We spend roughly four weeks in every six in the jungle in the quiet, unremitting and, for the most part, unrewarding search for the communist terrorists. It is not easy work yet funnily enough most of the fellows seem glad to get back ‘inside’. There are the few hectic days of leave—beer, women, street-corner love, the friends from the rest of the battalion whom you have not seen for months—and then back to the job. What is it that makes us take a sensual pleasure in this silent game of stalking? Perhaps it is the spirit of the warrior calling back form the generations which have gone. (Click on image to enlarge)

Now the canoe noses into the bank and we throw our packs ashore and ease cramped legs for a moment before moving off. Soon we are on our way. On either side, the green wall of the jungle presses close. It is impenetrable, say those who have never been in it, but this is not so. The practised eye of the hunter sees through the chinks of greenery and searches its depths. The rubber jungle boots make no sound and the pace is slow whilst our mata taua—the lead scout—scans the track all round. Our lives may well depend on his keenness of eye. We all take it in turns to be scout for there are no stars in our team, nor, we hope, any weak links. (Click on image to enlarge)

The air is humid and dripping and the sweat trickles down our bodies in sticky rivulets, staining our clothing an even deeper green than that of the leaves around us. The air is oppressive and fits over your flesh like a blanket. There is little sun here and the gloom of the bush is all around.

We pause for a smoko and Bob Slater, my section second in command, comes up for a chat over the map and to bludge a cigarette. He is a pakeha and my best friend. He can make more from the lines on the map than I but he says that the inbuilt compass in my head functions pretty well and that makes us quits. While the sentries move down the track from each end of the patrol, we light up and start the good old game of leech hunting. These leeches slip in everywhere, through your collar, your fly buttons, the eyelets of your boot.

Whenever we stop they are there, fat and gorged. Bob and I use our cigarette ends to burn them off one another. If we pull them away they will leave their head in the flesh and the wound goes septic. ‘Reckon this joker here will be dead drunk now from all the beer he's got out of me, eh?’ laughs Sonny Pehi as he picks up the leech he has just dislodged and rolls it between his two palms until the blood comes squeezing out of the fat little body. We talk in whispers and do not use our normal voices for days. Who knows how far away the enemy is in this sort of war? Continued here.....