The Raw Men: For the Maori Battalion

Te Ao Hou, June 1964, Page 12

The Raw Men: For the Maori Battalion by Rowley Habib ‘From where did they come then, these men? This fine unit … I was under the impression that anything fine in the Maori had died with the advent of the White Man.’—an Englishman not long in New Zealand. This is where they came from, the brown men. The dark-lipped, thick-black-haired raw men, the slope-shouldered solid men. Neat in khaki, born for the uniform. Praised in the deserts of Tobruk, hailed in the heats of Mersa Matruh, gloried in Greece. We salute you, sons of New Zealand, Maori Battalion. Kia ora tatou. Kia ora nga tamariki o aotearoa. Yes this is where they came from, the raw men, The fearless marauders of the Middle East, the hard doers with hearts of lions, Collecting medals like stones on Hill 209 Tebaga Gap, Tunisia. From the pubs they came, drunk on a Saturday afternoon, and the neighbour's house afterwards, Staggering, stumbling, stone-tripping homewards through the half light of dawn.

From the crude-hewn back-block saw-screaming sweat-sapping timber mills they came, Trudging to work in the early mornings, their breath rising in mists with the cold. Yes this is where they came from, Men in Khaki, Tigers of Tunisia. Cursing in the rains of Cairo, singing in the heats of Helwan— With a rifle in one hand and a guitar in the other. That's us— And a song ever ready on the tongue. That's us— ‘Real hard doers, those boys’, they say, ‘But I'm glad I'm on their side. Good fighters.’ That's us. The guitars and the song. The work in the mornings plagued by the dry horrors. That's us— ‘Poor old Rangi's got the shakes, ha! ha! Where you been last night Rangi?’ That's us. Yes this is where they came from, the Maori Battalion. From the timber mill villages, deep bushed, From the back-block settlement fringing an isolated road That makes passers-by ask, ‘Don't you ever get lonely here?’ And children with bare feet walking to school in the mornings. From the bush felling they came. The Freezing Works. The Wool Stores. The scrub cutting. The Power Board. The post splitting. The truck driving. The bush snigging. The bully driving. From the City Council, bare-armed on the pavements with pick and shovel, From the Public Works Department, with the children standing on the roadside Laughing and repeating what they had heard their parents say, ‘P.W.D.—Poor Working Devils!’ as the truck passed them along the road. Yes this is where they came from, those men, Knights of the Middle East. From the prisons and the borstals they came, from the country school and the city office, From sulking, slouching, sullen in some alien city. Open-neck-shirted upon the wharves, they came, Wild in a dance. Noisy in the films. Cigarette slouching, fish and chips eating In some billiard room. Drunk on the street, hindering the passers-by. But always there are the exceptions. The quiet ones. The earnest ones. The deep-thinking, serious ones. Like everything else, there are the exceptions. yes this is where they came from, the raw men. From the singing in the bars led by a rich baritone voice— ‘Tomo mai e tama ma. Ki roto. Ki roto.’ All around they are singing. Everywhere there are mouths opening and closing, Feet firmly apart, heads thrown back, eyes opening and shutting, Enraptured in the singing. Always there is the singing. In the deserts of Egypt there was the singing. In the streets of Rome there was the singing. Going to the war and returning, there was the singing. Always there is the song and the guitars. Above it, beneath it, right through it all, There is the singing and the dancing and the laughing.