Legacy

by Whiti Hereaka

  For a moment both Matatau and Jack are silent, until Jack finally says: ‘Wait. You got a Pākehā girl in the family way? You might be safer on the front line than at home.’

  Riki can’t help laughing, because that is so true of both this time and his own.

  18

  6 AUGUST 1915

  It’s another stinking hot day. Riki’s mouth is pasty, but he’s run out of water. It seems like hours since the Mos and Rewai left for HQ.

  ‘Everyone is down at HQ getting water,’ Big Mo says when at last they arrive back with the water rations. ‘The Australians, the Tommys, everyone. It’s happening today.’ He chucks everyone a piece of calico. ‘We need to make armbands and a patch to go on our tunics.’

  ‘What for?’ Riki says.

  ‘So you’re not mistaken for Johnny Turk in the battle,’ Big Mo says.

  Riki rubs the thin fabric between his fingers – this is supposed to shield me from friendly fire? He looks up and catches Matatau staring at him. There is something in Matatau’s look that gives Riki the heebies, and he feels a shiver down his spine.

  ‘All right, boys,’ Rewai says, ‘Get out your housewives.’

  Riki can’t imagine that name flying at home. Especially with Te Awhina. But the last time he held a needle was in home ec way back in Year Seven or Eight, when everyone had to take it.

  Jack is nimble and quick with the needle: his stitches are even and tiny. Riki is still struggling with threading his when Jack breaks his thread off.

  ‘Give it here, Riki,’ he says. ‘I’ll do it for you.’

  ‘He needs to learn how to do it,’ Rewai says.

  ‘The war will be bloody finished by the time he stitches it on,’ Jack says. ‘He can watch over my shoulder.’

  Riki hands Jack his shirt and the calico, and sits next to him. ‘Where did you learn to sew?’ he asks him.

  ‘My father was a tailor,’ Jack says. ‘I helped him with his orders sometimes.’

  ‘Are you a tailor too?’

  ‘Once upon a time. But bent over a needle day after day? Not for me. Back at the old shop they’ve even brought in one of those sewing machines. Not that anyone can use it yet – but they reckon that it will replace a lot of us.’ He breaks the thread with his teeth. ‘Besides, I reckon I’ll be made a colonel before the end of the war. Someone else can be my tailor.’

  ‘Nah,’ says Big Mo. ‘You’d be an “admirable”, Jack.’

  Everyone but Riki groans, and Little Mo shoves his brother with his elbow.

  ‘What?’ says Big Mo. ‘It was a good joke.’

  ‘No,’ Rewai says. ‘I think you’ll find that was a terrible pun.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Riki says.

  ‘Jack Mīharo? “Admirable” Jack?’ Big Mo whines as he explains: ‘As in “Admiral”?’

  ‘I still don’t get it.’

  ‘My surname’ – Jack says as he sews – ‘means “admirable”.’

  ‘Oh,’ Riki says.

  ‘How is it,’ Matatau says, ‘That you speak so little te reo?’

  ‘I wasn’t brought up with it.’

  It’s true. Te Awhina has studied many things, but te reo wasn’t one of them. When she’s feeling political, she says that it is because she shouldn’t have to go out of her way to learn it – it should have just been given to her; she shouldn’t have to seek it out. When she’s feeling sad for herself, she says that it’s because even if she did learn it she’d have no one to talk to anyway. Maybe she’s already got too much going on in her head, and adding te reo would be just too much. Sometimes Riki thinks his mother is just afraid of being the dumbest one in the room.

  ‘That’s how we must bring up our children,’ Rewai says. ‘It is the way of the modern world. My wife and I only speak Māori between ourselves. It’s better that the children don’t know it. It would break my heart to have my children punished for speaking it.’

  Riki remembers how he feels when he can’t speak – the looks some people, Māori and Pākehā, give him when they realise he doesn’t understand te reo. ‘But doesn’t that make them less Māori?’

  ‘What an odd thing to say,’ Rewai says. ‘It is a good thing that who we are doesn’t lie entirely in what we say. Otherwise, Riki, you would be entirely a fool.’

  Riki’s cheeks burn with embarrassment – it seems he can’t get anything right.

