by David B Hill
Jock was quick to react. ‘So what are we to do on Java, sir? Are we off to join the army? Why don’t we stay with the fleet? The Aussies would have us, surely?’
His frustration was palpable. Len was confused too. It seemed like their journey hadn’t yet ended.
‘What are we expected to do on shore?’ he asked.
‘We have to report to the Naval authorities in Batavia,’ Johnny told them. ‘They’ll sort us out. OK?’
Before Johnny could continue, Glen Cant spoke.
‘That’ll be John Collins. He commands a component of the new Allied Combined Fleet; he’s an Aussie. We served together in the Med: he’s a good bloke. We have been ordered to leave for Tjilatjap. The Japs could be anywhere. The way things are going, I think you’ll be safer on land.’
Jock and Len nodded. Len knew, they all knew that they had to keep going. At least they would be on dry land – land that wasn’t occupied by the enemy – although it seemed likely that was about to change.
11
Java
The five men made the short voyage to shore without speaking, immersed in thought, their senses so dulled by fatigue that they were almost oblivious to the action around them. Only when they tied up did they realise that this was the moment when they were to separate as a group; it was time to say goodbye to Nicolaas and Dawi. The two men climbed aboard the prahu, still attached to the launch, and untied it. For a moment all five men looked at one another, then Johnny stuck out his hand to Nicolaas. ‘Good luck, old man. And thank you. We couldn’t have done it without you.’ Then he shook Dawi’s hand too, and repeated the sentiment. ‘We couldn’t have done it without you, my friend. Thank you.’
Dawi grasped Johnny’s hand with both of his and bowed until his brow and the hands met. He mumbled a Batak ‘thank you’.
He shook Len’s hand with equal warmth and gratitude. Then Jock and Dawi stood eye to eye and grasped each other in a quick embrace, before a Dutch soldier appeared at the top of the ladder exhorting them to hurry up. Len began the climb from the boat.
Johnny said goodbye to Glen Cant. ‘Might see you in Tjilatjap,’ he told him.
‘Yeah, righto. Good luck, mate.’
The two officers didn’t salute; they shook hands, then Johnny climbed up after his ratings to set foot on dry land again, while both the prahu and the launch headed off, in different directions. The three raised their hands in salute to the prahu, now just another native boat, and received two-handed waves in return.
★ ★ ★
Now Johnny explained to Len and Jock what he had learned from Glen Cant and Captain Hokke GN of the Sirius, and what he proposed to do. The two men listened carefully.
‘The Japs captured Palembang, probably about when we ran aground, and they control Sumatra. They are expected to land in Java at any time.’
‘They’re right up our arse,’ said Jock, stating a blunt truth.
‘You could put it that way, Jock. Yes. These ships in Merak are part of a fleet assembled to intercept them. Any remaining vessels of the British Auxiliary Fleet have been ordered to leave for Tjilatjap on the south coast. Hokke, the Dutch commander told me there’s talk of an evacuation from there.’
The three briefly pondered their prospects.
Jock flung his bag up onto a waiting lorry and climbed up after it.
‘Let’s not mess about, then. Come on, Lenny.’
Len didn’t need much encouragement. As long as he could feel the sun on his back, he was heading in the right direction. He handed up his little case, clambered up beside the Scotsman, and the two of them grabbed Johnny by the arms and hauled him up.
★ ★ ★
The DAF lorry whined in low gear along the narrow concrete paving, lurching over fractures and skirting around works, dodging bicycles and the foot traffic that swelled hour on hour as the impact of the Japanese attacks hit home on the local population. They travelled at a speed somewhere between high second and low third gear, and stopped frequently. Len found the lurching of the truck combined with the peculiar odours of the land particularly unpleasant, especially where an accident with a dead buffalo caused the road to narrow to one lane.
