Codes of Survival -Scripts - a series of short fictionalized stories based on historical events in the Subantarctic Islands written by Lloyd Godman to accompany the exhibition and installation - 1993 - © Lloyd Godman

1989 - A STRAY BULLET    
 

Part One

The morning before, I had watched from high above in the chopper as the grey shadow cut through the blue ocean sharp and mean, like a well honed blade . It had been a spectacular sight to see the Frigate as a hunter cutting along through the vastness of the ocean below. This blue immenseness that was the ocean belied the stillness with which the water sat. Where as it had been great mountains and valleys of tossing, moving water that had even ripped off a lifeboat from three decks up on the voyage south, the ocean now lay still as the calmness of an inland lake during a calm and hardly a ripple dared to show itself. It had been like this now for several days. I had managed to shoot a hell of a stack of film and had made the most of the opportunity to shoot from the chopper as the view from up there was just great. Those machines have always fascinated me with the uncanny ease with which they fly and the crazy aerodynamics that defy the whole concept and notion of gravity. I could have stayed up there with the pilot as long as they would have let me or even a little longer.

It really is another perspective from high up in the sky, and the whole ship looked so much more three dimensional thrusting forward, as we zipped in the whirly machine from side to side and around the Frigate. I bet there were more than a few envious civilians aboard that could only look on in disgust at my fortune of being whisked up and away off the deck while they had to say aboard.

Today though, the chopper is grounded, and sits strapped to the deck in the special hanger adjacent to the take off platform at the stern of the frigate. With a team of competent engineer types working fastidiously on the maintenance programme and panels and parts off for maintenance there was little chance of getting up with them today for another burst. So I caught a few shots of the crew working on the chopper doing their various tasks, but there really wasn't a hell of a lot of action in that area and I suspect most of the shots will not even rate more than a proof sheet. The real action of the day though was during the target practice exercise the crew spent the morning set up.

After what seemed like a great deal of milling about and preparing, the crew then asked permission to drop the target over the side and once the officers had quantified the request over the loud speaker system so all could hear, a bright orange 44 gallon drum was release over the port stern side and drifted off bouncing and bobbing on the water as the Frigate speed away. Once things on board were right, the ship sped continuously around the drum from a fair distance, with first the officers firing volley after volley across the water at it. There may have been a squad of a dozen or more at a time lying prone on mats at the stern deck with the hand rail down for clear vision, shooting out to sea in the direction of the drum. This brightly painted drum had now become a insignificant mark on the blue ocean. Floating drums can be pretty hard to hit with small arms fire as the constant an unpredictable bobbing up and down can cause the target to suddenly disappear behind a swell even if there seems little on the ocean.

For quite sometime, they appeared to be having a hell of a job hitting the thing at all with most of the shots falling harmlessly into the water when suddenly with a boom the larger deck mounted guns above us opened up with a vengeance. There was a hell of a thump each time these fired round after round and it sent great reverberations of sound waves right through my body as the heavy bass at a loud rock concert might. It seemed to shake my very existence, rattle my bones, each time they fired such was the whack from each shot. It was pretty neat, but my ears were ring with the thunderous sound after a few rounds. You could see the large splashes from the bigger guns whamming into the water far out near the target.

There still wern't a hell of a lot that were hitting the drum though, which surprised me. Eventually the drum did get clobbered enough to start filling with water and finally sank lower on the surface until it disappeared altogether, at which the request was placed from the squad on the deck to throw over the woven willow cushion used to stop the frigate from banging on the wharf. 

Permission was granted over the speaker system, and it too went over the side at which only the small arms opened up with a new contingent of crew behind the sights and triggers. This proceeded for some time until it was decide to allow the Governor General's Party who were aboard to take command of the weapons and shoot with them from the deck as the crew had done. I had already shot a bit of film and moved in a little closer to the official party. There were quite a few in the party and after they had been given adequate instruction on the operation of the weapons, they began firing at random. For some time they fired at the floating target. With no warning, right in the middle of their shooting, there was a large albatross that swept down from the sky in a flash the thing turned straight into the line of fire. Oh shit!

Who actually shot the large bird is impossible to confirm, but there it lay dead as a door knob, with not so much as a flicker, upside down on the water, quite close to the Frigate. Everyone looked on at the embarrassment, dead on the water, but the shooting kept up. The whole thing was made much worse because of the DOC people on board who were obviously shocked but could say stuff all about it. There were just hushed whispers from the small groups of civilians. I heard one of them say that these birds have only one mate for life and that the other bird circling the sky could be the mate. There were also some of those snotty nosed little artist types taking it all in as well, so it was a bit of an embarrassment all round and best not talked about. I couldn't help but think of the familiar rhyme of the Ancient Mariner though and the plight of the Albatross. 

Part Two

There it floated, quite buoyant from the trapped air and oil of still warm feathers, as the titanic grey shape of the frigate disappeared with a thumping of engines and gun fire. Like a crazy beast into the distance it powered, and the foamy spray of its wake dissolved slowly away, with the warmth of its diesel fumes vanishing into the ambience of the cool southern air. But this once noble bird, floated for perhaps half a day, sinking slowly, until there was a splash on the surface and in an instant some new interest was shown in the carcass. There, in the deep of the ocean, a single skua had come to investigate the prospect of a cheap meal, and with little hesitation, a sharp beak began tearing at the dead bird. 

Then from the distance, high in the sky it was seen by another of its kind and down it swooped with a splash on the water. Soon there was a throng of squaking fighting feathers and beaks devouring the creature in a long series of feathery mouthfuls. It took some time for them to gobble and gorge at the carcass leaving nothing but a flurry of feathers blowing away on the airs and sailing off on the water as the only trace. The death of one creature in this place is the meal for the next, and has always been so. It is how the balance is struck.

Back on the beach a sea lion lay on the rocks seeking the sun and warmth that rarely comes to this place. Stretching the bulk of its being unaccompanied it dozed in peace, digesting. There are certain things a young male can do and certain thing they can't and it is for this reason that the sea lion was on another island away from the main breeding beaches where the great beach masters dominated the herds. An island, small as it may be is a castle, and sometimes comforting to have to one's self, away from the fights and constant beach theatre.

Further over from the sea lion, alone as well there was a single skua, sitting still, waiting. With digestion, food can grind away in a cauldron of juice, gases and solid matter for a long time in a skua's gut before it decides to move in any direction. But, eventually, it had to come, the digestion system of a skua can deal with some heavy material, but there are some parts that are just too demanding. So, after several chesty, then throaty coughs which were like the bark of a small dog, there was one great hooke followed by another and a neat and woven nest like spit ball  came flying out onto the ground some distance away from the brute.

 It was as if it had been skilfully woven using the fragments of feathers and bone by some small bird for a nest. There on the ground lay the parts of an albatross that refused to digest, and now rejected.

But inside the twisted braid of fibres and tendrils, there lay a trivial misshapen piece of lead. A bent shape of a spent bullet caught by chance in a hard knob of bone and swallowed down in a frantic gulp. The very same tip that had instantly ended the great bird's life the moment it had entered. Such a small but deadly fragment. This insignificant leadened distorted bead now ashore, against all and every odd, as were the odds that it may never have killed the bird in the first instance.