by Rory Marron
Around the corner of one hut she bumped into Kate, Juliette and Gwen Richie. ‘Hello, Meg,’ Kate said warmly. ‘We’re going to have a bath,’ she whispered. ‘Why don’t you come with us?’
Meg had seen the grime-encrusted bathrooms. ‘Oh, I’m fine. I can get a wash later.’
Gwen read her mind and laughed. ‘Not the camp baths! Ones at the hotel up the hill. Juliette says they’re hot springs!’
The thought of a hot bath was instantly appealing. ‘Give me a minute to get my things!’
‘All right,’ said Gwen, ‘but keep it a secret or we’ll be sharing with five hundred!’
Together they walked up the valley, carrying sacks which hid their Red Cross soap and shampoo.
‘I saw Japanese there yesterday,’ Meg said. ‘It must have been a billet of some kind. How did you find out about the hot springs?’
‘From someone at the camp,’ Juliette murmured.
Meg saw Kate shoot a quick glance at Juliette.
A single Japanese sentry stood at the hotel entrance. Juliette took the lead and they walked on, ignored by the sentry.
Inside the hotel it was clean and tidy. The nyatoh wood panelling in the reception was polished and even the stuffed hunting trophies on the walls appeared dusted. Armchairs were arranged in fours around small tables. Apart from a Japanese calendar behind the reception desk the war did not seem to have touched the hotel.
Kate, Juliette and Gwen stared. Meg noticed a narrow roll of carpet across the hall on which were lined up several pairs of open Japanese slippers.
Juliette was already slipping off her shoes. She saw the others hesitate. ‘The Japs don’t wear shoes inside,’ she explained.
‘Juliette, I don’t like the idea of bathing with half the Jap army,’ Gwen said apprehensively.
‘You won’t,’ Juliette smiled. ‘If they turn up they’ll use the men’s baths. Come on, I’ll show you!’
They followed her almost at a run down some stairs to a basement corridor that was also panelled with rich dark wood. Scenic photographs of Ambarawa were mounted on the walls but the women paid them no attention. Juliette stopped in front of a door marked ‘Dames’. The kanji for ‘women’ had also been chalked on the door.
Meg laughed. ‘That’s me, a real “dame” at last!’
‘Follow me, ladies!’ Juliette said grandiosely as she opened the door. Inside it was dark. Juliette let them savour the smooth, cool tiles on their bare feet then flicked on the light. The entire room was tiled in a simple blue-and-white square pattern. Two walls were taken with teak lockers complete with brass hooks and hangers. Along another wall was a row of gleaming porcelain sinks and mirrors.
Gwen let out a small shriek and ran to a sink to turn on a tap. ‘It’s hot! It really is! So clean!’ She caught her reflection in the mirror. ‘Oh, Christ, I forgot I look dreadful!’
‘Et voilà!’ Juliette said opening a sliding door. They peered through excitedly. Swirling vapour and a slight odour of sulphur filled the air. Set in the middle of the room was a large, tiled and overflowing mandi tub fed by constantly flowing water from open pipes set in the wall. Beyond the mandi was a row of frosted glass cubicles, each with a typical western bath.
‘Beauty!’ Gwen said breathlessly, already unbuttoning her blouse.
They washed themselves and then washed each other’s hair before they got in the large bath. Meg had been a little modest at first, partly because the others were so thin. Unlike them, she was not used to group bathing but the hot water soon had her as relaxed as the others.
‘Oh this feels so good! Can you believe it, Meg, two and a half years without a hot bath!’ Gwen sighed as she stretched out in the water. ‘How long for you two?’
‘Too long,’ Juliette said casually. She shot a quick smile at Kate who blushed a little under her already flushed cheeks. Meg noticed and wondered why. Kate was nervous about something. Then she remembered Juliette’s comment about the Japanese on the way to the baths. Was the person ‘at the camp’ the same Japanese who had talked with her at Tjandi? And how did she know him? Meg had heard the Tjandi gossip about the brothels. A thought struck her. Slowly she began putting two and two together, then stopped. She knew she could never judge any of these women. It was one story she would never write….
‘This has got to be the hottest hot tub ever!’ Meg sighed holding up her arm. Her skin was bright pink. ‘I’m cooking,’ she said tiredly and pushed herself out of the water. She sat on the side of the bath, watching the vapour rise off her.
