THE CAPTAIN



The Shvetsov ASh 21 radial engine clattered and banged lazily as the Anushka waited at the end of the taxiway. The Captain puffed surreptitiously on a cigarette - holding it down below the level of the cockpit window lest some eagle-eye in the tower saw it. He squinted back towards the tower, just visible through the wings and bracing wires.

"What's the hold up?" he asked.

'Mladshiy' Yuri Koscuico pulled the headset from his head and looked across. "They say we are to hold for 'priority traffic'? What bullshit is that?" replied the youngster.

"My boy," the Captain leaned back. "That bullshit is military bullshit. Some big transport coming in or maybe there's an exercise somewhere. They don't tell us shit about stuff like that."

"So, what do we do?"

"Hold. You want to tell the air force to go fuck themselves, that's your funeral. Just leave me out of it."

"I mean, the engine temperature. We sit here much longer in this heat it's going to cook."

"So, switch off? It's starting to bake in here as well with no airflow around the engine. Switch it off and let's wait."

"Three, seven niner to Korosten tower, permission to switch off," Koscuico called through the mike.

"Tell them fuck," grumbled the Captain. "You don't ask permission for shit like that. They control the field, we the aircraft. We cook the engine, who's going before the discipline board, us or those dumb fucks up there? Switch off the damn thing."

"They said to switch off and hold position."

"Huh!" The Captain said, blowing a cloud of blue smoke out the corner of his mouth.

The Captain leaned back and closed his eyes. Yuri carefully took the lighted cigarette from his fingers and stubbed it out in an old tin can riveted below the cockpit fan. The Captain grunted a thank you. He turned the big switch located at the end of a four group on the central panel and the engine wound down, the prop bouncing against the compression stroke until it stopped.

The silence came as a shock and the Captain opened his eyes. He looked around the field as if getting his bearings. Satisfied he was still where he was before his brief nap, he closed his eyes again. Yuri tried to follow his Captain's example, but he was too restless to nap. He took his headset from his head and placed it on the holder beside him. He unbuckled his belt, got up off the seat, and walked back through the open hatch behind him. On an Antonov An-2 'Anushka' there was no cockpit door.

In the cargo space, the mailbags were stacked neatly in rows and covered with rope netting to hold them down during flight. Yuri tugged gently on the hitches to check, again, they were secure. He looked out through one of the starboard, round, cabin ports for a better view of the tower, about 300 metres away. He could dimly make out a standing figure through the plate glass windows, sloped forwards against sunlight interference. He was scanning the field with binoculars, before turning away to talk to someone, unseen, behind him. 'Perhaps the Captain is right,' he thought to himself. 'An important aircraft is expected.' They were small fry - a mail run from one small town to another. In the great scheme of the Soviet Union, they were an insignificant cog in a vast machine. If they were to fall out of it, no-one would be aware, or care. He imagined the Anushka still sitting here in a hundred years time, weeds growing over the fuselage and wings and their bare skeletons still strapped into the cockpit seats - still being told to 'hold' by some future shift of airfield control.

"Three seven niner from Tower, come in, please," the speaker crackled, and Yuri hurried back to his seat. The Captain had woken with a start and, irritated, had grabbed the microphone himself.

"Three, seven niner," the Captain snarled. "Yeah, what is it, Tower?"

"Course change. You're to fly 160 South and refuel at Kiev Central. You will be given further instructions."

"Why?" The Captain demanded. "That'll add about 4 maybe 5 hours. We're behind schedule as it is."

"Priority traffic."

"Don't give me that cack, Tower. What's going on?"

"Hey, get off your high horse, three, seven, niner. I just got orders from Kiev Central. You want to argue, take it up with them."

"I just want information," the Captain replied, raising his voice.

"You got it."

"Bullshit! If Stalin was alive today, you wouldn't be handing me that load of bunk. You give me the situation when I demand it, or you'll be sweeping the Moscow streets. That's how it used to work in the old days."

"Well if I knew more, I'd tell you," the Tower replied. "I'm only a fucking Lieutenant. They only tell me what they think I need to know and that's next to nothing at all. Even the Captain of the airfield gets told nothing. Some shit's going down somewhere and we don't know shit about it."

"So, give me a clue? Why are we really holding?"

"Look, 'priority traffic'. That's all I've been told."

"160? We're skirting the Pripyat? Why? What's happening up there?"

"You keep this to yourself, okay?" the Tower replied, conspiratorially. "I think there's some kind of accident - a real big one. They've declared this big exclusion zone all around the area. They don't want any traffic in or out unless it's authorized from the highest level."

"How high?"

"The fucking Kremlin, high. That high."

"Shoot, Lieutenant, we been hit with a nuclear bomb or something?"

"Hey, you think I'd be talking to you? I'd be kissing my ass one last time. That's what I'd be doing."

"Yeah, ok," the Captain sighed. "When we get the go, give us 5 or ten to restart and warm up, okay?"

"Will, do, three, seven, niner. Out."

"So?" Yuri asked the Captain. "What do you make of that?"

"Airplane crash. No doubt about it. Probably a military jet - prototype, test aircraft, something like that? One of the Air Force's new super duper jet fighter's gone down and they don't want anyone to know about it. Stalin would've shot the stupid bastard for crashing like that. In my day, everyone did their jobs - and properly."

"You served, Captain? Air Force. Out East, so I heard?" asked the younger man.

"64th Corps," the Captain told him. "Fighters, MiG-15s."

"So, what are you doing flying mail planes? You should've made General or retired to some cosy dacha in Georgia."

"Yeah, well, some guys have all the luck, do the ass licking. Some of us just did our jobs and came home. Me, I'm happy flying these old Anushkas. Best damn plane ever built. It doesn't just fly, but sails in the wind like a Spanish galleon. You can land it on a fly spot if you want, or in a bog. The Anushka doesn't care what. Cut the engine and have a nap - she'll land herself and park in the hangar. It'll be a shame when these old birds finally retire. I'll retire, too, when that happens. Two old buzzards put out to pasture."

"But, you never wanted to fly anything else?" Yuri asked. "I mean, transports or airliners? I'd jump at the chance to see the world. Moscow to Washington? You don't want to see America?"

"I've been there. In any case, there's an embargo on. Aeroflot doesn't do that route anymore. We have to wait until the politicians stop arguing. I should live that long," he shrugged. The Captain looked around the airfield perimeter, before lighting another cigarette. Drawing deep on it, he blew a long stream of blue smoke. "I tell you," he continued to Yuri. "The best thing you can do is find a nice girl, get married, breed a litter, find a cosy job where you go home every night, and worry about the flower garden. You do this before your hair falls out. Girls go for a good head of hair."

"You never married?"

"Left it too late," he said, sighing. The Captain fidgeted with the band of his wristwatch. "It is a big regret. Nothing else means anything. The richest man in the world is the family man. That is what matters." The Captain puffed on his cigarette - his eyes scanning the middle distance through the cockpit windows. "It's all shit. Everything is all shit without kids, grand kids…"

"You never said why you're flying mail planes instead of airliners? You don't have a rating? I mean, at your age…"

"My age is 60, and that's not old. Y'know why? I don't drink vodka. Mark my words, vodka will kill you." The Captain jabbed a nicotine stained finger at the younger man to emphasize the point. "Besides," he said taking another drag. "I have ratings for everything you can name. Choppers, airliners - I've got tickets for the lot. I choose to fly the Anushka. They will soon be unwanted, like me. When they go, so will I."

The atmosphere in the cockpit became suffocating. The smoke, the Captain's mood, the residual heat from the engine, the inaction, all served to crush in on Yuri. He desperately wanted to lighten the conversation. "Captain?" he said, "what is it like flying a MiG in combat?"

"Ah, the MiG went like a rocket. Climbed, turned like nothing on Earth. They were a good little fighter. The Americans copied it in their F-86. Biggest compliment, to rip off someone's ideas."

"You were in combat?"

"Lots of times. 319th Regiment. Part of the 64th Corps. We lost 9 pilots, but I think we got more of them. We were stationed just across the border in China. We flew missions over the Yalu."

"So, what was it like?"

"At those speeds, you have no time to think. Everything happens very fast. You must develop a fighter's instinct or you're chop-suey. Someone on your six, you roll over and dive for the deck as quick as you can. The F-86 can't follow, see? Unless the guy's a real pro. You get underneath where he can't see you. We learned all this the hard way. All of us, were just learning how to fly a jet fighter, see? At first, the Americans were no better at flying them as us. We were all students even though most of us flew in the great war. That experience was like going from biplanes to space ships in one hop. You must short out your brain. Too much thinking and the enemy's got you. The best pilots do this by instinct."

"You never got shot down?"

"I have the fighter's instinct. Roll over, down to the deck. We all trained for it, but it's not the same when it comes to the real thing. Roll over and dive, and you'll be all right." The Captain stubbed out his cigarette in the tin. "Anything on your six, roll and dive."

"Okay," Yuri nodded slowly.

"Even if it means leaving your leader. They should understand you can't protect your leader's can with a load of cannon shells up your butt. A shadow in your mirror, you have to dive away. You have no time to figure who's on your six. Dive, dive, dive…" A tear appeared in the corner of the Captain's eye. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and reached for another cigarette. "Fuck all difference between a hero and a coward. You do your best, follow your orders, do what you're trained to do, and they treat you like shit. That's the fucking military for you. It's what others say about you afterwards. Big shots, all flying desks, weren't even there. Fuckers who couldn't fly a kite on a string. And, your so-called comrades, huh! Drop you in the shit if it'd get them a promotion and a medal. I could tell you some stories about those brass hats in Frontal Aviation right now? So-called heroes, as shit scared as everyone else, who got where they are by crawling up asses, telling lies about others. It's all fucked."

