Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

The morning was hot and humid. Clouds blanketed the sky. Heat lightning flared in the distance. Lieutenant Haapu cracked on the pace, keeping the platoon on the run to the Vietnamese graveyard. They hugged the landscape, moving swiftly through the jungle. Basic training kicked in again. Even at speed you didn’t fight the jungle. You learnt to glide through so you didn’t break branches. You learnt how to walk and how to listen at the same time. To distinguish between the sounds of a two-legged animal and a four-legged animal.

When the squad arrived at the graveyard, Lieutenant Haapu established a packbase. He marked out Sam’s search area.

‘I want you to sweep the flats and re-entrants around Two Horn mountain. Report back here at 1300 hours. Good hunting.’

Sam gridded his patch. On the first leg, he found a trail and ordered the men to parallel it. They checked out a small group of hootch complexes, with no result. They crossed another trail, moved off into some thick bush for concealment and monitored movement on the trail. Again, no results. On the second leg, Sam ordered the men to move inland through bamboo two to three metres high. Pushing through bamboo at speed could cut you to ribbons.

Still no sign of Chuck.

‘But plenty of bamboo vipers,’ Turei teased George.

‘Fuck off, you bastard,’ George said.

Sam ordered the last leg, a triangulation that led the men through swamp which seethed with leeches. No time to be squeamish. Wait until you get out the other side and then deal to them. Even so, the men shivered with revulsion as, working in pairs, they stripped and zapped the little bastards with glowing cigarettes. Turei yelled with horror when he found one pulsating on his penis.

‘It’s the only thing that will ever suck on your dick,’ George said. ‘And don’t worry, mate. The taste will probably kill it.’

By midday the sky was overcast. Overhead were vapour trails of high-flying aircraft and, in the distance, the sound of intermittent shelling. The temperature soared and every movement made Sam break into a sweat that was made up of half toil, half fear. Waiting for the enemy to pop you. A sniper in the shadowy treeline, sighting down the barrel and squeezing the trigger —

‘Any signs of enemy movements?’ Lieutenant Haapu asked when Sam returned to the packbase. ‘No? That means we’ll all be doing some hiking because the enemy must be up there .’

Lieutenant Haapu pointed to Two Horn mountain. He consulted the map. Saw a village marked on the southern flank of the mountain.

‘Let’s pay a visit.’

The platoon began to climb. A huge cloud front extended across the sky. Just as the platoon entered triple-canopy jungle the air became deathly calm and a breeze began, steady, cool and strong. A smattering of rain fell from the sky, and Sam saw Turei gratefully lift his face and lick the drops into his mouth. The jungle was thick with soaring tree trunks twined with vines. The rain became stronger: birds screeched and flying insects scattered the drops with rainbow wings. A nest of vipers glittered in the rain-stained undergrowth. It was all so beautiful, yet harsh. Halfway up the mountain the jungle thinned out into tall elephant grass. It was astonishing how quickly the sky became pitch black and how strongly the rain fell. The platoon picked its way through a field of green grass. Red flowers opened out like blood-stained hands to catch at the rain. In the middle of war, cruelty and beauty.

Stop . Lieutenant Haapu went to ground.

The platoon had reached a stream, swollen and brown with silt. Beside it, a bumpy red dirt track. On the other side of the stream were misty rain-soaked rice paddies and open fields.

Path to the village ? Sam signed.

Affirmative , Lieutenant Haapu returned. ‘This is what we’re going to do, Sergeant. I want you to wait half an hour while the rest of us go round the flank and take up positions overlooking the village. In half an hour, take your men in. Got that? We’ll cover you as necessary and, once you give the all clear, we’ll join you.’

Then he was gone, and with him half the squad. As they left, the underbelly of the sky was split with electrical discharges. The ceiling cracked open and a spear of forked lightning plummeted to the ground. The air crackled with ozone.

‘Guess who’s arrived,’ George said.

His eyes were filled with myths and beings of the Maori past.

‘Te Uiuira,’ Sam answered. The Lightning God.

Village , George signed.

It was dusk and the village was a jumble of shabby bamboo-framed hootches. The huts were roofed with palm fronds and raised from the ground, their backs to the sloping mountain. Rainwater urns collected water under their eaves. In front of each hootch was a wooden pedestal set with offerings to the spirits of wind and sky. Most had verandahs and, below them, enclosures for pigs or poultry. But apart from a silky hen and its chicks, there was no sign of livestock.

Sam saw a villager appear and go around to the garden at the back of his hut. A small group of children as thin as rice stalks ran out and began to play around the village dinh, the small concrete shrine in the middle of the square. If children are playing, Sam thought, the village must be safe. He signed to George and Red Fleming:

Let’s go in . Do not fire unless fired upon.

The section advanced to a cau ki, a monkey bridge with a flimsy handrail. The water in the stream below had a rich smell like damp leaves. As Sam crossed he saw a reflection in the water. His mind flipped to a fairytale about the Little Billy-Goat Gruff clip clopping across a wooden bridge. Underneath the bridge was a troll —

George and Red Fleming went ahead. Cicadas croaked in the water palms, then became silent as the two scouts entered the village. The villager returned from his garden and shouted at the children. Without looking left or right, they ran quickly into their hootches. It was almost as if they had never been there.

Silence descended. Only the rain. Sam always trusted George’s gut instincts and, so far, George had not given any sign that there was any danger. But then two black figures ran out. George pointed them out to Sam: Bring back?

No. Leave to Lieutenant Haapu.

The team patrolled the entire length of the village, alert to every sign that might spell danger. When they reached its northern extremity they patrolled back to the village square where Sam positioned his men defensively in a 360-degree harbour.

He returned to Zel Flanagan: Send the all clear .

Five minutes later, Lieutenant Haapu and the rest of the platoon had still not arrived, but Sam was conscious that all around him the villagers were watching.

From the corner of his eye Sam caught a movement. Through the glistening rain he saw that a candle had been lit in one of the huts. It was moving as if someone was signalling.

The candelight flared and, far away, Sam saw a beautiful chameleon, a creature with an iridescent pale blue body and a yellow throat. As he watched it turned a deep angry blue and then an extraordinary pellucid green. Sam looked through the green of the chameleon’s skin. With a sudden flick it disappeared. In its place was an old woman, holding a candle and looking back at him through the open-weave lattice walls of her hut. She put the candle down, pulled and the wall went up. When Sam looked again, she was sitting on the verandah of her hootch like a wizened Queen of Sheba. She motioned to Sam.

Haere mai. Come.

‘What is this power you have over women?’ George asked.

Sam felt himself compelled to approach.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Flanagan said. ‘You may need somebody to translate.’