Henry was 18 when he left to fight in the great war. He came from a good Christian home and was confident that God would see to the hasty defeat of the Hun and together they would soon put the world to right. When the war of mud and death ended in 1918, the bright-eyed optimistic 18-year old had become a very hard, cynical man.
He spent his first few days back in New Zealand with his parents up in Helensville, North of Auckland. It didn’t go well for him or his family. The man that returned from France was so different from the son that had left, he almost seemed like an impostor. Unable to relate to his parents and sick of their constant badgering about the importance of faith, Henry said he was leaving. His mum pleaded with him to stay, but his mind was made up, and a few days later he said his goodbyes. His mother’s last words were “Henry, I’ll be praying for you until the day I die.” Henry scoffed.
After a year or so of wandering around the North Island doing odd jobs on farms, and living it rough, he won a ballot under the Discharged Soldiers Settlement Act and secured a loan to buy and improve some Crown land over Te Kuiti way.
It was a very rugged bit of native forest and breaking it into a paying proposition would take a massive amount of work and a fair amount of good fortune. It was while he was out surveying his newly acquired land that he spotted smoke coming out of the chimney of a Ponga Whare by the Waimihia stream. Someone was squatting on his land, but not for much longer, he would see to that. He pushed his way through the scrub and bellowed to whomever was inside that he was coming over. Rolling his sleeves up, ready for battle, Henry was greeted by a thin man, with a severely hunched back.
“You’re on my place, and need to leave,” Henry barked. He wasn’t one to beat around the bush.
The man nodded, not attempting to speak.
Henry could see inside the whare, it was basic even for those days. There was just enough room for a manuka framed bed and an old packing case that did service as a table. On it were a battered old Bible and a lined exercise book.
“What’s your name?”
“L-L-L-L-Les.”
“How long you been here?”
Les held up 6 fingers.
“What, months?”
“N-N-No, y-y-y-years.”
Les’ appearance and stutter embarrassed Henry out of his anger.
“Well, you need to think about moving on. Unless you can do a bit of work around the place to earn your keep?”
Les smiled, nodding his head.
“Once I’ve got my camp set up, you come over and see me and we’ll sort something out. It will be on the true right of the stream up by the end of logging road.”
Les smiled and tried to say something, but his speech got tangled up.