"So, what happened, Captain?" asked Yuri.

The Captain wiped his eyes again, snatched at his lighted cigarette rolling away on the shelf under the window and threatening to fall onto his leg. He took another drag, before stubbing it out in the can. "It was 51, sometime in August, I think. We were flying operations over the Yalu down to the 38th parallel. A couple of Yaks flew on ahead as bait - we were top cover, maybe 3000 meters above and back about 4, maybe 5 kilometers. The plan was to draw up the Americans, then we'd bounce them from above. We did this lots of times - maybe too often. You do things too many times your enemy figures your tactics. The Americans came up, all right, but in two sections. One section was waiting above us, while the other chased the Yaks. We didn't know they were there - they were in the sun and high. So, we dived down on the first section then these other guys came down on us - screaming down out of the sun vector. We were in our four section, two and two. Each leader had a wingman who flew slightly back and below his leader so he didn't block his view. The leader makes the kill and his wingman guards his ass. That's how it worked. Great war tactics. I was wingman behind Shapalaev. He was a good pilot - very popular among the boys. Pulled all the ladies - handsome guy, good sharpshooter."

"And?"

"Suddenly, I see a shadow in my mirror. If I had a thought, it was, 'an American on my six'. What are you supposed to do? I shouted to my leader, then rolled away down to the deck. Shapalaev was hit - shot down and killed. They blamed me."

"Why? You only did what you're trained to do?"

"Ah, but, you see? Afterwards, they said it wasn't an enemy on my tail but one of our guys behind us. Tell, me, what the fuck was he doing on my six? What stupid ass gets on the six of one of his own guys in combat? They said I should've known where the back pair were. I tell you, with F-86's coming down on you, you don't give a flying fuck where everyone else is. You're on your own - do your best to stay alive and maybe, just maybe, you can take a shot at the enemy. That's the reality these chair borne idiots don't understand. They were all back in the Great war flying piston aircraft. With jet aircraft, it's a whole new set of rules."

"You were tried for cowardice? That's unfair."

"No," the Captain chuckled. "It never went that far. I followed the rules, see? There was a debrief after, an enquiry. I was exonerated, of course, but the worse thing was the other guys. I was a disgrace in their eyes. They had to transfer me out. No-one wanted to fly with me. I was not trusted. They thought me a coward who left a comrade to die. Maybe they were right? I have thought about this these past 35 years. You so want to forget, but it keeps coming back - that shadow, Shapalev above on my ten. The jungle spinning below like a top. I looked back up, but couldn't see a thing - didn't see Shapalev go down. Back at the airfield, the guys said they got one of the Americans. I don't know, didn't see that either. They could all be lying like flatfish. Their cameras said they did, so I suppose they did. Everyone exaggerates their own skill and courage. The truth is, we were all scared to death. Maybe I didn't want to find the battle afterwards? I don't remember what went through my mind at the time."

"So, what happened after you left the regiment?"

"I was posted to a fighter school as an instructor. That didn't last - word got out about what happened in the East, and I had to leave. Next, I trained on helicopters, later multi engines, all turned to crap. Some guy would start blabbing about my 'cowardice.' Rumours, would filter back with the guys coming home. Most of them knew shit, but heard from so and so who heard it from another. The tale grew in the telling. Everyone putting in their piece to make a better story. I found a job where no-one gives a shit who you are. Even a coward can fly and Anushka."

"Captain, I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing, son. No-one who hasn't been in aerial combat can possibly know what it's like. Just go and get an airliner rating and fly to Washington. Maybe go to Central Park and find yourself an American girl, if they let you. Is Central Park in Washington?"

"New York, I think."

"Never mind. They'll have parks in Washington. I'm sure of it."

"Three, seven, niner, from Tower," the speaker burst forth. "You there, Captain?"

The Captain grabbed the mike. "I've gone South to the Black Sea on holiday, Lieutenant. You got any other dumb questions?"

"There's a Colonel from the Air Force coming out to see you. You'd better stub out your cigarette."

"What? What the hell does the Air Force want with me?" The Captain said, aghast.

"Don't ask me. I'm only a Lieutenant, remember."

"Shit!" The Captain spat. "It never fucking ends, does it? C'mon, Yuri, we'd better straighten up. These assholes like everything correct. We haven't left anything loose around the cockpit?"

"The cigarette can?"

"Crap! Where's the asshole coming from?"

"Starboard."

"Drop it out the port window before he sees it."

"Okay."

"Open the door for him and stand at attention."

"Okay."

"You remember how to do all that shit?"

"I've seen the movie," Yuri replied, hurrying through the hatch. The Captain followed Yuri as he opened the cargo door and jumped down to the ground. The pair then stood to attention as the car pulled to a halt. A large officer got out of the car wearing military camouflage fatigues as if he'd just arrived back from Afghanistan and hadn't changed. "Relax, men," the Colonel told them. "I haven't time for protocol and it's been a while since you were in the Military. That right, Captain?"

"Yes, sir!"

"I see by your record you have a rating for helicopters. What experience do you have on the Mil 8?"

"Four years flying agriculture." The Captain replied, crisply, military fashion.

"Good. And you're unmarried? No kids, no little lady waiting for you at home?"

"No, sir!"

"Are you happy flying Anushkas, carrying letters and parcels? A man of your experience should be doing better for himself, no?"

"I'm happy enough, sir. I'll retire soon. Just like this old bird."

"Still, it's a waste, don't you think? How would you like to perform one last mission for the Air Force? We could re-enlist you at a grade higher for the duration. Then, when the mission's over, you'll be on a Colonel's pension.  Would that interest you?"

"A Colonel, sir? Surely you mean Major?"

"We can make you a Colonel, no problem." The Colonel dismissed the issue as if of no consequence. The Captain was astounded.

"What sort of mission is it, Colonel? I mean, flying a Mil 8? There must be lots of guys all over the Ukraine who can fly one of those."

"I must be frank, Captain. This mission is dangerous. We don't want family men. The men who fly this mission must be… ah,"

"Expendable?"

"To be blunt, yes. They must be volunteers. There will be honors, medals, promotions. The men who fly these missions will be heroes."

"Heroes, sir? You want to make me a hero? After all these years?"

"Yes, Captain, after all these years."

The Captain understood immediately the Colonel knew precisely who he was, of his record and disgrace in Korea all those years ago. Bracing his shoulders, he asked, "what do I have to do?"

"Two days ago," The Colonel said, gravely, "at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant near Pripyat, there was a bad explosion and fire. Radiation levels are off the scale. Many, many people in the Ukraine, Byelorussia are at risk. Captain, fire fighters, workers, are sacrificing their lives as we speak for their fellow citizens. Many will die from radiation sickness. We need helicopter pilots willing to drop a mixture of sand, lead and boric acid on the reactor itself to contain it. Scientists tell me there are high levels of radiation been given off by the graphite and debris. You need to come in low, maybe, only a few metres above the reactor building, to be sure of doing a good drop. We can give you NBC suits, but, frankly, Captain, the guys tell me you can't fly wearing those things. You need to have your eyeballs out of the cockpit and, frankly, Captain, you can't see shit out of the face shields. 40 seconds, Captain, forty seconds is the longest time you can spend over the target. Any longer and you get a lethal dose. You have to fly in, hover, dump the stuff precisely on the target, then clear out all in 40 seconds. You may have as many as three other choppers maneuvering around you at the same time. You have to do this, Captain, as well as avoiding other helicopters, debris sticking up over the target, flying through smoke and ash. You understand I would not ask a family man to do this."

"Of, course, Colonel."

"So, will you do it?"

"Many people will die?"

"We are evacuating as many people as we can in the time available. If this plume continues, it will drift away all over the Ukraine and Byelorussia. There's no telling how many people will be affected."

"Stalin would not have allowed this," the Captain said, distractedly. "In my day, such screw ups would not happen."

"Captain, Stalin is dead and there were no nuclear power plants in the early 50s. Whether we like it or not, things are not as they were in Stalin's time. In Stalin's day, I would not be asking you to volunteer and I would not care whether you had 4 wives and 15 children. Captain, you followed orders and were shot by the enemy, or refused them and were shot by the NKVD. I'm giving you a chance to redeem yourself in the hearts of your comrades. It doesn't matter what you did, didn't do, or should've done all those years ago. I flew throughout the Great war and out East. I know a great deal about air combat and the decisions you sometimes have to make at the spur of the moment. I know how harsh the opinion of one's comrades can be - how it can affect your life. I understand how galling it is when some slippery ass kid gets to command a regiment over your head, jus because they're better at sucking butt than you. I know all this shit and I don't judge you. But, I tell you this. Anyone who puts their ass on the line in the service of their country deserves praise, not criticism, from the very assholes they're protecting. Those people up there need your protection, Captain because they don't have the means to protect themselves. I don't know what asshole caused this explosion, but it falls on us to clean up after them."

"If I say no, then what?"

"If you say no, Captain, no-one will be the wiser. Life will go on, you'll retire along with your precious Anuskas, and smoke yourself to death. We will find another pilot, somewhere, and he will go in your stead."

"Yes," the Captain sighed. "Someone else will take my place. In that case, Colonel, I will do it. Take me up there and show me my ship. You have yourself a Colonel, ah, Colonel."

"Good, man, Captain!" The Colonel pumped the Captains hand. "We'll arrange your posting. Jump in the car. We'll have a shot of vodka before you leave, no?"

"Thank you, no, Colonel," replied the Captain, getting into the car. "Vodka is no good for the body. It will kill you in the end."

