Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

‘Come on, George, you’re not afraid of a liddle wee baby snake, are you?’

‘Get away from me, Turei.’

Turei lifted the snake to his eyes and looked sadly at it. ‘Did you hear that little wee baby snake?’ He looked deep into the snake’s eyes and then threw it.

With a yelp, George stepped back. The snake fell through the open neck of his shirt.

George gave an unearthly scream. ‘I’ve been bitten.’

He yanked off his shirt and the snake fell out. Turei was apoplectic with mirth.

‘Stop acting like a baby. Can’t you see it’s dead?’

George’s breathing slowed. He looked at the snake. Then rounded on Turei and socked him in the mouth.

‘I go through a battle and I don’t have one mark on me,’ Turei said. ‘The only wound I have is when my best pal hits me in the jaw.’

Sam smiled, ruefully. In war there were no winners or losers. There were only the living and the dead.

And he was jolted straight back to the battle — he saw a discarded flame thrower and realised the foxhole looked familiar. He had picked that very flame thrower up, flicked the switch and sent flames into the foxhole. Five screaming figures had spilled out, their bodies burning, burning, burning, their flesh sizzling and flaming as he watched.

Five may have died on the open ground but another five had been incinerated where they lay. With mounting horror, Sam saw all of the burnt soldiers were Vietnamese women.

‘Oh, no. Oh, no, please, no.’

Sam remembered the old mother and an appalling possibility came to him that one of these girls might have been her daughter. He had already killed the old mother. Had he also killed her daughter? With a cry he jumped into the foxhole.

‘I’m so sorry, oh, I am so sorry.’

He cradled the charred bodies, pulling them over him. One of the girls had averted her face from the flames, perfect amid the carnage. In her hands she held a letter.

Flanagan was there, calming Sam down. Sam gave him the letter.

‘It’s to her boyfriend,’ Flanagan said. He began to read it:

‘My love, there is a plate of perfect roundness. The plate has a Chinese pattern etched in shades of blue. It shows two lovers pursued through a glade of drifting willows. The brushstrokes are delicate like eyelashes. The lovers look so strange, so remote and, if you turn the rim you can follow their flight across river, mountain and bridge. They are running away hand in hand, unlike you and I my love, separated by this war. But I think of you as I turn the plate and watch the two lovers running away across bridge, river and mountain. Perhaps, when the war is over we will be like them at the end of their journey because — there they are! Two birds released from an outstretched hand, flung into the sky, free! Free! Free —’

With despair, Sam realised the place had become a black cloud and the air was filled with buzzing.

Where do the flies come from? How do they know?

Before Sam knew what he was doing he was striking out at the seething cloud. It re-formed around him, angry, bloated and crazed with blood.

‘No, you can’t have them yet. I won’t let you have them.’

His face was streaming with tears.

‘Sarge, snap out of it,’ Flanagan said. ‘This is war, Sarge. War.’

Three hours later, Major Worsnop ordered the destruction of the enemy base and its ammunition supply.

‘The place is tripwired and booby-trapped and enough men have already been killed this day. Let’s send it back to Hell where it belongs.’

The detonation, when it came, was like an eruption. By the time it was finished, night had fallen. Phosphorus flares were lit at the landing zone. The choppers flew in to pick up the battalion for return to Nui Dat. Dozens of them sat there, like horses champing at the bit.

The men sprinted through the dust. The gunships lifted off into the setting sun. Sam looked down at the mangled mess that had been the enemy base. He should have felt elation. He saw that Flanagan had taken a small book from his shirt pocket and was reading it intently. When he was finished, he handed the book to Sam.

Pity them, the souls of the lost thousands

They must set forth for unknown shores.

They are the ones for whom no incense burns

Desolate, they wander night after night.

The photograph fell out of Uncle Sam’s diary:

SAM WITH CLIFF HARPER, VIETNAM, 1969.

In it, Uncle Sam and Cliff Harper look as if they’ve just come up from the beach after a swim. It must have been taken when they were on leave in Vung Tau, some time after Operation Bucephalus.

Harper is sitting on the sand. Uncle Sam, in the middle of the photo, is resting in the harbour of his arms. Uncle Sam’s upper body is strongly developed. Around his neck is a greenstone hei tiki. His right arm is up in protest, as if he doesn’t want the photograph to be taken. He is laughing and his lips are curved in a resisting, ‘No.’ But the one who really draws the attention is Harper, who looks directly into the camera. With his boyish grin and half smile he traps you in his gaze. He seems to absorb the light. Wherever there are shadows — on his shoulders, in the definition of his back muscles as he encloses Uncle Sam in his arms — they serve only to highlight his skin’s extraordinary translucence.

Some men are lookers, but Cliff Harper is something else. His looks transcend time. Blond, clean cut and devastatingly handsome, he is breathtaking — yet, in his unswerving gaze is a mixture of innocence and knowing. He seems to come wrapped in a shyness and modesty that makes him the boy next door or the brother you wish you had. Or the boyfriend you dream about.

‘Michael? I know you’re there.’ My sister Amiria’s voice. ‘Pick up the phone, pick it up right now. ’

I put Uncle Sam’s diary, and the photograph, aside.

‘Hello, Amiria, How was the honeymoon?’

’I knew you were there, I’m your twin, you can’t hide from me. The honeymoon was great but —’ Amiria wailed, ‘I’m pregnant.’

‘Already? Nobody gets pregnant on their honeymoon.’

‘You know what they say about the Mahana family.’ Amiria didn’t sound too happy about it. ‘The women are always so fertile. A man only has to look at one of us and she gets pregnant — though I guess a woman wouldn’t have to worry in your case! But that’s not the reason why I’m ringing. Tyrone and I are leaving from Auckland by United Airlines for Texas this weekend. His Dad wants him to start work at the casino immediately, and I’m starting to get cold feet. I may be leaving New Zealand for good.’

Amiria was sounding tearful. At that moment I felt the same sadness. My twin was going to the other side of the world.

‘Will you come up and say goodbye to me?’

‘I don’t know whether that’s wise. Mum and Dad will be there. I don’t want to start World War Three.’

‘Please, Michael. We might never see each other again.’

I caught the afternoon flight from Wellington to Auckland where the international terminal was crowded with Cook Islanders returning to Raratonga. Bedecked with flowers, they looked so festive and relaxed. Across the sea of flowers I saw Mum and Dad with Auntie Pat. For a moment I considered backing away. Perhaps I could pretend I hadn’t come, ring Amiria in Texas and give some excuse about work or fully booked flights. But Auntie Pat saw me and pulled me towards Mum and Dad.

‘Now, Monty,’ Auntie Pat said to Dad, ‘we’re all adults —’

Dad’s face went red with anger and Auntie Pat had to intercede again.