Remember Me (27 page)

We stared down into the drain at the flickering light from Christian Berger’s torch. He disappeared for a moment, reappeared and climbed halfway back up the shaft. I couldn’t help feeling relieved. For a moment I thought he was going to do something stupid like try to reach Gary and Clarry.

‘Tell me again. How far away is the shaft where the boys are?’

‘About two hundred yards,’ I said.

‘Which side?’

‘Left-hand side.’

‘Is it the same as this one?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Just a series of rungs. Why?’

Christian Berger didn’t answer. For an instant his face looked like he’d just made the worst decision of his life. He seemed to just drop from sight. He and his torch disappeared.

‘No!’ I shouted. The drain took the sound of my voice away and swallowed it up. I turned to Captain Biggs. ‘He’s gone,’ I said incredulously. ‘Washed away.’ I couldn’t believe my eyes. Christian Berger had travelled halfway around the world to drown in a storm drain because of the stupidity of a couple of kids. He didn’t even know them. What was worse was that one of them was the son of Mr Gillespie, Christian Berger’s archenemy. I wondered if he knew. I wondered if it mattered. Bitter tears stung my eyes. It wasn’t fair.

I needed Captain Biggs to say something, to give me reason to hope, to give me any kind of encouragement. But seeing him just standing there, helpless and hopelessly inadequate, made everything seem his fault. He was Captain Biggs, he was a grown-up, he was our leader and he should’ve been doing something.

‘You!’ I shouted accusingly. ‘You should’ve gone down the drain, not him. It was your job! It’s your job to look after us, not his!’

‘I can’t swim.’

I think I was ready for any reply except that one. How many times had he taken us to beaches on Waiheke Island? How many times had we risked all to catch a wave, secure in the knowledge he was watching over us? But then my mind filled with images of him standing on the shore, never more than knee-deep, sheep-dogging us, calling out to us to stick together, making sure we watched out for each other. Of course he couldn’t swim!
Just as he couldn’t bat or bowl or kick a football or ride a bike or do any of the dozens of things he encouraged us kids to do, things he’d doubtless been deprived of doing as a child. If I felt bad about Christian Berger being swept away trying to save my pals, how bad did Captain Biggs feel having the commander drown trying to save two of his flock? My accusation still hung in the air and I thought Captain Biggs was going to burst into tears. I threw my arms around the poor bugger and cried for the two of us.

‘Alarm! Alarm!’

The captain heard the shouts from the conning tower in disbelief. He’d discounted the possibility that the Sunderland would return for a third pass; in fact, put it out of his mind entirely. Maybe the Sunderland had lights. If so, why hadn’t the pilot used them earlier? And why weren’t the flak guns firing? Maybe it wasn’t the Sunderland attacking them? Or maybe—and this possibility made his blood run cold—he’d failed to ensure that the dead and wounded gunners had been replaced. The flak guns opened fire but too late. He could already hear the droning of the aircraft’s engines, recognised it instantly. The Sunderland. Captain Berger had to admit to another misjudgement. Apparently there was still enough light for the bomb aimer.

When the depth charges exploded they unleashed a force like a giant hammer pounding down on the U-boat, caving in damaged plates and splitting welds as though they had no more substance than the skin of a ripe tomato. Sea water instantly engulfed the captain and
swept him away and upwards, his body tumbling out of control, cannoning sickeningly from walls and hatchways. This was the death he’d long accepted would be his and he’d thought he’d face it with equanimity, with a sense of reaching an inevitable conclusion, a journey’s end. Instead he suffered the blind, consuming terror of all drowning men, of utter helplessness, of futility, of desperate, unjustified hope. With whirring brain and flailing limbs he railed against fate, fighting desperately to seize hold of anything—anything that would allow him to regain his feet, regain some control, find his bearings, save him. Instead he continued to tumble helplessly amid the flood, lungs at bursting point.

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

Captain Biggs had often made the point to us that religion and belief was the fine line between civilisation and barbarity. Right then it seemed to me that there was a fine line between a lot of things. There seemed to be a fine line between order and disorder, decision and indecision, command and chaos, and those who were first on the scene certainly crossed all three. Two pals were stuck in the second shaft and my hero had been swept away. Every second counted yet nobody did anything. It was ten minutes before help arrived, which seemed like an eternity. Captain Biggs sent Ryan home to get out of
his wet clothes. After that he just prayed. Eric kept staring down the shaft as if he was expecting Christian Berger to magically reappear. The old fogies wandered off to look confused somewhere else.

Nigel and Maxie turned up out of the blue. At first they were as stunned as we were, then had the bright idea of racing along to the second shaft and banging on the concrete covering the metal plate to see if anyone tapped back, just like they did in mining disaster movies. I’d already tried banging on the metal cover the afternoon I’d been trapped in the drain and no one had heard a thing, and that was before it had been covered in concrete. Two policemen finally arrived and all they did was hop on the radio and ask for more policemen. Two men from the Water Board turned up minutes later. They went straight to a neighbouring house to borrow their phone to ask for more men from the Water Board. Two boys were trapped and an adult had been swept away. What part of the message had they failed to understand when Sister Kathleen had rung them? When did an emergency become an emergency? All the while they dithered the water kept rising and I kept screaming at them to do something before it was too late.

