by Rory Marron
Meg remembered that Van Zanten, desperate for any Dutch authority in the city, had armed former Dutch prisoners of war. ‘I’m an American. I just see people shopping,’ she replied calmly.
He smiled mirthlessly and shook his head. ‘I see traitors and Quislings at a rebel market. Be careful, you could get a knife in your back!’ He turned dismissively and walked back to the Isuzu.
As it moved off, it veered deliberately to demolish a stall laden with spices. Resignedly the traders started to clean up.
Hotel des Indes, Djakarta (Batavia)
Major Taylor-Smith opened the office door and beckoned to the visitor. ‘Sorry about the wait, Major, you may go in.’
Chrishaw had his head down over a pile of paperwork. As he looked up, Miller saluted.
‘Afternoon, John,’ Chrishaw said affably. ‘I apologise for the rush. Take a pew.’
‘Not at all, Sir,’ Miller replied sitting. ‘Things are pretty quiet just now.’ He had been whisked from Semarang on a transport plane at short notice.
Chrishaw smiled, partly to himself. ‘Well, it’s good to know that at least somewhere on Java is quiet!’ He looked at the clock. ‘Ask someone to put the kettle on.’
Taylor-Smith signalled to an orderly.
‘John’, began Chrishaw, ‘this must remain absolutely confidential. We have a growing problem that can no longer be ignored. Batavia is in the grip of a killing frenzy. There’s no end to it! Random shootings are happening daily. Every night someone is taken in a tit-for-tat murder-kidnapping. They say if you sit on the bank of the Kali Besar a body drifts past every hour!’
Chrishaw paused to sip from a glass of water then deliberately brought the spread tips of his fingers together on the leather-topped writing surface. ‘Last week alone, thirty-seven people were murdered. We know it because we have the bodies! Governor Van Zanten is shouting about law and order, about innocent Europeans being butchered in their beds. Scandalously, the Dutch correspondents are saying there’s a serious risk of massacre.’ He uttered a short, dismissive laugh. ‘The trouble with those thirty-seven bodies is that thirty-two of them were Javans… This inconvenient fact is being ignored by the Dutch reporters but not by those from other nations who are asking legitimate questions about bias and apparent complicity. We have identified twelve of those killed in the last week as individuals previously accused by NEFIS—that’s Dutch Intelligence—of collaboration during the Japanese occupation. Others are probably linked in various ways with the nationalist movement, though many may have simply waved a flag at the wrong time. You are here to reduce this murder madness.’
Miller gave a short nod. ‘How can I help, Sir?’
Chrishaw’s expression darkened as he reached for a file on his desk. ‘Nineteen of the thirty-two corpses bore similar chafing marks on their wrists and ankles; and other bruises probably caused, I am told, by an expertly used cosh. Most had been shot in the back of the head at close range with a forty-five.’
‘A forty-five?’ Miller’s eyes were thoughtful. ‘Dutch vigilantes?’
‘Alas nothing so simple,’ Chrishaw said shaking his head, ‘more like well-organised death squads. This is absolutely confidential. We believe there is a secret prison in an old fort just beyond our security zone.’ He sat back and stroked his chin. ‘It’s a prison-cum-torture chamber by the sound of it, run unofficially by the Dutch 10th Battalion. The trails of many missing Javanese lead there. All the information we have is in that file, which you are to read next door and return to me personally.’
Chrishaw saw Miller’s confusion. ‘I want you to watch the fort for a few days, note comings and goings, numbers of guards and so on. When we pay a visit, your men will be inside to let us in.’
Miller’s surprise showed. ‘I see. But why not use the Seaforths, they’re here?’
Chrishaw held his gaze. ‘Two reasons; first, disguised as local farmers and labourers your Gurkhas can move about unsuspected by the Dutch. Second, when we go in it could get messy. I don’t want any mistakes. The fort has narrow passages and underground cells. In poor light Dutch uniforms will look very similar to ours and, of course, the NEFIS and 10th Battalion men are white. It has to be your Gurkhas.’
‘I understand, General,’ Miller said quietly.
‘Good.’
Miller was at the door when Chrishaw stopped him. ‘John, one more thing.’
