by Rory Marron
Miller leant back against a desk. ‘Christ, that was close!’ he said breathlessly. He sat helplessly, listening to the wounded men outside. ‘Damn it!’ Their move up from Semarang harbour had met no opposition. Occasional gunfire from the town centre had put them on their guard but skilfully executed ambush had not been expected.
Rai crawled among the desks to the end window. He took off his slouch hat and raised it gingerly on the end of his rifle at one side of the window. Glass shattered and the hat flew ten feet across the room to land on a desk. A neat, round hole had been punched through the crown. Rai retrieved the hat and tried the other side of the window. There was no shot. Carefully he lifted his head to peer across the canal. He looked knowingly at Miller. ‘They are well trained. Maybe some Japs have decided not to surrender, Major-sahib’, he said quietly in Urdu.
Miller sighed. ‘Jesus, that’s all we need! I better inform the CO….
Chapter One
Semarang, Central Java
Colonel Harold Edmunds, commander of Third Battalion, 10th Gurkha Rifles, was using the foyer of a looted bank as his temporary HQ. Edmunds was seething over the lack of information that had seen him walk into a trap. His orders had said that he was to secure Semarang, its airfield, guard internees and send patrols to the camps inland.
Miller’s report had not helped his mood. He did not relish the thought of fighting renegade Japanese for the town. ‘You’re sure they’re Japs, John?’ Edmunds asked. ‘Not locals in Jap uniforms like in Burma?’
‘No doubt about it, Sir,’ Miller replied regretfully. ‘Naik Rai got close enough to identify them. It looks like we’ve run into a few hold-outs from their 48th Division. We’ve hit two or three but they’ve got us pretty well pinned down until dark.’
There was a brief exchange of distant fire and both men paused to listen. ‘We’re trying to plot their positions. Unfortunately, it’s a full moon’s tonight,’ Miller said quietly.
Edmunds nodded. ‘When it rains it pours! Right then…’ He turned to the other officer, Major Timothy Duncan. ‘Tim, take your Company and try and get round their flank. We’ll bring up some mortars from the docks to give you cover as soon as we can.’
Duncan nodded. ‘Understood, Sir.’
A Gurkha knocked on the office door, which hung off its hinges. ‘Excuse me, Colonel-sahib. There’s a Mr Wonabo outside under a white flag. He claims he’s the Governor of Semarang Residency.’
Edmunds shrugged. ‘Governor? Very well, let’s see what he has to say.’
A plump, middle-aged man in a rumpled shirt and jacket rushed in. He was breathless and clutching a small white cloth nailed to a walking stick.
‘General—’ Wonabo blurted.
‘It’s Colonel,’ Edmunds corrected him.
Wonabo nodded vigorously. ‘Colonel? Oh, yes, my apologies. I am the new Governor of Semarang, appointed by President Sukarno. Please! You must stop the Japanese…they are taking no prisoners! It was the Japanese who shot at your men—they think you are our militia!’
Edmunds looked quickly at his officers. ‘John break out the flag. It’s time for a chat.’
Two hours later, a small group of officers and Gurkha riflemen watched the Marmon Herrington Mk III armoured car, now in Japanese livery, approach them. A white flag flew from the command turret. Two machine guns and twenty rifles were trained on it as it came to a stop in front of the bank.
Edmunds was waiting in the shade under a shop awning. He stepped forward. Miller stood with him.
The turret hatch on the armoured car opened with a clang and a helmeted figure surveyed his surroundings before quickly climbing out and jumping down nimbly. The man came to attention and saluted. Edmunds returned the salute and waited, noting the thin scar down one side of the Japanese officer’s face.
‘I am Major Kudo, 48th Division.’
‘Colonel Edmunds, 10th Gurkha Rifles,’ Edmunds replied sternly. The Gurkhas made no attempt to hide their hostility.
Kudo bowed deeply. ‘Colonel, I humbly apologise for the attack on your men. We had no information that British troops would be coming to Semarang. It was a terrible mistake!’
Gravely, Edmunds nodded. ‘I accept your apology, Major. We were not expecting to arrive in the middle of a battle. Tell me, what’s the situation now?’
‘It has taken four days but the town is under my control.’