More police arrived wearing dark blue overalls and carrying ropes but didn’t do anything with them. They said it was too dangerous to go down into the drain and the ropes weren’t long enough to reach the second shaft.
An ambulance arrived with its siren screaming full blast but what could the Zambucks—the St John ambulancemen—do without patients? More men arrived from the Water Board. They wore white overalls and gumboots up to their knees but all they did was peer down the shaft and stand around looking concerned. They told us they were waiting for a compressor and jackhammers to come from the Department of Main Roads. They said there was a delay because work had finished for the day and everyone had gone home. Mr and Mrs Gillespie arrived and rushed over to Captain Biggs as though nothing had ever happened between them. Clarry’s mum and dad, Mr and Mrs Rycroft, arrived. Mrs Rycroft was crying. Captain Biggs did his best to comfort her. He gave the impression of being the only one in control but I was slowly learning that appearances, especially in his case, could be deceptive. Parents and kids came from everywhere. The police used their ropes to clear the area around the two shafts. A lot of people ran around but still nobody did anything that helped my pals or Christian Berger. I kept wishing Sergeant Rapana would magically appear. He wouldn’t just stand by. I reckon he would’ve gone straight down into the drain and rescued my pals. But he didn’t come and his colleagues did nothing constructive. To add insult to injury, the police made me go and stand behind the ropes. I called them a lot of useless bastards but that didn’t help much either.

The compressor arrived towed behind a Bedford truck but the track wasn’t wide enough for any truck or car to tow it through the bush to the second shaft. I’d tried to tell them that from the start but nobody bothered to listen even though the evidence was right in front of their eyes. Without the compressor, the jackhammers were useless. Just when I was at the point of total despair and hoarse from screaming at people, Dad appeared with his sledgehammer over his shoulder. Rod, Nigel and Maxie were hot on his heels. Thank God for the cavalry! I learned later that Nigel and Maxie had ridden home to get Dad’s sledgehammer and cold chisels. Dad arrived home just as they were about to ride back, took the hammer and chisels off them, grabbed Rod and bundled them all into the Chev.

‘Follow me!’ I yelled and jumped the police rope. I led the way to the second shaft with Dad, Rod, Nigel and Maxie following, and a comet tail of dads, police and Water Board workers streaming along behind them. At last we were doing something and it had taken my Dad to get things going. I hoped Mr Gillespie was taking note.

Dad took the first couple of swings but he was no expert when it came to swinging sledgehammers and it showed. The hammer skidded off the concrete and all Dad raised were sparks. A couple of Maori Water Board workers took over. Dad used to say Maori men weren’t born but carved out of kauri. He reckoned their heads were always two axe handles from their feet and their
shoulders were a full axe-handle across. These two fitted the description to a T. One held the chisel and the other took a mighty swing at it. I thought the Maori holding the chisel had a death wish but one swing showed they’d worked together before. The hammer hit the chisel dead centre every time and chips of concrete shot past me like shrapnel.

‘I want you boys to go back to the first shaft,’ said Dad. ‘Rod, you stay, but the rest of you hop it. Now.’

I think the Maoris paused for a second as they and everyone else digested what Dad was really saying. Nigel reckoned it was Mr Gillespie who sobbed out loud. All of us kids took the cue and trudged back to the first shaft. Sometimes you just do as you’re told without argument. Dad didn’t know what they’d find when they finally managed to open the shaft but he was clear about one thing. He didn’t want us there just in case.

We reached the first shaft just as workmen arrived with a massive two-wheeled generator and the sort of lights road gangs used at night. While we were away the police had started setting up a command centre. Men were already up lampposts connecting the portable phones. All they needed was power from the generator to become operational. At last I got the feeling things were beginning to happen as they should. I told Captain Biggs about the two Maori guys and that they were making progress. I made it sound as though they were hammering away big chunks of concrete instead of the
little chips that had whizzed past me. Mrs Gillespie thanked me.

Eric and I hung as close as we could to the police command centre. When the phone rang we listened as intently as anybody. We learned that police were scouring the channel and the mud flats where the storm drains exited and so far hadn’t found anything. Eric and I looked at each other. If Christian Berger and either of the boys had been swept away they would’ve ended up in Coxs Creek by now. Daylight was fading but it was still light enough to find a body if there was one. We also learned the Water Board had opened the cover on the third shaft past Shadbolt Street and it was also clear. That meant the U-boat captain and our pals had to be in the second shaft. They had to be. We rushed over to Captain Biggs to pass on the news. This time Mrs Rycroft hugged me.

