by Rory Marron
Allenby frowned. ‘Very well but please keep them at a distance. We don’t want any misunderstandings.’
‘No, of course not.’ Moestopo’s eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘Also, there are rumours of Dutch forces on the ships…’ he let the words hang, gauging the reaction.
‘That is not true,’ Allenby said quickly. ‘There are a few Dutch medics, interpreters and logistics staff but that is all.’
‘I see,’ Moestopo seemed unconvinced. ‘Thank you, Brigadier. Until tomorrow.’
Allenby and Colonel Leonard Hughes, his second in command, were studying a large-scale street plan. Prominent on the map was the canalised Kali Mas river, which cut Surabaya in two.
‘What’s our furthest position south on the river, Len?’
‘The Rajrifs are on the west bank here,’ Hughes pointed. ‘Two companies of Mahrattas crossed over to the east bank via the Ferwerda drawbridge an hour ago. No obstruction reported but still a couple of hundred or so armed spectators.’
Allenby was measuring on the map with a pair of dividers. He shook his head. ‘Look, it’s nearly seven miles from Darmo to the docks. We’re going to be badly stretched. We’ve got twelve-hundred men at best, including medics, and nearly everyone in the town is armed to the teeth!’
Hughes murmured in agreement, ‘But it seems quiet enough tonight. I still can’t believe that Dutchman let the Japs scuttle away like that and then lost the bloody weapons!’
It had not taken long for 49th Brigade to hear the news of the Japanese surrender and the subsequent looting of the naval armoury.
‘HQ should have known about the surrender fiasco days ago,’ Allenby said scathingly, pinning small blue flags on the map. ‘The Intelligence boys described this as a low-risk evacuation. We’ve got lightly equipped platoons dotted all over the town. It could get nasty at any moment.’
‘Let’s hope Moestopo can deliver what he says…’ Hughes said gravely.
‘Right,’ said Allenby, indicating on the map. ‘I want strong positions at Ferwerda and the International Bank overlooking the Red Bridge. Those are the two main crossings. Once the convoys leave the hospital at Darmo, the only defendable spot big enough to house several hundred is the Marine School but it’s across the river.’
Hughes did some mental arithmetic. ‘What about 3rd Field Regiment? Fixed artillery isn’t going to be much good to us here. They could provide escorts for the convoys through the town.’
‘Yes, we’ll base them at Darmo with 71st Field Co., 5th Rajrif and 47th Field Ambulance. At least it’ll give the impression of numbers. If there is trouble, we’ll have to protect the internees as best we can. The waterworks and electricity sub-station are near Darmo, so it will be good to have the sappers of the 71st close at hand in case of any supply problems.’
‘What about here?’ Hughes asked, pointing to Morokrembangan airfield.
Allenby rubbed his chin. ‘Yes, there’s a RAPWI coordinator flying in from Semarang tomorrow morning at ten with some press people on board. Just what we don’t need! Get one company of Mahrattas there by nine and secure the area. Leave those two companies at the drawbridge and bank. They stay put no matter what.’
Ferwerda Drawbridge
The luminous hands on Nakish’s watch read 8.35 pm. Three minutes had elapsed since the last time he looked. Beside him Salunke yawned, hawked then spat into the dark water of the Kali Mas.
‘Ankul, do you see that?’ Salunke hissed under his breath.
‘What?’
‘Down there! It’s a body!’ Salunke pointed.
Nakish peered for several seconds and then made out a shape. His flashlight illuminated the limp form of a dead mongrel.
Nakish let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘For God’s sake, Laxi!’
‘Sorry,’ said Salunke. ‘It’s getting to me.’
Subedar Jadhav called out from the other end of the bridge. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing, Sub, false alarm,’ Nakish replied apologetically.
Since sunset few people had crossed the drawbridge yet the town was far from still. There was the frequent noise of cars stopping and starting on nearby roads. The Indians could see nothing but the backs of the buildings abutting the bank of the Kali Mas.
Seconds later, headlights flashed and a large car turned quickly onto the approach road. Its driver saw the soldiers late, braked hard, and then reversed into a wall. The engine stalled and the driver fled down an unlit side street.
