Sect 1 of NZ at the Front 1917: Pages 1 to 15

WHEN Tapi Himiona, the Binder of Wounds and Dispenser of Tabloids to the Battalion, returned from leave to his Highland home near John o' Groats, he brought back with him two priceless Taiahas of ancient Maori manufacture. These, with modern Scots ceremony, he presented to Tohunga and to Mango Maroke, the Scribe. The incident, to the uninitiated, was merely the passing of a curio from one comrade to another. To us, it held a far deeper significance.

The Taiaha, as a few New Zealanders may know, is an old-time fighting weapon of the Maori. Made front the seasoned tough wood of the Manuka, the Maire, or the Ake of the Sounding Leaves, its grain resisted snapping or fracturing when brought into violent contact with a foeman's skull.

The six feet or so of its length is broadened out at one end into the rau , or striking blade, and the other end is narrowed and rounded off into a carved head from which protrudes a long carved tongue forming a sharp stabbing point. It was the arero, or tongue, of the Taiaha that was the most dangerous part of the weapon. Let a combatant regard too exclusively the sweeping blows of the blade at his head, then, sooner or later, would come a feint, and as his guard went up, swift and sudden came the short, sharp under-jab and the tongue of the Taiaha was crimsoned with his blood. Well might the ancients say :

"Shun the tongue of the false friend in peace,

Beware the tongue of the Taiaha in war."

The cunning hand of the craftsman so carved the head, that from either side, oa the flat, a face with two gleaming eyes of pawa shell is seen. Looked at from either edge, a face with two eyes still gazes at you. Thus the ingenuity of the carver has, with only four eyes, provided four faces, each fully equipped with two eyes, that look in four different directions. It was an old-time conceit of the Maori that the Taiaha, was the weapon that was ever on the alert.

No matter whether the enemy attacked from the front, the rear, or either flank, a face of the Taiaha was looking at him with both eyes wide awake.

With the neck encircled by a deep woven collar of crimson feathers taken from under the wing of the Kaka parrot, with a fringe of white tufts of dog's hair, the Taiaha was a weapon with which chiefs and warriors went proudly forth to battle.

Thus, where an alien race saw merely " curios " of little intrinsic worth, the Maori saw two time-worn exiles who, after an absence of perhaps three generations, had returned to their own people.

But what a meeting, and in what a place ! What changes since they were hewed from the parent tree by the stone axes of the pre-European Maori ! What warlike careers, may they not have led ere they were parted from the homeland!

Who can recount now beside the camp-fire or within the meetinghouse the glorious raids and intertribal wars they took part in ?

Who knows what famous warriors wielded them in the press of battle; or what illustrious chieftain's tattooed temples they crushed in with the blade: or what blood of an ancient line was spilled with the carved tongue.

The historians are gone, and the unwritten service records are lost for all time. Yet, in spite of the silence of their wooden tongues, we know they must have marched in the van of tattooed armies when the villages were full of young men and the Maori was at the height of his mana and warlike achievement.

Then came the coming of the Pokeha and the advent of the Pu, or the White Man's gun, which robbed them of their birthright. But they did not tamely submit.

Who knows but what they may have fought with desperate courage against the guns of the Ngapuhi tribe and striven in a forlorn hope to reach their old accustomed point of vantage at close quarters, where they could hold their own against either butt or bayonet ? But the bullet was too strong for them, and smote their warrior chiefs down from afar off. Alas for vanished greatness ! The Pu of the Pakeha relegated them to the ranks of the P. U., and they rested on their laurels. The walls of the thatched cottage became the abiding place of the Taiaha. Much honour, however, still remained to them. The historians knew their record, and they were cherished by the tribe. On state occasions they were carefully oiled and polished. In the ceremonial of welcoming visitors and farewelling the dead, their blades flashed in the old-time strokes and guards-their tongues quivered and darted to right or left in jabs and parries as tile chiefly descendants of the families they had served used them in the throes of impassioned oratory.