One by one the others got out to cool off by lying or sitting on the tiled floor. They were in and out of the bath for an hour.
Conversation was unrestrained. They compared the camp routines. Meg listened in horror. Then they talked of what they would do as soon as they reached home or a big city. Gwen made them laugh, ‘My dad will give me a big hug but then he’ll want to give me a back-hander for letting myself get caught by the Japs!’
Kate seemed a little melancholic, so Meg tried to cheer her up. ‘And you, Kate, where will you go?’
She shrugged. ‘I think I’d like to live in Canada.’
‘Why?’ Meg pressed her.
‘There’s lots of space. I want a new start.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Meg said sympathetically.
Kate looked at her blankly. ‘It is?’
‘Yes. You were born here but you want to leave. I’ve heard a lot of Dutch say they intend to stay, even if it means fighting another war.’
‘Java isn’t worth it, Meg,’ she said with a soft shake of her head. ‘It’s broken my heart.’
The Makassar Strait
Dawn was breaking when the five B-25 Mitchell bombers took off from Balikpapan airfield. At 10,000 feet they levelled out over the Makassar Strait and then turned due south in a loose V-formation, heading for the Java Sea.
Angry crackling sounded above the drone of the twin, 1,700hp Wright Cyclone engines as the leading B-25 tested its 0.5-inch calibre machine guns. Bright, burning tracers streaked into the blue sky ahead, above and behind them as the other B-25s copied their flight leader. Below them palm-tops and sandy, surf-ringed bays along the east coast of Borneo glinted in the soft, golden sunlight.
The same rays also hit the nose of each aircraft, illuminating ‘Mrs Sweeper’, the squadron’s emblem of a smiling washerwoman in a headscarf with brush and dustpan.
At the B-25’s optimum cruising speed of three hundred miles per hour, the flight to the Java coast was a short, easy hop of just over an hour. It was a familiar route for the crews because they had already made a dozen similar trips to drop food and supplies over internment camps. Today, however, for the first time since the Japanese surrender, their bomb bays were full.
They made steady progress over a tranquil ocean. When they reached their first marker at the Kangean archipelago they corrected their heading slightly southwest to take them over the small Bali Sea. Ahead of them, the lush forested peaks of the islands of Java, Bali, Lombok, Soembawa and Flores lined the horizon like a giant bracelet of green jade. Soon the planes changed to a single-line formation then, upon their leader’s signal, dropped gradually to five hundred feet
From sixty miles out the soaring, barren crest of the Merapi-Raung crater shone like a beacon in the morning sunshine. Nestled at its foot lay the small port of Banjoewangi. Few of its thirty-five thousand inhabitants had stirred. The first of the day’s ferries to Bali from the Ketapang terminal was not for another two hours. Only a few fishermen tending their nets on the slender strip of black-sand beach paid brief attention to the noisy black dots in the sky.
Banjoewangi’s nine massive storage sheds were built in a neat row and ringed by a narrow gauge railway that ran to the harbour. They had whitewashed walls and rounded, corrugated iron roofs painted alternately red or blue. Each of their large, sliding steel doors bore a white, stencilled number.
One by one, the B-25s made runs thirty seconds apart at mast-skimming height, juar as
they had often done in action against Japanese ships at Timor, Tanimbar and Koepang. Today was no different except that there was no anti-aircraft fire to distract the aim of the bombardiers.
Dark, stick-like bombs punched holes through the brick walls and brittle roofs of sheds six, seven, eight and nine. As the last B-25 cleared the sheds, the first of the delayed-action fuses ignited the high explosive. Banjoewangi shook as the sheds’ roofs were blown open and their walls collapsed.
Three planes made a second run dropping napalm. Sticky, blazing gel smothered the exposed, closely packed sacks. Soon the pungent smell of burning petroleum engulfed the town. Their bomb bays now empty, the B-25s made a leisurely turn through the billowing black clouds to return to Balikpapan. By the time the first of the fire appliances had reached the storage sheds the fishermen had already lost sight of the aircraft.