The police must’ve come to the same conclusion and realised the urgency because they began concentrating their attention on the second shaft. The onlookers also somehow got the message or maybe they just followed Captain Biggs and the boys’ mums as they headed off down the track. The police tried to stop them but were told to get out of their way in no uncertain terms by some grim-faced dads. Instead the police gathered up the ropes and posts from around the first shaft to set up a perimeter around the second. Some kids went with their parents but we had no
choice but to stay put. As frustrating and infuriating as it was, Dad had been unequivocal.

Even though it was clear the action was elsewhere we hung around the command post, in the belief that if something did happen we’d at least be among the first to know. And we were. We were among the first to learn that rain was tumbling down up in Karangahape Road and the downpour had spread as close as Williamson Avenue on the other side of Grey Lynn Park. We were glad Captain Biggs and our pals’ mothers had moved on to the second shaft so we didn’t have to share this news with them. We knew for sure that whatever rain fell up there would find its way down to our drain. The Zambucks were packing up their stretchers and bags before heading off after everyone else. Only two policemen, a sergeant and a constable, were left manning the phones.

Nigel, Eric, Maxie and I edged over to the first shaft. One of the cops yelled at us to keep away but we ignored him. It wasn’t as if we were going to climb down the shaft or anything. All we wanted to see was how far the water had risen and how fast it was flowing. Millions of gallons of water were heading our way and we had no idea how much rain it took to flood the drain completely. We stared down the shaft but it was like looking into a black hole. Twilight was giving way to night and the police lights only lit the top of the shaft and nothing more.

‘I reckon it’s up to the shaft,’ said Maxie. ‘Have to be.’

‘Bulldust,’ said Nigel. ‘We’d see it.’

‘I reckon it’d be waist-deep on the sides,’ said Eric. ‘According to Ryan it was only up to his balls before.’

‘Shut up!’ I said.

They all turned and looked at me as though stunned. Their reaction made me think that maybe they’d heard it, too.

‘Listen! Can you hear it?’

We listened, ears like radar dishes. The drain swallowed up sound but we were used to the deadness and the steady roar of the water. We heard something we shouldn’t have.

‘Sounds like someone paddling,’ said Eric incredulously. And it did. We all knew what paddling sounded like.

‘Shush!’ said Nigel.

Suddenly we saw the water, only briefly and barely at that, as though someone was shining a torch with weak batteries on it.

‘Someone’s down there!’ I screamed.

The cops looked up, open-mouthed. The Zambucks froze.

‘Don’t just bloody stand there, bring some torches!’ yelled Maxie.

If someone had fired a starter’s pistol I don’t think the police would have left the blocks any faster. They were beside us in seconds, torches beaming down the shaft, and there, pale as a ghost, was Clarry’s terrified face looking up at us.

‘Get some rope!’ yelled the sergeant, but we all knew where the rope had gone.

Clarry was crying and clearly struggling to climb the rungs but there was nothing we could do to help. Behind him was another face: Christian Berger’s. He was encouraging Clarry up the rungs. Clarry was alive and Christian Berger was alive. The police pushed us aside so we couldn’t see but we didn’t need to. They were alive. And if they were alive the chances were that Gary was too. When the police pulled Clarry out of the shaft we started cheering and leaping about as though the All Blacks had just crossed for a try, but I was saving my biggest hooray for Christian Berger. It’s the best feeling when heroes deliver. The Zambucks grabbed Clarry and wrapped him in blankets. We wanted to pat him and make a fuss over him but they wouldn’t let us near. He was bawling his eyes out and shivering like a freshly caught sprat. Nigel and Maxie followed the Zambucks as they carried Clarry over to the command centre where they’d left their stretchers. Eric and I stayed to help our hero climb out.

But Christian Berger didn’t climb out.

The first indication we had that something was wrong was when we heard the sergeant order him to get out, and then start pleading, telling him about the rain just over the park. We listened to the sergeant in dismay, mouths wide in disbelief. Christian Berger was going back? The sergeant pounded his fist into the collar of the shaft in frustration. Eric and I rushed over to peer down the shaft. Christian Berger had gone. Gone again! I turned to the sergeant.

‘Why did he go back?’

‘He said he promised the other boy he’d go back for him.’

‘No!’ I couldn’t believe it. Christian Berger had been lucky not to end up in Coxs Creek the first time around, why would he risk his life again? ‘Didn’t you tell him they’re trying to open the second shaft?’

‘Made no difference. He said the other lad was barely hanging on. Said he had to go back. Look, would you two run along to the second shaft and tell them what’s happened while we sort things out here?’

Eric and I looked at each other. We had exactly the excuse we needed to return to the second shaft. And we knew that anybody carrying news like we had would be greeted as heroes. Nigel and Maxie must’ve had the same thought at the same time or overheard the sergeant. They had a good three-yard start on us and we had no hope of catching them in the dark. We decided to check on Clarry first. His crying had eased to intermittent sobs.