‘Hmm,’ grunted Edmunds. ‘Well, Major, as of now, consider yourself and your men under my command. Major Duncan and Major Miller here will liaise between our two HQs. How many men do you have?’
‘Three hundred and fifty-six are still fit for duty.’
‘How many hostiles?’
‘Our estimate is six hundred militia and perhaps three thousand pemuda.’
The British officers exchanged surprised glances.
Edmunds frowned. ‘Pemuda?’
‘Students and youths,’ replied Kudo. ‘Most of them are armed with machetes, spears or knives.’
‘I see,’ said Edmunds. ‘What about your casualties and wounded?’
‘Thirty-eight dead, fifty-six wounded.’
‘Our medics will let you have supplies if you need them.’
Kudo bowed again. ‘Thank you, Colonel.’
Edmunds hesitated, and then offered his hand. ‘It’s not been a good start, Major. Let’s hope we can do better.’
Allied Air Corridor, Singapore to Batavia (Djakarta)
The pilot of the RAF Mitchell bomber glanced back and indicated to look below. One of his two passengers was asleep, but the other, Lieutenant General Sir Philip Chrishaw, was waiting expectantly. He pulled himself up eagerly, putting aside a dog-eared copy of Birds of the East Indies and readying a pair of binoculars. Chrishaw was wearing plain green field dress but around his neck he sported a beige silk cravat embroidered with the triple-golden ‘V’ insignia of Fifteenth Army. He carried his broad, six-foot frame economically in the cramped fuselage of the Mitchell.
‘We’re coming in over the wetland now, Sir,’ the pilot informed him.
Chrishaw nodded and pushed his face to the window.
With a concerned raise of his eyebrows to his co-pilot and navigator the pilot pushed the stick forward, taking them as low as he dared. The last thing he wanted to do was risk a bird strike but the General had been adamant about the detour over the lagoons. As they swooped over a large flock of colourful waders he glanced back and was relieved to see Chrishaw smiling. Whatever keeps the brass hats happy, he thought.
A few minutes later they had left the wetland behind and were circling over the blue- and red-tiled roofs of Batavia. Chrishaw looked down on the spacious city, noticing the impressive twin towers of the cathedral, the wide avenues of the commercial district, and the imposing government buildings flying the red and white flags of the republic. Out in the bay to the north HMS Cumberland looked sleek and dangerous. Chrishaw was very glad she was there.
He leant down and patted Major Taylor-Smith, his aide-de-camp, on the shoulder. ‘We’re here, George,’ Chrishaw shouted. ‘In the footsteps of Raffles, no less! Did I tell you he was Governor here during the Napoleonic Wars? Or, that the Seaforths fought the French here in 1811? It’s remarkable how history repeats itself.’
Taylor-Smith stifled a yawn. ‘Fascinating, General, you have told me about Raffles. But I hadn’t realised we were at war with France again.’
Chrishaw shot him a weary look. ‘I hope the Dutch and the Javanese appreciate your sense of humour. If not, I’ll need another two divisions!’
Taylor-Smith arched an eyebrow. ‘That will give us a grand total of two then….’
Chrishaw had seen no reason to announce his arrival, so he was surprised to see the waiting journalists.
‘Sorry, Sir,’ said Taylor-Smith. ‘NICA were informed as a matter of course. We didn’t expect—’
‘They obviously did,’ replied Chrishaw moving forward to greet his reception committee. He shook hands with Admiral William Patterson and
Brigadier King. ‘Hello, Bill, Andrew… Good to see you again!’
Patterson grinned. ‘And you, Phil.’ The Admiral moved closer and spoke under his breath. ‘You pulled the short straw with this one. I can’t wait to get back to Cumberland and off! The Dutch are a royal pain in the backside.’
Chrishaw turned and flashbulbs started popping. He noticed the woman among them immediately. ‘Who’s she?’
‘Megan Graham, Robert Jordan’s latest ex-wife,’ Patterson replied in a whisper. ‘Very interesting lady, experienced, full accreditation… She got here well before us. Spirited and opinionated, to say the least.’
Chrishaw smiled. ‘She’d have to be to put up with Jordan. I enjoy his novels, not so sure I’d enjoy his company very much. He sounds like a wild one. I must invite her to lunch….’
Patterson cocked his head, laughing. ‘Be warned. If you light the blue touch-paper make sure you retire pretty damn quick.’
