Remember Me (28 page)

‘You all right?’ I asked. Clarry nodded.

‘Does he have to go to hospital?’ Eric asked. Clarry didn’t wait for the answer. He started wailing. We were all a bit scared of going to hospital. People went there to die.

‘Probably just needs a hot bath,’ said one of the Zambucks.

‘How high’s the water?’ I asked. ‘And how bad’s the current?’ Clarry stopped crying to answer. These are the sorts of issues that matter to kids. In our world this was
vital information. Even the police stopped what they were doing to listen.

‘It was over my waist. Mr Berger had to carry me. I couldn’t push against the current.’

‘How’s Gary?’

‘He was on the rungs above me. He begged us not to leave him. He was bawling his eyes out.’

‘Didn’t you hear the blokes chipping away the concrete?’

‘What blokes?’

Either the concrete was thicker than we thought or they’d set out before my Dad arrived with the sledgehammer. The latter seemed the most likely.

‘How far did you get?’ asked Eric. Unbelievably, he wanted to know whether they’d been the first to make it to the third shaft.

‘That’ll do,’ said the Zambuck.

‘No, not much past the second shaft,’ said Clarry. ‘We felt the wind then the water came up. One minute it’s around our ankles, the next over our knees. It came up so fast I thought we were going to drown.’ Clarry started sobbing again.

‘I told you that’ll do,’ said the Zambuck. He put an extra blanket on Clarry. ‘Grab a blanket each and take Don along to the next shaft. I’ll call for another ambulance.’ Don was the other Zambuck.

Just as we were leaving, Sister Kathleen and Sister Glorious showed up. Both carried Thermos flasks of tea
and baskets with cups. Sister Kathleen made a beeline for Clarry—I think she was put on this earth to help people in trouble—while Sister Glorious grabbed hold of my hand and came with us.

‘Tell me what’s happening,’ she said. Even in the dark I could see the fear in her eyes. Her lips had retreated to thin lines, just like my mum’s did when she was really worried about something.

I told her as we made our way along the track. I tried to sound upbeat when I told her how Christian Berger had gone back down the drain to be with Gary. I made out that he was a real hero and knew exactly what he was doing. But in truth I had this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that he’d gone too far. I don’t know if he’d swapped torches with the police sergeant but I doubt it. His torch was on its last legs, the water was waist-deep and the current would be pulling him away from the walls into the centre as it swept down towards Coxs Creek. OK, he’d found the rungs to the second shaft the first time around but now he had to be close to exhaustion and, to make matters worse, the water was deeper, flowing more quickly and there was more on the way. As if to underscore my fears, light rain began falling. Christian Berger was a U-boat captain and that made him only one step down from Superman in my book, but I still didn’t fancy his chances. He’d carried Clarry for two hundred yards, waist-deep, against a hard-flowing current. He had to be stuffed. The sick feeling turned to cold dread.

We had to step aside halfway along the track to let Nigel and Maxie get past with Clarry’s mum and dad and a bunch of their friends in hot pursuit. Mrs Rycroft was sobbing with relief.

‘Clarry’s all right,’ I called out. ‘The ambulanceman said he just needs a hot bath.’ I hoped nobody noticed the catch in my voice.

Just as he was about to lose consciousness hands grabbed him, dragged him upwards and pulled him free of the surging water. He could breathe! For the moment that was all that mattered. He could breathe! Air filled his heaving chest as he was hauled up into the night air coughing and vomiting, head reeling as it embraced the unexpected prospect of survival. His mind began to clear, his panic subside. He opened his eyes and found himself face to face with his lieutenant.

Loyalty had saved him. Loyalty in the form of Gustav Richter had rescued him. Gustav had risked his own life with no other thought than to save his, if at all possible. But the lieutenant’s bravery also made him acutely and bitterly aware of his own failure. The Chief ’s fate was now decided. He was beyond anyone’s help, as were so many young men in his charge. All he could do was cling tightly to his
rescuer as Lieutenant Richter dragged him down onto the forward deck and pulled him into the sea.

