Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

‘Blowed if I know why we’re here,’ Turei said to George. ‘Nobody’s interested in us. Why don’t we sneak off to the pub and let Sam and his Dad hog the limelight.’

‘Don’t include me in this circus,’ said Sam. ‘This is Dad’s show. It’s got nothing to do with me. He’s the man in the middle of the ring. We’re just his show ponies.’

Some people started to titter and Arapeta made a short snap with his hand: ‘Don’t spoil it, Son.’

Sam’s remark wasn’t the only disturbance. There was a commotion in the crowd. George and Turei’s mothers had come after all. They were dead against their sons joining up — particularly Lilly, Turei’s Mum —and blamed Arapeta for not stopping them. Arapeta looked at them impassively. If they had come to cause trouble, so be it.

Arapeta motioned to his mate, Kepa, that it was his turn to speak. By this time, the day had become overcast. Clouds were advancing across the sky. The last speech was coming from the local people of the marae — next would be Arapeta’s turn, and it would be over.

Finally, ‘Tihei mauriora!’ Arapeta cried. ‘I sneeze and it is life!’

He grasped his carved walking stick and levered himself upward. He seemed to lift the sky up with his back.

‘Turuki turuki, paneke paneke. Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru.’

Sam watched Arapeta’s performance. This was one arena in which nobody could compete with him. When he walked to the centre of the marae, all eyes were on him. He began to speak and his authority hushed the world. He ceased being a man and, instead, became a God incarnate. No wonder men followed him into battle.

‘Our ancestors have always been fighters,’ Arapeta began. ‘The Maori has never been loath to fight. In World War Two our people volunteered to go and fight Hitler, and our contribution was unequalled by any other race or people drawn into the conflict. On 13 March 1940, the 28th Maori Battalion was given the word that we were on active service. We left Wellington for Europe on the Aquitania on 1 May. I will never forget how moving it was. We could still hear the Ngati Poneke girls singing “Now Is the Hour” when we were way out to sea.’

Arapeta pointed his carved drill stick at some of the old men in the crowd.

‘We were all boys,’ he said. ‘Boys from the farms, boys from small maraes all over the country, boys who came out of the scrub and were still learning how to be men. We were all in C Company, weren’t we, boys? They called us the Ngati Kaupois, the Cowboys.’

‘Ka tika,’ the old men called. ‘That is true.’

‘On 29 November 1940, we were ordered to the Middle East to join the First Echelon. Can you remember? We went via Greece where we had the first taste of battle at Olympus Pass, and had our victory in the sight of the Gods of Greece. After that first battle, we became men.’

Arapeta began to walk back and forward in front of the old soldiers, pausing before Hemi, the elder for Poho o Rawiri. Ribboned medals fluttered in the breeze.

‘We tasted battle again at Crete, didn’t we, Hemi! You were there! I saw you fighting against the Germans.’

Hemi straightened up. ‘Ae,’ he answered. ‘The Germans had their Air Force above us and their troops on the ground. At Suda Bay we led the bayonet charge which decimated the Germans. We bayoneted over 100 in the kind of close-quarter fighting that comes natural to us. That’s where we gained our reputation as fearless in the face of battle. Ae, ae.’

Arapeta moved on quickly, eyeballing another old soldier, pointing his stick at General Collinson.

‘But it was in the desert campaign in Egypt and Libya that our Battalion truly made its mark, wasn’t it, boys. I was your officer —’ Arapeta caught General Collinson’s eye. ‘I mean no disrespect, Sir, but we did not need Pakeha to lead us. We had our own men, good men, abler men than many Pakeha.’

A murmur of approval ran through the crowd:

‘Yes, that’s right, Arapeta, stick it to the Pakeha.’

General Collinson remained impassive, though he inclined slightly towards his aide: ‘The cheeky old bastard.’

‘We had our trial by fire at El Alamein — and survived,’ Arapeta continued. ‘We fought at Sidi Mgherreb. The Battalion took a total of 1123 prisoners; we lost five killed and eleven wounded. In February 1942, the 28th Battalion was ordered to Syria. While we were there, Rommel attacked the Eighth Army in Libya, so back we went to help those other fellas out. At Mersa Matruh, while all the good guys were moving out, we were moving in. We saw Rommel’s columns of German vehicles approaching us and the 21st Panzer Division encircling us. E hika, we were surrounded. But we got out of that little scrape and were soon back on our feet. You remember Munassib, boys, where we killed over 500 Hun? After that came Tripoli, Medenine and Tebaga Gap.’

All his life Sam had heard the old stories of the Maori Battalion’s exploits. At every retelling the stories had become more epic — and Sam and his generation had diminished at every telling.

‘Then came the battle for Point 209,’ Arapeta said.

In the waning day the old soldiers moaned like a desolate wind.

‘We were with Pita Awatere and it was he who committed C Company to the attack. The attack started at 5 p.m. that night. Our mate, Moana Ngarimu, lost his life there, clearing the area of two machine-gun posts. The Germans tried to counter-attack, to push us back. We ran out of grenades and picked up stones and used them instead. By 5 o’clock the next day we had won the point. Pita was given his Military Cross there. Moana was awarded, posthumously, the Victoria Cross.’

The marae erupted with calls. ‘Ae! Ae! Ka tika!’

Arapeta proceeded quickly, thrusting into the heart of the memories.

‘After that was Takrouna. What a battle that was! Our mate, Lance-Corporal Manahi, should have received a Victoria Cross for his work there, but he didn’t. However, His Majesty saw fit to award me the Military Cross. After that, I was with Commander Awatere in Europe to continue the fight at the Sangro River and Monte Cassino.’

Skilled soldier and skilled orator, Arapeta paused and looked around the marae. He was accustomed to being listened to. He had learned well how to hold people in the palm of his hand. He did everything with style and with precision. He was used to asserting his mana over the likes, yes, even of General Collinson. The pause, however, allowed George and Turei’s mothers to force themselves to the front of the crowd.

‘You know we are against this,’ Turei’s mother, Lilly, called. ‘If our boys die in Vietnam, their deaths will be on your head, Arapeta.’

Arapeta looked at her. Of the two mothers Lilly was the one to watch carefully — she could cause trouble, had always been outspoken, and her words came straight from the hip. She was only a woman, and tiny to boot, but Lilly was fearless and her words had a habit of sounding confrontational and had to be parried. Already the crowd were murmuring. Leadership was all about convincing people that you could lead them anywhere and get them there safely — even if you couldn’t.

‘Your boys will not die,’ Arapeta answered. ‘How do I know? I know my son. Like me, he is a leader, and he will bring your boys back safely to you, just as I brought my men safely back to their mothers. This I promise you.’

There was a gasp as the people on the marae absorbed Arapeta’s awesome confidence, his arrogance, his assumption of god-like invincibility. As if he could make promises on behalf of his son.

‘Kaati,’ Arapeta said. ‘Enough.’

He turned to the three boys. With a dramatic gesture, he drew a line in the air with the carved stick, joining them with General Collinson and the Army brass present.