Remember Me (25 page)

The rest of the time in hospital was more boring than a bad day on the breakwater when the fish weren’t biting. The nurses always managed to catch my thumbs when they re-strapped my wrists and that really hurt. I still couldn’t feed myself but at least I could hold a glass or a cup between my hands. I couldn’t wait to go home.

They say the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand was a shot that was heard around the world. Mum’s slap to the face of Mr Gillespie reverberated throughout every household in our neighbourhood. Nothing remotely like it had ever happened before. If a novelist had come up with the idea, he or she would probably have used it as a device to bring everyone to their senses. After all, a child—me—had been hurt, possibly seriously and, while people hadn’t actually stepped over me or around me, a lot of people who should’ve come to my aid hadn’t. The novelist would perhaps argue that Mr Gillespie took the second slap on behalf of all the others who’d failed in their duty, that it was a means to awaken them to their guilt, make them confront their shame and bring about contrition. But the novelist would be wrong. The proposition might work on paper but it certainly didn’t in real life.

Mum’s slaps widened the divide in the community. Perhaps half a dozen people witnessed the act but five times that number claimed to have. The public nature of Mum’s humiliation of Mr Gillespie worked against us. Mr Gillespie was a very popular figure and many people were embarrassed for him, and possibly even more embarrassed for his wife. They wanted to find excuses for why Mr Gillespie hadn’t come to help me, blaming his lack of compassion on the fact he’d been torpedoed and still hadn’t fully reconciled himself to the horrific events that had followed, but few were prepared to find
any justification for what Mum had done. It was wrong for any woman to slap another woman’s husband and the humiliation cut deep. Even more telling, rather than ‘bring everyone to their senses’ the slaps only served to make those who deserved to feel ashamed feel more ashamed. Some people dealt with their shame by avoiding us, others by getting angry and defensive. Mum’s slaps gave the latter group a reason for their anger. Women who’d been coolly polite when Mum passed them in the street or out shopping now shunned her. We couldn’t take a trick. Mr Gillespie had left me in the gutter to die but once again my family was in the wrong.

On Tuesday afternoon Sergeant Rapana rang Mum to tell her the police wouldn’t be bringing any charges against Graham Collitt. He said Mr Gillespie refused to act as my witness, claiming he never saw Collitt kick me off my bike and, as far as he was concerned, I’d just fallen off. Though he was under no obligation, the sergeant also confirmed what Dad had suspected. He admitted the police wouldn’t be charging Mr Collitt either. Although there was no shortage of witnesses they all claimed Christian Berger had thrown the first punch. He said the man who held Christian Berger’s arm was technically guilty of assault but the police were unlikely to get a conviction. There was nothing more they could do. Sergeant Rapana said he was sorry.

‘I’m sure you did your best,’ said Mum. I winced. Mum
often said that when my team was beaten at soccer or I came second down at athletics. It wasn’t said in a way that was calculated to make me feel better.

Nigel had some news for me, too. Club had begun again the previous night but fewer than half the usual number of kids had shown up. The fact that Captain Biggs had based his Sunday sermon rather pointedly around the parable of the Good Samaritan probably hadn’t helped. He conducted club as normal but I knew he must’ve been devastated by the poor turnout. He worked his heart out for us kids, trying to raise our sights and give us the chance to be something other than trouble. Captain Biggs’s slap in the face may have only been metaphorical but it had also cut deep.

The lookouts heard the sound of the aircraft just as fading daylight had brought them hope. It circled them, using the clouds for concealment while it confirmed the U-boat’s position. Captain Berger ordered his crew to battle stations. He hoped the attacker would turn out to be a Sunderland. While the big, lumbering flying boats were heavily armed with machine guns and carried over two thousand pounds of bombs and depth charges, they were rarely equipped with searchlights—unless things had changed once more. Provided their attacker was a Sunderland, there was a chance they could hold it at bay through the last dying minutes of daylight and avoid being depth charged. This was the slim hope the captain clung to as the pitch of the aircraft’s engines changed and the crew braced themselves for attack.

