Legacy

by Whiti Hereaka

  ‘You’d freeze,’ Rewai says.

  ‘I’d soon warm up.’ Little Mo grew up near Taupō, and swam in the lake in midwinter. ‘I know cold water.’

  ‘There are no hot pools here to warm up in afterwards,’ Riki says. ‘Besides, with all your gear you’d sink to the bottom.’

  ‘Then I’d run across the bottom,’ Little Mo laughs.

  They move off again, Little Mo still trudging along with them. It must be four in the morning, and now they’ve stopped again. Riki looks up to the hills above them. It is strange, but, tired and sore as he is, Riki feels proud that they managed to fight their way from this far down to their post up the hill. If they abandon it now, then what on earth was all that effort for? Why did men die to capture a hill that would be evacuated just a few months later?

  The orders come for them to turn back; to make their way back up the hill and find shelter.

  ‘This looks like it was just as well planned as the rest of the war,’ Riki says. He is tired and sore, and he suddenly realises that this whole thing – the invasion, the battles and the evacuation – is all just a shambles. Just like he had learnt at school – although it is one thing to feel smug about history when reading it in a book and quite another to be living it.

  ‘We’re not tramping all the way back up to our post, are we?’ Riki finds it hard not to sound whiny at the best of times, let alone after marching all night with all his gear.

  ‘I wouldn’t think so,’ Rewai says. ‘We’ll just need to find a place to doss down for the day. We’ll try again tonight, I’d say.’

  ‘Let’s just go to our old dugout then. Not all the way back up the hill. It’ll be like when we first arrived.’ Riki really doesn’t want to go too far; he feels incredibly tired.

  ‘Yes,’ says Little Mo, ‘Then we can be at the front when we move out again.’

  Like they have some choice about anything that happens on this peninsula. To spend their last day here in the same dugout as they spent their first would have lovely symmetry – it’s what would happen in a movie. They would return there and reflect on all that had happened over the months that they spent in Gallipoli. In that scene, they would remember Jack as a larrikin, and think of the potential lost when he died. They would think about Big Mo, and how Little Mo had learnt to become his own man once he had to stand by himself. Rewai would look at the letters from his wife, and make a speech about how this was all worth it. Riki would find a way to forgive Matatau, and finally find some peace. Then the music would swell and the picture would fade to black, and then there would be text about how the Anzacs left Gallipoli; about how they changed in themselves, and changed the landscape, but that for now there were more years of war ahead of them.

  But it’s hard to find symmetry in life, despite our preference for it. Rewai, Little Mo and Riki are in the middle of the marching column, so they have little choice over where they sleep: they’ll stop when those ahead of them stop. They march right past their old dugout – some group further back will sleep there instead.

  Their home for the day is little more than a trench – there are none of the ‘comforts’ they had made for themselves up on the hill. Here, they will sleep sitting up against the wall.

  ‘Me and Little Mo will take first watch,’ Rewai says.

  ‘Oh, but …’

  ‘You’ve had more sleep than the rest of us put together, Mo,’ Rewai says. ‘And look at him.’ He nods towards Riki.

  Riki thinks he must look bad, because Little Mo shuts up pretty quickly. Whatever – Riki will be glad to just sleep for a while.

  24

  14 DECEMBER 1915

  It is properly morning when Rewai wakes up Riki to take over the watch. Riki still feels exhausted, and wants to sleep a bit longer, but Rewai and Little Mo need to be relieved. Little Mo is so tired that he can hardly drink his tea. Rewai doesn’t look too bad – Riki wonders if he is just good at hiding it, or if he’s one of those people who only need a few hours’ sleep, like Napoleon or Thatcher. Although he’s not sure that either of those people are a good testament to the benefits of living on only a few hours of sleep a day.

  Riki stands to arms, although really there is not much to guard against.

  He finds it hard not to think about Jack and Matatau when he’s bored and on his own. He can imagine them here with him now – Matatau standing to arms and Jack rolling a cigarette. Riki imagines Matatau turning the rifle on him in this situation – would Jack try to stop him again? In his daydream Riki lets Matatau shoot him; he exchanges his life for Jack’s. Matatau shoots him in the chest, and he instinctively clutches the wound. The blood on his hands is finally his own and not Jack’s.

