The Melody of Irirangi

by George Cooksey

Irirangi woke up well before sunbreak. It was an odd habit to maintain, as most soldiers took the chance to sleep whenever possible. Reveille wouldn’t be for another hour, at least. He took a few sips from his canteen; even at night the desert air was so dry you could die of dehydration. Irirangi considered attempting to go back to sleep, but he knew there’d be no purpose to it. Instead, he just poured out the sand that had collected in his boots overnight, slipped on his khaki uniform shorts and blouse, and slinked out of his tent.

He walked past rows upon rows of tents, each filled with many of his brothers, the great Maori warriors of the 28th Battalion. Beyond his unit, the British encampment outside El Alamein continued for another mile, containing troops from all over the world: Irish, British, South African, Greek, even Indian. They were calling it “The Second World War.” Irirangi wasn’t sure why so many countries would come to fight in a Pākehā’s ﹘ a white man’s ﹘ war. Perhaps they too had a sense of Maori valor.

He kept walking beyond the camp, up to the Mediterranean Shore. Irirangi took off his boots and socks, pressing his toes into the sand. If he closed his eyes, he could focus on the touch of the cool earth beneath his feet, the taste of the salt carried by the coastal air, and the sound of the rhythm of the ebbing tide. As the sun peeked over the Eastern horizon, for just a moment, Irirangi could be transported from the Egyptian desert back to his tropical home in New Zealand.

Around Irirangi’s neck hung his kōauau, a little bone flute with four small holes. Back home, Irirangi was known for being a talented musician. “It is your destiny, my little Melody,” his mother would often say, referencing the meaning of his name: Irirangi ﹘ the voice of spirits. With an instrument in his hands, Irirangi felt as though he didn’t play the music, but rather that the music of the gods spoke through him. And not just the taonga pūoro ﹘ the traditional instruments ﹘ but even a clarinet could come alive in his hands, singing the melodies of Papatūānuku or Ranginui, the gods of the earth and sky.

But despite his talents, Irirangi did not desire to become a musician, for Irirangi came from a family of warriors. His great grandfather led a tribe of fighters against the Pākehā in the New Zealand Wars. His grandfather was among the first Maori to win a medal in the Great War. But his father, head of his village and poised to be a great warrior himself, died of tuberculosis before ever seeing battle. Irirangi’s mother begged Irirangi not to leave, but he couldn’t live the life of a coward, content to play music while others died in valor, and his father’s honor left unclaimed.

  And so, Irirangi attempted to shave to look a little rougher, deepened his voice to sound a little older, put lifts in his shoes to stand a little taller, and left home for the recruitment office. Technically, men needed to be at least 18 to enlist, meaning Irirangi was still four years too young. But the British army needed bodies and didn’t care where they came from, so the Pākehā didn’t bother to question a rural, dark-skinned Māori kid from Waikato who showed up claiming to be of age.

In the distance, the bugle called, signaling morning formation. Irirangi refastened his boots and jogged back to camp. Even though the Pākehā wouldn’t notice or care about a single missing Maori private, Staff Sergeant Tangaroa would.

Sgt Tangaroa looked intimidating with his intricate facial Tā moko tattoos, but he had a soft heart. When he realized he had been sent a teenager as a new recruit, he convinced the lieutenant to keep Irirangi in administrative positions well behind the frontline. Irirangi protested, but there was no disobeying his sergeant.

“You were almost late. Off to watch the sunrise again, little brother?” Sgt Tangaroa gently slapped Irirangi on the back as the boy stumbled into formation.

“Probably off dreaming of Mama again,” Sergeant Kamaka smirked, side-eyeing from his position in the squadron.

“Lay off him Kamaka,” Corporal Aata called from behind. “You were 14 once too.”

  “I can defend myself, Aata,” Irirangi burst out. “And you’ll see, Kamaka. When I get placed on the front lines, I’ll kill ten times as many Nazis as you!”