At the point where they crossed the road to Bantam and the coast, they were forced to stop once more, and so got out and stretched. They could hear the sound of bombing and see thick clouds of smoke rising from Tanjung Priok, Batavia’s port, sixty miles away, while behind them was similar evidence of the raid on Merak. When the driver sounded his horn, they scrambled back into the truck. It began to crawl along, and Len went back to his bundle and sat down. It beat rowing, he thought, but it wasn’t much faster.
Johnny was sharp enough that when Len and Jock began to unwrap a veritable feast of chicken parts, boiled eggs, cheese and sausage – gifts of the cook on the Sirius – he made them divide it up into rations enough to last them for the next couple of days. Given the climate, he allowed them to devour the chicken first; they did so with alacrity. Later, as the heat became intolerable under the canopy of the truck, Len tied back some of the canvas and enabled air to flow through. From the bottom of his bag he pulled out the revolver Johnny had given him. He took a rag from a pile covering the vehicle’s wheel jack, broke down the weapon and began to clean it. All three then spent some time slowly and methodically stripping down their revolvers, cleaning and reassembling them, a ritual of renewal, in a deeply meditative silence.
Eventually the three of them, senseless with fatigue, surrendered to the motion of the vehicle and fell into a deep slumber. In spite of the road surface, they managed to sleep for some time, before the sound of a rabble intruded on their rest. It disturbed Johnny first, who looked at his watch. It was after three in the afternoon. The other two stirred, sighing and groaning, having slept like the dead. Len stuck his head out from beneath the canvas. There was a shout, and he quickly brought it back in again.
‘What do you see, Len?’ asked Johnny.
‘I’d say we’re nearly there, sir. Batavia. There’s some sort of military road block, and the intersection is jammed. There are people trying to move in all directions. And there’s a car with a Dutch family in it, stuck in the middle. There are soldiers trying to sort it all out.’
After some interaction between the driver and the soldiers on the ground, they were able to inch their way through the mass and progress slowly against the flow and into the city.
★ ★ ★
The driver had instructions to deliver the sailors to the authorities in Kota, the old city, near the harbour. At about half past four, the lorry stopped in a rather elegant square of lime-washed buildings with orange tiled roofs and plane trees bounding the four sides. There, the three grabbed their things and hopped down, and the lorry drove off, leaving them standing on the pavement outside a Dutch colonial building that looked like the City Hall.
Inside, Johnny found the Operations Officer’s desk, and they were directed to a room on the third floor. As they ascended the marble staircase, they fought against a tide of people who were hastily descending, arms filled with cartons of files and documents, some of which floated loose, sailing out into the void to be caught by the fans and driven to the floor below. The air was filled with the sound of boots clattering on stairs or timber floors, and the occasional shouts of command and response, underscored by the sound of rapid typing.
Johnny led their way along a corridor to the office of the British Navy representative, in the rear of the block. When he stepped inside, he found a Royal Australian Navy Lieutenant busily sorting documents into cartons. Wisps of smoke rose from a rubbish bin by a desk, and the odour of burnt paper hung in the air.
The Lieutenant looked up, startled. Air-raid sirens began to wind up their eerie wail.
‘Jesus, mate, who are you? And where the hell have you been?’
Johnny said, ‘I’ve brought news of Admiral Spooner and the staff party from Singapore.’
The Lieutenant looked at his visitor’s Reserve stripes for a mo
ment, then stuck his head through a door into the adjacent office. He didn’t seem to have noticed the ratings. Within a moment, a second officer appeared, a senior officer, who perfunctorily ran his eyes over the newcomers, seeming astonished by their heavily weathered and clearly stressed condition. He thrust out his hand. ‘John Collins, Commodore Batavia. Can I get you some water?’
Johnny knew Captain John Collins, Royal Australian Navy, Commodore China Force, was a man of some mana, a reputation built around his sinking of an Italian light cruiser in the Mediterranean. Collins reached for the water carafe now, and began to pour without waiting for Johnny to reply.
Johnny saluted. His ratings, suddenly conscious of their appearance, came to attention and also saluted.
‘Stand easy, gentlemen,’ Collins offered. ‘How can I help?’