And now, after half a century of exile, these Taialias have returned to the tribes. On Hill 63 in Belgium they joined up with their unit. Time, trial, and tribulation had left their marks upon them. They were both bald and blind. The kura of scarlet feathers and the necklet of tufted dog's hair were gone through the ravages of the moth and decay. The four faces looked out of empty sockets, for the pawa shell eyes disappeared. The unpolished wood seemed like a faded skin wrinkled by senility.

One of them had attempted to revive the glories of Tangaroa, the God of the Sea, by figuring in a
pageant as the trident of Britannia. Patches of gold paint still remained in the grooves of the uncomplaining tongue, and remnants of silver paper still adhered to the long-suffering blade.

With reverent hands we bathed them and anointed them with such oil as we had. But the scarlet collar and the white necklet we could not replace, though the Tohunga, armed with a tomahawk, stalked a woolly tailed dog from a neighbouring farm. They must wait until the war is over, and until their return to the Homeland, - there they will be fully clothed and their sight restored.

Meanwhile they look fairly contented. We wonder what they think of the present war-party of their race, young and un-tattooed, with only the deeper brown of the skin and an occasional word of the ancient language to distinguish them from the Pakeha. When the platoons go out armed with picks and shovels, will they think we have been dedicated to Rongro-ma-Tane, the God of Agriculture ?

Perhaps the rifles and cartridge pouches will reassure them that we have also to do with Tit, the God of War, or will they say with Kipling, that we are

"A kind of a giddy harumphrodite, Soldier and labourer too."

What do they think of machine guns, bombs, " minnies," high-explosive Shells, gas, and the thousand and one things that the highest culture has invented for the taking of human life since the time the Maoris were taught by civilisation to lay aside the wooden Taiaha and the stone Patu because they were relics of barbarism and signs of a lower culture stage ? Whatever they think-, they can feel proud in that, in their day and generation, they fought a clean, manly, hand-to-hand and breast-to-breast fight which it were better for the world to-day to go back to. All honour to old
veterans of the past ! May they soon see the red blaze of the blossoms of the Pohutukawa on the coasts of Aotea-roa in place of the- red of the Flanders battlefields ! We wish them, in terms of the ancient toast, " A speedy return to their home."

MANGO MAROKE.

A BOLT FROM THE BLUE

THE spring poet tore at his tangled hair;

In his heart was a wild unrest,

For he longed to sing like the lark in the air,

But his Muse had given him best.

He had tried the old themes of " budding leaf,"

Of blossom on branch and spray,"

But his Muse sat dumb-not even a brief

inspiration would come his way.

He heard a throbbing away overhead,

And he turned his eyes up on high.

Where above a gallant aeroplane sped

Like a bird in the azure sky.

"0 fair ship of the air," he wildly cried,

'Would my spirit might soar like thee

Oh ! let inspiration fall, that my tied

And manacled Muse may go free."

Now " the man up above" was a "frightful Hun";

Of poetry little knew he.

A big bomb he carelessly dropped for fun,

As he chuckled with - Hunnish glee."

It hit the poetical cranium whack !

Caused his Muse to awake with a jump,

And (maybe 'twere Inspiration!) alack!

It certainly raised a big lump !

The poet arose and solemnly vowed,

As he wiped the tears from his eyes,

His Muse could - go hang " before be allowed

It again to seek help from the skies.

The moral is this: If you wish to upset

Such a thing as poetic aplomb,

You must bring to your aid something deadlier yet

Than a gentle aerial bomb !

R. A.

RED LODGE

IN happier days, men say, it was the entrance to a royal hunting ground. Certainly, as Bob and I strolled together along the winding forest road which it commands, it was a lovely spot as lovely a spot, maybe, as there is in the whole of Flanders.

Our road skirted the foot of a low hill-slope, whose outline was concealed by the luxuriant greenery of a forest of oaks and elms. To our left the wood extended past the road to the more level ground beyond. Ahead the main road curved round an avenue of graceful elms-a sweeping curve to the left, while straight in front of us, through great white gates that even then were never closed, since kings rode there no longer, the narrower bridle track led upward. Up it led through the varied greenery of trees and shrubs and wayside flowers, till it became lost to view over the brow of the ridge itself.