  Horrified, he puts his rifle down and leaves his post, sitting to roll a cigarette. He’s still pretty useless at rolling – even more so with shaky hands and his vision blurry with tears – but he feels like he really needs a smoke. He takes a drag, and then picks a piece of loose tobacco from his tongue – it feels as if it burns even when it’s not lit. It’s stupid, but he feels as if the cigarette has let him catch his breath.

  Determined not to let his mind wander into the darkness again, he once more stands to arms. He tries to think about the present; about how the evacuation could be pulled off without the enemy knowing.

  Rewai and Little Mo wake around lunchtime, and Riki is glad for the company.

  ‘Oi, Little Mo,’ Rewai says. ‘Go up the line a bit and find a bit of wood, eh? I’m dying for a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. I need to stretch my legs a bit,’ Riki says.

  Little Mo shrugs, and Riki follows him. Before the snow fell, you could get a few twigs from the remaining shrubs near the trenches. If it was green, it didn’t really matter – the fire needed to heat a billy didn’t give off too much smoke. Little Mo and Riki work their way up the hill, asking the soldiers they pass whether they have any twigs to spare.

  The men they ask are happy to share – both twigs and information. Everyone is frustrated that they’re still waiting.

  ‘Do you think they know?’ Riki asks a soldier he’s never met before. ‘That we’re down here?’

  ‘You got a smoke?’ the soldier replies, and Riki hands him his tin. ‘I hear that there’s a few jokers manning the machine guns.’

  ‘Nah,’ says another soldier, who takes the tin of tobacco and rolls himself a cigarette too. ‘They rigged some guns to fire automatically.’

  ‘How?’ Riki takes back his pouch.

  The soldier talks with his hands, the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. ‘You need a couple of billys and some rope, you see. One billy has a hole in the bottom, and you poke a bit of rope through the hole, tying off the end so it doesn’t pull out. The other end you tie to the handle of your second billy, leaving a tail hanging down. The first billy you put up high, the second one is below it.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Riki says.

  ‘Well of course not. I haven’t told you how it works yet, have I? You’ve got your billys set up, so now you need to set up your rifle. Obviously you need to rest the rifle so it points at the enemy. Then you take another bit of rope and loop it around the handle and the trigger, and then you tie it off on to the handle of the lower billy. Then all you need to do is fill the top billy with some water. The rope acts as a wick and fills up the bottom billy until – BANG – it’s heavy enough to pull the trigger.’

  The description makes Riki think of the Bucket Fountain on Cuba Street – he’d hate to have to trust his life to that thing. Still, he’s pretty impressed that those soldiers have MacGyvered an automatic trigger – that must be the Kiwi ingenuity that old people are always going on about.

  The order to fall in finally comes as dusk approaches. Within half an hour they are making their way down to the jetty to board the barges that will take them to the transport. Riki’s glad it didn’t take all night, like yesterday.

  It is big, the transport, and over the next couple of hours it is fi
lled with men: a couple of thousand is Riki’s best guess. It’s not just the remnants of the Māori Contingent on board; there are other New Zealanders, Australians and Gurkhas – men from pretty much every colony that has been fighting for Mother England.

  Riki, Rewai and Little Mo stand together on the deck, looking back at the peninsula.

  ‘It’s a beautiful night,’ Little Mo says. ‘From here it looks so grand.’

  Riki leans forward on the railings, trying to pick out their landmarks in the dark. Occasionally the hills are lit by gunfire or bombs, and Little Mo is right. From a distance it is grand – and also unreal. Riki can’t help but think that this is the view that their generals had of the place – there is a romance in being so very far away.

  As a final farewell, one of the Allied cruisers bombards Gallipoli. The sound of machine guns and rifle shots rattles the cove.

  ‘I think I feel sad to leave,’ Little Mo says.

  ‘Not me,’ Riki says. ‘It was hell.’

  ‘But we must hold this place in our hearts,’ Rewai says. ‘Because it looks after our fallen.’

