Tough Country by Mike Bellamy

Author:Mike Bellamy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2020-06-26T00:00:00+00:00

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A couple of guys from another contractor were staying at the shearers’ quarters with us. They had a little Komatsu dozer with a plough on the back, which they used to lay polypipe for cattle troughs. One of them was an old Māori bloke called John. We sometimes went fishing together in the evenings. We’d take the ute down to the causeway, park up and wander across onto Rangitoto. There, we’d stroll past the old holiday baches that were scattered along the bay, walk out over the rocks and cast in a handline and fish for snapper. John and I would yarn away quietly for hours. It was nice and peaceful, looking back at the city with all its lights flickering while we listened to the sound of the sea lapping against the rocks.

One evening we had a bit of a party at the shearers’ quarters. By then I’d got to know John reasonably well, so I thought I’d be cheeky and ask about the unusual round, faded scars above his top lip.

‘Hey, John, you must have had some wicked zits when you were a kid. You got some wicked scars, mate.’

He gave a sad smile, and I wondered whether I’d touched a raw nerve.

‘Oh, sorry, John. Was it a car accident or something? Sorry, mate, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘No, Mike, it wasn’t a car accident.’ He had a faraway look in his eyes. ‘It happened a long, long time ago,’ he said quietly.

‘You don’t have to tell me, John. I was just being nosey.’

‘No, it’s all right. I was in World War Two fighting with the Māori Battalion. I got shot through the legs in a battle, and the Germans captured me, held me down and tortured me with a burning cigarette, pushing the glowing end into my face to try to make me talk . . . Or just amusing themselves maybe . . .’

Me and my big mouth. I’d probably opened an old memory he didn’t want to think about. I didn’t know what to say. I knew that a lot of veterans never wanted to talk about the war.

‘Here, look at this,’ he said, rolling up his baggy trousers and pointing to some round scars on his legs. It was where the bullets had gone into his legs and come out the other side.

‘Just so you don’t think I’m bullshitting, Mike,’ he grinned.

‘Never thought you were, John,’ I replied.

Over the years I met a few old blokes who were war veterans, but I was too shy to ask them about their experiences. I now wish I’d paid more attention and probed into their memories respectfully, just to get an idea of what they went through — the battles, the places, the camaraderie — and to say, ‘Sorry for what you went through, and thank you for what you did.’ But I never did.

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