The General laughed. ‘Is that so?’
Van Zanten strode over, face beaming, his hand extended. ‘General, welcome to the Netherlands East Indies.’ He led Chrishaw to a microphone. ‘Naturally the press are keen to hear your plans.’
Chrishaw noticed most of the journalists still wore the uniforms and badges of war correspondents even though, strictly speaking, the war was over and, with it, all military censorship of press reports. His own statement had been cleared days before by London.
‘Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen! I am here for what I hope will be a short and uneventful tour of duty. British forces have three objectives. The first is to repatriate Allied prisoners of war and internees. Second, to disarm and remove Japanese forces. The third, to maintain law and order. I stress that the British have no intention of meddling in internal political affairs. But we will strive to ensure order. In general, our troops will not move beyond certain key areas except to introduce food or for humanitarian purposes.’
‘Finally,’ Chrishaw continued, ‘let me add that I hope soon there will be an understanding and settlement of some sort between the Dutch and Indonesians. Until then, I intend to ask present party leaders to treat my troops and myself as guests and to assist this temporary British administration.’
There was silence as some of the Dutch reporters looked questioningly at each other. Only then did Chrishaw notice Van Zanten staring at him in open amazement. Other journalists raised their hands. One of the Indonesians did not wait.
‘General, Eric Subidi for Asia Raya. You said, “key areas”. Could you clarify that?’
Chrishaw answered immediately. ‘Provisionally, these are Batavia, Bandung and Surabaya.’
A rotund, red-faced Dutchman spoke as he raised his hand. ‘Derk Boer, Trouw. Are you including Sukarno as a “party leader”?’
‘Indeed, I am,’ nodded Chrishaw. ‘And the rest of the Indonesian cabinet. This should be no surprise after—’
Boer was aghast. ‘But he’s a collaborator!’
In the sudden silence Meg caught Chrishaw’s eye. ‘Meg Graham, Collins Weekly. General, does this mean British forces will not be taking action against the Republican Government?’
As Chrishaw hesitated the reporters surged forward. ‘Are you recognising the Indonesian regime?’—‘Does the Dutch administration have any authority?’—’Will collaborators be arrested?’
The General raised his hands and waited for quiet. ‘My statement is over. This is off the record. The situation in the Indies is complicated. We have just come through a terrible world war. We fought for political and religious tolerance, and for the right of people to live their lives as they wish with the proviso that they do so without threatening or dominating their neighbours. Let us not forget that, or those who gave their lives for that cause. Thank you.’
Chrishaw turned away, directing a quizzical look at Van Zanten, and re-joined the other British officers.
Meg was both relieved and impressed by Chrishaw’s announcement. Around her the much younger Indonesian correspondents were jubilant. Among the Dutch there was consternation. ‘Let’s hope he’s right,’ she said casually to an Australian reporter who had been on Java for just two days. The man shrugged disinterestedly, ‘How about a drink later?’
Boer glared at her. ‘Reasonable! You heard him. He’s anti-Dutch!’
That evening, Chrishaw was sitting in the lounge of his requisitioned suite in the Hotel des Indes, now the temporary headquarters of Allied Forces Netherlands East Indies. He had a bemused look on his face. Nearby an Indian clerk sat with a pad waiting to take dictation.
Chrishaw sighed, wondering how he’d managed it. One day in Batavia and already he had nearly caused the severing of Britain’s diplomatic relations with Holland. Soon after his speech, Radio Djakarta had broadcast a bulletin announcing that the British had recognised the Sukarno government and were encouraging the Dutch and Indonesians to negotiate in the new spirit of post-war tolerance and co-operation. Transcripts had been relayed to the Dutch Government. Reaction had been furious. London had already issued one denial, claiming Chrishaw had been misquoted. Mountbatten had warned him before he arrived in Java that he’d have to carry the can if he messed up….
He sat up and nodded to the clerk. ‘Right,’ he said, composing himself, “Chrishaw to Mountbatten. Point one. Off-the-record comments were taken completely out of context and exaggerated by partisan Dutch press. Point two. I have not recognised the nationalist regime. End.” Get that off right away, will you?’
‘Immediately, Sir.’ The clerk saluted and left.
Chrishaw closed his eyes and put his head back on his chair. So much for the spirit of moderation and co-operation, he thought acidly.
