by Tim Bowden
A small oil tanker was used to get them ashore and after several hours their much depleted battalion, plus the 2/2nd Pioneer Battalion, were crammed onto its deck and headed for the wharf. It was raining heavily, and as it was getting near evening the mosquitoes attacked in droves while they waited for the order to scramble ashore.
It soon became apparent that they would not be landing when a British brigadier from an advance party came to say they were too late. The Japanese had already captured Palembang aerodrome and were now only 11 miles from Oosthaven, so he had been ordered to evacuate all British troops. McCulloch recalled:
By this time it was pitch dark. The captain of the tanker now had the unenviable task of trying to find the Orcades, which was still anchored about three miles out in the bay. This had to be accomplished without the aid of lights because of the danger of Japanese aircraft. Slowly we inched out into the harbour, which was crowded with other ships. At the last minute a lucky flash of lightning showed the Orcades only a few hundred yards away. We came alongside and then began the slow job of getting nearly 2000 men up a couple of narrow gangways in pitch dark and pouring rain.
By this time tempers were getting a bit short, but a hot cup of cocoa and a few sandwiches cheered us up a bit, and we were soon dossed down on the deck once more. Shortly after this the ship got underway again.
Next morning they passed through Sunda Strait and later in the day tied up in Tanjong Priok, the port for Batavia (now Jakarta). Ships of all sizes and shapes cluttered the harbour, some of them escapees from Singapore. It was there they learned of the fall of Malaya and Singapore. ‘We realised, of course, the seriousness of the situation, but strangely enough no one seemed worried.’
For two days they sat at the wharf, watching with great interest the actions of the native Javanese, the coming and going of many staff cars, and the Dutch dispatch riders on their big Harley-Davidson motorbikes with sidecars.
Behind the scenes, their fate was being decided. Prime Minister Curtin’s argument with Winston Churchill over the placement of the Sixth and Seventh Australian Divisions had been settled. They were now on their way home instead of to Burma, but against the advice of Generals Wavell and Laverack their small group was to be thrown to the wolves as a political gesture to the Dutch. ‘What a grim joke that was—a tiny force of two understrength battalions plus a few other groups, probably 3000 men in all, left in Java to bolster the Dutch army, who had no intention of making a real fight anyway. Their navy and air force fought bravely against vastly superior odds and suffered grievously as a consequence.’
(Fifty years later documents relevant to these events were released. The depth of ill-feeling that existed between Churchill and Curtin over the Sixth and Seventh Divisions is plain. This had a big bearing on their fate and explained why Churchill was so adamant that the Australians stayed in Java. Ironically, in the five books which he later wrote about the war and in which he described most theatres in detail, not one mention was made of this disaster.)
While they awaited their orders, the troops lined the ship’s rail and bargained for fruit and trinkets with the locals, an event that caused McCulloch quite a bit of embarrassment.
Because I did not like my name, Clarry, most of my mates just called me Mac, and this was fine with me. The Javanese words ‘mac-mac’ are a colloquialism for the act of copulation much the same as ‘jiggy-jig’ is used in the Arab countries of the Middle East. When the locals at the wharf heard my mates calling out to me, ‘Mac, Mac,’ they absolutely fell about laughing, much to our mystification, until someone with a knowledge of the language explained the significance. At this stage I thought it prudent to retire from the scene for a while until the merriment subsided. Naturally this did not stop my mates for making many jokes at my expense.
However, they soon had more serious things to worry about, as they prepared to disembark. As they came down one gangway, a large contingent of air force men and Australian nurses were going up the other one. They would make it safely home.
The battalion still had no machine guns, but the decision had been made that they would fight as infantry, so there were preparations to get more equipment. Several vessels carrying arms and ammunition to Singapore had been diverted to Java, so the cargoes were now available. Most of the cargo consisted of Bren guns, submachine guns and a few mortars, plus armoured cars, Bren gun carriers and ammunition, ‘so after a bit of scrounging we were all reasonably equipped’.