THE END

The Unsinkable Aircraft Carrier

I turned towards the back bulkhead of the wheelhouse. The paint was flaking with age and streaked with rust. Above, the clock reminded me it was nearly noon and the aromas from the galley below slowly permeated through the ship. The Commander sat by the wireless on a cane chair - lashed to a shackle so he didn't slide around in heavy seas. The engine was a faint pulse echoed by barely perceptible vibrations through the deck.


'Our heroic forces have thrown back the enemy,' the studiously correct voice of Tokyo Radio asserted.


'So many victories,' I remembered thinking. 'Why are we still fighting? Why isn't our army now marching on the White House?' The answer had been obvious to me for over 2 years now. Nevertheless, the Commander grinned alcoholically at each report of a crushing victory. He drained the last few dregs in the whisky bottle and sighed with satisfaction.


"Tell me about the Admiral?" the Commander slurred in a voice made rough by booze and tobacco.


I turned back in irritation. The man was persistent and I knew I had little option but to tell him a tale. "He was small," I said, "and impeccably dressed, always."


The Commander made no sign he'd recognised the irony in the remark. The Commander's shirt was open to the waist - stained with sweat and whisky. On his head he wore a coolie hat he'd hastily exchange for an officer's cap each time an enlisted man came to see him. His shorts had faded to a dirty tan and vainly tried to support his belly - bloated and made soft with drink. He was barefoot, but for a pair of wooden slippers he was fond of wearing.


"Ah!" The Commander sighed in wonder. "All great men are short. Napoleon, he was a small man - genius!"


"He was a General, not an Admiral!" I replied, stiffly.


"And what of the battle?" the Commander persisted. This was a tortuous routine and I waited patiently for the moment he would pass out - still sitting, shackled to the bulkhead.


"I remember little. My post was the aft, main, powder magazine. The refrigeration equipment made a lot of noise and I heard little of the outside. Of course, I couldn't see any of it."


"Ah!"


"Each time the guns went off above, there was a sound like a clap of thunder. Like a god hitting an immense metal drum."


"Ah! And what of the Admiral?"


"I did not see him during the battle. His post was the wing bridge. He stood there throughout as messengers ran to and fro with his orders. A piece of shrapnel gashed his leg. He did not flinch, so they say. The medics bound it up while he stood, unconcerned."


"Ah! That is why we will succeed. The Westerners cannot understand such spirit."


I shook my head in frustration. Already, the mental energy needed in dealing with the Commander at these times was exhausting me. "In those days, we picked a fight with one enemy at a time. The Russians were fighting far away from home. A fleet is not like an army. The Russian Tsar had the mind of General, not an Admiral - the same as Napoleon. The Army dictates strategy, today. That's why we're in this mess."


"Japan will be victorious!" the Commander shouted, while transfixing me with watery eyes. He fingered the hilt of his sword, as if he was about to charge at me like a samurai warrior.


"Togo san stood like a rock atop the after turret..." I continued. The Commander subsided into his cane chair. "We were all grouped on the quarterdeck - officers in front and we enlisted behind..."


"Ah!" the Commander smiled.


"The Mikasa still had her battle flags hoisted. The paint was blistered on the barrels of the guns. Smoke curled up from a Russian shell that'd hit us amidships. We were all grimy from smoke and the smell of our fear and excitement still clung to our bodies. My friend Kanji looked to the rising sun and told me the new day was displaying the passing of an old empire and the dawning of a new. I told him not to be silly - the sun has risen in the morning the same way since the dawn of time. 'Silence!' bellowed Sub Lieutenant Tachikawa, and pointed at us with his stick.


Togo san read a speech to us. 'Sons of the Imperial Japanese Navy,' he began. 'May you be as magnanimous in your victory as you have been tenacious in achieving it.'"


"They are the words of a hero!" the Commander nodded, vainly drawing on the now empty bottle.


"He then turned and descended the ladder placed there by his staff. He showed no sign of the wound inflicted during the battle. He must've been in pain, but no-one dared assist him. Rear Admiral Kamimura was there, smiling, grinning and clapping each senior officer on the back."


I turned back towards the Commander. He'd nodded off, snoring loudly and dribbling onto his bare legs. Relieved, I went outside, down the ladder to the engine hatchway. The smell of hot steam caught in my nostrils. The pulsing grow louder and was punctuated with hisses and clanks. Chief looked up as I opened the hatch and motioned for me to come down.


"Tea?" he asked. Chief always offered me tea. He'd poor it onto a china cup, wiping the grime off it with his sleeve. He'd then carefully skim the coal dust of the surface with a spoon. With a smile and a slight nod of the head, he considered the liquid fit for the Captain.


"Not far now," I told him.


"Ah. This coal is shit," he told me. "It cokes up the boiler tubes. We will need to scrape the fire boxes."


"Two days?" I asked. He shut one eye, looked upwards and nodded. "Hmm, I think we'll need to wait for the next tide. The chart indicates less than a fathom over the reef."


"Tell me Captain," he said, gravely, sitting on a low workbench. "What do you think of this shit? 'Unsinkable aircraft carrier?' Are they serious?"


I couldn't help but grin ironically. "You know the Combined Fleet," I said. "They must turn every disaster into an achievement. It probably occurred to some young officer the Americans cannot sink an island. Therefore, airfields on islands are to be now classified, 'unsinkable aircraft carriers.' The truth is, Admiral Ozawa has lost the last of our fleet carriers north of the Philippines. Even so, where are the planes to come from and pilots to fly them? They say Ozawa had only 100 planes and few of the pilots had been taught how land back on deck. They were mostly students. None of the old hands were left."


"Tch!" Chief clicked his tongue. "So we make another unsinkable aircraft carrier way out here and hope the Americans sail within range?"


"As you say," I nodded. "Or, in our case, let's hope they have bigger fish elsewhere. We have nothing except rifles. Our unsinkable aircraft carrier has nothing to stop being boarded, nor any speed to run away."


"Nor have we," Chief shuddered. "We have had luck to get so far without being spotted - torpedo, bomb, poof!"


"As I said, the Americans are occupied elsewhere. We are probably too small to waste a torpedo on."


"What happens after? Are we still going home?"


"Yes. Not Sasebo, nor Kure, though. Yokohama is blown to pieces and they say there are so many wrecks in the Inland Sea you can walk from one side to the other and not get your feet wet. We should try and slip up the East coast and find a small port somewhere that hasn't been bombed."


"They say the Yamato is gone?" Chief asked, gravely.


"Yes, and Yahagi, Captain Hara's ship. They were sailing against the American landings on Okinawa. Never got within sight. They say the Americans launched 1000 planes against her. She went down in 2 hours. I heard it all on American Armed Forces Radio."


"You believe it?"


"Above Tokyo Radio," I grinned. "Our broadcasts tell us we have the Americans just where we want them. It was all a well planned move, apparently, to draw their vast fleets within range of our bombers. And just where were all these planes when the Yamato sailed?"


"Kids with hardly any hair on their balls crashing into American ships." Chief shook his head.


"Aye," I agreed. "I always said the Americans would keep coming at us. You remember I said we would need to sink 100 Americans for every ine of ours?"


"I remember. I guess we didn't," he shrugged.


"No."


"Tell me," Chief looked up, his eyes moist. "What do you think is going to happen after? Will the Americans let me go back home to my nut trees?"


"Why shouldn't they? They will want us to make money for them or else what is the point? Why conquer a country if you can't make any money out of it? It's always been so."


"And you? Will they let you go home to Korea?"


"I don't know," I confessed. "I have lived most of my life in Wonsan. My children consider themselves Korean first, Japanese second. I have never wanted this war. It's unfair we must pay for the military's mistakes, but, I guess, the victors will do whatever they want."


Just then, there was a shrill whistle from the voice tube. The watchman informed me land had been sighted. I hurried back to the bridge. Ahead, I could see a thin, blueish streak. I checked the chart, then scanned the island with my binoculars. "That is the North side," I told the helmsman. "Keep on this bearing until we are three kilometres out. We will need to find the channel and sound it. What is our speed?"


"11 knots, Captain."


"Ring for half ahead in 30 minutes."


"Yes, Captain, ah, Captain?" he asked. "Do you suppose the Americans are there before us?"


"Do you see any shell splashes?"


"Uh, no, but they could be waiting for a better shot."


"True, but what else can we do but find out? If we are shot at, we turn around and run." I turned and looked at the Commander, still slumbering on his chair at the back of the wheel house. I decided to leave him and go down to the holds myself.


Some of the boys in the Naval Infantry squad were trying to fish with long, sharpened, bamboo sticks. An old man was directing two boys barely out of their teens. The rising ground below the keel had brought the fish shoals to the surface, but we hadn't any line to make decent fishing rods. The rest of the fishermen's fellows were huddled under an awning in the aft hold. They refused to mix with the boys from the Naval Construction Company grouped in the forward hold because they were Korean.


The young infantrymen averted my eyes as I passed. Although I was but a reserve officer, and in the auxiliary service at that, a captain of any Japanese vessel was still the lord. It was impolite to talk to a captain unless asking permission first. Respect must always be shown with a bow of the head.


The Naval Infantry companies at this time of dusk in the Pacific war were a mixture of young boys sprinkled with a few old hands - mainly seamen who had lost their ships. They were once a proud service - raised at Kure and Sasebo - but attrition had sapped their vitality. Just as the army, now, were taking the scrapings of the Tokyo streets, these men and boys had the look of defeat in their eyes, the look of too many battles and comrades slaughtered.


There were only two dozen infantry clustered in the aft hold. By contrast, the Naval Construction boys, nearly fifty of them, were crammed into the smaller forward hold where a canvass awning ineffectually struggled to keep out the sea spray washing over the forecastle. They had been evacuated from Truk before the main Combined Fleet base was abandoned. They, too, reflected the horrors of too many bombings, too many comrades blown to pieces before their eyes.


