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. 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? We are on our way again. A stray ray of sunlight fights its way through the canopy overhead and dapples the track. There is a flash of movement as a snake basking in the warmth makes off into the undergrowth. He must have been asleep. Usually they are gone the second they feel the vibration of our tread on the ground. There is no sign of any other wildlife except for an occasional bird. The animals are away long before we see them. Only when we lie in ambush do we catch a glimpse before they smell the scent of man and are gone. There is movement on the track ahead and the lead scout has his shot-gun into his shoulder so fast that his movement is a blur. But it is only a stray party of Temiar aborigines with their women and children on their way to collect food from some nearby cultivation. ‘Lucky for you, abo,’ I think to myself. ‘In the days of my ancestors you would be the maroro kokoti ihu waka—the fish which crosses the bow of the war canoe. Friend or foe we would have to kill you or bad luck would surely dog our war party.’ The abo is a stocky well-built fellow with a quiver of poison darts over his shoulder and a long blow-pipe in one hand. He wears nothing except for small twist of dirty cloth. His wife stands beside him and says nothing. I give the abo two cigarettes, one for him and one for his wife. If I handed the cigarette to the woman myself it would mean I was proposing marriage. Aue ra, e tama! I can find a better wahine in New Zealand some day! At four o'clock in the afternoon we stop, not too far away from the river. We stand-to in complete silence whilst sentries scout all around our site for many hundreds of yards out, to make sure that the coast is clear. Then while some stand and watch, we take it in turns to make our bashas ready. A little square of green plastic slung over string between two trees becomes home for the night and half a dozen parachute hammocks make a comfy hammock. The jungle night falls like a curtain so there is no time to be wasted. Bob Slater and I basha up together. He puts up the hammocks, one on top of the other, while I cook the meal. First the rice is cooked, boiled and boiled until it is dry and fluffy. Then the meat is added, made as hot as fire by the curry powder. I have a real Maori appetite. Bob doesn't eat much, so it's a good arrangement. The little tablets of solid fuel give off a flickering flame. Dicky Pomana in the next basha finishes cooking and douses the tablets with a drop of water. There is a sizzle and a puff of smoke and an acrid smell from the normally smokeless, odourless fuel. I curse him in a low voice for this bloody idleness. The smell will carry for many hundreds of yards down the river. Dicky gives a sheepish smile: ‘Kaua e wareware—don't worry’ he says. I tell him with a few choice East Coast expressions thrown in, that if I