In the sharp angle formed by the divergence of these two roads-the broad highway of Flemish peasants and the hunting track of Belgian kings -there stood facing us a small red cottage. Wholly red it was in walls and roof and woodwork, unrelieved by any touch of painted coquetry, but comely as a Flemish maiden in its unpretentious symmetry of form and outline.

Bob said I remember, that it reminded him of a scarlet poppy on a mossy bank. There was no flaunting brazenry, but bold, bright, picturesque relief of perfect artistry against the background of massing green.

It is all changed now. Red Lodge is beautiful no longer. All is an ugly ruin. Scarlet poppy and mossy bank have alike been trampled under foot. The red-tiled roof has fallen in - great gaping holes break- the contour of the red-brick walls -the red-painted woodwork is smashed and splintered there is nothing now but an unsightly heap of bricks and mortar. Of the winding avenue naught remains but a few scorched and blackened tree-stumps, lining a muddy, almost lifeless road.

And on the hillside yonder, where kings were wont to ride a-hunting, the pitiful little white crosses huddle together on the drab, scarred slope, as if to seek protection in company against the rending shells.

But it is not only beauty that has fled in horror from that stricken corner. Indeed, it may be beautiful again, when time has softened the harshness of its desolation. It is not mere loveliness of form and colour that has fled-Red Lodge has lost its soul.

Bob was killed on that accursed corner.

Q -

How SOL DODGED THE BULL-RING (A True Yarn)

"WELL," said Sol, "it's a dashed bull-ring day again to- morrow."

And the boys gave a melancholy " Yes " as they strolled along for the evening orders.

"Parade"shoutcd the Sergeant Major. " 'Shun ! Stand at ease ! Dental appointments for to-morrow: Privates Standback and Gothere, 52849176 and 58674339 respectively, Twentyumpth Anzacs, 10 a.m. It is proposed to form a Depot Band; any man who can play an instrument is to hand in his name to Orderly Room, and will parade at Headquarters, 9.30 a.m. to-morrow."

General whispers among the musicians.

"Hm ! " thought Sol. "I wish I could play some darn thing or other." And then a bright idea struck him. Half an hour later he strolled up to the Orderly Room and gave in his name.

Next morning, at the appointed hour, a motley collection of aspiring musicians lined up at Headquarters. Presently the Adjutant come on the scene.

" Well," he said, " I expect all you men play brass instruments."

"No, sir," said Sol; " I play a reed instrument."

"Oh" said the Adjutant. " What is it you play ? "

"The saxophone, sir," answered Sol.

"Well," said the Adjutant, " we don't possess one, so I am afraid we shall not require you, for the present, anyway." And Sol blew off, happy in the thought, that the bullring was dodged for that day, anyhow.

"I wonder," he thought to himself as he lit a " gasper," " what a saxophone is like ? "

N. S.

IN THIS WAR-AND THE NEXT

[SCENE-Any dug-out, on a very wet day.] The occupants are enjoying all stages of pessimism, from the Main Body type to the 1911 model; and the last is worse than the first. Twelfth is trying to copy a test sketch from an advertisement on to the back of an envelope. A rumour has just arrived that all leave from the Division has been cancelled. The report is quite with-out foundation, but that makes no difference.

The Latest Reinforcement carries on the discussion.

" This is no ----- good to me. In the next war I'm going to be the chap who stands on the wharf and waves a flag when the troopships go out."

"That game's called in," said Third.

We all thought of that two years ago, only there was such a crowd in N.Z. trying to hold the job that somebody had to start conscription."

" Good thing too," said Twelfth.

Besides, you don't get paid for waving flags. Not unless you're a Signalling Instructor in a Base Depot.

That wouldn't be a bad job." said Main Body, " only you don*t get enough leave out of it, and you're too close to the war. I've got a much better one than that sorted out for myself."

"What is it, Bill ?

" No good to you, my son. it wants brains. Let's hear yours first."