‘Sub-Lieutenant Johnny Bull reporting, Royal New Zealand Navy Volunteer Reserve. Commanding ML310, late of Singapore, evacuating a party of thirty-three. Admiral Spooner senior officer on board. I can report the Admiral and others are alive, but I’m afraid the party is at serious risk. We’ve got to get help and organise their recovery, sir.’
The Commodore handed Johnny the glass. Jock and Len stood in the background, listening.
‘I’m sorry? Please. Sit down and repeat what you just told me.’
He indicated a chair. Johnny sat.
While the Commodore poured two more glasses and handed the water to Len and Jock, Johnny gave a brief outline of their experience since leaving Singapore.
Collins pointed to a typewriter. From the direction of the port, sirens heralded another raid.
‘I will need a written report. Make it short. I hope we’re not too late.’
Johnny typed while his interviewer helped to divide up the documents and carried on talking. The local anti-aircraft defences began to open fire. Len sat beside Jock on a bench against the wall, mutely observing the preparations to evacuate. The Commodore’s aide kept tearing pages out of folders and adding them to the rubbish bin.
‘You should know the order went out yesterday to relocate Naval command to Tjilatjap. We expect the Japs to land here at any moment. These air raids are clearly a prelude.’
The rumble of more bombing began. It sounded like the Japs were concentrating on something not very far away, and Johnny banged on, as fast as he could, one finger at a time. The defensive fire intensified.
‘And you might as well know this. I’ve just heard that the ABDA fleet made contact with the Japanese. I have ordered all vessels in my command to withdraw from the Java Sea.’
‘And my report, sir?’
‘I’ll make it my top priority, but our capacity is badly stretched, and I don’t know how quickly or easily anyone would be able to mount a search and rescue.’
‘But sir – excuse me for saying so – there is no search. Only rescue. We know where they are. My men and I, we’d like your permission to accompany the rescue party.’
‘With these men?’ Commodore Collins shook his head. ‘I appreciate your commitment, and your loyalty to your crew, but no. You will report along with other Naval units and extraneous personnel to Naval Command in Tjilatjap, where there are boats evacuating essential personnel.’
Looking at Len and Jock, he added, ‘You’ve all done enough. You’ve obviously had a hell of a time already, and you can’t do more. I will do what I can. Good luck, Commander.’
‘Excuse me, sir!’ Len interjected almost before he himself had realised it. Everybody looked at him. He held out Johnno’s small case. ‘What about these?’
The Commodore took the case. Placing it on a desk, he opened it and pulled out the bundle. He unwrapped it, and forty odd packets of notes fell out. It was immediately obvious that they had suffered considerable water damage. Most of the writing was illegible.
Len was stunned. He had considered the possibility, more than once given the weather they had endured, yet to see it left him devastated. He felt he had failed the men left behind, and he raged internally. Jesus Christ! He couldn’t believe it. He’d managed to keep his fucking cigarettes dry, hadn’t he?
The Commodore swept up the damaged mail and passed it to his aide.
‘See if there’s anything worth sending with the dispatch.’
He pushed the case back towards Len, handed a note to Johnny and held out his hand. Johnny stood up and shook it, then saluted as Commodore Collins left the room.
The note was a transport order. Nobody spoke as Johnny returned to the typewriter. He poked at the keys even faster, and finished his report in a few minutes. He stripped it out of the machine and handed it to the RAN Lieutenant.
‘We’d better go,’ he said to Len and Jock.
‘If you follow the river from the other side of the square towards the sea, you will come to some very large East India Company warehouses,’ the Lieutenant said. ‘They are being used as barracks for Dutch troops, and billets for other nationalities. If you go there, you will find transport. Everything is going east, to Bandung, so you shouldn’t have any trouble. We are in the process of relocating our Command Headquarters there.’
‘How far away is Tjilatjap?’
‘About 200 miles, I think. Bandung is about halfway. I’d offer you a ride, but the car is already crammed with material, and, if you have men with you, well … you have the chit, and it should take you all the way.’