British HQ, Hotel des Indes, Batavia/Djakarta
‘The raid was a totally unwarranted and highly provocative act!’ Chrishaw’s eyes blazed as he confronted Van Zanten and Hurwitz. His first notification about the raid on Banjoewangi had come from news reports on nationalist-controlled Radio Surabaya. Chrishaw had summoned the two senior Dutchmen expecting to hear a denial.
Instead, Van Zanten was prepared to raise the stakes. ‘General,’ he replied firmly. ‘Please remember this is the Netherlands East Indies. You must expect us to undertake some independent operations as our resources increase.’
‘Absolutely!’ Hurwitz gushed in agreement.
Chrishaw was struggling to remain composed. ‘I do not expect deceit from an ally, Gentlemen. The RAF commander at Balikpapan was informed that your squadron was on a training flight!’
‘Standard operating procedure, General,’ Van Zanten said casually. ‘One does not publicise bombing missions.’
‘Quite right,’ Hurwitz added gruffly. ‘Standard procedure.’
Chrishaw ignored him and stared at Van Zanten. He was glad now that he had decided to meet the Dutchmen alone. ‘Rice, Doctor! There is a food shortage across Asia and you incinerated or contaminated thousands of tons of rice!’
Van Zanten shrugged. ‘Regrettable, I agree, but necessary. The rebels negotiated directly with the Indian Government over the heads of local Dutch officials. We cannot allow the rebels to make international agreements. To do so would confer legitimacy on their illegal regime. It is a matter of principle.’
‘I wonder if the people of the Netherlands would agree? Last winter, they were experiencing severe famine. I cannot believe they would wish the same on anyone. You two must have suffered gravely in Australia.’ Chrishaw let his gaze drop deliberately to the prominent paunches of the two men. Their faces reddened at his accusation.
Van Zanten smiled thinly. ‘I think, General, that you are trying to provoke me. I doubt that the incident will be of much concern to the people of the Netherlands.’
‘Quite,’ replied Chrishaw quickly. ‘They won’t know about it because your newspapers will neither report it nor comment on the hardship that will follow in India!’
‘The Indians are hardly sympathetic to our interests anyway,’ Hurwitz interjected dismissively.
Chrishaw looked at him sharply. ‘Please tell me, Admiral, whether you think the seven Indian soldiers murdered across Java over the last six days were “unsympathetic” to Dutch colonial interests?’
Hurwitz looked down, his expression was now sheepish. Van Zanten nodded earnestly. ‘We are very grateful for the Indian Army’s efforts to maintain law and order, General,’ he said diplomatically.
Chrishaw sighed. ‘Yes, let’s talk about law and order shall we?’ He shook his head. ‘Doctor, your re-armed ex-POW “policemen” are no more than trigger-happy vigilantes. I have reports from British officers who witness random, cold-blooded killings daily. They themselves have been ordered off pavements by Tommy-gun toting Dutch and native troops. There is an air of terror in Batavia and it is by no means all the fault of the nationalists. The recent discovery of the captives at Fort Michiels is evidence of that. Your officials have not shown the slightest bit of remorse or even attempted to rein in the worst offenders. You must know that the British and foreign reporters are very critical. My Government is becoming seriously embarrassed but you choose to see it purely as some vast, anti-Dutch conspiracy!’
Van Zanten was suddenly indignant. ‘Those soldiers have suffered! It is only natural that they will be hostile to Jap collaborators.’
‘They are not fit to peel potatoes, Doctor, never mind provide security. I want them disbanded and disarmed.’
Hurwitz was outraged. ‘Out of the question! We need more troops here, not fewer!’
‘Really?’ Chrishaw sat back. ‘How will that help the sixty thousand of your women and children held hostage inland?’
‘It will help us expand areas under our military control.’
Chrishaw snorted. ‘My view is that it would effectively sign the death warrants for those poor souls.’
Van Zanten opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘General, I will be quite frank with you, confidentially, of course. My Government now considers the internees to be… expendable.’
Chrishaw was open-mouthed.
‘You must understand’, Van Zanten continued, ‘our empire is at risk here. The Netherlands needs the oil, rubber, coal, lumber, sugar, quinine—everything. We are talking about the life and wealth of a nation. What are a few thousand lives in comparison?’
