Merdeka Rising

by Rory Marron

  Ota waved for him to stand at ease. Mac looked at the young officer, wondering if anyone in the British army had ever experienced an odder day.

  Ota was staring at Mac’s uniform, particularly at the Red cockerel patch on his shoulder. ‘What is your regiment?’

  ‘Seaforth Highlanders, Sir.’

  ‘You are British?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. We’re a Scottish regiment.’

  ‘Ah, “high lander.” Sukotorando ka… Where are you based?’

  Mac hesitated. The phrase ‘name, rank and serial number’ flashed into his mind. He wondered for a moment if regulations allowed him to answer. ‘Batavia, Sir. But I’m seconded to RAPWI.’

  ‘Rap—?’ Ota shrugged disinterestedly. ‘You were in Burma?’

  Mac pictured Archie’s broken body again and felt his anger stir. ‘Yes, Sir,’ he replied firmly. ‘Were you?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, no… only Java.’

  Mac sensed that Ota was preoccupied and apparently making conversation. A non-commissioned officer came up to them and Ota spoke to him.

  ‘Do you prefer a rifle or a carbine?’, asked Ota.

  ‘Rifle, Sir.’

  ‘Tanken?—I mean—bayonet?’

  ‘The full set, please, Sir.’

  ‘Go with Corporal Suzuki,’ Ota said. ‘I am going to a meeting.’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’ Mac saluted again. He was walking away when Ota called him back.

  ‘Private!’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘I heard there’s fighting at Surabaya.’

  Mac nodded. ‘There was fighting at Surabaya, Sir. I was there. But we’re heading south. Some internees at Ambarawa are in danger.’

  Ota left Kudo’s briefing with his stomach churning at the thought of Kate in the hands of the mob. He saw the vehicles at the gate and fought a sudden, desperate urge to jump in one and rush to Ambarawa.

  ‘Fall in! At the double!’ Sergeant-Major Tazaki’s voice boomed across the parade ground. It was unnecessary because the men were ready, yet it suited their mood. Word that their comrades were in danger had already circulated. They had prepared for battle without instruction. Many had tied small rising-sun flags to their rifle barrels.

  Kudo emerged and there was a sudden hush of expectation.

  ‘Attention!’ Tazaki bellowed.

  Hands slapped against rifle stocks and feet stamped in unison. An expectant silence followed.

  Kudo saluted then his eyes swept slowly over the assembled men. ‘Not long ago, I told you that our fighting days were over. I said there was “peace” and that, in time, we were all going home. Alas, I spoke too soon. Already a number of our comrades have been killed in this so-called peace, some just last night. Years from now we should have been reminiscing, sharing sake under cherry blossoms beside the Kanda river…but they are lost to us. Today, more of our comrades are in danger. A few stand against thousands. We cannot desert them. They make their stand alongside British Gurkhas! Together, they protect women and children from massacre. You will all remember the slaughter at Bulu Gaol. That day we were too late. Now I ask you to fight again, not for Japan but for the honour of the Kudo Butai! Let us not be late today!’ Kudo paused then saluted.

  Cheers erupted among the ranks and officers. ‘Banzai!—Banzai!—Banzai!’

  They quietened and watched as Kudo saluted Miller, who returned the salute smartly. Kudo turned back to his men and gave the command. ‘Mount up!’

  Ota was climbing up into a lorry cab when Captain Seguchi slapped him on the shoulder. ‘They won’t get Nagumo easily,’ he said encouragingly. ‘All the whores would be furious!’

  Those within earshot laughed.

  Ota managed a wan smile and pulled the door shut. The feeling of dread returned with a vengeance. What if Kate were already dead? And Nagumo too? It had never crossed his mind that they might be separated at the end. Silently he cursed his stupidity in daring to believe he had cheated death. Japan’s surrender had been nothing more than a fleeting respite that had tempted, lulled and softened him. Now, in a final, cruel agony, his promise to protect Kate was proving worthless. Java was going to claim her after all.…

  For the first five miles of town there were no roadblocks or sightings of militia but Miller, ever-conscious of the risk of ambush, led cautiously, stopping frequently to send out scouts ahead on motorcycles.

  The two hours from Djatingaleh to Sikoenin were the longest of Ota’s life. His knuckles gripped white on the sword scabbard propped between his knees. Yet again the column stopped. Ota fumed quietly when he saw Seguchi walking back down the convoy.

