Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

‘Wow, Sarge,’ Turei whispered, ‘just look at those beauties —’

From his grand-tier cinemascope seat, Sam watched the jets as they made their approach. They came screaming towards the twin peaks and through the gap between the horns. As they swooped over the ridge they released their rockets — so close that Sam could see the stabilising fins pop out. He followed their trails as they tracked down towards their target.

A whistling sound was followed by the thunk, thunk, thunk as the rockets hit the enemy base in splendid stereophonic sound. Concentric rings emanated from the explosion. The Phantoms increased power, fighting against the G-forces as they sought the sky.

A second later came the boom, boom, boom of the explosions. The earth heaved and swayed.

A second strike was ordered in. It carried bombs and napalm — called bom bi by the Vietnamese because when the mother bom detonated it spawned 600 baby bombs.

The enemy base brought in its ground-to-air defences. One of the jets, levelled into its bombing run, was hit. It just managed to clear the ridge, its slipstream parting Sam’s hair, trailing smoke. Sam saw the pilot struggling to eject.

‘Come on, man. Get out. Get —’

The Phantom exploded, raining the sky with burning debris.

But now helicopter gunships had swooped down from the north-west. They flew in a daisy chain, like the corps of an American ballet. Their movements were choreographed with skill and beauty as they bled off elevation. For a moment they disappeared before popping up over the ridge, black carapaced flying gun platforms, their front windows flashing in the sunlight.

‘Hey,’ George called. ‘I see an old friend.’

Woody Woodpecker was on the case again. As he passed overhead Sam saw the gunners so near, leaning out of their doors, that he could reach out and shake hands with them. Down into the valley of Death rode Woody Woodpecker. As Harper swung in low over the contact zone, the gunners opened up:

Glory, glory hallelujah

glory, glory hallelujah

glory, glory hallelujah

God’s truth is marching on!

‘Now it’s our turn,’ Sam said.

He saw it was almost time for Victor Company to go in . ‘Come on Captain Fellowes, give the order to engage.’

At that moment, Sam saw the tarantula. He picked it up. The spider had always been an important symbol to the Mahana family. It was a kaitiaki. A protecter. The spider evoked memories of Riripeti, the spider woman of Waituhi, whom some had called Artemis.

‘E Riripeti, kia ora,’ Sam said.

The spider seemed to be smelling him. Sam brought it up to his face. The spider touched him gently with its legs. In a sudden movement it turned and faced the enemy base. It reared, taking up the attack position.

This was it. This was the moment.

Sam took a deep breath. With all his power he invoked Tumatauenga, God of War, Tu, the eater of man, to come to the battle. It was time for reprisal, for utu to be exacted. Sam’s breath hissed out. He hurled his words across the twin peaks.

‘Contact front .’

Sam sprinted forward. He let the M79 fall under his arm, supported by its strap, so he could use his rifle and bayonet more easily in the close contact with the enemy. His gut was in a knot, and steady breathing had become hard labour, but he felt no fear. He remembered that whoever got the most punch out the fastest got the upper hand. Wax the enemy before he waxed you. He touched his greenstone pendant. It leapt in his hands, searing him with its heat.

‘I refuse to die today.’

Sam led his platoon down the slope towards the enemy base. He could see the enemy fire patterns, the interlocking fields of automatic weapon fire sweeping at ground level. He wanted to cry out a warning to the company, ‘Don’t get trapped.’ All he could hope for was that the gunners, jet fighters and gunships had knocked most of the defences out. Across the contact zone, firefights were breaking out like displays of violently beautiful fireworks. Tracers flowed back and forth. The air was filled with the noise of the ground attack, pops and cracks like popcorn popping and, every now and then, a puff and an orange mushroom explosion.

Why does war always look so beautiful?

Suddenly, Sam looked up and saw that a gunship had been hit by an enemy B-40 rocket in the tail section. Hydraulic fluid was spraying everywhere. And the enemy gunner had the chopper in his sights and was following it down. Sam’s heart lurched. Was it Woody Woodpecker? No, it was Harper’s mate, Fox, who was in trouble.

Fox’s voice came over Harper’s headphones.

‘We’ve been zeroed —’

A 12.7 round hit the doorframe above Fox’s head. The next round hit the forward post near the starboard door gunner. Another hit right next to Fox. The rest of the rounds were smacking into the engine cowlings.

‘They’re going down,’ Harper whispered.

Fox’s gunship started shuddering and losing height. It drifted away from the battle zone towards the jungle, the props chewing the shit out of the treetops.

‘Pull up, Fox, pull up .’

It was too late. Fox’s helicopter erupted into an instantaneous sheet of flame.

And that glorious Battle Hymn of the Republic came booming into Cliff Harper’s head, a patriotic hymn filled with the valor of martyrdom, swelling out on the wings of angels from all the wars that Americans had ever been involved in:

In the beauty of the lilies

Christ was born across the sea,

as he died to make men holy,

let us die to make men free!

The gunship fell from the sky to Sam’s left, but there was no time to take a look. His men were running into trouble.

‘Make smoke,’ Sam commanded.

He heard the plop and whine of smoke canisters, but the enemy had already zeroed him. Through the smoke came the unmistakable sound of enemy rounds breaking the sound barrier. The rounds clapped around his head. He felt a hot crack close to his right cheek and ear, then several others like a string of cracks together. Then a bomb went off and the soldier who detonated it virtually disappeared. One of the men near him had both his head and helmet taken off but his heart kept pumping, spraying blood through the air. Others near him were blown into the air the way they are in cartoons, legs still running. Sam felt a wet rain lick across his face. Tasted someone’s blood on his lips.

There were booby traps everywhere. A big-ditch bank was ahead and, to the left, barbed wire in rolls. Some of the advance team had been caught up in it or had tried to evade the wire by running down lanes where fire was targeted.

‘Turei!’ Sam called. He saw that George was caught in the wire. ‘Don’t let the owl get him.’

Turei nodded. He saw the enemy machine-gun team manning the lane. Up went the rocket launcher to his shoulder and —

‘Bye bye Charlie.’

Sam helped George out of the barbed wire.

‘Thanks, Sarge.’ They began to run again. Bullets were cracking around them.

There were tripwires all over the place. It was all a matter of luck. If it wasn’t your day you ran into the wire and boom you were blown to bits. Or looking at a smoking stump where your leg had been.

Stumbling, Sam looked down and saw a man’s head, eyes still open, rolling in the red dust. Another soldier, coming up from behind, kicked at the head and it sailed above the ground like a bizarre football.

Sam dropped to one knee. For a moment he was disoriented by a shell grazing his head. A lane of fire opened up before him. George, beside him, was covering off his left rear shoulder. Then Turei was there at his right.

‘Er, boss,’ Turei said, ‘I don’t like this movie. Let’s go next door and see something that isn’t so noisy.’