´óÏó´«Ã½

My father was a Tyne salmon fisherman before the war. This story is based on a true incident. He knew all of the fishermen concerned. The whole town knew about it too, but it went no further. It will be obvious that I have dramatised it somewhat. For instance, I believe the killing actually took place in North Shields. It is not a pretty tale but neither was World War Two.

A Messerschmitt over the North Sea

Some things that happened during the war were hushed up, my father once told me. For instance, when German fighters attacked our fishing boats in the North Sea — legitimate enough, I suppose — it seemed a bit unsporting, bullying, if you like.

Well, one day the South Shields lads were out with their nets when a Messerschmitt arrived. It picked out one boat and, coming in low, as they told me afterwards, strafed the deck and caught one of the lads, Danny, right in the back. ‘You should see what those bloody great bullets can do. On the other hand, perhaps you shouldn't,’ my father stopped himself, remembering this friend.

‘The amazing thing’, he enthused, ‘was that the lads got the bugger! They got him with one bloody little pom-pom as he tore overhead at nearly 400 knots!’

‘Eventually, we will get you all’

They pulled the pilot out of the sea, unharmed except that he was bloody cold and wet. ‘Do you know?’ asked Dad, shaking his head, ‘He was still flaming cocky, still standing erect despite a bad thigh wound.’

‘So,’ the pilot hissed, refusing the brandy offered by the skipper, ‘you are very lucky to get one of us. But it doesn't matter. Eventually we will get you all!’

Well, if it wasn't for poor old Danny, lying in the hold, they would have laughed but instead felt a shiver, as if they had captured something not quite human.

‘A toast to our final victory’

When they arrived at the pier head, it was as if the whole town were there — and probably were. Danny's widow was near the front, and the news had had time to hit her. She was leaning on her mother and screaming with grief.

The pilot stood on the bridge with the skipper, by now accepting the brandy. ‘A toast,’ he yelled, somewhat immoderately, ‘a toast to our final victory!’ Danny's wife, most certainly thinking of Danny, lying there in the ice among the cod, screamed obscenities at him and spat in his direction.

‘Bitch!’ shouted the pilot and stuck his middle finger up in a universal gesture of contempt. At that, the mate, who had so far said nothing, pulled out an 8-inch, razor-sharp gutting knife and slashed the pilot straight across the throat with it, at the same time grabbing his hair and pulling back his head to facilitate the blow.

The pilot slumped to the deck, bubbles coming from the wound and strange, wet noises issuing from his mouth. The skipper knelt beside him, eventually closing his eyes with his fingertips.

‘What was he trying to say?’ someone queried.

‘It sounded,’ said the skipper, ‘like mutti. Anyone know what that means?’

I asked my father what happened to the mate. ‘Nowt,’ he replied, ‘never even got in the papers.’ Years later I realised that mutti means ‘mother’.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.