Clarry McCulloch’s small force was made up of the 2/3rd Machine Gun Battalion, the 2/2nd Pioneer Battalion, plus a contingent of the Guard Battalion. They were organised as a brigade and known as ‘Blackforce’, commanded by Colonel Arthur Blackburn, now promoted to brigadier. Also on the island was a company of Australian engineers, a small transport unit, a squadron of the King’s Own Hussars with a few tanks, and strangest of all, a battery of Texas artillery, who had no idea how they came to be there at all. Last but not least was the Australian 2/2nd Casualty Clearing Unit, led by Colonel Edward ‘Weary’ Dunlop, who proved to be so vital for the future prisoners of war in the years ahead.
This motley collection of units, although led by Brigadier Blackburn, was under the overall command of General ter Poorton, the Dutch commander-in-chief, and he decided that we could best be occupied by guarding the aerodromes on the north-west of Java. To begin with our battalion was posted to the defence of the main Batavia airport, where most of our suffering was caused by the hordes of mosquitoes which inhabited this low-lying area. Slit trenches were dug in case of air raids, but because of the water table they quickly filled with water. They were actually used for shelter when the bombs fell there later. Being soaking wet is preferable to being hit with flying shrapnel!
When volunteers were requested for anyone who could drive Bren gun carriers I jumped at the chance to use the knowledge I had acquired earlier at Aleppo in Syria. Soon I was happily crashing around the ’drome teaching other blokes to drive. ‘Crashing’ was the operative word as the learners came to grips with the peculiar traits of the Bren gun carriers. Because of their heavy weight and the rolling resistance of the steel tracks, it was necessary to change gears very rapidly in order to maintain forward momentum. Most of the lads were quick learners and we soon had enough drivers to form a troop. A sergeant from B Company was put in charge, with myself as second-in-command, and soon our small force of six carriers was on its way up into the mountains to provide protection for a supposedly secret bomber aerodrome operated by the Dutch air force.
Although it was not realised at the time, this movement almost certainly cost McCulloch a chance for promotion. Had he stayed with 11 Platoon, he believed he would have been promoted to sergeant before being captured. ‘The loss of promotion didn’t worry me, but the extra few shillings per day going into my deferred pay over the next three and a half years would have been handy.’
Clarry’s Tasmanian mate Blue—Lorimer Anzac von Stieglitz, with his flaming red hair—had decided to go along with Clarry as his Bren gunner. As Blue put it, ‘Anything to get away from these bloody mosquitoes!’ The aerodrome was hidden away among coconut and banana plantations and consisted of two grass runways, more or less at right angles, so the pilots had a choice for take-offs and landings. During the day these strips would be covered with coconut logs scattered over the surface. These would be removed before daylight each morning to allow the planes to take off. Immediately after the planes had returned from their raids on Japanese shipping, the logs would be hauled out again to give the impression that the strip was unused.
The first task was to maintain a constant patrol around the air strip each morning. It was quite an experience, with the early morning mist swirling around them as the ghostly shapes of the twin-engine bombers roared past on their way out to the Java Sea. Unfortunately, there were usually fewer planes coming back each time.
Their small force of six carriers and eighteen men was virtually autonomous while they were in that area, so for a couple of week
s they were a very happy group, with comfortable barracks and good food and access to the Dutch army canteen, where each afternoon they could sit back and enjoy a bottle of a very pleasant Dutch beer. ‘Naturally it was too good to last.’
Finally the last remaining Dutch plane failed to return. These were very brave pilots, but like the Dutch navy which fought well in the Java Sea Battle, they were overwhelmed by superior forces. McCulloch wished he could say the same about the Dutch army, which he thought let them down badly.
With all the planes gone there was no reason to remain, so it was no surprise when a dispatch rider arrived with orders to return to Batavia, and next morning their small convoy set off. By each taking a turn at driving, they eventually arrived back at Batavia airport late in the afternoon, only to find their battalion had departed earlier in the day—destination unknown.
