by Rory Marron
BLACK SUN
RED MOON
BLACK SUN
RED MOON
A NOVEL OF JAVA
Rory Marron
SEVENTH CITADEL
Black Sun, Red Moon: A Novel of Java
Copyright © 2013 by Rory Marron. Revised (minor corrections): 2017
The right of Rory Marron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages and reproduce the cover for a review, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Published by Seventh Citadel (www.seventhcitadel.com).
ISBN: 978-0-9576305-0-5 (Kindle); ASIN: B00EHJUI48
Cover design from an idea by Rory Marron, developed by John Amy ([email protected])
Cover: Japanese sword by Uchifusa, ca. 1936, courtesy VP Collection.
Photograph © Geoff Smith.
‘Duty’ calligraphy by Chenkai101.
eBook Formatting: www.makemyebook.com
Back-cover photograph, 'Audience with Yudistra' (‘Mengahadap Yudistra’), wayang kulit (shadow puppetry) © Jim Henry.
Translation of the Imperial Rescript announcing acceptance of the terms offered to Japan at the Potsdam Conference quoted from Reports of General MacArthur, Japanese Operations in the Southwest Pacific Area. Volume II, Part II. Washington, DC, 1966.
Maps by L. Maddocks (1951) for Gale & Polden Ltd. (Attempts have been made to identify the rights-holder, who is invited to contact the publisher.)
Lyrics to ‘Ina no Kantaro’ © Takao Saeki, 1943. Translation of second verse by Rory Marron.
Come to Java, Official Tourist Office, Weltevreden, 1923.
Wirid references are from Wirid: The Mystical Teachings of the Eight Saints by Raden Ngabehi Ranggawarsita; translated from the Javanese by M. Mansur Medeiros. Jawi Kandha/Albert Rusche & Co., Surakata, 1908.
For my parents;
Recipients of the General Service Medal, 1945-46 with
Clasp for ‘South-East Asia’;
and
Two Gentlemen of Tokyo,
Who made me welcome.
Names of Characters
Historical fiction often requires reference to actual people and events to give context. Thus the suggestion of someone other than Lord Louis Mountbatten as the head of South-East Asia Command (SEAC) would be odd, so in my story Mountbatten is given (brief) dialogue with a mixture of both historical and fictional characters. In the same way, Sukarno and Dr Mohammed Hatta, key figures in Indonesian history, are not disguised and are given dialogue. My guideline for changing or disguising characters in ‘supporting roles’ was if there was a danger of taking an historical character beyond a ‘reasonable assumption’ of dialogue. For example, the characters of Dutch colonial and military officers invented here are creative combinations of dozens of officials whose comments and actions are on record. Other changes were made reluctantly. Official files are full of the names of many men whose service and deeds deserve to be better known. Yet attempts to honour (or vilify) them by using their real names in a work of fiction risk their actions being inaccurately depicted. Most of the names used in this story are therefore disguised.
I also confess to the creation and ‘importation’ of names that are easier for a native speaker of English to read. In the case of Japanese names, many were chosen randomly from friends and acquaintances. Indonesian names were more problematic, since many Javanese and Sumatrans have only one name, often rather long. Consequently, I invented names. In so doing, unintended syllabic combinations might have occurred. Similarly, relatively few Indian and Dutch names are familiar to, or can be read easily by, the non-native speaker. There were many instances of surname duplication among the 80,000 Dutch and Eurasians interned in camps in Java. For this reason I also used names of Dutch acquaintances, names I read in the KLM Airlines in-flight magazine, and also the Amsterdam and Maastricht telephone directories. I also created combinations of given and family names in memoirs of wartime Java. Fairly late on in the writing I stumbled upon a photograph album of a family by the name of van Damme (a not uncommon Dutch surname) living in Surabaya in the 1930s. I decided, however, not to change the names of my characters because of this coincidence.
Contents
Maps
Prologue
Book One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Book Two
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Origins
And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal,
And, lo, there was a great earthquake;
And the sun became black as sackcloth of hair,
And the moon became as blood…
Revelation 6:12
The Geneva Bible, 1599.
Prologue
Burma, April 1943
Alun MacDonald hated the Chindwin River because he knew that when he came to cross it the Japanese would try to kill him. Sighing, he leant back against the trunk of the large Indian laurel tree that had been supporting him for several minutes. He was tired and dejected. It was four o’clock in the morning but the heat was already building. Soon, though, the monsoon would break and it would get even worse. He would be trudging around knee-deep in mud, risking trench-foot. As if malaria, typhoid and dysentery were not enough, there were poisonous cobras and kraits, ants the size of a sixpence and spiders as large as soup plates.
Ten yards from his position ran the great river. It was the widest he had ever seen but he knew that beyond the Chindwin, deep in Japanese-held territory, was the Irrawaddy, which was even bigger. Everything about Burma seemed big: its vast, murky rivers; dark, towering teak trees and seemingly endless scrub vegetation. A few days before, from the crest of the jungle-covered hills now a few miles to his rear, he had glimpsed nothing but a rolling monotony of green that swept onwards as far as some low, ragged hills on the horizon.