  Riki wonders what these men would make of the pilgrimages New Zealanders and Australians make to Gallipoli in his time. The strange celebrations and camp-outs that happen every Anzac Day that Te Awhina says are disrespectful – to the dead and the tangata whenua.

  They all bow their heads as Rewai recites a karakia. Riki lifts his head for one last look as the ship pulls anchor and sails away.

  25

  25 DECEMBER 1915

  From Gallipoli the troops sail back to Lemnos. They spend ten days here, getting used to camp life again. Bell tents and wooden floors are luxurious compared to the mud of the trenches. It’s been months since anyone has slept without the noise of battle. The first night, Riki was too tired to notice the quiet. The second night, although he is comfortable in his camp bed, he finds it too quiet to sleep. He wishes he had a nip of rum to help send him off – but that just reminds him of Jack. His brain won’t let him get to sleep now.

  The days are filled with light duties as the men are reconditioned. Decent sleep and food make Riki feel almost himself again. The thought of it makes him laugh – almost himself. Like any of this is normal, even if he is used to it now.

  Rewai gets promoted to corporal on Lemnos. He tells Riki and Little Mo one day as they all walk to the village. Rewai smiles – he’s typically low-key about it. Riki thinks that if Jack were here he’d make a big deal – a feast of sausages and beer for the whole Contingent. If Jack were here …

  ‘Congratulations, Rewai,’ Riki says.

  The Contingent is together again at camp. The men catch up with each other, telling stories like it’s been years since they left Gallipoli, not just a few days. The Mos are reunited for a short time before Big Mo is shipped off home.

  If Little Mo was shocked seeing his brother’s injuries, he didn’t show it. All he said when Big Mo left was: ‘It will be a comfort for Mo.’ Riki didn’t bother to ask which one.

  The order to break camp and prepare to go to Egypt comes on Christmas Eve. ‘A funny sort of Christmas present,’ Rewai says.

  It gives Riki hope that perhaps he will be home for Christmas, or at least New Year’s Eve. If he was at home now, they’d be preparing to travel too; up north to Koro’s to spend time with the whānau. All the aunties and uncles and cousins crammed into Koro’s place – staying marae style on the floor, or sleeping in tents on his lawn. Sometimes the adults talk about hiring the Scout camp at Whakaipo Bay to take the pressure off Koro and Nan, but it wouldn’t be the same. Christmas is tripping over people, and running out of loo paper, and eating Christmas lunch on your lap because there’s only room for the adults at the table.

  If Riki had pulled the awful late Christmas Eve shift at work, Te Awhina and Jase would pick him up and they’d drive straight up through the night, so that they could be there to open presents in the morning. Riki can imagine the argument with his mum – Can we just stop off at home so I can have a shower and change out of my uniform? Te Awhina would shake her head – No time for that! Anyway, that looks festive.

  Ho ho ho.

  For the last couple of years Koro has taken Riki fly fishing. They’d leave before dawn and drive to the secret spot that Koro reckons belongs to the whānau.

  ‘That’s a good cast, boy,’ Koro said the first time they went out last year, even though Riki’s fly had landed with a splat and the feathers were soaking wet. Koro’s casts were always light, the fly sending out tiny ripples as it landed.

  ‘Next year,’ Koro said as the fly meandered down the river, ‘We’ll go to the pub. You can buy your old Koro a beer.’

  ‘You’re not that old,’ Riki said, and Koro laughed.

  ‘Next time you try flattery, Rik’ – Koro flicked the fishing rod – ‘you might want to try to sound more convincing.’

  Riki had shrugged and cast again, with a splat.

  ‘Not too bad,’ Koro said. ‘Remember, I have about half a century of experience on you. I’m going to retire at the end of next year.’

  Koro had taught history at the same high school for almost forty years.

  ‘I think I’m tired of history. I need to be free of it.’

  Riki snorted at that. Koro was just like Te Awhina – obsessed with the past.

  ‘I was thinking, Riki, that maybe you’d like to transfer up here for your final year. Now that your mum is going back to uni …’

  ‘Does she want to get rid of me?’ Riki didn’t mean to let his voice sound so bitter.