Shortly afterwards a dispatch rider arrived with fresh orders to rejoin the battalion, which was now operating from the hills near the town of Buitenzorg (now Bogor). Brigadier Blackburn had decided that his small force could be better employed guarding the roads likely to be used by the Japanese, if and when they landed.
Although it was not known at the time, a naval battle had been fought in the Java Sea on 27 January, with the Japanese winning that round very decisively. Two Dutch cruisers were sunk plus three Allied destroyers, so opening the way for the first division of Japanese to land on the north coast of Java, east of Batavia, the capital of the Dutch East Indies.
The Australian cruiser Perth and the American cruiser Houston escaped undamaged, returned to Batavia to refuel and load fresh ammunition, then headed for the Sunda Straits in an attempt to reach the Indian Ocean. During the night, however, they ran right into the second Japanese invasion force preparing to land on the north-west corner of Java and, although they were vastly outnumbered, attacked immediately and acquitted themselves magnificently before both were sunk with guns blazing right to the end. Many of those sailors who were washed ashore later became prisoners of war in Java.
Then, we knew nothing of these momentous events and happily joined up with the battalion again near Buitenzorg. I must say that we had a few hairy moments driving around in pitch darkness trying to find our own section in totally unknown territory. On 3 March, around midday, five Japanese light tanks arrived at the bridge which the pioneers were guarding. This bridge was about 100 miles from the north-west coast, where they had landed two days earlier. When some of the Jap tank crews got out to inspect the bridge, the pioneers opened fire with anti-tank rifles and managed to disable two tanks before the rest withdrew temporarily to reassess the situation.
The previous afternoon C Company of the machine-gunners had taken up positions on a small wooded hill a few miles to the left of the Pioneers. Meanwhile, 11 and 12 Platoons were on the hill, which had been a local cemetery, and 10 Platoon was in reserve a few hundred yards to the rear in a coconut plantation. That evening Captain John Kennedy and two other officers set off in an armoured car to reconnoitre the area in front of the hill, but when they had not returned by nightfall the worst was feared.
It was raining heavily. C Company then settled down for a miserable night. Forward scouts were put out in front. Just before daylight the next morning, the Japanese attacked and four forward scouts were killed, the others getting back to the hill safely. Shortly afterwards a determined attack was mounted by the Japanese, but this was beaten off with severe losses to the enemy. Twice more during the early morning they attacked and each time they were stopped by the volume of C Company’s fire.
At one stage a Japanese machine gun was causing some concern, so two men from 11 Platoon, Dick Clark and Sam Wilson, crawled down behind some long grass and put it out of action with a couple of hand grenades.
Meanwhile, McCulloch’s Bren gun carrier group was kept at battalion headquarters to give protection in case of a breakthrough. They could hear all the firing from the Pioneer area and also from C Company’s position on the hill and wondered how soon they would be in action as well.
It was there that the Australians made their first contact with troops from the United States, an artillery unit from Texas, most of whom seemed slightly bewildered by the events that had resulted in them being in their current situation. The Australians found most of them very likeable, but the Americans were understandably a bit concerned about how they would perform in action for the first time. ‘Naturally, we told them not to worry, there was nothing to it, really. We then proceeded to regale them with a few hair-raising tales about some of the battles in the Middle East. I’m not totally convinced that it really put their minds at rest!’ And as McCulloch recalled, the mood was increasingly tense:
While talking to these lads, a few stray bullets on the hill were coming over and zipping through the trees. The officer in charge of the US boys must’ve been a bit on edge as he came over to Major Hec Greiner, our 2IC, and complained loudly. ‘Ah say major, mah men cain’t operate while they are being sniped at.’ Hec, a bluff farmer from Victoria, turned round and said, ‘What the hell do you think is happening to my men up on that hill?’ and walked away. As it happened they could not help our chaps on the hill as the opposing sides were too close together. Later, however, I believe they performed well with the Pioneers. To be fair, it wasn’t good country for artillery.