'So this is it?' I thought, looking towards the distant island - Japan's latest aircraft carrier made out of an island too remote to be of any use. The Navy had not the planes to complement it nor the wherewithal to keep it supplied. It was a useless gesture born out of empty defiance of an enemy too numerous and powerful to be defeated.


'So the battleship Yamato had been defeated' - the largest battleship in the world and said to be invincible - sunk by a mere portion of an enemy fleet, but in itself, far larger than the Japanese Combined fleet in 1941. All six of the carriers that had sailed forth so confidently against Hawaii were now sunk - Akagi, Soryu, Kaga, Shokaku, Zuikaku, Hiryu. The remnants of the fleet were now chased around the seas or littered the harbours - bottomed, broken. Yamato - shuttle bombed into submission by planes from 15 American attack carriers - 5 more than the entire Japanese Navy possessed when we started this foolish war.


The opportunistic attack on the American Pacific fleet was followed by a war of industrial production. I have always said, if the army wanted conquests, then the Soviet Union lay reeling from the blows of Hitler's armies. Surely, that would be the action of a true ally rather than provoking a country with the industrial might of the United States. Japan has brought ruin to Germany as well as itself. Such is the price of arrogance.


"Captain?" I turned and a young Korean stood before me - head bowed with respect. "I wish to speak with you," he said.


"Your name, soldier?" I asked.


"Leading Hand Kim," he replied. I nodded for him to ask his question. "Captain. We understand you are from Korea - that you have a Korean wife and family?"


"I do." I wondered where this was going. I looked the young man up and down. There was an intelligence about him that set him apart from most of his fellows. His clothes were bedraggled and full of holes like the rest. None of them had had a uniform issue for over a year. They were all too thin, these boys, having survived on short rations for most of that time. "What of it?"


"The Commander doesn't give us proper food. The Infantry, they can fish, but they give nothing to us. Our rice is mouldy and fit only for pigs," he told me.


"The Commander is the proper person to take your complaints," I replied.


"Of course, Captain, but he doesn't listen to us. We cannot speak to him as we are doing to you. He gets angry and beats us with a stick. All we ask for is proper food so we can work hard."


I peered at him suspiciously. "You are asking for more food only so you can work harder?" I asked, skeptically. "That seems a noble attitude? The Commander would be impressed if you talked in that way to him."


"Yes, Captain, but he doesn't speak Korean."


"Then how does he convey orders?" I asked him, surprised.


"By shouting, Captain, and with his stick. He told us we are his picks and shovels and picks and shovels do not need to be told what to do."


"How do you know that is what he is saying if you cannot understand his words?"


"Captain, I worked for a Japanese family as a gardener back in Seoul. Please don't tell the Commander or he will be angry."


"So he doesn't know you speak Japanese?" I asked, rubbing my jaw.


"It is not a good thing to show too much knowledge."


"Aye," I laughed. "That's true. I will convey your feelings back to the Commander. But, you should know, although I have responsibility for this vessel, I have only limited authority over the passengers."


"But, Captain, they say you are a hero. They say you were on the flagship Mikasa with the great Admiral Togo when he defeated the Russians at the battle of Tsushima."


"True, but that was 40 years ago. As you can see, I am very much older, although, alas, very little wiser."


"The Captain does himself a disservice," the young Korean replied.


"You think so?" I laughed. I dismissed him and continued to the bow. A crewman was preparing the lead line to take soundings, once the ship had slowed sufficiently for the task. I looked into the water washing around the bow to determine its colour. It had the sure signs of shallow water. "Be diligent, crewman," I said. "It would not be a good thing to run aground this far out." He nodded in agreement. "Ahead of us is a lagoon formed by the crater of a long dead volcano. There is a break - sufficient for a channel - wide enough for the ship to pass through. However, it is hard rock, so if we ground it will rip out our bottom. The lagoon is very deep and we can anchor close to the beach. The jungle comes very close and we must moor as close to it as possible. In such a way, we might avoid detection should any enemy ships come close."


"Why would any enemy ships be out here?" he asked. "Why are we?"


"Good questions," I told the man and left it at that.


It was called Cobb Island by the British, who once administered it from Hong Kong. It lay almost exactly midway between the Northern Marianas and the coast of Southern China, which meant as near nowhere as one could get on planet Earth. There had been limited gem mining on the island late last century but the mines had played out. Then there was a little phosphate mining until an eccentric Englishman had tried to create a banana plantation there in the 1920s. That had not lasted and the place had been uninhabited ever since. In the build up to the Pacific war, Navy scout planes had performed a thorough survey of Cobb, but the Combined fleet headquarters had determined there was little of value there for occupation. Since then, it was nothing but a fly spot on the chart set in a vast field of blue.


We duly squeezed through the narrow channel and anchored as close to the beach as we could. There was a small beach, but the sea floor then fell away quite dramatically several metres from the water's edge. The Commander duly appeared, dressed resplendently in his only presentable jacket, khaki shorts and military boots. On his head he wore his officer's cap and around his waist was a sword he carried on a long sash.


He strode emphatically on to the forecastle and stood for a moment surveying his objective. He then turned to the infantry patiently waiting by the aft hold and waved his arm. Two crew then began to winch the long boat into the water and the infantry watched its progress in a line along the rail.


"It is too small," the Commander yelled to me, accusingly.


"It is the only one we have," I told him. "You will need to go ashore ten at a time."


"It is not efficient," he grumbled. "What if the enemy is waiting?"


"What would they be waiting for?" I asked. "We are all sitting ducks already." The Commander harrumphed, clearly insulted by the remark. He turned to his men and began to bully them into some kind of organisation. After deciding who would go first, the infantry piled over the side into the boat, together with their equipment and supplies. Eventually, they put out for the shore, arriving there with a few minutes frantic rowing.


They looked very martial lined up along the beach like targets at a fairground shooting gallery. The Commander strode imperiously up and down waiting for the boat to return with the rest of his troops. A soldier stood out in front carrying the flag - its glaring, red, rising sun on a white field starkly visible for kilometres all around. If the Commander wished a cautious occupation of this island, he hadn't made a prudent start.


Shortly, the rest of the infantry arrived and took their places. The Commander bullied them into some kind of attack formation with threats, waving his sword for emphasis. Eventually, he signaled the charge with an almighty roar and his men immediately attacked the swampy mangroves and thick tropical vines with gusto. There was, though, no easy way inland and they struggled gloriously, hacking away with sword and bayonet like some Kabuki farce, until a way forward could be found. Chief came and stood on the deck alongside.


"You are preparing the boilers?" I asked.


"The boys are dampening the fires. They will be ready for cleaning in 4 hours or so."


"Good," I nodded.


"Can you believe this shit?" Chief said, watching the activity on the beach and shaking his head.


"Don't be too critical. The Commander has his personal problems."


"Has he ever commanded men in battle?" Chief asked.


"No. He is only a Lieutenant Commander, yet has been in the Navy for 30 years," I explained. "He has been passed over for promotion many times. He's watched while his classmates achieved their own commands - some even attained flag rank. The experience must have driven him a little mad."


"Clearly. Is that why he drinks so much whisky?"


"I believe it's likely the source of his disappointment, rather than a symptom of his melancholy. He is from a good family with many connections. Ordinarily, such a man would be discharged from the service, however, his friends salvaged his career by ensuring he had simple administrative responsibilities rather than placing him in a position of command where his inadequacies would be too obvious. I understand he begged his friends for something to do that would allow his family to be proud of him. Either, he would return home with honour, or die a heroic death in the heat of battle."


"And we are all the bit players for this man's glorious moment?"


"Yes. Likely, we weren't expected to reach the island at all. The odds were we would be sunk on the way. The Commander would then be listed as 'killed in action' - an appropriate death for a warrior." I smiled at the irony, which didn't go unnoticed.


I turned and saw the Koreans lining the rail watching the shore. Most wore bemused expressions. The nearest was the fellow called Kim. He was looking at me with an expression of expectation. "Yes?" I nodded for him to speak.


"Captain, do you imagine the Americans will allow us to go home?" he asked.


"Probably," I replied.


"Will they turn us out of our homes? Won't they want the best fields for themselves? Most of us are farmers. We cannot feed our families if they take our fields."


"'Be magnanimous in your victory as you have been tenacious in the achieving of it.' I heard the American President say that on Armed Forces Radio."


"Ah!" he smiled. "That is encouraging."


Chief waited until Kim was out of earshot. Conspiratorially, he leaned in. "Did you really hear the American President say that?"


"He could've done," I smiled.


"And weren't they the words of Admiral Togo? I have often heard you say so."


"He may have said that, too. Truthfully, I was far too drunk to remember what he said - if, indeed, he said anything at all. I woke up as we were laying to the buoy at Kure. My fellows had rolled me under a lifeboat cover to sleep it off."


"Ah! So your friends saved your career as well?" he smiled.


"Let's say, I have some sympathy for the Commander."


After an hour, a soldier came down to the beach to signal the coast was clear for the landing of the Construction Brigade. I watched as the Koreans were ferried to shore and disappeared, one by one, into the interior. At last, I decided to go ashore myself to look over Japan's latest acquisition, and her newest aircraft carrier.


The thick jungle was merely a thin belt of 100 metres or so. Emerging from it, the ground rose steeply to a plateau upon which were growing banana, breadfruit, and some coconut palms. Evidently, they were the remains of the plantation the Englishman had set up. Nestled among these were the ruins of a farmhouse, the roof long since caved in. The Commander had claimed this as his headquarters and the Koreans were hard at work cutting palm leaves to replace the roof.