  Jack holds out the shirt to Riki. ‘Here you are; you’re all ready to go.’

  Except Riki doesn’t feel ready; not at all. He lies down in the dugout, hoping that if he can get to sleep he’ll be back home when he wakes up. He closes his eyes, but he can’t sleep. The atmosphere is humming; bullets still fly overhead.

  Big and Little Mo are walking around the dugout, laying their hands on the walls.

  ‘What are you two doing?’ Riki asks them.

  ‘We’re saying goodbye,’ Big Mo says, and Little Mo nods. ‘And thanking this place for keeping us safe.’

  It seems funny to be nostalgic for a hole in the ground, but it does feel like ‘home’ here. This does feel like the end of something.

  Riki looks at Jack, who is helping Matatau with his shirt. He hasn’t really thought about what the fortune teller said after the bully beef scare when they first got here. But now he can’t get her words out of his head. Is it tonight? Will Jack die tonight? Of course he shouldn’t think about it – he knows that fortune tellers are cons. But she was right about Riki not belonging here – but then again she could say that to any one of them, and it would be the truth. No, it can’t be true that Jack will die. Riki decides that he doesn’t believe in fate. What was it that Matatau said? That we all have free will.

  But there’s no place for free will in the military. Late in the afternoon, the hills shake with heavy bombardment, and the men are given their orders. They are to take the hills above them, and there are five targets: Old No. 3 Post, Bauchop’s Hill, Destroyer Hill, Big Table Top and Little Table Top.

  ‘One table top for each of us,’ Big Mo says to his brother.

  The orders say that the big attack will happen at 9 pm – the artillery will stop its bombardment, allowing the men to clear the Turks hand to hand. They are to use bayonets only, so that their gunfire will not give their position away.

  ‘Bugger that for a joke,’ Jack says, loading his magazine. ‘I’m using my rifle if I need to.’ The others shake their heads at Jack – perhaps they don’t believe they’ll need to shoot. But Riki’s with Jack. There’s no way he’s dying in 1915. He loads his magazine too.

  Before they head off, the Contingent gather for a sermon – to steel their nerves, or to serve as last rites. The bully beef and biscuits that they had as their last meal repeat on Riki. He supposes that he is sick with fear.

  The Contingent’s chaplain, known to the men as ‘the Padre’, is Captain Te Wainohu. Riki knows about him and his famous speech. When his mother talked about these great men and their speeches, Riki had thought that perhaps historians had embellished their words. But the way the Padre can hold his own, even with gun fire rattling his audience, is astounding.

  The sermon is in te reo, and Riki struggles to follow along – only catching a word here and there. But if he concentrates on just the sound of the words, his fear subsides, and excitement and pride take over.

  He remembers reading the speech at school, translated into English, and one part in particular:

  … Remember you have the mana, the honour and the good name of the Māori people in your keeping this night. Remember, our people far away in our native land are watching you eagerly, anxiously, to hear how you have behaved yourselves in battle …

  It is like everything the Contingent do is about proving the worth of Māoridom to people who really didn’t give a damn. No wonder Te Ariki was bitter about it all – they proved themselves, but when they came home what had changed? And Māori have died in wars for over a century since, to try to make the same point.

  The sermon ends, and they sing.
Riki recognises the hymn, so he can at least follow along with the tune. He remembers when Te Awhina first took him to their marae and he didn’t know the waiata. He felt stupid, because everyone else seemed to know the words and he didn’t. She leaned down and whispered in his ear: If you don’t know the words, just sing the vowels. It will look like you do know.

  He stands between Big Mo and Little Mo and their clear, strong voices surround him. If he closes his eyes it is like listening to one voice; sweet and solemn.

  The hymn ends, and the moment for reflection afterwards is broken by the sound of applause. Riki sees that there are Tommys and other Pākehā surrounding them, clapping as if they were being entertained: that the waiata was for them to appreciate, not for the men who had sung it to gain strength from. He feels embarrassed for them, embarrassed for their ignorance. It seems strange to Riki that they are fighting on the same side: they seem to have so little in common with each other.