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

Dad took one look at my face and called me over. He was standing with Eric’s dad, Rod, Captain Biggs and Mr and Mrs Gillespie under a tarpaulin among a semicircle of onlookers. I thought there’d be a sense of anticipation or excitement but there wasn’t and I soon saw why. The police had set up lights around the shaft. Although there were sledgehammers lying all over the place, only two men could swing at once and even that was dicey. I’d led Captain Biggs to believe the two Maori Water Board men had been making good progress and somewhere along the line I’d swallowed my own lies. The two Maoris were taking a rest and the two men still swinging looked ready to join them. Sweat poured down their faces as they put everything they had into each swing, but all too often their efforts produced nothing but sparks. When the Water Board had sealed the shaft they’d meant it to remain that way. The steel cover was still buried beneath concrete.

Dad put his arm around me and squeezed, his way of trying to reassure me that everything would turn out OK.

‘You’re cold,’ he said. For one brief, frightening moment I thought he was going to send me home.
‘Wrap yourself up in that blanket you’re carrying. You can always hand it back when it’s needed.’

Eric and I snuggled up in my blanket. Don, the Zambuck, didn’t seem to mind us appropriating ambulance property. I couldn’t help wondering how cold it must be in the drain. We were dry under the tarp and had blankets. Mr Berger and Gary were wet and had nothing. At some point reporters arrived and started taking photos. Their flashlights made the scene look both more dramatic and more unreal. The two workmen chipped away like metronomes. Sometimes they dislodged concrete, sometimes they didn’t. When the two Maoris got up to relieve them, my Dad stepped in.

‘I think it might be better to work on one section at a time with a row of chisels,’ he said. He marked out an area with his hands.‘If we put chisels here, here, here and here, and use them like wedges we might be able to break off a whole section at once. It’ll be slow but faster than we’re going.’

‘Worth a crack,’ said one of the Maoris.

Dad, Eric’s dad and the two Maoris started chipping away with hand hammers, positioning and setting the chisels so that the sledgehammers had stable targets that didn’t need to be held. After watching the sledgehammers slam into the concrete I thought the little hammers looked kind of puny. I couldn’t imagine them getting anywhere with them. To me it was like using crackers to blast open a safe and said so to Rod.

‘No,’ said Rod. ‘I think they’re doing the right thing. Sometimes brains beat brawn.’

A few minutes later Dad and Eric’s dad stepped back to let the two Maoris have a whack at the chisels with their sledgehammers. A small cheer went up as a chunk of concrete split away. Rod was right again. Sometimes brains do beat brawn. Dad called Rod in to give him a break and somebody took over from Eric’s dad. Later I’d discover Dad’s hand was split and bruised from the number of times his hammer had skidded off the chisel. Eric’s dad’s left hand was the same. Neither of them complained at the time. Rod kept tapping away until it was time to let the sledgehammers have another crack. Another chunk of concrete split away and tumbled to the ground. Rod handed his hammer and chisel over to a policeman. But progress was still slow, painfully slow. Eric unfolded his blanket and we wrapped that around us, too.

There was no shortage of volunteers willing to do a stint with the hammers and chisels. The crowd around the second shaft grew as the night wore on, becoming more sombre as time passed and we had more reports of rain. Nigel and Maxie joined us under the blankets. Nobody said much. None of us had anything to say. People stopped cheering each time a chunk of concrete was dislodged. It was still taking too long.

Just when spirits had sunk to the lowest we heard the sound we’d all been waiting to hear—the sound of metal on metal that announced we’d broken through to
the cast-iron cover. Fresh hands took over the hammers and chisels and efforts redoubled. I didn’t dare ask Dad the time in case he said it was bedtime so I asked Captain Biggs instead. He said it was ten past eight. I tried to work out what time it was when I first came across Ryan crying on the side of Hakanoa Street. I reckoned it was about four-thirty, which would’ve made it five or fivefifteen when Christian Berger first went down the drain. It would’ve been around six when Christian Berger brought Clarry out, which meant Gary would have been holding on in the cold and dark for another two hours, maybe all alone if Christian Berger hadn’t managed to find the rungs for the second shaft. If he had, he’d be soaked through and freezing. The only good news was that the police watching the outflow at Coxs Creek hadn’t reported any bodies.