Again he scanned the dark canopy of foliage above him, hoping for a sign of the dawn that would signal the end of his penance. All he could see was cloud or the mist that rolled across the surface of the river. In truth, he could not discern where mist ended and cloud began. His ears were filled with the nagging whine of mosquitoes. He jerked his head and blew up sharply over his face to try to keep the tenacious insects from his nose and eyes. Pieces of fine mesh cut from a mosquito net were wrapped around his hat and hands. It was not regulation issue but he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, if the Army could set the rules for the war against the Japanese, he could set his own for his smaller, constant and frustrating battle against the insects that thrived in the vast, sub-tropical compost heap that was Burma.
‘Bastard mozzies! Bastard Burma!’ he hissed.
On his last night ‘stag’, he had finished his watch with thirty-four bites on his face. That wasn’t anywhere near to the record held by his friend, Archie Ferguson. One night a weary Archie had come off stag and had nodded off after going to the latrine. One hundred and three bites and a severe bout of malaria later, ‘Archie’s Arse’ was already legend in the 1st Battalion Seaforth Highlanders.
A distinct but by now fami
liar splash came from the river. For the first two hours of his watch, every jumping fish had sent him rushing for cover ready to jerk on the log-line that would alert the next sentry along the Seaforths’ defensive perimeter. His Lee-Enfield rifle raised, he had waited tensely for the Japanese patrol he imagined was crossing the river. His nervousness had left him exhausted. Now the splashes barely registered and the line was a few feet away from him, draped over a bush. His rifle stock rested on the ground in front of him, and he held the barrel with both hands. He felt himself falling asleep but the pinch of another insect bite roused him. Wearily he pushed away from the tree and stretched in an attempt to keep awake. He scratched absent-mindedly at a louse on his scalp. Time for another cigarette, he told himself. It would at least help keep the mosquitoes away. He should have had company but the battalion was stretched with many men down with malaria, despite the daily dose of mepacrine that had given their skin a yellow tinge.
Heat, bites, sores, and solitude were not MacDonald’s only complaints. Four weeks before he had been one of a hundred men who had gone down with dysentery. For almost a week he hadn’t dared move more than a few yards from a latrine. Extra ones had been dug but queues had still been too long and often the stricken Seaforths had no option but to relieve themselves where they stood. Flies had swarmed and feasted as the mess and stench was tramped all over the camp. Before long, infection had claimed the rest of the battalion. Eventually medical officers from Field Hygiene had ordered a new camp set up a mile away and then burnt their uniforms and underwear. After that episode MacDonald had promised himself that when he got home he would never leave Scotland and flushing lavatories again.
Above him he noticed a slight greying above the treetops. Dawn was not far off. At last, he thought, even though it meant the sun would bring the oppressive, sticky heat.
‘Not long, now, Mac lad,’ he said aloud to himself.
Idly, he glanced down at his boots. Protruding from a lace hole was what looked like a short piece of black string. He bent quickly, catching the leech and squeezing it hard between his finger and thumb trying to burst it.
‘Bastard leeches!’ He snarled, threw it down and stamped on it. At least he had seen that one, he thought. Instinctively he brushed the backs of his trousers.
If he were lucky he’d get two hours sleep before breakfast. Night stag always left him miserable, he thought. But guarding this place! The top brass had to be joking. As far as he was concerned, if the Japs wanted this godforsaken greenhouse they were welcome to it! After all, the bloody Burmese weren’t making the British feel welcome. Apart from the hill tribes, most of them had sided with the Japanese after a quick promise of independence. Ungrateful sods! Absentmindedly he kicked at a twig then farted loudly. His contempt jumped effortlessly to the generals who had ordered the Seaforths to the banks of the Chindwin. Mac had no doubts they were safe, clean and over-fed back in India. ‘Wankers!’ he spat vehemently.
‘Who’s that then?’
Mac jumped, bringing his Lee Enfield rifle around. Before he could make half a turn a slim rattan cane forced the barrel downwards. A mouth was at his ear and a hand was pressing lightly on his shoulder.
‘Easy there, I’m on your side!’ The voice was a good-humoured whisper. Mac stood stock-still, his face ashen, staring at a young officer.
‘Sorry to make you jump like that! I’m Lt Miller, Princess Mary’s Own. Relax; the thing is we’ve got a couple of chaps coming back across the river from a “tiger patrol”. We don’t want you taking a pot shot.’
Mac felt a bit giddy. Christ! If it had been a Jap…. Miller stepped away, blending into the bushes.
‘It took me a while to find you until I heard and then, well, smelt the beans!’ Miller chortled. ‘Then you talked to yourself. That really marked your spot. Good job I’m not Johnny Jap!’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Mac said nervously. He fumbled for his tin of cigarettes wondering if Miller was enjoying his discomfort. Again the shadowy figure admonished him.
‘I wouldn’t light up just yet. The mist is lifting and there might be snipers about.’
Mac glanced towards the river. A narrow sandbar was now visible in the mass of grey water. He decided the cigarette could wait. He moved nearer to Miller. His mouth was dry.
‘Right, Sir. Blimey! I never heard you—I can hardly see a thing!’