After some heavy fighting and some casualties, the Japanese began lobbing in accurate mortar fire. The Dutch troops, supposedly on their left flank, were conspicuous by their absence, and the order was given to retire.
Finally on 8 March the convoy came to a halt about 6 miles from the coast. A Company was in an area of jungle with huge gorges beside the road and it was here that they were told that there were no ships at Tjilitjap and no way off the island. At this stage they also heard about the loss of the two Allied cruisers Perth and Houston.
There was a complete lack of knowledge of what was going to happen, and rumours abounded. Eventually on 9 March they were told that there was no possibility of evacuation and that the Australian government had ordered them to capitulate and surrender to the Japanese. It was a day that McCulloch would never forget:
I think this was the lowest point of my army career. I just could not believe that a good fighting force which had not been disgraced in action could just be handed over like that. Extreme anger was the feeling of all the troops, and we felt badly let down.
The order was to pile up our arms to be handed to the Japanese, but of course most of us proceeded to render our arms inoperable by removing the bolts from all rifles and machine guns and smashing them before hurling them down into the thick jungle in the huge gorge below us. A lot of the trucks were also pushed over the edge and allowed to crash into the river hundreds of feet below. At one point some of the boys discovered that one truck contained a good quantity of Dutch guilders but was destined for destruction. However we managed to liberate a portion of it. Some thought that it might be worthless after the Japs took over, but such was not the case and those who were optimistic put them to good use later.
Clarry McCulloch lost most of his gear when his knapsack was run over by a Bren gun carrier, so when he found an abandoned British officer’s haversack beside the road he was very glad to make use of its contents. It contained a clean shirt, shorts and socks, a complete set of eating utensils, a beautiful Bengal cut-throat razor complete with strop and sharpening stone and, last of all, a six-shot Smith and Wesson .38 calibre revolver wrapped in waterproof material.
I could not bring myself to throw it away so, knowing that I couldn’t carry it, I covered it with grease, re-wrapped it and buried it between the roots of a large tree nearby. It seemed a pointless thing to do but at the time we had no idea what would happen and I thought that, if things did turn nasty, it might come in handy. I often wonder if it’s still there, slowly rusting away.
The next few days seemed unreal. The Australians were officially prisoners of war but there was not a Japanese in sight. ‘I suppose they weren’t w
orried, knowing that it was impossible for us to escape.’
A few small parties of men who couldn’t accept the facts went off down the coast to try and find a boat of some kind. Most soon realised the futility and returned or were rounded up by the Japanese troops. It was unlikely that army personnel would have had the expertise to sail a boat on a journey of that distance and hope to survive. Later McCulloch discovered that even the sailors from Perth and Houston who tried had no luck either.
There was a suggestion they should form themselves into a guerrilla force, but that was soon ruled out because of logistics—no reserves of food, ammunition or medical supplies and no hope of reinforcements from Australia. In any case that would be futile as the Dutch had given up fighting.
After ten days at the tea plantation, they climbed into trucks and moved in convoy to a small village named Leles, ‘a nice little town’ where they were billeted in some open-air market buildings. It was two weeks before the Japanese turned up, so the troops there passed the time with improvised baseball games using a pick handle and tennis ball.
One engineer remarked, ‘In all our experience through the Middle East, our venereal disease rate had been one per cent, but it jumped up sharply in Leles.’ A sensuous fortnight was small compensation for men who had fought with such distinction in the Middle East and whose last battles in Java had been what one temporary Leles resident called ‘The Black Farce’ (Blackforce).
When Clarry McCulloch met his first Japanese soldiers, he was surprised they treated the Australians very correctly, ‘considering they were the victors and we were the vanquished. Probably they were front-line troops and had a certain amount of respect for the way we had fought against them.’