He turned. ‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Our conversation did not take place.’
Fort Michiels, near Batavia
Rai heard the slow movement in the bushes behind him and whispered the challenge in Gurkhali. ‘Home of the Eight Tribes?’
‘Athrai!’ Limbau replied immediately.
Rai turned back to watch the only entrance to the old fort. There was little activity. The last vehicle had entered two hours previously.
Limbau settled down next to Rai who pushed over the glasses in silence. The bright moonlight made them redundant so close to the wall. For a few moments both men lay still to ensure that the single sentry pacing the crumbling rampart of the fort had not noticed anything amiss. Nothing stirred, then the sentry’s face and hands were illuminated as he lit a cigarette.
Rai took advantage of the sentry’s loss of night vision and backed away from the fringe of sago palms. As he left, the two Gurkhas exchanged a look that combined boredom, confidence and even wry amusement that had begun when they had donned the sarongs and headscarves.
Rai headed back to a secluded copse some two hundred yards back where Miller was waiting with six more Gurkhas, all of whom were dressed as Javanese farmers. Each man carried a Japanese Arisaka rifle. In place of their trademark kukri, Miller had acquired hefty bodik daggers from a market stall.
For over seventy-two hours the Gurkhas had kept a round-the-clock watch on the fort. In that time the Dutch had sent out no perimeter patrols or even flashed a searchlight except to illuminate their own approaching vehicles. Rai and the others had driven ox-carts and led water buffalo and goats back and forth past the fort but they had been ignored. Every aspect of the occupants’ routine had been noted down. Miller had taken the information back to Chrishaw personally. Now, though, the waiting was over.
Rai made his report to Miller. ‘The last of the lorries returned two hours ago, Major. Its covers were down, so we don’t know how many prisoners. As usual the sentries are sloppy.’
Miller nodded and updated his list. ‘That makes seventeen or eighteen enemy—er, I mean Dutch or Ambonese—inside. General Chrishaw is going to come calling at five thirty.’ He looked at the luminous dial on his watch. ‘That’s forty-five minutes from now. Time to go. Tell the men.’
Rai nodded and went to pass the word.
Once again Miller ran through the plan in his head. Chrishaw had named it Operation Jumble Sale. In addition to case histories and letters from worried relatives of the missing, the secret file contained a pamphlet and floor-plan published by the Batavia Tourist Office. He now knew that Fort Michiels was an eighteenth-century star-fort built by the East India Company. The city’s suburbs were just a mile away. Abandoned for years, the fort had been a minor tourist attraction until the arrival of the Japanese, whose military police had appreciated its relatively isolated location and its thick, sound-deadening stone walls.
Miller was assuming the Japanese had altered little inside the fort. Each of his men had committed the floor-plan to memory. Infiltration was easy enough, but avoiding injury to the Dutch once inside was a different matter. If his men were seen they would be shot at yet they were under orders not to return fire. Rai and Limbau were to go in first. Miller did not like it. Worse, he was to be the last man in. He liked that least of all.
As the Dutch sentry passed a small tower that hid the narrow parapet walk behind him the Rai and Limbau began a silent count and moved off. Miller watched the two slight figures dart across the open ground, then scale the twenty-foot wall, their rifles strapped across their backs. He held his breath as they rolled over
the top of the wall and disappeared. So far so good, he thought.
Up on the parapet, Rai and Limbau pressed themselves against the tower. Twenty seconds later, as expected, the sentry returned. He was wearing a soft cap and was mumbling to himself. Rai padded after him, his bare feet noiseless on the stone. He clubbed the sentry just behind his right ear and the man crumpled quietly into his arms. Limbau caught the man’s rifle soundlessly.
Miller heard the birdcall and signalled his other men. Six shadowy figures darted from the fringe of palms to the wall and began to climb. His main worry was the second sentry. If the alarm was raised the mission was to be aborted. He flicked the safety catch off his Thompson sub-machine gun. In front of him were four spare magazines. Chrishaw had said nothing about covering fire….
