind when they left. Eric had ruled up pages of grids so we could play Battleship. As soon as we were alone he told me how Mum had intercepted Mr Gillespie and slapped his face. His eyes were as big as saucers as though he still couldn’t believe what he’d seen, but I suppose mine were as well.

It was Wednesday morning before the hospital let me go home. I’d never known time drag so slowly despite the fact I had plenty of visitors. Judith came to see me after school on Monday and brought me some flowers. She perched on the edge of my bed while her girlfriend, Pauline, sat on the visitor’s chair and tried not to look embarrassed. I also tried not to look embarrassed. It wasn’t every day I was visited by a girl and the first time in my life one had given me flowers. Flowers, for God’s sake. But Judith was great and bubbled away like the drinking taps at school. She kissed me as she left. OK, it was only a peck on the bandages around my head, but it still counted. Apart from that, there were only two other moments worth mentioning.

The first was when they took the bandages off my head and I discovered a huge patch of my hair had been shaved off so they could put in six stitches. I’d never had stitches before and I was thrilled to my socks. The stitches made me look tough as all hell. The second moment was when Eric and I snuck away from the ward to visit Christian Berger. We thought we’d blown it when we found Sister Glorious sitting with him, perched on the edge of his bed like Judith had on mine. Captain Biggs had sent her in with some clean pyjamas. She leaped in the air when she saw me as though bitten on the backside. I thought I was in trouble for getting out of bed. Then she spotted my stitches.

‘What have they done to you?’ she cried. She threw her arms around me and hugged me right there in front
of Eric and the U-boat captain. Eric’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Despite my bandages I gave him a halfway decent thumbs up behind her back.

Christian Berger looked like he’d been hit by a bus. My injuries were peanuts compared to his. He had the best black eyes I’d ever seen and his nose looked as if it was only held on by sticking plaster. I reminded him of his promise to tell me his story and pointed out he’d have plenty of opportunity while he was recuperating. I asked if Eric could sit in as well. He agreed to both requests provided we kept everything he said a secret between us. We left him talking to Sister Glorious and fair danced our way back to my ward. Imagine it. A real live U-boat captain was going to tell us his story, tell us what it was like to torpedo ships, what it was like to be depth-charged and what it was like to be attacked by aircraft. Being able to share the experience with Eric made it even more special. Nothing my Dad or adopted uncles had told me about their wartime experiences would come close. Even Mack’s story would pale by comparison.