  ‘No, she doesn’t even know I’m offering.’ Koro sighed like he was frustrated. ‘I just think it would be good for you: to take some time out; maybe think about your life. It might be easier up here.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave, Koro.’

  ‘What is it? Friends?’ Koro asked him. ‘A girlfriend?’

  ‘She’s not exactly …’

  ‘It would be best for you to come here, at least for the first term. You have a think about it and then talk to your mum, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Riki said, even though he had no intention of thinking about Koro’s crazy idea ever again.

  Thinking about last Christmas fills Riki’s head with useless ‘if only’ thoughts. If only I went to live with Koro; if only I talked to Gemma; if only I didn’t get hit by a bus …

  But more disturbing is the thought that somehow Koro knew what would happen to Riki – why else did he suggest the idea? Why did he insist that Riki came up over Easter? If Koro knew, why didn’t he tell me? But he knows the answer. Because I would have thought that he was crazy.

  ‘That’s a big sigh, boy,’ Rewai says. ‘Not keen on the trip to Alexandria?’

  ‘Cheer up,’ Little Mo says, slapping Riki on the back. ‘Perhaps St Nick will bring you some sea legs for Christmas.’

  Riki, Rewai and Little Mo fall in with the rest of the men marching towards the transport barges at the dock. The powers that be obviously thought the men could do with some Christmas spirit, and ordered regimental bands to play as they go.

  They’re sailing on the SS Derfflinger, a ship captured from the Germans.

  ‘Why don’t they rename it?’ Riki asks Rewai.

  ‘You can’t rename a ship; it’s bad luck. Neptune would sink her for sure.’

  The sea is calm on Christmas Day as they set off for Alexandria. Riki is glad that he can move around the ship without his stomach lurching. He can’t guarantee that he will be able to hold Christmas dinner down, though – he’s heard it’s going to be greasy old bully beef and biscuits again.

  Somehow Little Mo got a job cleaning potatoes in the galley, and he’s trying to convince Riki to come and help him.

  ‘It’s a good job,’ Little Mo says.

  It’s the kind of job that Riki used to complain about. But anything is better than boredom, and Riki likes spending time with Little Mo.

  He finds it hard using a paring knife at first. He chips away at the first few potat
oes like he is whittling wood, taking big chunks off with the peel. Little Mo is fast with a knife; faster than Riki has ever been with a peeler. He uses the knife to make curving strokes around the potato from top to bottom, peeling towards him.

  ‘I was always on potatoes,’ Little Mo says, ‘when I was too small to do anything else.’ Riki can’t imagine Little Mo ever being ‘too small’.

  The smells in the galley remind Riki how hungry he is. Christmas dinner for the officers certainly is not bully beef and biscuits. The potatoes that he and Little Mo are peeling are to be roasted with chickens that are already in the oven.

  ‘Oh man, that smells so good,’ Riki says. ‘This is like torture.’

  ‘Taihoa. This is a good job, I promise you.’

  After the potatoes, Riki and Little Mo are put on dishes and cleaning duties.

  ‘Yeah, Little Mo, this is a “good” job,’ Riki says. Te Awhina would have told him off for being sarcastic.

  Then the platters from the officers’ mess come back in – and they are allowed to eat the leftovers.

  ‘I told you it was a good job,’ Little Mo says.

  And Riki just nods, with his mouth full.

  Rewai finds them later on deck. ‘Is he seasick again?’ he says, nodding at Riki.

  Riki shakes his head – he does feel sick, but it’s not from the sea; it’s the shock of a full stomach. He has cramps and gas – probably because he ate too quickly.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you two.’ Rewai hands them a parcel each. ‘We all got them. A Merry Christmas for us all.’

  The parcel is heavy for its size.

  ‘What is it? A cannonball?’ Riki asks.

  Rewai laughs. ‘It’s not as light as my mother’s plum duff, I’ll give you that.’

  Riki sniffs it – fruit, spice and sweet, burnt sugar. ‘Christmas pudding?’