Taylor-Smith handed him a large glass of Talisker whisky. ‘It was just bad luck, Sir. Pity we can’t control the press anymore.’
’Bad luck!’ Chrishaw scoffed. ‘I’ve been here only nine hours and already the Foreign Office are fuming and Mountbatten’s laid a brick. Hardly the best of starts.’
‘Admiral Patterson will back you up. He’s told them repeatedly what a hornet’s nest we’re in.’
Chrishaw rested the heavy crystal glass on his abdomen and closed his eyes briefly. ‘These things are sent to try us, George. Rather this though, than face the Japs in the Arakan again, eh?’
‘No question.’
‘Talking of the Japs, any word from Yamagami?’
‘Not yet. Should I telephone his HQ?’
‘No need for that.’ Chrishaw savoured his whisky. ‘It’s a matter of face, that’s all. He’ll reply soon enough.’
‘Has Mountbatten said anything about the extra troops?’
‘Yes. Unfortunately he says we have to make do with what we’ve got.’
Taylor-Smith sighed. ‘But that’s just a fraction of 23rd Indian Division!’
‘Yes’, Chrishaw pursed his lips, ‘but there’s an army here already—’
‘Uh…?’
‘The Japanese will come under my command.’
‘But Sir—’ Taylor-Smith stared, ‘British and Japanese troops together? Bloody Hell! The war’s only been over for eight weeks!’
Chrishaw nodded. ‘Actually, Mountbatten gave Andy King the option to order Japanese help before he left Malaya. We weren’t going to ask a handful of Seaforths to put down a revolution.’
Taylor-Smith shook his head. ‘Think of the reaction back home, never mind here!’
‘You think Mountbatten hasn’t?’ Chrishaw shrugged. ‘Political and diplomatic niceties are all very well. In Britain, “law and order” means catching burglars and ration-coupon forgers. Here, it means saving innocents from being murdered in their beds. We’ve no choice.’
‘But the Geneva Convention—’
‘George!’ Chrishaw interrupted irritably. ‘The GC is not my bed-time reading but I am fairly familiar with it by now!’
Taylor-Smith reddened. ‘Yes, you’re right. I'm sorry.’
‘No need to apologise, it’s your job to point out potential pit
falls. Mine’s to tip-toe around them. Pour yourself a whisky.’
HMS Cumberland off Batavia (Djakarta)
Admiral Patterson surveyed the room with quiet satisfaction. His formal dinner was going well, or as well as could be expected. So far he and Van Zanten, who sat opposite him, had carefully steered the conversation of their younger officers away from contentious issues. This meant that General Wavell’s sudden departure from Java in 1942, the defeat of the combined Allied fleet in the Java Sea not long afterwards, and the ill-fated assault on Arnhem in the Netherlands the previous year had been skirted with good grace.
Patterson’s main problem, however, was that they could not avoid talking about Java. To his dismay, Admiral Hurwitz’s voice boomed yet again.
‘Sukarno’s a proven collaborator, a Quisling. He’ll be found guilty and hanged. No doubt about it. Things will go smoothly then, mark my words!’
Patterson could not catch the reply from David Fisher, Cumberland’s captain, but he could tell from Hurwitz’s expression that he was not impressed. Sorry, David, he thought to himself, I put you in a hot seat there. Still, he had wanted to keep the two senior Dutchmen away from Chrishaw, who had enough to think about and certainly deserved a decent meal. Even so, he saw Chrishaw was fielding questions from two unexpected guests. General Overbeck, the head of the Dutch army in Java; and Dr Ruud Visser, Van Zanten’s deputy, had arrived in Batavia only the day before. From what Admiral Patterson could gather, Chrishaw was regaling his end of the table with stories of the Burma campaign. Overbeck had drunk too much wine and sat red-faced, enthralled in Chrishaw’s tales. In contrast, the tee-total Visser was watching the rest of the table like a hawk through his rimless spectacles.
Van Zanten, following three discussions at once, drank little. He considered the highly strung Visser unsuited for the task at hand but a useful foil nonetheless. Visser was a passionate believer in the Dutch right to rule the Indies and wore his heart on his sleeve. His radio broadcasts from Australia had threatened Sukarno, Hatta and other nationalist leaders with death.