A second, and then, finally, a third birdcall sounded in the still, dawn air, signalling that the other two rampart sentries had been taken care of. Miller let out a long breath. They were almost there. He looked at his watch and then at the sky. There was a definite brightening to the east. His eyes went back to the dark, eerie outline of the fort. Now all they had to do was hope the gatehouse sentry was the only one who stirred when the General arrived.
Rai and the others perched on the parapet walk, watching for any activity in the tent-dotted courtyard below. There were no lights but they could hear heavy snoring. They had allowed seven minutes to deal with the sentries. In the end they had needed under five.
The sun rose, the walls casting long shadows and keeping much of the courtyard in darkness. Limbau checked his watch and nodded to Rai. They moved down to the door of the gatehouse. Soon they heard the rumble of engines. They waited as the noise grew but the column of armoured cars and troop lorries was less than three hundred yards away before the snoozing sentry inside awoke. When he unlocked and threw the door wide to raise the alarm Rai’s rifle butt caught him squarely in the midriff. He fell gasping and groaning to the floor. Limbau silenced him with a quick blow to the head. In seconds the man was bound and gagged.
Rai, Limbau and the others raced to the large double doors no longer concerned about stealth since the noise from the vehicles was now a constant drone. They lifted out the two thick crossbeams and dragged back the gates. Moments later, an armoured car swept into the courtyard, followed by a troop lorry. Seaforths jumped out, rifles ready, taking to the ramparts and lining the fort’s wall. A second lorry was disgorging more soldiers as Chrishaw’s jeep raced through the gates.
The General sat impassively, watching half-dressed Dutch soldiers being roused out of the huts and tents. They were herded unceremoniously into a group.
Gradually they overcame their shock and began to protest. ‘What’s going on!’— ‘Stront!’—‘Who do you think you are?’
Chrishaw let them mutter for a few more seconds then stood up. ‘Be quiet. I am General Chrishaw. You are all under arrest!’
Instantly the talking stopped. A major stepped forward. ‘This is a Dutch-controlled area, General. I protest. You cannot enter here without permission from our commanding officer—’
Chrishaw’s voice rumbled with controlled fury. ‘I am Senior Allied Commander in the Indies! I have every right to enter and inspect all military bases as and when I see fit!’
Uneasy now, the major swallowed. ‘I demand to speak with General Overbeck…’
‘And so you shall, Major,’ Chrishaw said with a half a smile. ‘General Overbeck was expecting to meet me this morning at six o’clock for details of a surprise security operation. When he arrives at my headquarters he will be escorted here.’
Crestfallen, the major retreated to stand with the rest of the Dutch and Ambonese.
Chrishaw turned to the Seaforths officer. ‘Captain, you may commence your search.’
Sounds of chains scraping over stone woke Lamban. He could see nothing in the darkness. His head ached. Three more men had been put into the cramped cell during the night. The stench of faeces and urine coming from the overflowing bucket in the corner filled his nose, mouth and throat.
Beside him Sarel shifted. ‘I think it’s morning,’ Lamban whispered.
‘Perhaps our last?’ Sarel replied.
‘If God so wills,’ sighed Lamban, easing the manacles that were chafing his wrists. He was still cursing their carelessness. They had been returning in darkness from a meeting to co-ordinate business and food boycotts against non-Javanese when they had come upon the Dutch army checkpoint. Boxes of their leaflets had been discovered and both he had Lamban had been brought in handcuffs to the old fort. For two days they had been questioned and beaten. They were under no illusions as to their fate. Among the prisoners it was rumoured that no-one returned from questioning after three days in the cells. Today was their third day.
An electric light flickered, casting a dull light around the cell. Soon afterwards heavy, booted footsteps echoed along the corridor. Lamban eased himself up against the wall and grimaced as pain surged through his dislocated shoulder. ‘When they take these irons off us I pray I have a chance to kill one of them.’
‘There is someone else I would rather kill,’ Sarel muttered. ‘Only one other person knew our route and he left the day before us.’
Lamban looked at him sharply. ‘Yarek?’
Sarel nodded. ‘If you live, settle the score.’
Along the corridor doors clanged open, followed by brisk, spoken orders.
‘Try to get an officer!’ Sarel said quickly.
Sudden, excited shouts from other cells told them something unexpected was happening. ‘Inggris!’—British!
