Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

There was a loud burst of noise from inside the bar, cheers and whistles, and the sound of applause. Harper turned to Sam.

‘Hey! You gotta see this. It’s the floorshow. Madame Godzilla.’

Harper put his right arm around Sam’s shoulders and began to pull him to a window. It happened so easily, this physical pulling in, the weight of Harper’s right arm over Sam’s shoulders, that Sam simply allowed his body to flow into the friendliness of the embrace. When they reached the window, because Sam was shorter, Harper pushed him forward and stood behind him so that Sam could get the best view.

‘Can you see?’

‘Sure.’

The stage was empty, but the pianist was waiting to start up.

‘Why is she called Madame Godzilla?’ Sam asked.

‘You’ll see,’ Harper said.

Inside the bar the patrons were beginning to thump on the tables, setting up a drumming rhythm that reminded Sam of the natives of Skull Island, calling on King Kong to come for the sacrificial maiden. Except that instead of banging three massive strokes on a moon-sized cymbal, somebody held up a little triangle: ting , ting , ting . The deflation of the image made Sam snort with hilarity.

‘Here she comes,’ Harper said.

The bead curtains parted on the stage. Madame Godzilla appeared. She — or was it he — was a big girl. She had poured herself into a black dress way too small and way too high above the knees where a suspicious bunch of coconuts bounced and swung. She was carefully made up and wore an astonishing platinum-blonde wig which obscured one eye. When she smiled several gold teeth flashed inside her betel-stained mouth. She looked vaguely, gruesomely, familiar.

With a kick at the pianist, Madame Godzilla went into her routine.

‘You wanna have luv, soldier boy?’

Bump, grind, swing them pearls, bat those eyelids, Girl, and wink.

‘Introducing the Marilyn Monroe of Vung Tau,’ Cliff said. He was so close, his breath cooled on Sam’s neck.

Madame Godzilla stepped off the stage to mingle with the patrons, and four GIs scrambled to get out of her way. No such luck. She hauled them back with her massive arms, sat one of them on her suspiciously bumpy lap and began to sing:

‘(You lucky son of a beetch!) I wan’ you to luv meee —’

Madame Godzilla was really working her butt, wriggling and rotating and making deep lascivious moans. She dug her fingers, with their three inch nails, into the GI’s crutch — and ouch. Yow. He paled as, to great laughter, she pulled a face and made out that what he had was very difficult to find.

‘I know a trick I do to your stick (if you got one) —

‘I can take you high-ah, fill your desire-ah!’

With a push she sent the GI sprawling and went after bigger fish. But they — bigger or not — weren’t having anything to do with her. Disappointed Madame Godzilla finished her song —

‘I be the best hot love-ah girl in all Vung Tau!’

She fixed the audience with a beady stare. Nobody dared not clap.

Sam turned to Harper.

‘Hey, you were right! I wouldn’t have missed that for the world —’

They were like two boys, hip to hip, hugging each other in a paroxysm of mirth. It was as if they had stolen a watermelon out of Farmer Brown’s garden and escaped his wrath by jumping over the fence and scooting down the road. Or had managed to sneak past the ticket collector at the circus and were watching the aerialists swinging above the crowd in the big three-ring tent. Or were playing hookey from the war and running up a snowy slope with a sled, ready to come zooming down, the cold snapping their laughter into tiny syllabic fragments.

But somebody, Turei, grabbed Sam and pulled him away.

‘There you are, bro! We gotta go!’

‘No wait —’

Turei wasn’t taking no for an answer.

‘C’mon, Sam, you party animal!’

Laughing and protesting at the same time, Sam gestured ruefully at Harper and was gone. He wasn’t to know that his departure hit Harper with a deep sense of loss. As if, coming down the slope on the sled, Sam had fallen off and tumbled away into the snow.

On Victor Company’s return to Nui Dat, Sam was surprised to find Lieutenant Haapu waiting for them.

‘Did your men have a good time, Sergeant? Good. Now it’s time for work. Assemble the men for an urgent briefing.’

Turei looked excitedly at George.

‘Do you think this is what I’m thinking it is?’

Half an hour later, Major Worsnop began the briefing.

‘This is it, men,’ he began. ‘I know you’ve been waiting patiently. Tomorrow our battalion will join with other Australian and American battalions in a major offensive against the Communists.’

The announcement took Sam’s breath away. Some of the men cheered.

‘Victor Company is going in the advance group to set up the base camp. Now is the time to put your training to good purpose. Good luck.’

‘The code name is Operation Bucephalus.’

The men worked deep into the night, preparing for the operation at company, platoon and section level. Every man prepared himself, making his own check of his personal weapon and equipment: helmet and flak jacket, webbing, harness and belt, butt pack, ammunition pouch, pistol belt, water bottles, bayonet or machete, belted machine-gun ammunition. Lightest of all, NZ freeze-dry rations. Just add water and mix. Then it was a matter of waiting for lights out and hoping you could get some sleep.

Sam spent his time reading letters from Arapeta, his mother Florence and his little sister Patty. His father’s letter was formal, expressing the hope that Sam was upholding the mana of the iwi. Florence’s letter looked as if it was spotted with her tears. Patty had sent a drawing of her new pony. She complained that little brother Monty always broke things. The letters made Sam sentimental. He put them aside. For some reason — perhaps loneliness or stress — he thought of Harper.

For the rest of the evening, Sam lay in his bunk looking at the moon. Operation Bucephalus was time for payback. For Sam to take utu for Jim’s death.

In the quiet of the night George began to strum his guitar and sing:

‘E pari ra, nga tai ki te ahau —’

An old World War Two song, the words reminded Sam of his father and Arapeta’s war. Would he prove to be as good as his father?

Suddenly George gave a sharp intake of breath, and began to speak.

Intrigued, Sam joined Turei at George’s side.

‘Who are you talking to?’ Sam asked.

George’s face was drawn and haunted. He pointed to the trees. At first Sam couldn’t see what George was pointing at. Then something moved . Something blinked .

Perched on the branch of one of the trees, maintaining an unwavering stare, was a russet brown owl.

‘I’ve just had a visitor,’ George said, laughing. ‘See? It spoke my name. I don’t think I’m going to get out of this war alive.’

Fearlessly George began to serenade the owl.

‘E hotu ra ko taku manawa—’

The owl stared down at George. Screeched. A harsh cry, freezing the blood.

‘Don’t you like my song?’ George asked.

The owl gave him one last look. Blinked again.

One moment it was there. Next moment, with a rustle, like velvet, it was gone, flying up and into the centre of the moon.

Four in the morning. Still dark. Sam felt a tap on his shoulder. Lieutenant Haapu, whispering to him.

‘Time to go. Rouse the men.’

Sam’s feet hit the floor. He was through the tent in a second.

‘Get up, guys. Shower and over to the Mess to eat.’