The plateau had to be cleared to make an airstrip. It seemed a pity to cut down so many mature fruit trees. The airstrip would seem far too short for anything except single engined aircraft, I thought. Such aircraft, however, wouldn't have the range to perform any useful function so far from the scene of any operations. I concluded the Commander's friends had parked him here more to save them any further embarrassment, rather than for any prospect of glory.


Beyond the plateau 'flight deck' the ground continued to rise towards cliffs that overhang the Southern side of the island. There was a wide bay, there. The island, itself, was shaped like a sausage with the circle of the lagoon to the North enclosed in a rocky reef. Evidently, the reef mitigated against anything but small vessels with shallow drafts coming inshore. The Southern bay had been clearly used in the past as an anchorage, but, for our purposes, the Northern anchorage was far lest exposed to enemy scouts.


The Commander had selected a tall tree from which to make a flagpole. This pole would likely overtop most of the forest cover to offer an excellent reference point to any American aircraft that chose to fly over. It seemed to me the Commander was offering to the enemy every opportunity to determine there were Japanese troops on the island.


The Commander had brought ashore sufficient quantities of whisky to enable him to remain in a stupor for several days to come. Once his instructions had been given, by the afternoon, he was well on his way towards a coma. I feared for the wellbeing of the men under his command.


Throughout the morning, I had the opportunity to witness the casual brutality with which the Commander went about his duty. Koreans were not only treated as second class citizens, but little better than cattle. The Infantry took their lead from the Commander and enforced his orders with frequent beatings and casual cruelty. They strutted among the sweating labourers barking like dogs at perceived slackers and lashing at them with bamboo canes. Some casually munched breadfruit or freshly caught reef fish in front of them - knowing the Koreans were given nothing but their moldy rice.


I did what I could, but that was very little. I knew I would have to leave soon and these Koreans would be left to the petty vindictiveness of the Japanese and their drunken commander.


Towards evening, a disheveled young infantryman ran up to me. He was breathless and couldn't, at first, get out his news. Eventually, he'd gulped down enough air to blurt it out.


"Captain," he puffed. "I must tell the Commander but I daren't wake him. He will be angry and..."


"Yes, yes," I replied. "What is your news?"


"Captain," he took a deep breath."Observation position 3 reports there is an enemy submarine offshore, er, starboard."


"Starboard?" I exclaimed. "Where would that be?"


"Southern bay, sir. It's not far from the beach."


"What's it doing?" I asked.


"Anchored, sir. There are many men on deck. They have cannons and machine guns, sir."


"Okay, okay. Please, lead me to it. I will take a look and inform the Commander myself."


The boy lead off at a cracking pace up an overgrown trail that had once been used by the farmer. Towards the crest of the cliff, he plunged off to lead me on an even more dizzying climb to where the observation post had been established. I arrived in much the same state as the young infantryman, crouched on all fours drawing lungfuls of air regardless of my dignity. Eventually, I looked out into the bay.


Through my binoculars, I saw the vessel was an American Gato class submarine. It was little more than 300 metres offshore. On the foredeck was a 5 inch gun and on the cage was mounted a 20 millimetre 'pom pom.' About a dozen crew were grouped near the stern and I could see several men in the water. It appeared to me they had fouled a propeller and had sent down divers to clear it. Evidently, the submarine had anchored there to make urgent repairs and didn't seem to have any interest in coming ashore.


It was still a very dangerous situation, of course. Although the cliffs prevented them observing the Japanese ensign flapping on its high pole, they could well hear the commotion down on the plateau. A few well placed shells over those cliffs would end our little enterprise. Of more concern to me, however, was the thought they may choose to round the westerly point of the island and spy my ship, nestled in the lagoon. It would scarcely cost but one shell to sink it. It was clear to me we must draw my vessel as close to the beach as possible, disguise it with jungle foliage, then hide until they left.


I retraced the route back to the plateau leaving instructions with the scouts to keep me personally informed of the situation. I then went about to round up the men to haul my ship inshore. The task, however, was interrupted by the unwanted appearance of the Commander - freshly sobered up. I had to inform him of the submarine and my decision as to what we should do.


"You have taken too much upon yourself," he replied, sternly. "This is my command. I will decide."


Of course, technically, he was correct. I couldn't imagine, though, any other course of action. Even though it was only a submarine, and a submarine had yet to sink an island, it still had far more firepower than we possessed. Additionally, it could call up reinforcements if need be - an option we didn't have available to us.


"Then what are your orders?" I asked with trepidation.


The Commander stood silently for an uncomfortably long time scratching his jaw. Eventually, he said,


"We must lure the enemy ashore. That way, we will have the advantage of sound defensive positions."


"How are we to lure these enemy ashore?" I asked, aghast.


He thought a while more on this point. Clearly, his brain wasn't yet fully engaged so soon after waking up from a drunken stupor. "I will issue them a challenge," he announced, even more incredibly. "If they are men, they will accept our offer and we will fight them, man to man."


"And what form will this challenge take place? How are we to issue it?" I shook my head against the sheer illogic of this course of action.


"We will go down to the beach and shame them," he said. "They will have little choice but come ashore and answer our challenge. We can then fight it out in even combat."


"Commander," I took a great gulp of air, trying to keep under control. "If we appear on the beach, they will merely shoot us all down with their machine guns. You are asking us to go to our deaths for no good reason."


"There is no better way to die than facing the enemy," he insisted, his voice rising.


"I suppose, but there should be a suitable reason. Soldiers have died fighting a hopeless battle, but, they have had few other choices. We have, and there is no shame in hiding if it accomplishes the mission."


"I understand your point," he conceded, "but, I have made up my mind."


"But, Commander," I pleaded, desperately. "To order men into a suicidal mission is unreasonable. Don't you think it would be best to call for volunteers?"


I imagined there would be few men who would willingly step forward for such an action. I hoped that might prove to the deranged Commander the foolishness of it all. To his credit, he thought long and hard about this suggestion. Eventually, with a nod of his head, he agreed.


Bellowing so that the Americans couldn't fail to hear way out in the bay, he called everyone together for a meeting. Gravely, he outlined the situation with the words, 'the Empire calls on all patriotic men to do their duty.'


The words, of course, were mostly plagiarised from the famous signal by Admiral Togo before the battle of Tsushima. He, of course, had in turn plagiarised the speech from his hero, Admiral Lord Nelson before the more famous battle of Trafalgar.


I then put forward my suggestion, explaining I would need every able bodied man to haul my ship inshore and to cut saplings, etc. I noticed the infantry brighten at my words and I felt heartened.


"Well?" said the Commander. "Who's with me?" The infantry, both the youngsters and the older men, looked at their feet with embarrassment. Not one of them twitched in any way that might be construed as a bold step forward. It seemed discretion had well and truly replaced pointless valour. "Well," the Commander declared, stiffly. "I will go by myself. At least the enemy will know there is one man among us." With that, he went to fetch his sword.


He returned with an expression I could only describe as 'tragicomic.' He reminded me of a bad actor trying to strike a heroic pose in a movie set in medieval times. He looked up at the gathering dark of evening, and declared he would go first thing in the morning. 'With the rising sun.'


"I will go with you," came a voice. It was Kim, the Korean. We all looked at him in shock, not the least because he had announced his intention in crisp, perfect Japanese.


The Commander gaped at him - tears forming in his eyes. One by one the rest of the Koreans also stepped forward with a loud 'hei!' The startled Japanese Naval Infantry were not going to be shamed by a bunch of half starved Koreans, and also stepped forward with an even louder 'hei!' I saw my cause was lost.


The Commander seemed to grow another foot in height so puffed up he was with pride. Now his, and all other eyes were on me. 'How could the hero of the great battle of Tsushima, the man who had stood with Admiral Togo on his flagship, how could he remain behind?' they seemed to ask. I knew my goose was cooked. There was no other course of action for me at that point and I stepped forward.


"Banzai!" yelled the Commander, raising his sword aloft.


"Banzai!" they all screamed in unison.


My eyes searched skyward for the shells that would surely rain on us as a result of that racket. None came and I concluded we had encountered the first deaf American submarine crew.


"Kim?" I asked the young Korean afterwards. "What the hell were you thinking? What are you doing this for?"


"Captain," he replied. "The Commander is a fool, I know. I also overheard all you said about him before we came ashore. He may be a fool who makes foolish decisions, but no man, no matter how stupid, deserves to die alone."


I could only shake my head at such misplaced nobility. It was useless to argue, anyway. Our word had been given and accepted.


For most of the night the Koreans shaped crude spears out of bamboo stakes. Being labourers, they had no weapons. The infantry polished their rifles and bayonets. The Commander ground the blade of his sword with pumice stone so it shone in the moonlight. With a heavy heart, I composed a final letter to my wife and family.


I advised my wife to take the children to relatives in Seoul. I apologised I would no longer be there to take care of them. I asked her to think well of her foolish husband. I thought she might find useful work with the Americans and suggested she might seek a Yankee husband. Life would be very much easier for her in the United States and the children would get a better education.


I wrote to my wife in Japanese, using Kanto. She wouldn't understand it, of course, but I hoped she would find someone to translate. I then placed it in a brown envelope and printed 'Top Secret', the only English words I felt confident in spelling correctly. Hopefully, the American crewmen would search our dead bodies and wouldn't throw it away. Instead, they might send it to their intelligence men and they might see it for what it was. If he was a compassionate man, he might forward the letter on to my wife.


The sun had barely appeared above the horizon when the Commander shouted for us to form up. I hoped I might take up the rear, but the Commander would have nothing of it. A distinguished Naval officer, such as myself, must be up front leading his men. Reluctantly, I agreed and we set off, the Commander and myself going first.


