The Blooding Of The Warriors by Alan Armstrong My name is Himi Meihana. In the army I call myself plain Jim Mason. One hundred and fifty years ago my ancestors sailed the rivers of New Zealand in their was canoes seeking their enemies. Now my war canoe, propelled by the engine of the pakeha, thrusts its way up the rushing rapids of the mighty Perak River in Malaya and I look with pride at my taua—the men of the infantry section which I lead. They sit in the boat huddled against the flick of the spray, squinting intently at the bush-covered river bank of either side. Although there are only nine of them, they are good hard men and I remember the old proverb ‘Tini te whetu, iti te pokeao—a multitude of stars may yet be obscured by a small dark cloud’. White and brown, together as one people, they hold their taiaha of the twentieth century always ready and I feel a fierce pride in their discipline and purpose. 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. Now the canoe noses into the bank and we