“By doing what? Throwing your flute at them?” Kamaka jibed, and the rest of the squadron chuckled.

“Hush, ALL of you!” Sgt Tangaroa hissed, ending the conversation.

Irirangi’s face burned, but he didn’t disobey his sergeant.

In truth, he shouldn’t have been embarrassed; in fact, every one of the men had brought something from home. Corporal Aata brought a photograph of a beautiful woman who he said he was destined to marry, though Sgt Tangaroa said Aata just cut it out of a magazine. Lance Corporal Wairara always carried around a stained baby blanket that he refused to wash, because according to him, it was a little piece of his daughter he could keep close to his heart. Even Sgt Kamaka wore a small hei-tiki charm for good luck. And so it wasn't out of the ordinary for Irirangi to keep his kōauau around his neck, a little bone flute that hung in silence.

After their daily arms inspection came their 2-hour route march. When weighed down by a Brodie helmet, sloshing canteens, spare ammunition, and a ten-pound Lee-Enfield rifle, not even the occasional sea breeze could overcome the heat. Even on uneventful days, Irirangi would have drunk his two canteens by the end of the march, still thirstier than when he began.

By early afternoon, the day was theirs. Some of the men liked to exercise or swim in the sea. Others played sports, read, or mingled with the other battalions. On some days, the Kiwi Concert Party would perform for the troops. They played jazz and provided a canteen of beer for each soldier, though Sgt Tangaroa wouldn’t let Irirangi have any. Every time the Kiwi Concert Party performed, his brothers would tease that Irirangi should request a transfer to the music division, but he had no interest in playing jazz with a bunch of cross-dressing Pākehā comedians, and he didn’t travel a world-over to be a musician. Irirangi came to be a warrior.

Still, in quiet moments, when no other soldiers were around, Irirangi would take out his kōauau and allow himself to play a single note. A single, self-indulgent tone to remind him of home, and a life he left behind.   

***

Irirangi stood in battle formation, drenched in sweat. Due to losses sustained in the past few weeks of battle, Sgt Tangaroa couldn’t get away with leaving Irirangi on administrative duty, meaning Irirangi was finally placed alongside his brothers in battle! And now that he was here, Irirangi was terrified.

In the distance, Irirangi could see their target: Miteiriya Ridge. In their briefing they were told if the Allies could control that ridge, they could push the Enemy straight out of Egypt. The ridge loomed on the horizon. The sunset was to Irirangi’s back, casting a thousand silhouettes of the Nazi and Italian soldiers, bristling with bunkers and machine guns. And they were supposed to charge straight at them.

  “Fix bayonets!” The call was initiated, and the 28th roared in response.

Each soldier unsheathed a long knife from their side pouch, and equipped it to the front of their rifles, shouting haka all the while. Around Irirangi, the chanting was so intense it felt as though the very sand beneath him rumbled. He fumbled with his knife, attempting and failing to get it to latch to the front of his too-heavy rifle.

“Here little brother, let me help.” Sgt Tangaroa placed his calloused hand over Irirangi’s, steading the blade and locking it into place.

  “I am going to die, aren’t I?” Irirangi legs felt like jelly. He felt a warm trickle inch down his leg.

From nearby, Kamaka scoffed, “If you’re a coward, at least stay out of the way.”

“Kamaka, enough!” Sgt Tangaroa held up a commanding hand. “You are here, and you are not a coward. There is more than one way to serve in war. Now remember, stay behind me, stay strong, and stay safe. You will not die today.”

  Irirangi swallowed a dry throat, and nodded.

The dry air shifted around them. With bayonets equipped, the rhythm of the war haka reached its apex. Sgt Tangaroa waved a ceremonial shark-tooth knife and cried out the final chant, followed by the sea of Maori warriors.

"KA MATE, KA ORA!!" ‘Tis Life, ‘Tis Death!

At that, they charged. The path leading up to the Ridge was brutal, and their clean formations broke as soon as the gunfire did. Soon even their shouts were drowned out by the sounds of battle, and cries of war were quickly replaced by cries of death.