"Here," the Commander said, proffering his side arm. "You don't have a weapon. It is unthinkable. Take mine."


Dumbly I took the weapon. I was numb with shock and felt little. I wished the trail had been longer and we would take many weeks to reach our destination. At the moment of my darkest hour, and uproar began behind us.


Some might consider it singing, but I haven't been that drunk in a good many years. It was faintly recognisable as a martial tune, popular in the Navy. The volume gradually increased as more voices added to the din. It told of Japan's mighty fleet of steel - rather ironic, as much of that fleet was at the bottom of the sea.


Not to be outdone, the Koreans began a song of their own. As no other Japanese had ever bothered to learn the Korean language, I was the only one who understood the words. Their song, however, was a lament to the ladies of the cat houses of Chemulpo, the port of the city of Inche'on. It was proof positive many of these Korean boys had a familiarity of the more seedier parts of that city that should be the case for well brought up young men. Not to be out sung, the Japanese infantry increased their volume. Likewise, so the Koreans, until their rivalry threatened to be overheard as far away as Saipan. The American submarine's crew must surely be deaf as posts as no shells came to interrupt the choristers.


Instead of taking the left turn to the cliff top, we followed the trail towards the beach. The plan was simple. We would arrange ourselves along the sand and call on the Americans to come ashore for a fair fight. We all knew, however, they would do no such thing, but no-one dared to say it.


We crested the ridge for the descent to the beach. It was our first view of the Northern bay and it was empty but for a flight of sea birds and the rolling ocean. The submarine had left.


The Commander sank to his knees, put his head in his hands, and sobbed, bitterly. I didn't dare risk a smile of relief. Kim sank down next to his commander and put an arm across his shoulders. Quietly, he said, "Commander, we frightened them away!"


Gradually, the Commander's shoulders began to shake, not with crying, but in laughter. In response, the others, Japanese and Korean, began to howl with laughter, too. It was absurd, of course, to suggest the American had been frightened away by the noise we'd been making. Clearly, it had performed whatever repairs it had to make and slipped away last night back to its patrol. But, it didn't matter and, perhaps, it was more important to believe the more fantastic explanation. Laughing, and clapping each other on the back in congratulations for our famous victory, we made our way back to the plateau for a well earned breakfast.


In November of that year, 1945, I returned to that island aboard Japan's last 'floating' aircraft carrier to recover the crew of Japan's last 'unsinkable one. The Katsuragi had been detailed, still unfinished and carrying no armament, to retrieve Japanese servicemen from Japan's former empire. We had on board American officers to guarantee our good behaviour, but we flew the Japanese flag to reassure still reluctant troops. We anchored in the Northern bay because of our draft and a senior Japanese naval officer went assure to order the Commander and his men to embark on the ship.


There was no trouble, and presently, the Commander appeared ahead of his men, clear eyed and looking healthy. Even the Koreans looked well fed and had clearly benefitted very well from the plentiful vegetables, fruit and reef fish. Behind them, on the plateau, was a fine airstrip - one that would never see any planes - and the finest unsinkable aircraft carrier in the Imperial Japanese Navy.


KATZMAREK(C)

That Other Life

The first run was a dummy. I acted suspiciously, but not so that they'd call the Police or my parents. I watched the strategically placed mirrors - they were the days before store cameras - but, the thing with mirrors you could also watch the watchers. I walked a little too fast towards the exit and, snap!

"Just a minute, son."

I let them pat me down, because I had nothing to hide. Even then, they weren't allowed to do that, but I played the bewildered kid to the hilt. It was a small price to pay for them not calling the Police.

It was a small bookshop and I was a frequent visitor. I was perhaps 12 or 13 and they had lots of neat stuff on planes, ships and history. They were dusty books full of facts and grainy photos - heavily marked down - but often beyond my pocket money.

After much careful planning I worked out the method, then began to slip books out under my clothing. I was never caught and never felt the least guilt, even knowing they were a small, specialist, family business. Each theft I celebrated with a mix of adrenalin and triumph. It was cool fun.

Being the most junior member of a large family, secrecy was a survival skill I learned young. There was a large gap between me and my next sibling, which kind of left me on the outer. I created worlds around myself full of adventure - kept diaries full of stuff and hid them away.

There were pencil sketches of every warship present at the battle of Jutland - that took me nearly two years - there were around 600. There was my organisation of the Italian Air Force of World War Two - the Regia Aeronautica - written in Italian. For the exercise, I taught myself enough Italian to get by. I designed my own mythical air force with squadron insignia, etc, then modeled planes - around 100. I had catalogues of every airship built by Germany from 1900 onwards with all the details, stats and ultimate fate. There were notebooks on the Luftwaffe - I learned German (true) - so I could read the original texts.

I drew pencil sketches of Tsarist Russian warships, Austria-Hungary's 'Szent Istvan' and lists of U-Boats from both World Wars. All this stuff was hidden away. I knew the compression ratio of a Spitfire's engine and the speed of a Fiat G-50 'Frescia.' A teacher told the class I was 'a mine of useless information'. I was stung - I still consider information is never useless - just some is more useful than others.

Most of this information was pinched, nicked, permanently borrowed, five finger discounted and smuggled out of my friendly, and unobservant, local book shop. I went on to greater endeavours of petty larceny, of course, but I look back on those innocent heists with something approaching pride. They were successful and profitable, but I did take from them a certain exaggerated sense of my own cunning. In hindsight, it was low-end thievery, albeit relatively high risk.

From some reason, I didn't inherit any great sense of right and wrong. I had, though, a keen sense of 'consequences.' I learned the value of 'risk assessments.' To keep ahead of technology, however, was increasingly difficult. Thieves, today, just don't seem to care. They allow themselves to be photographed by 15 store cameras while pillaging their local supermarket. These guys are not necessarily stupid, they just don't give a fuck. It wouldn't have done for my day - cops were to be feared and no-one wanted to be locked up in those dreadful children's homes.

One day my brother found my secret cache. It provided him with sufficient fuel to ridicule me in front of anyone he wanted. He also scribbled over some of my notebooks, containing work it had taken me months to compose. He didn't understand, of course, why someone would spend so much time doing something so apparently useless. That he felt he had the right to violate my inner sanctum was neither here or there. I got him back by selling off his Bob Dylan collection and spending the money on more books. Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold.

I also fried his electric train set by coupling a 24 volt transformer to it rather than a 6 volt. Yeah, we were a big, happy family who loved each other dearly.

But, knocking down that fence of moral injunctions and taking a walk on the dark side has its down side. Once I tasted deceit, it was extremely difficult to put the barriers back in place. Even in adult life, theft was an option hovering in the background. With the acquisition of expensive habits, that option looked increasingly attractive. Shoplifting was out of the question - it's too risky and better organised as part of a gang. Burglary, mugging, etc, was never an attractive proposition. It's the crime of the desperate - far too risky - and simply not sneaky enough for my nature. Fraud, opportunism - these were my MOs.

Reasonably well planned fraud was my crime of choice for a few years until I plucked a straw too many. Too long pulling the same racket is bordering on stupidity, but a good scam is hard to let go. 'When something works, don't change it' doesn't cut it in the real world. I committed the ultimate sin of carelessness, and wound up in court for the first and only time - barring crazy stunts on motorbikes.

I had a brief association with real criminals - enough to realise they were nothing like me. They didn't think the same thoughts, reason the same way and valued the same things. Am I cured of my bad habits? I'm not sure, but I do know I have the strength to battle my predilections for my own good and those depending on me.

One habit is difficult to give up - that of playing cards close to my chest. Life, unfortunately, has taught me the more you let out there, the more people can skewer you with. Better to keep the arseholes guessing than provide them with ammunition. To talk about myself candidly is a wrench, but it's getting better with time. This past year I've done pretty well, in my humble opinion.

Cult of Density

TV3's 'Campbell Live' featured an expose of the activities of the Destiny Church here in Auckland, New Zealand. The report, by Mihi Forbes, centred on the issue of Founders Brian Tamaki and his wife's lifestyle, paid for by the congregation. That congregation is made up of some of the poorest families in the area who are pressured to tithe 10% of their meagre incomes.

Brian Tamaki, reportedly, has a Harley-Davidson, Mercedes Benz, a boat and a 'purple palace' of a residence. The couple run a media business tied to the church and the members are encouraged to purchase freely.

Brian Tamaki, a self-appointed 'Bishop', has 'reluctantly' accepted the appointment of 'King' after pressure from his parishioners.

King Brian was a tough man to get an interview from. TV3 managed to obtain Destiny's manager for the 2nd part of the program. Like all media savvy spin doctors, the guy had his agenda to run and dodged most of John Campbell's questions. Instead, he propagandised while accusing TV3 of 'disrespect' and 'running its own agenda.'

Destiny Church seems publicity shy unless it can control the interview. Tamaki was never going to turn up - likely because John Campbell would've embarrassed his Holiness. Usually fairly aggressive in interviews, in the past King Brian has displayed a problem with logical thought when tangling with skilled interviewers. He gets rattled easily and says dumb things. The substitute Spinner was plainly a smart move by Destiny.

A possible motive was to create an certain aura around the anointed one, in much the same way that savvy managers kept their rock star clients out of the public eye. It created an air of expectation, of mystery and, dare I say it, sacredness.

Tamaki looks like an old fashioned spiv - like a friend suggested, 'a 1950's pimp.' His hair is slicked back - Brylcreamed to the max, as if a stock of hair cream was carefully stored for the great one's personal use. His suits are shapeless, black and grey, and looks freshly stripped from a cheap nightclub's bouncer. His troops are dressed the same with blank expressions copied from the Nuremberg rallies. They're scary and solid like an All Black scrum.