" As a matter of fact," said Twelfth, "I used to be a bit of a blackboard artist, and I might as well make some use of it. I'm going to be a Camouflage Expert."

" And tie bits of old sandbag on to wire netting ? "

"No. I'd have a lot of chaps like you to do those jobs. It would be an artist's work."

" A what ?-Comment, monsieur! said Third and The Latest, both talking at once. "I bet you couldn't draw a quart of beer".

"No," said Twelfth. "I'd have a man to do that; it's unskilled labour. My job is a lot -more tricky.

"You know those guns," he continued, " the ones with the pretty red and green patches on them"

" What is the idea of choosing red and green ? " asked The Latest, interrupting.

" So that the batteries will be taken for bunches of carrots, of course. Well, anyway, that's the job I'm after, doing those guns. The new ones would all be drawn up ready, and I'd just go out in the morning with a bit of chalk and draw a wavy line or two on them. A crooked line, mind you. I'm fairly good at drawing them crooked. Then my work would be finished for the day, and some of you chaps would have to get to work and do the painting, red one side of the line and green the other."

"' Yes," said The Latest, " that's not a bad job. What rank goes with it ?

"I don't know yet, but-"

Then it would be no good to me, if it's less than a Colonel. I think I'll be a spare Colonel in a Base Depot."

"No good at all," said Third. " For one thing, the Depot itself would be a bit slow; and for another, you would be- liable to be called up for the first vacancy. And besides that, suppose our Brigadier indented on D.A.D.O.S. for Colonels, spare; mark 1, Crown-and-One-Star, and you arrived by return of post ? Good Lord I" he added, looking at The Latest's rather ample proportions; " the fat would be in the fire! No, my boy; if you're looking for a Base job, much better get one just out of the Depot, like me. I'm going to be a sort of Town Major, or rather Esplanade Major, in charge of the beach, at some place where there aren't too many troops. And on fine sunny mornings I'd walk down to the beach, about nine or half-past, and dip one finger in the sea. And then, of course, think hard for some minutes."

" What's all that for'?

"To decide whether the water is warm enough for the troops to bathe. And then I'd issue orders to my Sergeant-Major accordingly, and stroll back to my hotel for breakfast. Finish for the day. Of course, it's only a summer job. Five months leave every winter. Can you beat that ? "

"I don't believe there's any such job in existence," said The Latest.

" That doesn't matter-I'm talking about the next war, not this one."

" I've got another idea," said Twelfth, " in case I get a bit stale at drawing, after four or five years. I've got my eye on a job where you can travel about these back areas a bit."

"What. The A.S.C. ?

Oh, dear no - I.W.T. Which, being interpreted," he added, looking at The Latest, " is the Inland Water Transport."

" You'd live on a one-horse-power barge, would you, and do half a knot an hour? Man, you'll have to work up the language a bit. They tell me that Flemish bargee is some talk."

" You don't quite get me. I'd have a motor launch, about a twenty-knot one, with a good locker on board too. If they can't give me that, I won't join them at all."

"Hard luck for the I.W.T.-they might have to shut down."

" How about being a newspaper correspondent ? A fellow could live away down the other side of G.H.Q. and write up all the rumours."

" But they go up to the line for stunts, don't they?" asked The Latest.

Not on your life. How about Messines ? Didn't half of them say the Irish took it, when really it was me and old Bill here, and one or two more of the boys ? And the others all said it wasn't there to take, because the Canadians had blown it up. Did you hear those mines ? I never noticed them above the barrage - just a bit of a shake ! "

" You should have been in England to hear" said The Latest. "They all said they heard them there. Anyway, I'd never go ink-slinging.

Trop d'em&asquis 7naintenant."

"What! Thanks, old man-mine's a whiskey. That's what you said, wasn't it ? "

"I see what job you're after," said Main Body. You want to be R.T.O. in Paris. Believe me, you couldn't run it-you'd want a private income of a thousand a year."

" Well," said The Latest, "you haven't told us yet what your own job is to be."

" In the next war," said Main Body thoughtfully, "I'm going to be the man who goes to Jamaica to buy the rum."