As the sun fell on the chaos of battle, it became impossible to know now which way you were going. The sand, smoke, and darkness created an opaque fog that was only broken by the occasional rifle fire or explosion of a tank’s cannon. Irirangi had no option but to allow himself to be swept in the current of fighters, carried towards the ridge they were instructed to capture. His only guiding light was the voice of Sgt Tangaroa shouting commands from in front of him.

Irirangi’s helmet was too-large, the rifle too-heavy. In his haste to keep up with his squad, he lost his footing, and tripped on some soft stone. No, not a stone. As his face hit the sand, he was greeted by the visage of a fallen Italian fighter, eyes rolled back and missing his lower jaw so only a bloody limp tongue rolled out. Irirangi thought he screamed, but the sounds of battle were so intense he couldn’t tell otherwise. He remained frozen until he felt a force rip him up by the back of his collar.

“Stay focused, MOVE!” Sergeant Kamaka only paused for a moment to steady Irirangi, and in that moment Irirangi saw the eyes of a warrior, not red with the spirit of hate, but burning with the spirit of determination. Kamaka turned forward, firing his rifle towards the Ridge.

Irirangi did his best to stay with the group. Giving up the pretense of wielding his rifle, he clutched it close to his chest and just ran forward. When enemy soldiers would get in close, he would crouch so as to not get in his brothers’ way. As quickly as his sweat soaked his uniform, the arid night dried it back out. It wasn’t long before his canteen ran dry. 

Though it was almost impossible to tell in the madness, by the increasing slope of the terrain, it seemed they were climbing the final stretch of the Miteiriya Ridge. Sgt Tangaroa called out for the final push.

“Come on brothers! Just a little farther and we-”

An explosion resounded, and everything went white. Time seemed to slow, and the only sensations Irirangi could perceive were a bright light accompanied by a shrill ringing tone. Irirangi thought to himself, is this the sound of death? Then as quickly as it came, the tone dissipated, and the sounds of battle washed back over Irirangi.

He pushed himself to his feet, attempting to steady himself from hitting his metal helmet against the dense ground. Breathing became difficult through the dust and smoke. He winced, touching his side. He had a cracked rib, at the minimum. But his injuries paled in comparison to what lay before him.

They must have been hit by a mortar from one of the German tanks. It was horrifying. Countless numbers of his brothers laid motionless, killed in the blast. At the center of the impact was Sgt Tangaroa, right side of his chest missing and the rest of his uniform burned off, exposing his intricate Tāmoko tattoos. As a last act, his rifle was stabbed in the ground, marking a banner of their accomplishment. They had taken the Miteirya Ridge.

Irirangi fell to his knees wailing ﹘ unsure if his cries were of mourning, victory, or relief.

But his moment was short lived. From the opposite side of the ridge crested a lone Italian soldier, eyes alight with hatred. His face was heavily burned, likely from being caught in the explosion.

Irirangi fell back, scrambling to get a hold of his rifle. The soldier charged him, brandishing a wicked-looking knife. The soldier swung wildly. Irirangi squeezed his eyes shut, and with all his strength, pulled the trigger.

In an instant the soldier was on the ground. Irirangi carefully stepped towards the man, his hands still vibrating. Irirangi had fired a rifle many times in training, but never at a person. Suddenly, the man coughed, spraying Irirangi’s face with a red mist. The man screamed wildly, clutching at the bullet hole in his shoulder.

“S-surrender!” Irirangi shouted in English, hoping the soldier understood.

In response, the man shouted vitriol in a language Irirangi couldn’t understand.

A shoulder wound wasn’t lethal. If the soldier wouldn’t surrender, Irirangi knew from training the right call was to finish the man before he had the chance to retaliate. Irirangi raised his rifle, but seeing the face of the man before him, a life he was about to take, Irirangi froze.