Most of Tamaki's followers are Polynesian and poor. Pacific Islanders have a hierarchical culture with a pervasive Christian presence. It's not such a big shift, I imagine, to accept Destiny's hierarchical, Christian Charismatic structure. Traditional Island life is paternal, conservative when it comes to 'family,' with firm gender roles. Destiny merely clones that which is familiar to the people of South Auckland.

My guess is that Destiny members are no stranger to gangs, unemployment, poverty, alcoholism and drug use, illiteracy, poverty, racism, etc. They may know the sound of the cop car in the early morning, drunken gang scraps and family violence. Destiny Church offers them a way out through 'traditional family values.'

I have to admit, I struggle with that label. What are 'traditional' family values and how do they differ from the 'nontraditional?' I'd say we are a typical, liberal NZ household that values education, respect, tolerance, obedience to the law of the land and such. I encourage my kids to be opinionated and outspoken, while respecting the rights of others. I don't see how these values differ all that much from so called 'traditional' ones.

Of course, this happy, 'traditional' past era was something of a myth, but I digress.

The psychology of cults is well known. First they offer 'salvation', support, community, 'family'. Then they ask for your money. The big guy is charismatic and encourages your personal devotion. He is imbued with the 'holy spirit' and offers the same to you if you do as you're told. The world outside is a dangerous place and you must be protected from it. Your contact with non believers is cut off - you are completely under control.

Back in the 70s I was (very) briefly associated with such a Christian cult. I was a drug addled biker, emotionally vulnerable, fucked up and lonely. I was convinced there was a better way, so I attended this guy's 'church' service. Pretty soon I realised I wasn't going to be allowed to leave. They had my bike keys and wallet.

I knew I'd made a mistake and lied myself out. I had a spare key taped to the battery cover of the Honda 4. I grabbed the bike and ran.

They double teamed me upstairs in a room equipped with sound baffles. There was the nice guy and the one who shouted - just like a TV detective show. I trembled, freaked, my discretionary powers deserted me, I was rubber, plasticine, I was theirs - but, I bolted.

I'm educated, well read and smart, from a family that encouraged debate and skepticism. I've studied religion, history and psychology to tertiary level, yet, I was nearly sucked in. Without those assets, I'm not sure where I'd be now.

There are ways to lift yourself out of poverty, violence and addiction without handing your brain - and your money - to self appointed spiritual superiors. You don't have to disengage from the world, but you can seek to change your little corner of it.

I don't know whether Brian Tamaki is a charlatan or believes his own propaganda. I know he hates the outside world full of Gays, prostitutes, politicians, drugs, gangs, yet is happy to enjoy the luxury goods the world provides. All that worship has likely amped his ego to the degree he really believes in his own godhead. He doesn't preach tolerance, but hatred for those outside his control. He doesn't encourage understanding of the world but alienation from it - in that he does his people a grave disservice.

The State has no place to encourage this sort of brain washing by subsidising his 'schools.' In my opinion, this is the biggest worry. He has part of the future generation under his control and he does little to stimulate enquiring, open minds. Instead, he passes on his monastic, bigoted, fearful view of the world based on fundamentalist Christianity a la US Baptist belt. We're not America - I don't want that silliness in this country.

Some would view him as a clown - 'King Brian' with his palace goon guard and 10,000 zombied, beatific followers. Maybe he's searching for an island to establish his kingdom - a Jonestown Guyana, or Branch Davidian Waco in the making, perhaps? He may be a fruit loop, but a shrewd one. He knows how to run an organisation - or hires people who can. Scientology model, or 'hand out the Kool-aid, boys,' I don't know.

So Lotto fleeces the poor of their unemployment cheques with promises of instant wealth, but at least they pay taxes. Lotto's regulated by law - more or less - but Destiny doesn't have any outside scrutiny - or pays taxes. Goons screen who can attend their services and unfriendly journalists are tossed out. King Brian's not above stiff arming a few of his enemies to ensure only information Destiny sanctions is released to the public. How much does King and Queen Tamaki rake off the gross? We don't know.

Does Destiny achieve anything worthwhile? Probably. Kids are protected from gangs and drugs, their parents are taught to read and write and given some life skills. Doubtless there's support networks, etc, but nothing that isn't already there. There're charities, agencies, established churches, community organisations and such - likely underfunded, to be sure - but, nevertheless available. I don't see why Destiny is needed.

Paradigms

An example of paradigm shift I've seen quoted many times goes like this - 'In the 1920s, a US battlefleet was on nighttime maneuvres when the watch on the bridge of the flagship noticed a light dead ahead. The Captain orders a signal sent for the errant vessel to move out the way.

"You turn," came the terse reply.

The Admiral duly ascended to the bridge and, outraged, ordered another signal sent.

"I'm a battle squadron of the US Navy and you will get out of my way. Turn away now!"

A reply promptly arrived. "I'm a lighthouse. I suggest you turn."

The battle squadron turned.'

I've read some learned dissertations on whether it was a true story or not. My feeling is that it's not, for several reasons.

A lighthouse should be obvious. Its light revolves - ergo, flashes. Ships don't emit flashing lights unless they are signaling. To attain the rank of Admiral, or even Captain, would suggest a basic mastering of the art of navigation. It stretches the imagination that an Admiral would steer his fleet towards foul water, even at night, even in the 1920s. Likely he would not be an Admiral for long. Watches are kept and, even at night, the simple art of dead reckoning using charts would give the crew a reasonable idea of where they were and if there was any danger. Titanic bumped an iceberg, sure, but they knew where they were (even if they didn't know there was an iceberg there. In any case, few icebergs have a lighthouse attached to them.)

Admirals and Captains do have moments of faulty inspiration. In the 19th Century, HMS Camperdown rammed HMS Victoria at Alexandria while trying to impress the Egyptians with the might and superior training of the Royal Navy. The Victoria was sunk with high loss of life. British sailors in those days rarely learned to swim. Steel battleships weren't supposed to sink, in any case, particularly by ones own side.

The maneuvre wasn't in the textbook and the Admiral hadn't allowed sufficient distance between ships - clearly. Some worthies have suggested that Camperdown's bow ram was the culprit and Victoria wouldn't have sunk if not for this protuberance. Maybe, but neither would've it been sunk if it hadn't been hit in the first place.

In 1905, Rozhdestventsky's Russian flagship, Suvorov, put a salvo into its own escorting cruiser, Aurora, while in the act of pounding the British, Hull fishing fleet. Why the Russian Navy was engaging a fishing fleet, and British at that, is another story. But Aurora survived - to signal the start of the Russian revolution in 1917. Aurora's fire crews were exemplary and the blaze was put out, but, it has to be said, they had a lot of practice. Rozhdestventsky's gunners also fired live rounds at their own Kamchatka - which was supposed to be towing the target - and blew in the after deckhouse. Target towing must have become the least sort after duty in the Russian navy at that time.

But Aurora's dilemma was in the midst of a battle - even if the 'enemy' were fishing boats and, likely, they weren't shooting back. There was enough wildly aimed Russian ordinance flying around anyway to make it seem like a 'real' battle. Mistakes happen in the heat, as it were, when lives are at stake. Mistakes happen during training - that's the point - but measures can be taken to ensure the result isn't fatal. People panic in action and make mistakes sometimes. I understand that.

But, hapless, undertrained and under-motivated as many of Admiral Rozhdestventsky's crews were, they never steered the Russian Second Pacific Fleet onto rocks, despite sailing all the way from the Baltic to the sea of Japan. After the battle of Tsushima, some individual ships drove onto rocks. but some did so deliberately to save the crews. The Cruiser Izumrud ran onto rocks while trying to escape along the coast of Korea, but then, it was taking risks to evade enemy warships.

So my point is - I think - if the Russians didn't ground their fleet in 1905, I doubt the Americans risked their fleet like that in the 1920s.

Harveyisation

'Harveyised' or 'Harveyisation' was a process to produce armourplate for warships in the late 19th Century. 'To be Harveyised' could also relate to the process I've been going through the last few days. First, load onto the IPod all ones PJ Harvey CDs then listen to all 12 or so albums - including collaborations and sundry - end on end.

The result is a complete rewiring of the brain where nothing quite works musically unless it's being sung by PJ. It also creates a desire to find bootlegs and anything at all one might have missed over the years. Such a search took me into the shadowy world of fileshare sites offering dubious copies of dodgy disks apparently recorded by cellphone or a nano in someone's shoe. The quality is often bad and shouldn't worry Universal Music one iota, I would've thought.

Back in the day, fan networks used to distribute these on cassette, re-recorded 10,000 times. Crank the stereo up and you can hear the artist as if they're playing in a cornfield during a gale. Some moron is always having a conversation near the mike - there was no bass worth a damn and the lead always came out of the speaker at the other end of the stage away from the tape.

But these 'booties' were proof positive of a devoted fan and you trumpeted the acquisition to all your mates, who became suitably jealous. I had a drawer full of the shit - only ever played once because they were so bad.

It struck me, though, how easy it now is to download everything - studio albums, concerts - in good quality and not paying a cent to Universal or a shekel of royalty to PJ. I'm no saint and, in truth, I've grabbed the odd song off Limewire and their ilk. But, if I didn't already have most of PJ's music, I could correct that situation in a few hours of free downloading - everything, from 'Dry' to 'A Woman a Man Walked By.'