The two Javanese looked at each other in bewilderment as two soldiers stepped cautiously in to the cell wrinkling their noses. ‘Och, God, Sarge,’ said one of them, ‘this is even worse!’
Lamban did not understand the words but he knew that the uniforms and words were not Dutch.
Forty-one bedraggled prisoners were led blinking into the sunlight. There they saw their gaolers, ringed by British soldiers. After they were photographed in their chains they were ushered to the shaded side of the crowded courtyard where they were given bread, water and fruit. While they ate, British soldiers removed their manacles.
They cheered as an officer announced that they would be free to go in one hour. Not long afterwards several of the Javanese, sensing they were safe at last, found their voices. Abuse flew at the Dutchmen.
When General Overbeck and Lt-Col Brommer arrived at the fort their Dutch escort was stopped at the gate. The Dutch officers looked distinctly ill at ease as they were shown across the courtyard and into the main offices by two British military policemen. Inside they found Chrishaw and a translator behind a desk, flicking through a NEFIS file stamped ‘Top Secret’. Every desk and filing cabinet drawer was open. Soldiers were loading the entire contents of the cabinets into boxes under Brigadier Taylor-Smith’s direction.
‘General,’ Overbeck said firmly, ‘what is going on here?’
Chrishaw did not look up. ‘I am listing names, General,’ he said quietly. ‘Names of Javanese who have recently been found dead.’
Brommer thrust out his chest. ‘Just what you are inferring? This unit is not part of our official Dutch forces; it’s just a camp for ex-POWs. And those documents are confidential files reported stolen from NEFIS some time ago. While we congratulate you on recovering them, we demand their immediate return!’
‘I’m afraid you can demand nothing here, Colonel Brommer,’ Chrishaw said sharply. ‘This is a crime scene. Several murder and kidnapping investigations are about to start. These files are to be held as evidence. I am confident that they will be returned when the investigations are complete.’
Brommer’s face was puce. ‘I protest. My Government shall hear of this within the hour!’
Chrishaw held his gaze. His voice was measured. ‘I doubt that because my Provost Marshal will be interviewing the two of you later this morning. I am ordering you not to leave the fort until he has done so. You may wait in your vehicle or one o
f the tents.’
Dumbfounded and furious, the two ‘Dutchmen were led outside.
Taylor-Smith could hardly contain himself. ‘Sir, how on earth did you know they would say the files were stolen?’
Chrishaw smiled. ‘Well, they had to have a cover story ready in case the unit was exposed, so it had to be something like that. That way they can deny anything. At least I managed to get their files for a few days.’
‘Are we to let the Javanese go?’
‘Yes. Arrange transport for them to the nearest station and buy them a ticket home. Use the cash found here.’
Taylor-Smith paused. ‘You know that some of them could be rebels, even murderers?’
‘I don’t doubt it, George,’ sighed Chrishaw, ‘not for a second. But no jury would convict on this evidence. They must go free.’
Book Three
Chapter Three
Tandjong Priok Harbour, Djakarta (Batavia)
Quay number three was a hive of activity. Landing craft and wherries were plying back and forth to the two supply ships that had arrived from Singapore the previous evening. Next to them was the troopship that had brought two companies of Mahratta infantry and Rajpurtana Rifles, and a few dozen Dutch marines. Shouts in Urdu rang out along the quay as equipment and provisions were unloaded and stacked.
Quartermaster Bandur Patel was a stocky forty-five-year-old with seventeen years’ experience of moving men and machines. The work was going well, and the lines of pencilled ticks on his battered clipboard showed everything in order. Except, that was, for one thing. Brand new and gleaming in dark green, it stood in its own space on the quay. Patel scratched his head again as he tried to work out how a brand new jeep, complete with stencilled, white American star and four jerrycans of precious petrol in the back, was listed in his inventory.
The unusual always made him uncomfortable, mainly because it meant a lot of paperwork. It was not, he thought sadly, as if this was an extra case of medicinal rum or saccharine tablets whose loss could be attributed to the ‘fog of war.’ No, someone somewhere was missing his transportation and would want it back. That would mean extra work for Bandur Patel.