Half a dozen Mahrattas fanned out around the car, a Packard 120. It was crammed with Japanese rifles, stick-grenades and boxes of ammunition.
Salunke spoke for them all. ‘There have been cars moving around all night. If they’re all loaded like this one…’
Subedar Jadhav nodded. ‘Let’s get on the radio to HQ.’
Just after eight o’clock the next morning an unexpected aircraft came in low from the north and circled over the town, leaving leaflets swirling in its wake. The four-engine, RAF C-87 Liberator long-range transport had flown directly from Singapore. The soldiers of 49th Infantry Brigade, on duty in the docks, bridges and crossroads, paid it little attention. They had seen plenty of leaflets before….
‘What the bloody hell’s going on!’ Allenby crumpled a leaflet and threw it to the floor. It demanded the immediate surrender of all unauthorised weapons and ammunition in Surabaya within twenty-four hours. Failure to comply would result in forced confiscation.
Hughes sighed. ‘God knows. The Psychological Warfare Section operates out of Ceylon. This proclamation must have been authorised days ago. The same as for Batavia and Semarang.’
Allenby shook his head in anger and frustration. ‘Too many surprises here, Len. The Javans are jumpy enough as it is. This drop has put us right on the spot. Get the extra ammo off the ships pronto.’
‘It’s being done but they were loaded in a rush and it’s under tons of bloody food.’
‘What a damn mess!’ Allenby stared at the map of the city. ‘Clear the harbour before the ammo comes off landed. No need for Moestopo & Co to know what we’re up to.’
‘Right.’
There was a knock on the door and an aide entered. ‘Brigadier, Mr Moestopo to see you. He’s alone this time.’
Allenby nodded. ‘Send him in.’
Moestopo almost fell into the room. He was clutching one of the leaflets. ‘Brigadier,’ he panted, ‘what is the meaning of this?’
Allenby sat back and opened his hands calmly. ‘All Japanese arms in Java must be surrendered to British forces. These leaflets have been authorised by Lord Mountbatten.’
‘But the people will not give up their weapons!’
‘I’m afraid they will have to,’ Allenby said pleasantly but adamantly.
Moestopo wrung his hands in agitation. ‘If—if you give them more time I could explain over the radio….’
Allenby smiled. ‘I can be flexible, Mr Moestopo. I’m willing to extend the deadline to midnight the day after tomorrow.’
‘Yes? Thank you! I’ll telephone President Sukarno in Djakarta immediately.’ Moestopo hurried away as quickly as he had come.
Allenby and Hughes grinned at each other and went back to the map.
Hotel Michiels
‘The priority is, of course, the safe evacuation of all who wish to leave. Any questions before we have some lunch?’ Several of Allenby’s audience of journalists raised their hands, including Meg.
‘Miss Graham, your question’.
‘Brigadier, what sort of co-operation are you getting from the locals?’
‘Fair, so far,’ he shrugged. ‘We aren’t popular. For the wrong reasons, I hasten to add. I think the people of Surabaya understand that we are here to do a job and nothing more. Our—’
‘You are saying that British troops will not be staying in Surabaya?’ Boer, who Meg knew from Djakarta, interrupted loudly.
‘Our deployment is seen as short term,’ Allenby said diplomatically. Meg sensed the reply was mainly for the benefit of
the Indonesians who were writing down his every word.
Boer tried again. ‘Do you have any information on the whereabouts of the Dutch naval officer, Captain Henssen, who took the formal surrender of the city some days ago?’
Allenby’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Alas no. We hope to locate Captain Henssen very soon.’
‘There are rumours that he is being held by rebels,’ Boer continued. ‘Do you intend to free him?’
‘I cannot comment on rumours. At the moment he is not a priority.’
Hughes came in looking concerned. ‘Excuse me, Brigadier, I’m sorry to interrupt but I think you and the correspondents should hear this.’ He opened the door wide. In the office beyond, the staff had paused to listen to a passionate, measured voice on the radio. A Dutch liaison officer was interpreting.