‘Hmm,’ replied Miller preoccupied. He raised an arm and signalled briefly into the bushes over Mac’s left shoulder.
Mac glanced quickly behind him but saw no one.
‘Should be a doddle,’ Miller went on encouragingly. ‘But if the Nips open up, give covering fire but not to the left of that sandbar. Remember, you’ve no foxhole, so change position after each shot. They’ll be watching for muzzle flash. Let’s hope they haven’t rumbled our chaps and try a raid themselves!’
Mac was about to ask what he should do if he did see Japanese when a shrill bird-call sounded from further up the riverbank. Miller gave another quick signal then merged with the bushes.
‘Oh shite!’ Mac moaned, feeling very alone. Suddenly his hands felt numb and he squeezed his rifle stock to try and increase the blood flow to his fingers. He waited, his stifled breath roaring in his ears.
When the bird-call came again it was much closer, almost directly opposite him on the river. Mac’s heart began to race. Miller had said the Japs might try something. What if they knew the signals and the crossing place…?
Fifteen yards out into the river the mist was still a dense, grey wall. Mac’s eyes began to play tricks on him. Several times he was convinced he saw wading Japanese soldiers only for the shapes to dissolve into swirls. ‘Steady now,’ he whispered trying to calm himself.
Over to his left he thought he saw something dark amidst the grey, moving very slowly, against the current. Mac raised his rifle to his shoulder praying it was only a water buffalo. Nervous sentries, more attuned to the nocturnal sounds of urban Glasgow, had shot several of the unfortunate beasts.
As the lower mist thinned to wispy fingers he saw it was not an animal but a small rubber boat. Two paddles were dipping noiselessly, leaving barely a ripple. He could not see the paddlers. A gun barrel was protruding over the boat’s front but to his dismay he could not tell if it were a British Lee-Enfield or a Japanese Arisaka.
Gradually the boat drew nearer and he made out two small, hunched figures in dark, soaked shirts. Their heads were still hidden in the mist. Furiously Mac tried to remember the pocket placements on Japanese field dress. His mind was a blank.
Then the men stopped paddling and the boat’s momentum stalled as though it were unwilling to leave the clinging protection of the mist. Mac swallowed hard. Wiry brown arms and slender hands held the paddles.
A pang of dread shot through him as he realised he had left the log-line out of reach. He had to warn the others! Then he realised a shot would do just that. Idiot! He told himself to calm down and take his cue from Miller. But what if Miller couldn’t see them? What if more Japs had already landed downstream and were closing in? His right biceps trembled and he pulled the rifle stock more firmly into his shoulder.
For a few seconds more the boat drifted and then the paddles began dipping once again. As it came closer the Asian features of two men became clear.
Mac mouthed a silent ‘Fuck!’ Bile rose to the back of his mouth at the thought of a human target. His throat burned as he swallowed. Though he had never seen action he had been well drilled. The wooden stock felt solid against his chest. He eased the safety catch forward. Then slowly and carefully he took the slack out of the trigger. The man’s chest filled his front and rear sights. It was an easy, certain shot.
‘I’ll have you, Tojo!’ Mac croaked softly. The smell of gun oil filled his nose. He exhaled and began the final squeeze. Just then the paddler’s head dipped and he saw the distinctive 14th Army slouch hat.
Mac flicked his finger away from the trigger, his stomach churning. Jesus, I nearly shot one of ours! Why didn’t
Miller tell him they were Gurkhas! He lowered his rifle from his trembling shoulders.
Now the boat was moving speedily towards the shelter of the sandbar. The Gurkha in the front was staring directly at Mac’s position. As the bird-call sounded again he looked away, then the two men hopped out and waded quickly ashore. In a moment they were lost in the dense foliage.
Mac inhaled deeply. A clammy, cold sweat soaked his back.
Slight movements in the bushes to his left announced the approach of Miller and the Gurkhas. There were six in all.
‘A “milk run”, as the RAF boys like to say,’ Miller chortled. ‘What’s your name?’
‘MacDonald, Sir.’ He looked sheepishly at the Gurkhas. ‘Rather them than me.’
Miller smiled and nodded. ‘Well done, MacDonald. By the way, Lance-Naik Rai here’s worried you’ve got a touch of malaria. He saw your rifle shaking. You do look a bit pale. Perhaps you should see your Doc?’
Embarrassed, Mac turned to look at the man he had very nearly shot.
Rai was short and wiry, not much over five feet tall. His arms were dotted with leeches yet he seemed oblivious to any discomfort. He grinned at Mac who towered above him. ‘Shabash, Jock!’—Bravo!
Mac managed a nod.
Miller spoke quickly to Rai. ‘Let’s see what you got.’
Rai squatted and Miller did the same. With Mac and the others looking on, Rai, still grinning, delved inside his shirt and brought out a waterproof pouch. He tipped out some frayed and dark-stained pieces of cloth.
Mac realised they were Japanese rank badges and that the stains were blood. He looked at the Gurkha with even more respect. There were also documents. Miller flicked through them, speaking with Rai in Urdu. ‘Good show! You can show me their positions later over a brew.’