by Rory Marron
A rush of applause and appreciative murmurs followed his words.
As Ota interpreted, his former comrades appeared stunned. Chrishaw slid the blade back in its scabbard and offered the sword horizontally with both hands just as the Japanese had done decades before. ‘Here, Mr Ota, please take it and return it to the General’s family. Tell them that though I cannot forget what I lost in that terrible war, I can, perhaps, forgive.’
Ota took the sword and bowed. ‘General, I am honoured. General Yamagami’s family will be very grateful.’
There was another round of applause and yet more photographs were taken, this time of Chrishaw and the Japanese with the sword.
Judith Stott was beaming. ‘That was a marvellous gesture, Sir Philip. You’ve given me the title for my piece.’
‘Oh, let me guess,’ Chrishaw said with an amused nod. ‘Something about an old soldier….’
Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, The Netherlands
The young Dutch woman serving in the flower kiosk greeted her elderly customer with a friendly. ‘Goeiemiddag’—Good Day. ‘May I help you?’
Good morning,’ replied Ota. ‘I’d like a box of the red tulips.’
‘Certainly,’ said the woman smiling. ‘They’re lovely bright blooms aren’t they. Shall I wrap them as a present?’
Ota nodded. ‘Yes, please. They always bring back memories.’
‘Nice memories of Holland, I hope?’
He shook his head, his eyes suddenly a little distant. ‘No, memories of a promise kept in Java.’
Slightly perplexed, the assistant smiled anyway, convinced her elderly customer had misunderstood her. She wished him a good journey. ‘Goede reis!’
Ota thanked her and headed back to the departure gate where Nagumo and the others were waiting. KLM-Royal Dutch Airlines Flight 861 to Tokyo was ready to board.
‘By the way,’ Nagumo said pointing across the terminal. ‘Look at the sign over there.’
Ota turned. At the gate opposite, the information board listed Flight 837 to Jakarta’s Sukarno-Hatta Airport. Bored-looking Asian and western passengers sat together, waiting quietly. He looked back at Nagumo. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
Nagumo nodded. ‘We left behind many friends…we should go and pray for them where they fell.’
Ota looked at the board again and smiled. ‘You’re right, we’ll return to Java. But let’s go home first.’
終
The End
A request from the author:
Dear Reader,
I hope you have enjoyed Merdeka Rising. Please help promote my story by leaving a comment on the story on the site where you purchased this ebook. If you use social media, please share your comment
Sincerely,
Rory Marron
The origins of
Black Sun, Red Moon: A Novel of Java
and Merdeka Rising.
Some years ago, while I was living in Japan, my father sent me a copy of an article published in the London Daily Telegraph newspaper entitled ‘Old soldier returns surrender sword’. I was intrigued by a reference to ‘an extraordinary incident after the surrender, when Japanese troops were re-armed by the British to help them liberate the Java internment camps’. That single sentence fired my curiosity, which led me to research and, eventually, to write my story. The newspaper article is reproduced in full on my website (see below). Black Sun, Red Moon and Merdeka Rising are fiction. The violence, deaths and valour on Java in 1945-46 are fact.
RM
For more background information, research-related and contemporary photographs and additional maps please visit:
http://www.rorymarron.com