The sound of metal hitting metal became more frequent. The Maoris wanted to take another crack at the remaining concrete with their sledgehammers but were talked out of it. They gave in without much of a fight. They’d given all they had and were worn out. The metal on metal became constant as the chisels began attacking the concrete wedged in the gap between the cover and the steel collar. It was fiddly work and frustrating. Some men were in favour of just chiselling out a wedge so they could get a crowbar in to lever the cover off. Others maintained the cover had to have room to tilt. In the end some Water Board workers took over and kept on
chiselling around the lip. Captain Biggs’s watch ticked over to eight-forty. I noticed he was holding Sister Glorious’s hand and their lips were moving in prayer. I closed my eyes and added a few silent prayers of my own.

‘Where’re the crowbars?’

These were the words we’d all been waiting for. Those sitting down stood up, those already standing craned forward. At first the men with the crowbars struggled to get purchase. A cheer went up as the lid rose and fell back again. At least it was moving. The men wrestled with the crowbars, raised the cover far enough to slip another crowbar underneath so it wouldn’t fall back. Within twenty seconds the cover was off.

‘They’re here!’

They.

Both of them.

Gary and Christian Berger.

Zambucks rushed forward with blankets. Mr Gillespie climbed over the ropes but the police stopped him even though they knew who he was. When Gary was lifted out he was just a limp, sodden bundle. Flashbulbs popped. Mr Gillespie cried out Gary’s name and tried to grab him but the police had a good hold on him. The Zambucks covered Gary in blankets, laid him down on the ground and searched for a pulse. We thought Gary was dead. I think Mr Gillespie thought Gary was dead.

Mrs Gillespie started crying, ‘No, no, no, not my son!’ It was heart-rending. Nobody knew where to look.
But then Gary moved. He moved. At least his head moved. Nigel reckoned Gary cried out, ‘Dad!’ but we were too far away to hear anything and, anyway, Gary was too weak. But Gary’s lips did move and I guess what he said didn’t really matter. Mr Gillespie broke free of the police and hugged his son. The reporters went mad.

Only then did it dawn on me that Christian Berger was still down in the shaft. Where was he? The man from the Water Board had called out ‘They’re here!’ ‘They’re’, not ‘He’s’. Just as I was starting to panic I noticed a policeman was climbing into the shaft with a rope and harness. Others stood around the lip with torches. Zambucks had put Gary on a stretcher and begun to carry him out to the ambulance. My pal was alive! That was fantastic news, the best, but I dismissed it. My focus was fixed on the shaft. Where was Christian Berger? What was the problem? What was the hold-up?

The policeman climbed back out of the shaft and joined the others as they started to haul on the rope. I guess there were still thirty or forty people standing around but I don’t think anybody drew a breath. We didn’t know if they were bringing up a living person or a corpse. It was torture. The police were being careful, which was probably the right thing to do, but I’ve seen big fish pulled in on light line faster than they were going. Slowly Christian Berger emerged from the shaft, every bit as limp as Gary had been. First his head appeared, then his shoulders. Even in the weak light I
could see he was deathly pale, see his head lolling from side to side as they lifted him. But his eyes were open and they locked on mine! Flashbulbs popped all over the place but I was prepared to swear his eyes locked on mine. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt more elated. Christian Berger was alive! As soon as his shoulders were clear, hands reached under his arms and lifted him bit by bit from the shaft. As his backside came into sight it was clear that at some stage he’d shed his trousers. Men supported him as he swung his bare legs and bare feet over the edge of the shaft. He’d also got rid of his shoes and socks.