The aircraft dropped through the clouds at the end of a banking turn less than two thousand metres astern, forward guns already blazing.

‘Sunderland,’ confirmed the lieutenant.

The flak guns opened up, their range advantage already negated but not their striking power. One good hit and the Sunderland would crash or withdraw, but it had the advantage of speed and manoeuvrability.

‘Discipline!’ shouted Captain Berger, but his voice went unheard. The gunners were rushing and making mistakes. Their aim was wild. He saw the telltale eruptions on the surface of the water heading directly towards them and ducked. There was nothing else he could do. The aft deck gunners fell under a hail of bullets. The 37-millimetre gun kept firing on the forward deck but without effect. The Sunderland swept past, rear guns blazing, then banked and climbed, preparing for the next assault. On the aft deck replacement gunners were rushing to position while the dead and wounded were gathered in. The U-boat continued its slow turn to port.

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

Mum wouldn’t let me go to school until the following Monday. My wrists had pretty much sorted themselves out although I still wasn’t allowed to play any ball games or tag. I wasn’t supposed to ride my bike either but Mum knew there was no way she could stop me. I promised I wouldn’t fall off, go too far or go anywhere near Collitt.
As I walked to school with Nigel, Eric and Maxie, I wished I had a leather jacket with the collar turned up. My partly shaven head made me look like a dog with mange and the stitches weren’t due to come out for another four days. All I needed was the leather jacket and a fag dangling from my lips to look as tough as I felt. Collitt and his mates surrounded us moments after we walked through the school gate. They were spoiling for a fight.

‘Look at you, ya little Pommy weed,’ snarled Collitt. ‘Ya had ta call the cops, didn’t ya. Can’t take ya punishment.’

I sensed Eric, Maxie and Nigel falter, but I’d been expecting trouble and had prepared for it.

‘Jesus, Collitt,’ I said. ‘Do you always have to prove you’re as dumb as you look?’ I heard Maxie gasp and even Nigel took a step backwards. They were almost pissing themselves even before I’d opened my mouth. ‘You’re as thick as a lamppost, pal. I’m amazed you don’t get splinters in your hand when you brush your hair.’ Collitt’s jaw dropped open in disbelief. Nobody ever dared to talk to him like that. And I still hadn’t finished. ‘How could I call the cops, blockhead? I was knocked out when I hit the road. What are you saying? That I got up, walked down Ponsonby Road to the phone box, called the cops then came back and lay down in the gutter? Are you that pig-shit thick?’ Quite a crowd had gathered. They stood stunned, unable to believe what they were hearing. I think some of them thought I was committing suicide.

‘I’ll fuckin’ fix you!’ said Collitt. He grabbed me by the front of my shirt and almost lifted me off my feet.

‘Come on, you clown, hit me,’ I said. I stuck my jaw out invitingly. ‘Come on. What’s stopping you?’ What was stopping him was the fact that both my wrists were bandaged and I had stitches in my head. I knew there was no way he’d dare throw a punch. The teachers would kill him. ‘While you’re at it, give Nigel a good thumping, too. Go on. Sergeant Rapana’s just praying for the day. Come on, you chicken-shit prick, hit me.’

Collitt turned white. I called him a chicken-shit prick. Me, a weedy Pommy, and there were witnesses and not a thing he could do about it. He let go of me and stood impotently bunching and unbunching his fists. The mention of Sergeant Rapana had had the desired effect.

I spun around to his mates. ‘Come on! Which one of you sheilas wants to have a go? What are you scared of? Scared the other kids in Borstal might think you’re girls?’

The word
Borstal
had its desired effect. It suddenly dawned on Nigel that we had power over Collitt and his gang, power in the form of Sergeant Rapana.

‘Chicken-shit pricks!’ he chanted. Maxie joined in. Ryan joined in. Soon all the kids standing around joined in. They pointed and chanted, jeered and taunted. Collitt and his gang swore and cursed but their threats sounded pathetic. They slunk away like kicked dogs.