Yeah, I see the point clearly, if I didn't before. I always thought Limewire was a lottery, with as many trojans out there as the real deal. But these sharing sites are astonishing in both the quality and comprehensiveness. I bought 'White Chalk' as a digital download from the Vodafone store - it cost me 15 bucks, I think. I could've got it for nothing, complete with artwork and lyric sheet. It's not okay - this is PJ's livelihood - she deserves the income.

So how do you convince a spotty teen they're screwing the artist who has to eat like the rest of us? For every lavishly wealthy artist there's 300 or so struggling musicians. How does one appeal to teens' better natures?

You can't - they don't have one. I've never met a teenager who wouldn't take something for free if they knew they could get away with it. The only thing that stops them is consequences. Risk doesn't often figure large as a brake on teen behaviour, but a security camera, guard, road spikes and razor wire give them pause to reflect. Teens are amoral - they always have been. They don't develop a true conscience until they're my age - or older. Cops are the only thing that stops teens running riot.

Maybe the answer is with a use now pay later scheme? It would work a bit like those hire purchase things where 'you pay nothing for 12 months.' In this case, the kid downloads all they want - as they're doing now - but then pays the appropriate fee once they've grown up. By then they might acknowledge their sin and want to redeem themselves. It'll make them feel better at the same time they're discovering how boring marriage and a mortgage is.

Look, they've just given up booze, drugs, casual sex, parties, rock concerts in the belief they should 'settle down.' What better way to cheer themselves up by paying for all that music they pinched off the Net when they were kids?

Brilliant idea?

But really, I've been 'Harveyised' again. My brain has been case hardened against anything that's not PJ. I'll snap out of it eventually, of course, but I feel like I've fallen in love again.

Don

A New Start

I headed home from work with Ciaran's excited - and very loud - voice still ringing in my ears. 'I had to get to the Makino Pools, now, and...'

'But,' I told him. 'It's not 4 o'clock and the boss gets pissed if I leave early.'

'Come, now!'

And so on.

I waited until 4 and drove the usual way - down Aorangi to the BP service station, then down Church. The Makino Pool was a short distance from our house, down Grey. Ahead I saw the flashing of Police lights.

'Aha,' I remember thinking. 'They've pulled over some boy racer near our house. The local kids think it's a bloody race track.'

However as I got closer, I saw the police had closed the road between Grey and Fitzroy. Outside our house were hundreds of cars and spectators. A tourist coach was parked across the drive, completely blocking the house from view. I recall wondering whether it was a Denning and whether it had a Detroit Diesel. Mostly, though I was in shock.

I spun the Subaru into Grey and headed for Makino, wondering what the Hell we'd gotten ourselves into.

I guess it began when my oldest boy managed to gain the attention of the local police a few years back. Rohan had a positive knack for making wrong choices, based on the misconception he was 18, not 13/14 years old. He'd figuratively painted a target on his back since primary school - not a good idea when you live in a small town were everyone knows you.

We grew accustomed to having the police visit with another installment of Rohan's misdemeanours. I knew the authoritative knock of the patrol at 3-am in the morning and the hum from the I car stopped outside. There was always an accompanying squelch of radio traffic and the faint ticking from the revolving beacon. What was it this time? Theft, drinking, out after curfew, or pissing off some shopkeeper?

We tried everything and followed every professional's advice. There were parenting courses, anger management, psych assessments etc, but nothing stuck, nothing seemed to convince my boy there was a far less arduous course in life. Trouble stuck to him like discarded masking tape to a shoe. No matter how hard he shook, it was still there in the morning.

We moved into Diversion, and knew the next stage was the Youth Justice system.

One day, while in a rage he chose not to control, he clocked his mum with a balled fist sending her sprawling over the sofa. Tine had enough and called the police from a neighbours. Rohan had just slipped over into the legal age of criminal responsibility, so I watched in despair as the constable clicked the cuffs on my boy and hauled his ass off to lock up.

Tine has Huntington's Disease, an incurable, genetic, neurological disorder that affects balance, memory, brain function and which ultimately leaves the sufferer bed ridden and facing an early death. It's a tough break for, not only Tine, but the rest of us who have to try and carry on some kind of normal life as she gets sicker and sicker. Slowly, she was changing from that lovely, ball of fire that captivated me 19 years ago. HD affects the personality - makes her less able to cope with normal stress - makes her slow to grasp simple ideas. Her deterioration is a tragedy beyond words - and she's only 45!

A combination of all these factors and the intervention of this state agency and that came to a head a month ago. Our Family Support Worker - I'll name her - Robyn Duncan - stopped by and announced we were to have 'an extreme house makeover' at the end of August. Her husband, Bruce, was a builder and was willing to offer his time for a little renovation of our hovel.

Our hovel, you understand, was bought by us as a hovel to make into a decent home over the next few years - time and money willing. However, with Tine having to reduce her hours at work - due to excessive fatigue because of HD - we were being severely squeezed financially. We couldn't keep up with normal maintenance, let alone make improvements.

An out of control teenager had put holes in the wall. The roof leaked badly and had rotted carpets, floors and a roof beam. The back door had been kicked in once too often and had fallen apart. The house needed painting, inside and out, and the stove had only two elements running. The oven had died, the fridge leaked all over the kitchen floor, cupboards were broken and vermin were slowly chewing through the wiring - despite the attentions of two cats.

We all slept in the one room over Winter because there was no insulation and it was too expensive to heat. We had a log burner, but it was non-compliant and we had no money for wood. I used to forage fuel from the side of the road and various parks - chucking logs onto the back of the truck and spending hours trying to hack through it with an axe.

Strange how easily one gets used to the smell of one's own shit. We lived in disorder and chaos, but I couldn't see it. Most of our life had been characterised by struggle. This was just another struggle and I did what I thought I had to do to survive. Most everyone else was better off than us, but that was par for the course.

Robyn and Bruce got together with Police Youth Aid Officers - principally Constable Scott McKenzie - and decided to take our situation to the Mayor. Seemingly, overnight it became a community project to bring us help. Tine was finally leaving work to an uncertain future. The community of Feilding made a decision to make her final years as comfortable as possible.

From a few licks of paint and a tidy up, the thing escalated beyond anyone's initial conception. Finally, they assembled over 60 companies willing to offer time, goods or money. There were the Air Force boys from the Ohakea Base nearby, Police personnel, kids from Hato Paora College, Lions Club, Salvation Army, Manchester House Social Services, Huntington's Disease Association,our neighbours - to name those who we know about. Leader and Watt Appliance Store provided a washer, Gary Dyer Painter, Noel's Property Services, Tri Web Desktop Services, Insulation Specialists, Woolworth's Supermarket, TVNZ, Manawatu District Council, Raceway Motels, Tatton's Pharmacy. Some of these firms know us as customers - most don't. I do gardening for a couple of them but, I'm not sure they know that.

In all, teams totaling 75 people spent from Friday 28th, to Tuesday 1st giving us a new home to be proud of. If I could, I'd name every company, every organisation and individual publicly and broadcast their extraordinary acts of kindness and love all around the World. I wish I could, but, I simply don't know who most of them are. If time and labour had been totaled, it comes to over $100,000 spent on us. (I think about US62c to the 1NZD = roughly over $US62,000)

Budget Waste provided 8 skips and they threw out most everything we had, save our books, CDs, vinyl record collection and the clothes we were wearing. In return, they replaced everything ten fold. We have a new kitchen, bathroom, laundry. The kids and us have new beds and coverings, clothes, TVs. My pieced together stereo got biffed and they replaced it with a near new Aiwa with Kenwood speakers. Accidently, I think, my computer gear and camera went AWOL. No problem, the Salvos said, we'll find a new camera! Tine got a new sewing machine and desktop computer - a Windows machine, but who's complaining? Our lounge has new furniture, drapes and we're heated with a top range heat pump. Insulation has been put in under the new roof, as well as underfloor.

Outside, we have a new garden. Potted camellias and pansies surround our new front porch. We have a fruit orchard, with an almond tree, cherries and feijoas (pineapple guava) flower beds and a vegetable garden. Our old shed was torn down but the carport was fixed up and fitted with folding clothes lines.

Most everywhere we are discovering little touches. A drawer full of cosmetics, after shave, socks. Woolworth's Supermarket stocked our cupboards so full I'm not sure how we can chomp through it all. In addition, the MDC's Makino swimming pool gave the kids a year's free entry and lessons. Focal Point Cinema gave us 14 tickets to a family movie of our choice. Raceway Motels put us up FOC for 4 days.

The effect on our family is profound. I feel more powerful. Things have resolved themselves into a clarity - my thinking has been reordered.

We were whisked from the pools in a white Holden V8 accompanied by celebrity type security terse instructions by mobile. 'Ok, we're on our way now.' 'Ok, we'll let you through.' 'Move the bus - move the bus!'

The bus roared off as we got out of the car. It was a Hino, reared engined with a tag axle. Before us were hundreds of people, press, TV cameras. Robyn and Annette, the HD Social Worker, guided us up the drive while the TVNZ lady hovered with her cameraman. People were clapping and cheering. The smiling TVNZ reporter asked me how I liked my new home. I don't know what I said. I hoped it wasn't stupid. Someone told me they thought I was 'well spoken.' I guess that means I didn't make a dick of myself before the whole nation. Maybe it was good editing?

Ciaran's class got to watch our performance the next day on Breakfast TV. He's 11 and thinks the publicity will get him girlfriends. Taran tried to make a speech on his own but he folded. He's 8 and shyness took him in the end. Tine floundered a little before dissolving into tears. It was good television, I guess.

The local paper, the Herald, had us front page featured for 2 days. The regional paper, The Manawatu Standard, managed one front page. There's stuff online too. I'm becoming as publicity conscious as Courtney Love.

Mostly, I can't wait to leave work each day and head home to the palace.