  At dusk the Contingent set off, dressed in just shorts, shirts and their webbing. Everything else is left behind. It seems like thousands of men are making their way up the foothills through the trenches. The Contingent follow behind the other New Zealanders. Apart from the sound of their boots trudging up and up, the men are quiet. Riki is too nervous to talk. Someone down the line starts a karakia, and soon everyone in the Contingent is reciting the prayer. Again, Riki wishes that he knew more reo than Hui e! Tāiki e! or Āmene.

  They’re only heading about a kilometre inland, but the hills are killer. The foothills are probably a couple of hundred metres above the sea; the famous Sari and Chunuk Bair are at least another hundred on that. Riki’s glad it’s getting dark; the thought of looking up and seeing the ranges looming would just make it harder to keep on walking. They make their way up the hill slowly, one behind the other. At Outpost Number 2, they split off to their positions near the Turkish trenches for the big push when the bombardment ceases. A priest shakes the hands of the men as they disperse, and says God bless you.

  Riki is huddled close to his mates; they take shelter behind a small ridge. The walk up here took a couple of hours, so they’ve only got a short time to wait. The boom of the artillery reminds Riki of the big finale to the fireworks on the harbour at Guy Fawkes. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The sound rattles around the hills, the shots now so close together it is hard to distinguish each one. And then silence.

  It’s time now to charge the trenches. Some of the men have already gone while Riki and his mates wait. He hears the haka ‘Ka Mate’ and notices how it stirs the others – Big and Little Mo stand; they’ll be the first to go over. Big Mo smiles and winks at them, and then he takes a step up.

  Little Mo catches him as he falls. He holds together his brother’s shattered jaw. Big Mo gurgles and splutters with the blood that floods his mouth.

  ‘Keep his head up,’ Rewai orders Little Mo.

  Little Mo holds his brother up, cradling him as if he is a small child sitting in his lap. He sings to Big Mo, but his voice has lost its clarity. He sounds pitchy as he struggles to stop crying.

  ‘We’ve got to push on,’ Jack says.

  ‘I’m not leaving him,’ Little Mo says.

  ‘And we can’t leave them, Jack,’ Riki says. ‘Little Mo can’t hold a weapon and his brother. If we leave them they’ll get picked off.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ Rewai says. ‘I’ll follow after you once we’ve got Big Mo out of here.’

  Jack hesitates, and Rewai says, ‘Go. I won’t be far behind. I’ll wait at least until the stretcher bearers come.’

  ‘And if they don’t come?’ Jack says.

  ‘Then I’ll make sure we get him to the doc.’

  ‘The doc,’ Little Mo says, and suddenly he hoists Big Mo into his arms and sprints back down the hill, as if he is carrying a toy and not a huge man.

  ‘Christ,’ Jack says, and Matatau crosses himself. ‘He’s going to get shot himself. If not by the enemy then as a deserter.’

  Rewai is already off after him. ‘I’ll see that he gets to the doc. And then I’ll come back and find you. Go.’ And Rewai disappears into the dark.

  Riki is first out of the trench, with Matatau and Jack behind him. He crawls low, using his elbows to pull himself forward. Occasional rifle fire pierces the darkness: the Turks are firing at random. Riki has not gone far when his right arm is caught by barbed wire – his sleeve from shoulder to elbow is entwined. He tugs at it to try to free it – the barbs poke his skin, but not enough to draw blood.

  Then he hears tearing cloth, but it is not his sleeve. His shirt is being pulled from behind; the front of it slides up his chest to choke him. He flips over to his back, and the barbs dig in between his shoulder blades as his body weight rests against the coils of wire. The barbs bite into bare skin – the back of his shirt has been ripped away. Riki is pinned down, by the wire and by the weight of a man. He looks up. Kneeling above him is Matatau – he has a strip of shirt in one hand and his bayonet in the other. When did he detach it from his rifle? Perhaps in the trench, when Riki and Jack were distracted by Rewai and Little Mo.

  ‘What are you doing, Matatau?’ Riki says.

  ‘You will die,’ Matatau says, and he raises the bayonet high. A rifle cracks, and in the split second of light Riki can see everything. Matatau looks crazy – his eyes are wide, and he has a terrible grin. ‘Demon,’ Matatau hisses, although it is he who looks possessed. He is muttering something – not in Māori; maybe Latin? Riki’s too frightened to make sense of it.