  Seguchi waved to him. ‘Ota, the Major wants you to hang back and try to raise Nagumo on the radio. Tell him we’re on our way. If you reach him, ask his position. Allow no longer than twenty minutes, then catch us up.’

  Fifteen minutes later Nishino, the radio operator, smiled in triumph as he handed over a set of headphones and microphone. ‘Lt Nagumo, Sir! The signal’s poor. Their batteries are low.’

  ‘Nagumo? It’s Ota. Over.’

  ‘Where are you? Over.’ Nagumo replied.

  ‘About twenty kilometres, repeat two-zero kilometres, from you. ETA is 1400 hours. What’s your situation?’

  ‘Surrounded but we’re holding them off. Enemy numbers estimated at more than three thousand! Ammunition is getting low. Eight dead, eleven badly—’ The signal faded and Ota frowned. Nishino adjusted the tuning dial, then nodded.

  He tried again. ‘Tell me your position.’

  Nagumo’s voice came booming back. ‘Front and centre at the high school gate.’

  Ota hesitated but he had to ask. ‘What about the women?’ He phrased it as a joke. In Japanese, onna, could mean women or woman. The reply would be in the headphones only.

  Nagumo sounded amused. ‘All of them or just one?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Ota smiled, already knowing the answer from Nagumo’s teasing.

  ‘Don’t worry, “Shower Girl” is fine,’ Nagumo reassured him. ‘She’s with the nuns.’

  Relief surged through Ota. He remembered the convent from his postings to Ambarawa. ‘We’ll be there soon’, he replied. ‘Watch yourself! Column over and out.’

  ‘Ambarawa out!’

  Ota handed back the headphones and microphone to Nishino and realised he would have heard Nagumo’s reply. He didn’t care. ‘Well done, Sparks,’ he said. ‘Let’s catch them up!’

  As the lorry moved off, Ota leant back in the cab, comforted by the thought that Kate was safe. It was only twenty kilometres, normally a journey of under an hour….

  Ambarawa

  Shirai lowered the field glasses and returned them to the man beside him. They were in the belfry of the church, the tallest building in Ambarawa. The school was just six hundred yards away.

  ‘So, the British have rearmed their coolies,’ Shirai said dismissively. ‘Add another fifty to the total.’

  Lieutenant Iga nodded, his face troubled. ‘They’re probably from Semarang,’ he said head down, adding to his notes on the defences.

  ‘Yes, Kudo’s turncoats,’ Shirai added scathingly. ‘I’ve seen enough.’ He was turning to go back down the tower when he saw Iga’s expression. ‘What’s on your mind, Captain?’

  Iga hesitated, choosing his words. ‘How do you think our men will react when they know they are going to attack their fellow Japanese?’

  Shirai’s look was icy. ‘Those who serve the enemy are traitors,’ he snapped. ‘Remember that!’

  ‘Yes, Captain,’ Iga said quickly.

  They heard a door open below. Someone started climbing the steps.

  Sarel, bare-chested with his long hair unbound, climbed into the belfry. He was followed by a youth in part-militia uniform.

  Shirai bowed. ‘Well, Major Sarel, do your Black Buffaloes scent victory?’

  The youth, a graduate from a Japanese-language educational programme, began interpreting.

  Sarel did not respond. Iga handed him the glasses. Slowly
and deliberately he scanned the school wall and buildings. He spoke casually, without lowering the glasses. ‘How do you propose to capture the school, Captain?’

  ‘They must have little ammunition left,’ Shirai said confidently. ‘It will not be difficult, perhaps two days at the most.’

  Sarel whirled to face Shirai before the interpreter had finished. ‘I remember you saying the same thing two days ago, when the Gurkhas were trapped at Magelang. They are still fighting us!’

  Shirai tensed. ‘I did not anticipate an air-strike and a supply drop. I will not make the same mistake again.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Sarel replied dismissively. ‘Did you know a cousin of General Manyar was killed in the bombing? The General is furious. He’s demanding an immediate attack.’

  ‘No!’ Shirai exclaimed in exasperation. ‘We should wait until dark!’ Now they are ready!’