It was a strange moment. I was overwhelmed with relief but also embarrassed that the U-boat captain was caught in front of so many people in his underpants. The police wanted to carry him over to a stretcher and the Zambucks wanted to bundle him up in blankets, but before anyone had a chance to do anything, a crying Sister Glorious ducked under the rope and charged over to him. She threw her arms around Christian Berger and he reciprocated. She held him as though she had no intention of ever letting go. He clung on as fiercely although as much for support. You could’ve heard a pin drop. There was Sister Glorious in her grey Church Army uniform hugging Christian Berger in his underpants. I don’t think there was a single person there who didn’t realise at that moment that Sister Glorious was not destined to be a bride of Christ. I almost sobbed. My hero
was alive but he was no longer just my hero. Oh no. And it hadn’t been my eyes he’d locked onto. I finally had the writer’s insight I should’ve had in hospital. Eric put his arm around me. How did he know?

Heartbreak and elation are strange bedfellows but I hit the sack bursting with both of them and as confused as a puppy with two bowls to feed from. I was still too excited for sleep to come. Dad had let us stay up and have a hot cocoa and sandwiches while he bathed his battered hand and we filled Mum in on all the dramas. Mr and Mrs Rycroft took Clarry home for a hot bath while Gary and Christian Berger were taken to hospital in separate ambulances. Mr and Mrs Gillespie went with Gary, and his ambulance had been gone for at least five minutes before Christian Berger was carried out on a stretcher beneath a pile of blankets. Police, Water Board workers and Zambucks took turns carrying him. Sister Glorious sat in the back of the ambulance with Christian Berger. I learned a new word that night: hypothermia. Another great word. I reckon I’d been hypothermic at least a dozen times from staying too long in the water at Shelly Beach Baths but hadn’t had a name for it.

When I finally closed my eyes all I could see was Sister Glorious hugging Christian Berger, him in his sagging, soaking, white underpants with the window in the front. Nigel was still laughing about it. He reckoned Christian Berger’s willy had stuck its head out to sample the night
air. I laughed with him but my laughter was kind of hollow. That, more than anything, seemed to underscore my loss and I felt let down by both Christian Berger and Sister Glorious. Christian Berger had stolen my girlfriend, not that he was probably even aware she was my girlfriend, and Sister Glorious had stolen Christian Berger. I thought Captain Biggs, Mack and I had ownership of the U-boat commander but all three of us had been well and truly trumped. Yet the fact that Christian Berger was there to be hugged by Sister Glorious was reason enough for elation and celebration. His story would continue. Our sessions would continue. I pictured Eric and me back in the Church Army lounge with Christian Berger telling us how his U-boat was sunk, and Mr Holterman telling us how he came to be shot down and lost his leg. I thought about the essays I’d write and the tone of voice I’d use, skimping on adjectives and letting the unfolding dramas speak for themselves. That was something Mr Ingleby was trying to teach us. His motto was ‘Actions speak louder than adjectives.’ I already had my introduction to Christian Berger’s story and I knew the ending. How it came about and how I’d add to it was what intrigued me. I wanted a short and pithy encapsulation. But as hard as I tried to lock in on my stories, my mind kept reverting to the image of Sister Glorious and Christian Berger. Sister Glorious may well have been the impossible dream but, in the febrile imagination of a twelve year old, sometimes it’s hard to know what’s possible and what isn’t.

In that magic moment between consciousness and sleep, I became Christian Berger in the drain, battling impossible odds and hypothermia to save my pals and gain the hand of Sister Glorious as my prize. For an instant the world became perfect.

Dad woke us what seemed like minutes later. The morning news on 1YA was all about the rescue and we stood around the radio feeling like heroes for having been part of it. But the real story was about Christian Berger. The news painted a picture of a brave man who was a hero to his own people and now to the whole of New Zealand. It described a man who was prepared to risk everything and give everything to help others. The newsreader quoted the
New Zealand Herald
as his source. The
Herald
? We were dumbstruck.