Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

Cliff paused, a wan smile on his face. Then:

What happened to us, Sam? We got so close to making it.

Sam looked into Harper’s eyes and knew he had to explain.

‘I’m no good for people, Harper, ‘he said. ‘My mate, Turei, I think I’m to blame for his death. I don’t want you on my conscience. I’m here for one reason and that’s to fight this war and get out in one piece and go home.’

Harper sighed and leaned back into the pillow.

‘Is that what happened? Well, I’m not letting you off the hook so easy. Sometimes, when I talk, I know too much of me falls out. But that’s the way I am and I’m not about to change.’

Sam stared at Harper. He stood up quickly.

‘Back off. Back off me. Leave me alone.’

‘Answer me one question. Do you think about me?’

‘No.’

‘So you still want to give me the flick?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are one fucken liar, Mahana. May you fry in hell.’

Sam stood up. His voice was firm.

‘I’ve already told you, I can’t have you on my conscience. Goodbye, Harper.’

Sam was halfway down the ward when he heard a shout.

‘Wait!’

Harper was struggling out of bed. His bandages were flying all over the place.

‘You can’t leave like that, you arsehole.’

Harper grabbed his crutches and came limping toward Sam. When he got close enough he threw one of them at Sam.

‘You want to know why I didn’t leave you back there when you were down with Gonzalez? I never leave anybody behind, but you’re not just anybody. I didn’t want to lose you. You talk about conscience. Put that on your damn conscience.’

Sam felt all the walls crumbling around him.

‘You’re in my heart, and I can’t get you out —’

‘Haven’t you been listening to me, Harper? I said no to you —’

‘Look, don’t I have a say in your decision? I don’t care. I’m prepared to take the risks. Don’t you understand? We were meant to be. We owe it to ourselves to see this thing through.’

Sam took a step back. He began to sign:

We can’t. It will never work.

‘God, Sam, this is your last chance. Face up to yourself. For once in your life, let somebody in. Let me in.’

At that moment two nurses, attracted by the commotion, came rushing towards Harper.

‘This man should be in bed,’ one of them said crossly. ‘Whatever he wants, say yes so that we can get him back there.’

It was said in innocence, but the shock of it made Harper and Sam look at each other, their jaws open. Sam started to laugh, and so did Harper. Next moment they were holding each other, doubling up with tears of laughter.

‘Oh, what the hell,’ Sam said. ‘All right then, yes.’

Sam ended his tour of duty in Vietnam three weeks after Harper was released from hospital. They were able to get a day’s leave in Vung Tau. A photograph was taken of them at the beach.

‘I want you to have this,’ Sam said. He took Tunui a te Ika from his neck and placed it over Harper’s head. ‘It looks better on you than on me!’

He looked deep into Harper’s eyes.

‘It will keep you safe. I want you to bring it back to me. In New Zealand.’

‘You want me to come to New Zealand?’ Harper asked. His eyes were shining.

‘Yes.’

At Vung Tau airbase, just as Sam was about to board the freighter back to Singapore, there was a shattering sound. Harper’s helicopter was there, hovering. He dipped the rotors. His face was serious. He made hand movements.

He pointed to Sam. You .

He pointed at himself. Me .

He made a thumbs-up signal.

Love you .

He saluted, and the gunship was wheeling away and thundering into the sun.

The gunship was lifting and wheeling back into the past. Thirty years later it had all come to this: me and a Vietnam Vet named George, sitting in a pub in Porirua on a cold, rainy night, talking about Uncle Sam.

George looked up. A clock on the wall ticked its way to closing time at the Porirua Tavern. The regular thump thump thump of the band reverberated through the night.

‘Sam and I ended our tour of duty in Vietnam in late 1970. We finished our time with the Army in Singapore, and when we arrived home we had a big welcome on the marae. That welcome was different from the one we got from everyone else where the hostility really brought us down to earth. We had no formal recognition from government. We were humiliated by the protest groups. Some of us began to die from the chemicals. Sam’s Dad wanted him to stay in Waituhi, but I decided to come down to Wellington. I managed to get a job as an Army instructor at Trentham. I got married twice. The first time was a mistake. The second time was to a nice girl from the South Island and we had four kids. I didn’t treat her too well and she took off. Around ten years ago I bought this pub. It’s been my life. I get the cough now and then. Cancer. Yeah, it got me too — Agent Orange. I’m up and down. Right now I’m up. I still see a few of the old mates at Company reunions, RSAs and so on. There are fewer of us every year. Time is passing. Very soon nobody will remember us.’

George’s voice trailed into silence. Then:

‘I’d better get back to the bar. Help the boys out before we close for the night. But thanks for coming out. I’ve enjoyed talking about my mate.’ He looked at me with rough admiration. ‘Do you realise how much you look like Sam? It’s like looking at a bloody ghost. You’re about his size, maybe a little thinner. You have his eyes and, from the looks of you, his stubborn streak. He was a great mate. You could trust in him. Rely on him. There was something fearless about him. In a scrape he never let you down.’

George saw me to the door.

‘Sam will always remain young in my mind. It’s only the rest of us who get old and develop beer guts so that we can’t see what’s down below — if there’s anything still there.’

Smiling ruefully, he shook my hand. His eyes were moist and I realised he was still thinking about old times and people who had gone from his life.

‘Tell Patty that it was really nice to hear from her. If she’s ever down this way, tell her to call in, okay?’

I arrived home just after midnight. I couldn’t sleep, so I took Uncle Sam’s diary and finished it just before dawn. I found some ash-edged remnants of letters Uncle Sam and Cliff Harper had written to each other while Uncle Sam was in Singapore and Harper was still in Vietnam:

‘… happened, yesterday. It made me realise how precious life is and that you have to hold on to what it is that you …’

‘I often think of you and … (Hell, do you think some censor is reading this stuff?) Well, if he is, enjoy it pal because …’

Whatever else was in the letters, the fragments confirm that the attraction (or was it love?) that Uncle Sam and Cliff Harper felt for each other had deepened. They would see each other, war or no war.

Uncle Sam must have returned to New Zealand some time in January 1971. Cliff Harper’s own tour of duty in Vietnam ended two months later, in March. The last entry in Uncle Sam’s diary was dated 7 March:

‘Cliff hitched a ride via Singapore on one of the American military aircraft doing the weekly hop to Australia. He telephoned from Sydney last night to say he gets in to Auckland tomorrow morning. It’s been almost two years since I last saw him. We’ve defied the gods so far. He’ll get to Gisborne by bus tomorrow afternoon.’

The final words in Uncle Sam’s diary, however, were not written by him. You can tell because they are scrawled with a different pen.