Seizing the opportunity, the soldier leapt forward, knife akimbo. Irirangi was too slow to react, taking a gash across his arm. Irirangi fell backwards. The soldier raised his knife for the final blow, but as he swung, he was tackled by an unknown force.

It was Kamaka. He fought like a demon, tongue out, eyes wild. The two men tussled, shouting and rolling down the slope of the ridge. At last, Kamaka pierced the soldier’s heart with his bayonet and pulled the trigger, but not before taking the wicked knife to his own chest. Both men fell slack.

Irirangi tumbled down the hill to catch him. “I don’t understand…why? Why did you save me!?”

“Please, little brother,” Kamaka choked out the words, blood spilling as he spoke. “Play for me, just this one time…”

Irirangi nodded, biting his lip. Reaching inside the sweat and blood stained blouse of his uniform, he pulled out the kōauau flute hanging around his neck. The intricate carvings in the albatross bone had been stained red, giving the image of the gods scarlet eyes.

Irirangi put the flute to his chapped, cracked lips, but no sound came out; his mouth was too dry. He attempted to take a drink from his canteen, but it had been emptied hours ago. The smoke and sand which permeated the battle-torn air had dried out his lungs. He wished he could cry, but any tears he might have shed had been dried out as well.

"I'm sorry, Kamaka, I can't…" Irirangi rasped.

Kamaka could no longer reply, though his chest still rose and fell in whispy gasps. Suddenly, he coughed, spilling more blood from the knife wound in his chest.

Irirangi winced at the spurt of motion, but couldn’t take his eyes off the rhythmically pulsing pool of liquid. Hands quivering, he dipped two fingers into the pool of Kamaka’s blood, and trepidatiously lifted them to his lips, and then his tongue. His mouth tasted of salt and death, but with the blood came moisture. Closing his eyes, he clutched his kōauau, and pressed the flute to his now blood-soaked lips.

He breathed in, and blew into the kōauau, producing a single, mournful tone. With that tone came a thousand memories, lessons he learned a lifetime ago.

“This is the song of Hinenuitepō, goddess and shepherd of Rarohenga, the underworld.” Eyes still closed, Irirangi let the sound of the flute carry him through the words of the story. He played a few more faltering tones before continuing in a hoarse voice. “Listen, o’ brother of mine, to her song, and let her voice lead you on your journey.”

The flute’s sound was weak, almost imperceptible. But slowly, note by note, the music returned to Irirangi. He played without thinking, allowing each tone to carry into the next, allowing Hinenuitepō to sing her song through him.

Through the pitch of night, between the crash of explosions, the roar of gunfire, and the cries of men, a single flute called out ﹘ guiding the spirits of fallen warriors home.

Long after he completed Hinenuitepō’s melody, long after Kamaka’s chest fell still, long even after his brothers of the 28th joined him on the hill, Irirangi continued to play. Until at long last, he too, succumbed and lost consciousness. 

***

  Irirangi woke up in a medical cot, sun already high in the sky. His body protested, but he slipped on his uniform, and stepped outside to face the piercing sun. He wandered the camp until he found Corporal Aata nursing a canteen of water. Irirangi was proud to learn that the Allied army had won the battle, and pushed the Nazi and Italian forces out of Egypt. But more than thirty of his brothers had been killed. That evening, the 28th Maori Battalion lit a ceremonial pyre, and Irirangi stepped up to lead them in a funeral haka.

Ka mate, Ka ora ﹘ ‘Tis Life, ‘Tis Death. Though every inch of his body ached, he pressed on. Through stomping his feet on the ground, pounding his arms and chest, and shouting his already broken voice, Irirangi could feel his fallen brothers speaking through him.

Over the next few days, Irirangi sought out and collected his fallen brothers’ treasures from home. A shark-tooth knife, a stained baby blanket, and a hei-tiki charm necklace. He would ensure his brothers made it home, and when they did, Irirangi would play the songs of their stories, the melodies of 28th Maori Warriors.