  Sarel smiled coldly. ‘I wouldn’t try to change his mind. Not at the moment, anyway. Do not concern yourself, Major. We have plenty of warriors who are not afraid to die for their country.’ He let the barb hang as he went back to the steps, then looked back questioningly. ‘Will we see your Japanese volunteers at the front of the charge?’

  ‘They will be right beside your Buffaloes,’ Shirai countered sharply, knowing that Sarel’s men were rarely risked in mass attacks.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure they will,’ Sarel laughed. He disappeared down the stairs. His interpreter followed.

  Iga looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t trust him, Captain.’

  ‘There is no need for trust…at least as long as we both want the same thing.’

  ‘And when we no longer want the same thing?’

  Shirai shrugged. ‘We’ll all be dead long before then!’

  Shooting began and they turned to watch over two hundred pemuda charge the school in a reckless frontal assault. Most were cut down by machine gun fire before they got halfway to the wall. The attack petered out and the survivors retreated.

  Iga shook his head. ‘Pointless! I’ll go and prep the mortars.’

  ‘Yes, do that,’ Shirai replied enthusiastically. ‘Set the range to keep our old Semarang friends on their toes.’

  ‘They can shout as much as they like!’ Nagumo called out sarcastically over the jeering. Beside him his men laughed, though they knew another attack would come soon. For over an hour the attackers had been taking pot shots but had made no further attempts on the walls. Some familiar popping sounds from the nearest kampong instantly wiped the good humour from their faces.

  ‘Take cover!’ Nagumo shouted. They ran, scrambling for their foxholes. Seconds later six mortar shells landed in a narrow, precise band behind the main gate. The ground heaved.

  Nagumo, dizzy and covered in earth, staggered to his feet. One of his glasses lenses was missing.

  Two men had been blown out of their foxholes. One had lost both legs, the other had his chest and stomach ripped open. Blood splattered the ground around them. A third man was dead in his hole, his rib-cage splayed open to the spine.

  ‘Shit!’ Nagumo swore as his head and ears cleared. He realised the Javanese had guessed the foxholes would be set back that crucial few yards from the machine gun position… A second mortar volley sounded. It would come down on top of the first.

  ‘Back to the gate,’ he shouted urgently. His platoon rushed forward. Behind them the earth churned. There was a deep roar as once again the pemuda charged.

  Major Duncan watched the screaming youths waving rifles, swords, bamboo spears and machetes. Marksmen among the defenders started picking off their targets. At a hundred and fifty yards, Duncan gave the general command. ‘Gun crews open fire!’

  Brens and Nambus opened up together. Dozens of Javanese were cut down in the hail of lead. At fifty yards Duncan saw the gaps in the their lines were widening. Still the attack came on. Back at the wall Gurkhas with Sten sub-machine carbines were waiting for any who made it close enough to throw a grenade. None did. Cries of ‘Allahu akbah!’ and ‘Indonesia raya!’ petered out as the human wave faltered, then broke. Though the attack was spent, the pemuda withdrew defiantly, turning to fire or taunt.

  ‘Cease fire!’ Duncan ordered. He holstered his revolver. His face was pale as he surveyed the scattered, twisted mass of dead and wounded. Along the wall he saw three or four dead or badly wounded being carried away on stretchers by internee volunteers. Those still able to shoot were being tended to where they fought. His men, too, stared at the carnage before them. Respite was brief. A bugle sounded in the kampong and the battle chants started again….

  Bedono

  Light was fading when Kudo Butai entered the British perimeter at Bedono. Ota rushed to the summit clutching his field glasses, arms shaking as he tried to focus on the thin plumes of smoke over Ambarawa. The convent stood out in grey-white on a verdant hillside.

  Miller and Mac came to stand with him. They shared a cigarette while Ota pointed out some features of the town. ‘Do you know the road well, Lieutenant?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Yes, Major,’ Ota replied. I have used it many times.’

  ‘An easy road to block,’ Miller said to no-one in particular.

  ‘Too easy,’ Ota said bitterly. ‘It will take us about—’ He glanced at the troops below and saw they were preparing to camp. ‘Major,’ he asked anxiously, ‘the Gurkhas?’

  Miller nodded reluctantly. ‘We’re staying here until first light to allow the rear guard to catch up.’

  ‘But we can’t stop now!’ Ota said loudly.

  Miller saw his alarm but shook his head. ‘I know…but we haven’t eaten for hours and it’ll be dark soon. Get some food.’

