Derek Hansen - Sole Survivor

He collapsed backward 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 starboard, seized upon it as his salvation. There was work to be done and he needed it. 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 farther 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. Red wondered briefly if the Scotsman had thought to take Bernie 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. The longlines were piled high in the bow. Nothing was wasted. 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 Red would have to manhandle the fish boxes high over his head to lay them on the jetty. Given the weight of them 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 pounds 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 factory shed that constituted the office. He lifted off the handset and cranked the handle. He 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.”

“Oooohhhh …”

“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 weighted them down by putting Jack’s pad over them. The dregs in Jack’s coffee cup had evaporated, leaving a caked crust. He reached over to the washbasin 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 apologize. 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 his 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 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.