He shook hands with Johnny. They headed back down the steps, with the human tide this time. Out in the square, Len had to shield his eyes against the sun. The noise of bombing at the port was disconcertingly close, but as veterans of the Singapore experience, the men could tell how far away the bombs were landing and they knew that if you couldn’t hear them, well, it was probably too late anyway. The three walked over to another side of the square and bought hot steaming glasses of jasmine tea from a vendor. They sat under a tree, enjoying its shade. They sipped bravely for several minutes, watching Military Police direct the tide of traffic sweeping in and out of the square, then they headed off in the direction of the barracks. The sound of bombing abated, and soon the sirens announced ceasefire.
★ ★ ★
If the seventeenth-century Dutch architecture or the distinctive ‘VOC’ acronym for the Dutch East Indies Company under the gable hadn’t distinguished the building, the flow of military vehicles most certainly did. All military traffic was heading into or out of the building, an enormous whitewashed entrepôt stretching along the canal-side, an impressive demonstration of Dutch commercial power that now served as a barracks. When the three sailors arrived at the guard post and presented their transport order, the Dutch soldier waved them in without even looking at the document, so preoccupied was he with the contents of a vehicle exiting. They entered the inner courtyard of the 300-year-old trading warehouse, into an area large enough for several teams of oxen to manoeuvre in at once. Now, instead of wagons laden with bales of rice, tea and coffee, the yard was filled with military vehicles and sections of armed men. A motorcycle messenger narrowly missed them as he sped off. The air was blue with exhaust fumes and the sound of idling vehicles. To the accompaniment of whistles and horns, several lorries laden with native troops of the Dutch East Indies Army trundled through the courtyard and away. The thump of explosions coming from the air raid on Tanjong Priok, now barely a mile away, reminded people why they were in a hurry.
The three sailors took stock. Small groups of military personnel stood around despite the hurry, everybody talking animatedly. Johnny, Jock and Len identified a wide variety of uniforms, much of their elements improvised. The only identifiable uniform they themselves had left were their caps. Apart from the native troops, there was a variety of nationalities here. There were Dutch soldiers and sailors, and large numbers of Royal Naval men, some of whom they recognised as survivors from Malaya and the many vessels now lying sunk off Sumatra. There were a number in slouch hats, some of the three-and-a-half thousand members of Blackforce, sent from Australia to help in the defence of Java. T
here were the ubiquitous British Tommys, anti-aircraftmen in oversized shorts, and, propped against the side of a jeep, a cigar in the corner of his mouth and a Browning service pistol on his hip, an unfamiliar but unmistakeable American. They learned later that the Americans here were men of the Texas National Guard, part of Blackforce under Australian Brigadier Blackburn’s command.
‘Over there, sir.’ Len pointed across the courtyard, where one of several signs showed a silhouette of a lorry.
‘Yes, come on,’ said Johnny, leading the way. ‘That looks like a good bet.’
They dodged across the courtyard and into the building opposite.
‘Stay with me, you two,’ Johnny said. ‘If we want three passes, there will need to be three of us.’
There was a certain amount of discussion between Johnny and the officer dispensing passes. Johnny had at first been issued with a priority pass for himself, being of commissioned rank. He left in the end with three, and they emerged from the building with clear instructions.
‘Johnny Bull!’
They looked around.
‘Johnny!’
A figure emerged from the melee. They all recognised the Kiwi commander of HDML1063.
‘My God,’ Johnny greeted him. ‘Innes! You made it!’
‘You too.’ Innes looked at his compatriots. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘It’s a long story. Where are you going?’
‘The boat’s at Tanjung Priok. We’ve been told to evacuate ahead of any Jap landings.’
‘I know. We’ve been told to make our way to Tjilatjap by road.’
Innes echoed the Commodore’s advice.
‘That’s where we’re headed, but listen, mate, you’re better off going by road at this stage. Nobody knows where the Japs are, and we have to negotiate the Sunda Strait yet. We’ll see you in Tjilatjap. I have to go.’
Off he went.