‘…Citizens of Surabaya, now the time has come to fight for a Free Indonesia! Yesterday the British arrived saying they came to evacuate the Dutch. The infidels lied! You have read their demands. They want to disarm us. As I speak, Dutch troops are landing at Tandjong Perak! We must resist. Allah is with us! Prepare for jihad. Let it be freedom or death!’
The broadcast ended and activity resumed in the outer office. Allenby looked earnestly at three young journalists working for the Surabaya news-sheets. ‘Gentlemen, I would be grateful if you would stress to your editors and readers that our presence here is purely humanitarian. I repeat there are no Dutch troops with us.’
The serious young men excused themselves and left.
Allenby turned to Hughes. ‘Put everyone on alert. Are the docks secure?’
‘I’ll check immediately, Sir,’ he replied.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press,’ Allenby said regretfully. ‘Please limit your movements to the Darmo area. We hope that there won’t be any trouble but as you heard the locals are nervous and suspicious.’
‘Of course, Brigadier,’ Meg nodded, admiring the British preference for understatement.
Radio Surabaya Building
Mayor Moestopo sat glumly as he listened to the broadcast. Around him stood a group of excited pemuda, most of them brandished swords or knives. A few also had Dutch army revolvers. He had gone to the radio station with the intention of keeping his promise to Allenby. Black Buffaloes had been waiting. Their leader, a man with cold, piercing eyes had scoffed at his plea for co-operation and accused him of disloyalty to the revolution. Sarel scared Moestopo. It was he who was making the broadcast.
‘… Let it be Freedom or Death!’
As the harangue ended, Moestopo rose to leave. A youth shoved him back down in his seat. ‘You don’t go anywhere until Sarel says so!’
Moments later Sarel came back from the studio. His eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed. The youths congratulated him loudly, punching the air in enthusiasm. Moestopo stood up again, unchallenged this time. Sarel eyed him dismissively.
‘Those were words of madness,’ Moestopo stammered. ‘What good will it do to make the British our enemies as well as the Dutch? Thousands will die needlessly!’
Sarel threw his head back and laughed. ‘That was the call to revolution, old man! To build a free nation!’
‘But the British soldiers will—’
‘The British came here as our enemies,’ Sarel spat. ‘They will leave or die.’
Again the youths cheered. One of them stepped forward grinning, brandishing a sword. ‘When Sarel? When do we kill the infidels?’
‘Patience, Kalim, wait—’
The door opened and Lamban entered. Like Sarel he was bare-chested and in military trousers and leather boots. A sword hung at his waist. There was a sudden, respectful quiet. Lamban looked only at Sarel. ‘The weapons and ammunition have been distributed. Everything is ready.’
Sarel turned back to the others. ‘Yes, wait—until four-thirty. Then sweep them from the city!’
Darmo Barracks
‘And what is this?’ The dark-haired woman was pointing to a bird in a tattered picture book. Half a dozen tiny hands shot skyward. She smiled. ‘Now Heidi, you’ve answered one before!’
Meg watched the open-air lesson, impressed yet again by the Dutch women’s determination to educate their children despite their difficult circumstances. In the barracks and the neighbouring streets, ex-internees were living five or six families to a house in conditions only marginally better than their former camps.
Meg had bumped into the teacher, Daphne James, earlier that day. Over a cup of coffee brewed on a camping stove, Meg had learned that she was English and married to a Dutchman. She had lived in Surabaya for ten years. Daphne had also confessed she had no plans to stay on.
‘Why not?’ Meg had asked her.
‘Oh, well, everything changed. It wasn’t easy being British among this lot,’ she had said rather hastily.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Most of them blame us for the Nip invasion!’
Meg had stared. ‘What?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Daphne had continued. ‘Believe me, it didn’t take long for the finger-pointing and bickering to start. “General Wavell deserted us…” People became selfish and bitter. In the end it was easier to keep to our own—if you see what I mean.’
‘What about your husband?’
‘Last I heard he was in a camp near Bandung. I’m not sure I’m ready to see him just now.’ Daphne had sniffed and smiled wanly. ‘I know now it sounds awful of me but I want a little time. I’ll see the children off home first—they were in hospital and got separated from their mothers—then I’m going to England…alone.’