Chrishaw’s eyes narrowed. ‘I confess I am astounded by such callousness. But I am a soldier not a politician. Yesterday I attended Admiral Hurwitz’s press conference. He said—correct me if I’m wrong—that Dutch forces had surrendered here in 1942 in order to save massive civilian casualties. Today, Sir, you are Pontius Pilate, ready to wash your hands of them! What would the Press make of the change in policy? No doubt it will also be of interest to the relatives in Holland of these unfortunate hostages.’
Van Zanten rose suddenly and Hurwitz jumped up in his wake. ‘This meeting is really serving no purpose, General,’ Van Zanten said icily. We will return to the palace.’
‘Very well’, said Chrishaw politely. He was leaving his own bombshell until the last. ‘I called this meeting to inform you that in the interests of public safety, I have ordered that no more Dutch troops arrive in Java without my express authorisation. Ships now en-route carrying Dutch troops have been instructed to disembark them in Malaya, where they will stay until further notice.’
‘I protest!’ Van Zanten blustered. ‘Mountbatten will hear from my Government this afternoon!’
Chrishaw gave him a polite smile. ‘Actually, Admiral Mountbatten approved my order an hour ago.’
Chapter Seven
Bekassi
Arman Sharma’s knuckles showed white as he clung to the mesh of webbing stretched behind the narrow bench seat of the Douglas C-47 Dakota. Again the aircraft see-sawed in the gale force winds. Steel hats, backpacks and kitbags came sliding past him on slicks of vomit. He closed his eyes and prayed. Then he was sick again.
The ferocious monsoon storm had blown up ten minutes from Semarang. After two hair-raising attempts at landing, the flight of two Dakotas had decided to return to Batavia. All the way back the wind had followed them and, although the buffeting was lessening, the vibration and misfires from the Dakota’s starboard engine was shaking everything inside.
A lull came suddenly. Soft moaning and retching from the platoon replaced the roar of the weather and straining engines. Sharma felt terrible but as havildar he took his responsibilities very seriously. There was, he knew, only one thing that might take the men’s minds off their predicament. His throat burned and he had to shout over the worrying, irregular engine warbling. ‘Sourav, whose going in to bat fifth? Jah or Samonath?’
Several bloodless and utterly miserable faces looked up at him and then at Nehra.
Lance-naik Sourav Nehra, the fastest bowler in the 19th Kumaon and captain of the Third Battalion’s cricket Fir
st Team, was sitting a few places down from Sharma on the narrow bench seat. He looked up pensively. ‘I haven’t decided yet, Hav. The Mahratta spinners are pretty good. Actually I’d prefer it if we bat second. Mehboob, pass me a fruit drop will you? A strawberry one.’
One or two of the men nodded in agreement then began to chat among themselves about the upcoming match. Sharma relaxed a little. At home these men would think nothing of walking alone through miles of forest inhabited by tigers, wild boar and cobras, yet the 30-minute roller-coaster-nightmare in the air had turned them, and him, into nervous wrecks.
As the lightning and squalls gave way to drizzle, the men began to recover. Conversation, if any, was about cricket. Most of them were exhausted. Some even managed to doze, including Sharma.
A cannon-like backfire from the port engine jolted the plane. Sharma was immediately awake. All talking stopped as they listened in silence to the weak spluttering as the pilot tried to feather the engine back to life. The Dakota dipped. At the same time the starboard engine was given full power to try to compensate. Amidst the engine roar Sharma felt the plane losing height rapidly. Suddenly the nose pitched forwards forward and the speed surged.
‘Oh God!’—‘We’re going to crash!’—‘Lord Vishnu, save us!’
All of them heard the pilot’s frantic radio call as he hauled back on the joystick. ‘Mayday! Mayday! Oscar Niner Bravo engine failure! Attempting emergency landing near Bekassi. Mayday! Mayday! Oscar Niner Bravo…’
Although the Dakota was falling fast it was also starting to respond to the pilot’s efforts. The starboard engine had not cut out. They were pulling out of the dive—slowly. Sharma’s view through the cockpit windscreen changed from a hypnotic swirling green to treetops and a grey-white horizon. He grabbed hold of a strut and yelled. ‘Brace yourselves! Hold on to something!’
Loud scraping and drumming reverberated in the fuselage as the plane as brushed over top branches. ‘Hold on!’