Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

Sam closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure for how long; perhaps he dozed. One minute. Ten minutes. The sun was so warm on his face. A shadow awakened him. The saffron-robed monk was kneeling beside him. The cobra had gone. But the monk was looking at Sam in a quizzical manner. He cocked his head to one side. His tongue began to feather in and out.

It was so comical that Sam felt the urge to laugh. Soon his laughter was uncontrollable — and the monk joined him, laughing and laughing. Then, in a quick movement, the monk pressed his hands together and bowed. He motioned with his hands, and Sam saw that the world had changed. Although drops were still falling like a beaded curtain from the perimeter of the temple, the storm itself was over. When Sam stepped into the sunlight, it was as if the whole landscape was holding its breath. The world seemed to stop, to glow, to find serenity. With a sigh, a deep exhalation, the world began to renew itself. The sky was a sumptuous blue, unrolling clear to the other end of the universe. The rich rays of the sun were transforming the landscape into a place of glowing beauty. Wild swans flew overhead like a glissando, their wings describing arabesques in the light. Where the rain continued to fall was a soft shimmering curtain. More birds flew homeward, this time starlings and swallows, swooping and circling towards far distant trees. They piped the world with glorious song, and some spun songs of delight above Sam as they found roost in the temple’s eaves.

Sam mounted his bike. He ascended the rise. When he looked back at the temple it had been spun into gold by the sun. All around it, the paddy fields had turned into emeralds. The dykes were silvered filigree. Arching above was the rainbow.

And Sam was laughing and crying at the same time. His life had reached a point of perfection. A kind of understanding. A moment of revelation. He felt more open to life than he ever had before. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. It was as if he had disappeared into the landscape, become transparent, and was watching all the molecules that made up man, leaf, snake, bird of sky, river, mountain, sun stream through himself like glowing lights.

It was going to be okay. When he next saw Harper he would explain and maybe Harper would understand and, if there was a God of second chances —

The wind breathed through Sam, in, out, in, out.

He heard the universe singing.

If there was a God of second chances …

No sooner had Victor Company returned to Nui Dat than they were called to a briefing. Sam had no time to talk to Cliff Harper, to move his fingers: Hi Cliff. Yes, let’s talk please, let’s talk in that secret language that had become their own.

‘The American’s have called us in to help them,’ Major Worsnop reported. ‘We took out the enemy base, but there’s still a large battalion out there. They were found yesterday and now the Americans have begun Operation Roundup. They’ve already begun to drive the enemy towards the corral here —’

Major Worsnop pointed to a semi-circular valley with an opening, the gate, at one end.

‘Once they’re in, our job is to close the gate.’

At 1400 hours, the choppers began to ferry Victor Company to the operational zone. An hour later, they were on the ground and had dispersed into their assigned formation. But Intelligence had underestimated the enemy strength, and the gate was exposed to open ground.

‘This smells bad,’ Lieutenant Haapu said.

The platoon entered a deep ravine. There was no cover and nowhere to go except forward or back. The only concealment was in the creek bed, and there the vegetation was sparse.

This was Vietcong terrain. Like a trapped scorpion the enemy would already be waiting, sting curved and ready to strike.

Sam signed to his section to spread out:

Open formation, one up.

He was working on instinct, just in case they were hit.

Suddenly, something flowered and fizzed from the right.

‘Hit the ground!’

Sam rolled to his left — and the hillside opened up with enemy firepower. The first rocket hit. An orange ball of flame erupted. A second enemy rocket exploded in the creek bed, sending up mud and water like a fountain. Then came the automatic heavy machine-gun fire.

‘Fall back. Fall back!’ Lieutenant Haapu called. ‘Everybody get the Hell out —’

There was a hail of bullets, like a swarm of angry bees, and Lieutenant Haapu was down with a round through his chest.

Sam waited for a lull as the enemy finished their first magazines, then he was up and over to the lieutenant, repeating his order:

‘Fall back, you bastards! Turei, get a line on that rocket launcher.’

Lieutenant Haapu was sitting now, looking at his wounds.

‘Fuck, fucken bast-ard.’

Sam grabbed an arm and hoisted Lieutenant Haapu up. Turei had managed a lucky shot and had taken the rocket launcher out.

‘Medic!’ Sam called.

Vickers arrived and started to work on Lieutenant Haapu. His left lung had collapsed and he was having trouble breathing. Vickers tore open a compress bandage, split the plastic in half, and began a patch up job on him.

Sam turned to George. ‘Go to Turei. Both of you give us cover while I get the lieutenant out of here.’

George nodded and began wriggling quickly through the elephant grass to Turei.

‘Sir,’ Sam said to Lieutenant Haapu. ‘We’ve got to go.’

Lieutenant Haapu nodded. He took a quick look at the situation. The men were moving fluidly in retreat but the enemy was picking them off.

‘You’ve got to make smoke,’ he said. ‘Put up a screen to hide everyone.’

Sam understood. But the wind was capricious, opening up holes in the smoke. All of a sudden there was a yell as Flanagan, the radio operator, took two rounds in the back and two rounds in his right leg.

‘Get the radio! Get the radio!’ Sam called to Red Fleming.

Over to the side, there was another cry as Manderson was hit.

‘Goody goody,’ Johanssen said to his stricken colleague. ‘Now I get the chance to fire the big gun.’

He began to lay down fire as fast as he could.

Trying to gain an edge, Sam speed-crawled after Red Fleming to the radio operator. Flanagan was drooling, spitting blood, but trying to keep breathing. His eyes were wide, staring up at the blue sky with terror. As soon as Sam reached the radio he grabbed the handset and gave the platoon’s coordinates:

‘We’re pinned down. We have dead and wounded. Request gunships, reaction force and extraction.’

The enemy started up again. Sam watched as a grenade came sailing into the area. He scrambled on top of Flanagan and rolled with him away from the grenade. Whaaam. The concussion slammed him and he felt a hot stinging in his crotch and legs.

‘I can’t get hurt,’ he thought. ‘I’ve got to get the men out.’

Sam pulled out one of his own grenades, popped the handle off, counted a couple of seconds and threw it in the direction of the hillside. With relief he saw that his men were halfway out of the enemy’s killing zone, firing and moving as they retreated, pulling their wounded comrades with them. Red Fleming was lobbing grenades and firing his M-79, trying to get air bursts on the trees. Johanssen managed to find good cover and was hitting the enemy with all he could give. Machine-gun chatter filled the ravine. With every burst the belt lashed like an angry snake. Johanssen grabbed and hooked a second belt. The spent cartridge cases spilled out of the weapon as if they were the shells of peas. Raising his head, Sam saw that his men were in the clear. But George and Turei were still out there.

Sam tapped Lieutenant Haapu on the shoulder. ‘Sir, I have to leave you a moment.’ Sam made his way over to Johanssen: ‘Can you keep the enemy’s heads down? I’m going to get those two dumb Horis out.’