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and that was when I noticed the curved sides of the hull andrealised I was looking up at a submarine; a German submarine. Well, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Someone threw me a stern line and I tied it off.
    ‘I’m standing there with my hands in the air when this officer type climbs down the ladder. Bugger me if he doesn’t speak English. He asks me my name and introduces himself. Christian Berger his name was, and it sounded like he was some kind of lieutenant. He finds my snapper and says, “Do you mind if I take these?” What difference did it make if I minded or not? He was taking them anyway. I told him I’d swap the snapper for some diesel. I know it was a bit cheeky but he grinned and started talking Kraut to someone in the conning tower, then turned to me.
    ‘“No one can know we are here,” he said. “So I have a choice. I can shoot you now and sink your boat, or I can let you drift for the same result. Or I can take you prisoner.” He studied me for about fifteen seconds although it felt longer. “Or I can give you the diesel you want. Are you a man of honour, Mack?” It threw me, him using my name like that, like we was pals. But I could see he was serious and weighing up the decision. I nodded and told him my word was my bond. He took this in. His eyes weren’t hard or anything but they were unnerving. They never wavered. “If I give you diesel,” he said, “you must give me your word that you will tell nobody about us, about the U-boat, for forty-eight hours after you reach the shore. No one must know we are here. No one.
    Understand?” I nodded. “Do you understand your choices?” I nodded again. “Can I rely on your word?”
    ‘I told him he could and we shook on it. Then he said the strangest thing. “Tell me about your home,” he said. So, as briefly as I could, I told him about Great Barrier. I swear he looked envious. Someone passed down a jerry can. I poured the diesel into my tank and handed the can back. “We are civilised people,” the officer said. “I am giving you your life in exchange for your word. Break your word and you put my life and the lives of my comrades in jeopardy. Do you want to kill us?” I told him I didn’t. I promised I’d keep my word. I gave him every reassurance I could. I still wasn’t convinced they wouldn’t blow me out of the water as soon as I’d untied. “Go home,” he said and shook my hand again. “But you must go slowly,” he added. I think that was his idea of a joke.
    ‘By the time I’d cast off and started my motor they were gone, swallowed up by the night. I drew some comfort from the fact that I’d be just as invisible to them. The horizon began colouring up as I headed in and it was half light as I swung around the point back into Medlands. By then I’d had plenty of opportunity to think. I had no doubt about the seriousness of the promise I’d made and its implications. On one hand I had a clear duty to report the presence of the submarine; on the other I’d given my solemn promise that I wouldn’t. There was a policeman waiting with my wife and a couple of my mates on the beach. They were about tolaunch their boat to go out looking for me. One word to the policeman and I knew he’d be straight on the radio back to Auckland and they’d have aircraft up looking for the U-boat within the hour. I couldn’t do it. The Germans had done the right thing by me and I was obliged to do the right thing by them.
    ‘Of course, my wife, my mates and the policeman wanted to know what had happened. I told them I’d fallen asleep. They didn’t believe me, but was that any less believable than saying I’d been picked up by a German submarine? I felt terrible about lying and it probably showed. My mates looked in my boat and saw I had no fish and, more to the point, no fish boxes. I saw them looking at each other, puzzled, trying to work out why that would be. They knew something had happened but I also knew they’d