The Raw Men: For the Maori Battalion by Rowley Habib ‘From where did they come then, these men? This fine unit … I was under the impression that anything fine in the Maori had died with the advent of the White Man.’—an Englishman not long in New Zealand. This is where they came from, the brown men. The dark-lipped, thick-black-haired raw men, the slope-shouldered solid men. Neat in khaki, born for the uniform. Praised in the deserts of Tobruk, hailed in the heats of Mersa Matruh, gloried in Greece. We salute you, sons of New Zealand, Maori Battalion. Kia ora tatou. Kia ora nga tamariki o aotearoa. Yes this is where they came from, the raw men, The fearless marauders of the Middle East, the hard doers with hearts of lions, Collecting medals like stones on Hill 209 Tebaga Gap, Tunisia. From the pubs they came, drunk on a Saturday afternoon, and the neighbour's house afterwards, Staggering, stumbling, stone-tripping homewards through the half light of dawn.