I stood there the very image of the heroic, wounded gunslinger-turned-town-saviour, the last man standing at
the OK Corral. Nobody could believe I’d had the guts to take on Collitt. To say they were stunned is an understatement. They failed to understand that what I did hadn’t required guts but brains, but I let them think what they liked. Even kids who weren’t supposed to speak to me joined the scramble to pat me on the back. It was like the good old days before Christian Berger when I’d scored a goal for the school soccer team or written an essay everyone liked. It felt great to be back.

Maybe being carted off to hospital helped, but I think things at school would’ve returned to normal sooner rather than later. If alliances can shift in the space of an afternoon, how many times can they shift in the space of a week or a month? The fact is, my school pals and I spent five days a week from 8.30am until 3.30pm together either in class or on the playing fields, constantly interacting. None of them was capable of a sustained campaign of discrimination, particularly as the discrimination wasn’t a matter of their choice but of parental instruction. Before long it was clear the prohibition only applied outside of school hours and even then it was fairly rubbery. You can’t stop kids joining in a game of soccer. The exception, of course, was Gary Gillespie. He still sat as far away from me as he could and avoided me in the playground. He became an increasingly isolated figure. Only Clarry stood by him and Ken occasionally. For a while Eric tried to stay chummy with him but Gary eventually pushed him away. Eric was too closely allied to me.

I’d like to be able to say that everything resolved as neatly but of course it didn’t. Christian Berger lost his job before he’d even had a chance to begin it. The firm he was supposed to go to work for said they couldn’t afford to wait any longer for someone to fill the position. Captain Biggs said it was just an excuse to get out of their commitment. Club suffered. A few kids straggled back but even on a good night only half the usual number of kids showed up. Church suffered. No more than twothirds of the regular parishioners attended the Sunday morning service, a fact the bishop could not fail to notice. Captain Biggs’s tenure looked decidedly shaky. Mum’s shop suffered. There were plenty of days when Mum said she didn’t know why she even bothered to open the door. As a consequence our dinners suffered, but not as much as they might have.

Once my wrists healed I went fishing down on the breakwater at least three times a week. Often Mack went on ahead of me and we met up on the breakwater after school. Mack had regained the taste for fishing on a regular basis and cut his trips out on the
La Rita
to once a fortnight in favour of fishing off the breakwater. He was great company, a great teacher and also an insurance policy. He understood my situation perfectly. I suspect that at the beginning he only started going fishing with me so he could help out. On the afternoons I failed to catch anything he’d slip me a couple of fish from his sugarbag. I hardly ever returned home empty-handed.
Mum was as pleased as punch but I think there were times Dad and Nigel wished I’d missed out so they could have something else. After two or three nights of fish even liver began to appeal. Rod, Mum and I could’ve eaten fish every night without complaint.

Christian Berger was released from hospital exactly one week after me and from that point on he was fair game. On the days when I didn’t go fishing Eric and I raced up to the Church Army as soon as school was over. If the afternoon was sunny, we sat on fold-up chairs out on the lawn by the clubhouse. If it was overcast we sat in the lounge. If we sat outside, Sister Glorious brought us a jug of cordial and tall glasses; if we sat indoors she brought us mugs of Church Army tea. We were in heaven.

Christian Berger talked to us for an hour at a time, from 3.30 until 4.30 and allowed only a few minutes afterwards for questions. For the first two weeks we chose the days to fit around my fishing. After that, once he was mobile again, we had to coordinate my fishing days with the days he went job hunting or caught the bus to go explore more of Auckland. Christian Berger began with his early days at the naval academy and progressed through to the first time he went to sea in a U-boat. He told us how proud he was and how scared he became when the U-boat dived. He told us how the hull creaked and groaned as the pressure increased, how some cadets who he thought were much tougher and stronger-minded than he, became claustrophobic and panicked. I don’t think he
ever had a better audience. I took notes while Eric just listened wide-eyed. Neither of us interrupted, neither of us fidgeted and neither of us missed a single word. On the day when he promised to tell us about his first kill he had a surprise in store for us. The funny thing is, I don’t think he was expecting it either.