  Matatau is aiming for Riki’s heart. But as he plunges the bayonet, he is knocked off target by a tackle from Jack. The bayonet lands in Riki’s shoulder, and he screams in pain.

  ‘I’m not a demon!’

  ‘You still deny your true form?’

  ‘Mata!’ Jack yells. ‘Mata, stop!’

  ‘He bears his name, Jack – “the Archangel Michael” – but he is not God’s soldier. It is a perversion that he should have his name.’

  Jack is struggling to keep Matatau off Riki. ‘Please stop, Mata.’

  But Matatau will not be stopped. He is on a mission to stop evil, to kill it, to rout it out from the world. He rears up again, pulling the bayonet free.

  ‘You’re going to stay dead this time.’

  Riki feels limp – he has never felt so much pain. In that moment, he stops wishing for his old life and starts praying for any life – just to survive this night. The fortune teller was wrong, he thinks – it is Riki who will die tonight, not Jack.

  Jack has a hold of Matatau’s arm, trying to stop the next stabbing blow. Matatau seems to have more strength now.

  Riki reaches out along the ground with his good arm, trying to find his rifle. He feels the butt of it with his fingertips and stretches to reach it; his shoulder, pinned and hurt, feels as if it is being torn apart.

  He manages to grasp the rifle, and holds it up as best as he can. ‘Matatau! I’ll shoot!’ The point of his bayonet is almost on Matatau’s heart. But Matatau doesn’t seem at all frightened. He grabs the barrel of Riki’s gun and pulls off the bayonet – now he has a blade in each hand.

  One more warning, Riki thinks. He doesn’t want to shoot, but he may have no choice if he wants to survive. He shifts the rifle so that, if he has to shoot, the bullet will go over Matatau’s shoulder. It will probably deafen him, but that’s better than killing him.

  ‘Stop, Matatau,’ Riki says. ‘I’m warning you.’

  Matatau raises both his hands high – and Riki pulls the trigger. In that second it seems like the rest of the battlefield has gone silent – only Riki’s shot rings out. And then it is as if every enemy is firing on them.

  A flash and then another – Matatau has been hit in the side. He crumples down, so that the bayonet pierces Riki’s shoulder again. He screams out in pain. He can’t move; almost can’t breathe: he is pinned under Matatau, who is heavier than he looks. Riki’s shirt is soaked with sweat and blood – his and Matatau’s.

  He calls out for Jack, but Jack
doesn’t answer.

  Matatau must have a head injury as well – blood is dripping on Riki’s face, and something sharp and hard is in his mouth. He opens his eyes – it is not Matatau who has been hit in the head. It is Jack. His head hangs over Matatau’s shoulder. The bullet has ripped apart the top of his skull, and his blood and some of his brain is dripping out. Jack’s face hangs so close it is almost as if he is about to give Riki a hongi – and Riki is disgusted that his mind would associate a celebration of life with this image of death.

  Jack is dead.

  Riki screams Jack’s name over and over, until he finally blacks out.

  19

  9 OCTOBER 1975

  TRANSCRIPT:

  Cassette number 3: Te Ariki Mikaera Pūweto (interviewee, WWI veteran) and Alamein Pūweto (interviewer and grandson of Te Ariki). Also present: Taimona Pūweto (daughter and caregiver of Te Ariki).

  ALAMEIN You know, Koro, I’ve been travelling around the country for this project, and in every town there is something; a statue or an obelisk or even a hall that was built as a memorial for the war, to honour the fallen.

  TE ARIKI You don’t honour the dead by erecting memorials. You honour the dead by living. That is what they were fighting for – life. What do they care if you stand around memorialising them anyway? They’re dead. Dead and gone.

  TAIMONA But it’s comforting to people, Dad.

  TE ARIKI Spend the money on the living. That’s more comforting. They’ll wait until we’re all gone before they start to celebrate us. Then they’ll do it – write our stories for us and make us invisible under their rhetoric and memorials.

  ALAMEIN That’s not the intention …

  TE ARIKI It doesn’t matter what the intention is – it’s the effect.