Meg had nodded in understanding. ‘It will take time for everyone,’ she had said sympathetically.
The class was fun and Meg found herself smiling, cheered by the happy children.
‘Your turn, Jopie!’ Daphne smiled and pointed to an apple. ‘Jopie was a golden-haired girl aged about four who held a ragged teddy bear in a vice-like embrace.
‘Appural!’ Jopie shouted, then giggled.
‘That’s right, well done!’
Meg left the garden to watch the scene in the street. Hundreds of women and older children were gathered in the front drives and gardens of once-impressive, detached houses waiting to board lorries. Around them, piled on the driveways, were suitcases, boxes and their other belongings. British and Indian officers were having a difficult time convincing them to abandon their possessions, even though it was obvious that there wasn’t enough space.
She watched uneasily, knowing that Wing Commander Ball had expected to find no more than four thousand internees in Surabaya. The count had already passed seven thousand.
‘They’re taking too long,’ Meg said to herself. ‘Way too long.’
Central Post Office, Surabaya
Sepoy Padurang Rane was counting the pre-loaded 30-round box-magazines for the Bren light machine gun but he had other things on his mind. ‘Eighteen, nineteen…twenty, that’s all we’ve got. You know, Maruti, those lucky sods will get the best billets as usual, and they’re next to all those women at Darmo!’
Maruti Chavan laughed. ‘You never stop complaining, do you, Padu? You’ve moaned all the bloody way from India, all through Burma and now to Java!’ He leant the Bren against one of the square pillars at the entrance to the Post Office.
Other men in the platoon were still bringing in kit bags and equipment. Three companies of Mahrattas had finally come ashore, without much of their kit, at midday.
‘My mother always wanted me to work in a post office,’ Chavan said cheerfully. ‘I should write to her and let her know.’
Rane rolled his eyes. ‘My mother always worried I’d end up robbing post offices! Do you suppose there’s any cash left in here?’
Chavan was about to reply when someone answered for him.
‘Only Jap scrip but plenty of paper and stamps though, so you can write to your dear mother during your tea break.’ Rane recognised the sarcastic tone of Jemadar Nimse.
‘Why isn’t that Bren set up?’ Nimse
snapped.
Rane turned with a weak grin and looked up at Nimse’s six-foot-three frame. ‘Give me a chance, Jem.’
‘Right then, here’s your chance. And help bring in the rest of the kit. Major Cane’s due to inspect at 1800 hours.’
Chavan and Rane groaned in unison.
International Bank of Surabaya
A raised, stone porch provided welcome shade for sepoy Shantaran Nambir as he stood guard. It also put him head and shoulders above those around him. The paving stones of the square were shimmering in the full glare of the sun. Opposite the bank, on the wall of a department store, was a large clock. It gave the time as ten-past four.
Nambir had been at his post for just over an hour. Already he felt something was amiss. Earlier the square had been teeming with people on their way to or from the east side of town via the Red Bridge across the Kali Mas. Now the few who crossed, even women and children, did so hurriedly. Something seemed odd. Nambir was not sure what it was exactly, other than an air of tension.
Behind him, the heavy brass doorknob clicked as it turned. Havildar Satish Shinde appeared, his narrow eyes squinting in the bright sunshine. He was lean with angular features. ‘Anything unusual, Shant?’ Shinde asked as his eyes raked the square.
Nambir shook his head. ‘No, Hav, apart from very few locals.’
Shinde’s hawk-like eyes settled on a group of youths standing on the opposite side of the square. Two of them were bare-chested with shoulder-length hair. ‘How long have they been there?’
‘They come and go,’ replied Nambir. ‘Sometimes more, sometimes fewer but always the two with the lovely tresses.’
‘Keep your eyes peeled,’ Shinde said scanning the square once more before he went back inside.
A little later, Nambir heard engines. There were few vehicles on the roads, mainly because the British were seizing them for use in evacuating the internees. It was an unpopular policy with the Surabayans who had heard rumours the cars were being taken in order to return them to their former Dutch owners. Nambir had seen several scuffles between angry drivers and soldiers.