  Ota noticed Kudo and Sgt-Major Tazaki. He rushed down the slope and hovered nearby as Kudo gave out instructions.

  ‘Post sentries to the east and north. The Gurkhas will guard the south and west.’

  ‘Yes, Sir! Immediately!’ Tazaki excused himself and left to organise.

  Ota approached and saluted. ‘Major, let me take a platoon. I’m sure I can make it to the school before dark.’

  Kudo looked at him askance. ‘You might,’ replied Kudo tersely. ‘But the Javans could easily take out such a small force. If any British pilots see you they’d assume you were militia and attack.’

  ‘But Sir, we are so close!’ Ota pressed.

  Kudo looked at him carefully. ‘I’m surprised at you. Rest or you’ll be useless tomorrow.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I am keen to reach Ambarawa. Also, I heard a rumour that your enthusiasm has little to do with aiding our comrades and has more to do with a skirt.’

  ‘Major, I—I’, Ota stammered helplessly in surprise and embarrassment. He stared at the ground.

  Kudo let him stew for a several seconds. ‘I’ll excuse your emotions this once. You are a good officer, Ota, but if for one instant I think you are endangering my men’s lives for personal reasons I will shoot you where you stand.’

  Guilt flooded through Ota. ‘Excuse me, Major, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’ He came to attention and saluted.

  ‘I trust not,’ Kudo said dismissively. He turned his back on Ota and strode away.

  Ota was shaken awake just before dawn by the sound of two Stuart tanks turning over their engines. Thick, acrid exhaust smoke drifted over him and down the hillside.

  ‘Come on, Ota,’ Seguchi called to him. ‘The Indos started where they left off. They’re shelling the Gurkha rear guard.’

  He jumped to his feet, amazed that he had slept at all. He felt calmer. The deep, nagging worry was still with him but it was no longer in control. He went back up to the summit and scanned the road ahead once again. This time he did it methodically, looking for likely ambush.

  Two more hours passed before a Stuart rattled into view with half-a-dozen wounded strapped precariously on its back. Behind it followed the exhausted Gurkha rear guard, some on foot because they had lost transports to mortars.

  At eleven o’clock, with the sun already fierce, the first Indians and Gur
khas moved off the hill. The RAF had reported four roadblocks between Bedono and Ambarawa. Ota’s anxiety began to return.

  Finally the order came for the Japanese to mount up. Three miles down the road they halted while the Gurkhas advanced on foot behind a Stuart up to the first roadblock. Nearly an hour passed before the all-clear came. It had been deserted but checks for booby traps and snipers had all taken time. Two more roadblocks were all unmanned but at each one retreating bands of armed youths were visible in the surrounding hills.

  At five o’clock Kudo Butai caught up with the Gurkhas again. They were a hundred yards from a steel road bridge over a steep, rocky ravine. The unmistakable rhythm of a Nambu machine gun sounded in the distance. A Stuart stood at the bridge, impervious to the bullets clanging off its armour.

  The Stuart’s 37mm gun boomed. Again the Nambu clattered in reply.

  Another hour passed until eventually a blanket mortar salvo silenced the Nambu permanently, allowing the Gurkhas to take the bridge. Ota looked yet again at his watch and the nearby vista. Light was fading. Above Ambarawa the last rays of sunlight were catching the hill-tops. The column pressed on.

  Powerful lights half-blinded him as three more Stuarts squeezed past the troop carriers, their tracks at thirty degrees on the banks of the narrow road.

  Kudo gathered his officers, shouting over the noise from the tanks. ‘We’re risking the last two miles. Tanks and Gurkhas leading!’

  There were murmurs of surprise. In the dark, the tanks would be vulnerable to mines and ambush.

  ‘There are concerns about the convent,’ Kudo added. ‘It’s unguarded.’

  Ota felt the familiar icy claw of dread twisting in his stomach.

  The Stuarts rolled towards the town in a staggered column of four, their heavy machine guns blazing randomly left and right into buildings and vegetation. Kampongs emptied as villagers abandoned their homes in panic. Along the roadside, strings of fragile wooden huts crumpled under metal caterpillar treads. Roaring orange jets from flame-throwers briefly turned night into day, leaving the air heavy with the clinging stench of burnt petroleum. Their speed was slow, no more than five miles an hour but it was relentless, a glacier of steel and fire sweeping all before it.