I remember it was a Wednesday, the last club night of the week. I usually went fishing on Thursdays because it wasn’t a club night and I didn’t have to race home to get ready. Eric and I had ants in our pants all day. At that time radio was our prime source of electronic entertainment. Mr Berger’s stories were like the most exciting and enthralling radio serial we’d ever heard. And he was about to tell us, blow by blow, how he torpedoed his first merchant ship. How could we possibly concentrate on mundane things like comprehension or maths? Mr Ingleby took Eric and me aside when the lunch bell rang and asked us what was going on. We told him we were sworn to secrecy.

‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Someone else is giving you history lessons. I’ve seen you racing up to the Church Army after school.’

I suppose our stunned faces provided all the confirmation he needed, but he’d only guessed the half of it.

‘I bet it’s pretty exciting,’ he said, ‘but I want you to keep your excitement bottled up until after school. Don’t you think I also deserve a share of your attention?’

You can see why Mr Ingleby was popular. Eric and I dutifully kept our excitement contained until the final bell rang. After that there was no holding us. We dropped our schoolbags off behind the counter at the shop and raced up the road. The afternoon was pretty cool so we knew Mr Berger would be waiting for us in the lounge. We burst in high on expectations to find Mr Berger already had company. Our spirits dived when we saw who his company was: Mr Holterman. We could hardly believe our eyes. Mr Berger and Mr Holterman together? The U-boat captain and the Lancaster pilot? Greetings died in my throat. I was far too stunned for words. We expected to be dismissed out of hand, to be told to come back another day and yelled at for barging in on them without knocking. Mr Holterman never needed much of an excuse to let fly. But the surprises kept coming.

‘Sit down, boys,’ said Mr Holterman.

Sit down? What?

‘My friend here has explained the rules but let me go over them to make sure we all know the score. Everything you hear in this room stays in this room, right?’

‘Right,’ Eric and I were like two stunned parrots.

‘You don’t interrupt, you don’t muck around and you save any questions until last. Right?’

‘Right.’

Mr Holterman fixed his gaze onto me. There was a hint of the Mr Holterman we all feared in his look.
‘I understand Mr Berger has given you permission to write an essay based on what he tells you. The same rule applies to everything you hear in this room. But if I learn that you’ve shown anyone what you’ve written I’ll kick you so hard in the pants I’ll make your nose bleed. You’ll wish you were still lying in the gutter. Is that clear enough for you?’

‘Yes, Mr Holterman.’ I could hardly believe what he was suggesting and didn’t dare seek clarification or confirmation. ‘I promise. Cross my heart.’

‘All right, the two of you just sit quietly and listen. And Sister Glorious…’

Sister Gloria stopped dead in her tracks. I hadn’t even been aware she was in the room until Mr Holterman called out her name. She was doing what Mum called ‘fluffing around’.

‘You do know these two call you Sister Glorious, don’t you?’ Sister Gloria turned bright red. Eric and I squirmed on our chairs. ‘I want you to know we’re counting on your discretion as well. OK?’

She nodded and almost ran from the room.

‘Shall we begin?’ said Mr Holterman.

‘You were telling me how you bombed my city,’ said Mr Berger. ‘Let me tell you something: you didn’t miss.’

Mr Holterman laughed. You could’ve knocked us down with a feather. He was a totally different Mr Holterman to the one we’d come to know. ‘Sorry about that. I suppose you were pretty pissed off when you got home after the war.’

‘No. There was surprisingly little bitterness. We saw it as punishment. It was what we deserved.’

The former enemies opened up and chatted away as though Eric and I weren’t in the room. I don’t think either of us even drew a breath. When Sister Glorious brought us tea we drank it without noticing. We didn’t dare look at each other in case the spell was broken and it all turned out to be a dream. The unbelievable, the incredible and the unimaginable were occurring right in front of us. Not only was Mr Berger telling his story, so was Mr Holterman. The U-boat captain and the Lancaster pilot, a double feature which, to this day, has never been equalled.