by Rory Marron
Ishihara was screaming, mixing Javanese and Japanese. ‘Reni! Onegai!’ Please! ‘Yamete!’ Stop!
Sato closed his eyes….
Tjandi Camp III, Semarang
Teresa van Gaal, her daughter Marianne, Julia Stam and four other members of the ‘Bridge Club’ headed briskly for the camp gate. Each of them was carrying a small knapsack and a water bottle. About two-dozen others had assembled to see them off. Jenny Hagen, Lucy Santen and Kate were among them.
At the gate, Jenny made one last try. ‘Please reconsider. It could be very dangerous. I still don’t think I should let you leave.’
‘Our minds are made up, Jenny,’ Teresa replied firmly. ‘We accepted your election as Camp Representative but your authority has lapsed now that the war is over.’
‘Thank you, Teresa,’ Jenny said blandly.
‘Goodbye, Jenny,’ Julia Stam said primly. ‘Goodbye, Dr Santen and thank you.’ She turned and strode to join Teresa. Two boys pushed open the gate and the group set off determinedly with Julia and Teresa in the lead.
Twenty yards down the road Julia suddenly spun and fell. Teresa stared at her. In the middle of Julia’s forehead was a hole oozing blood. ‘Crack!’ The shot echoed around them. There was a second and another woman slumped to the ground. Screaming, the others turned and ran for the camp.
‘Close the gate!’ Jenny shouted.
Kate darted forward to help. Another shot rang out and a third woman fell. They hauled and slowly the gate swung back, shuddering as it scraped over the prostrate body, then banged shut.
Djatingaleh Barracks, Semarang
Kudo summoned his officers to the Mess. They were in a serious mood and dressed for battle. On the table in front of Kudo was a large-scale street plan of Semarang. They gathered round. Ota found himself looking for the guesthouse and the old school.
Kudo sounded matter of fact. ‘I’m not sure yet if the threat from the local militia is real but it looks as if we shall be staying in the barracks a bit longer.’
There was an urgent knock on the door. One of the runners posted in the town entered. ‘Major,’ the man said panting, ‘a few minutes ago we heard shots in Tjandi. It’s quiet now.’
Ota felt a stab of anxiety.
‘Right,’ replied Kudo. ‘Send someone to replace you!’
‘Yes, Sir!’ The soldier rushed out.
Puzzled, Kudo rubbed his chin. ‘Tjandi?’ He looked questioningly at Captain Seguchi. ‘The internees?’
‘Could be,’ agreed Seguchi. ‘They had an air-drop yesterday. Perhaps the locals are after easy pickings?’
Kudo looked back at the street plan. ‘Our orders are to maintain law and order. I don’t see how we can do that if we are besieged. At the same time, I want to avoid provoking the locals.’ He looked up suddenly. ‘Ota, you were billeted at Tjandi. You must know the area well. Take your platoon and make the school camp your base. Full kit, two machine guns, extra ammunition and rations for four days.’
‘Yes, Major!’ Ota replied, glancing at Nagumo as he made for the door.
‘Ota, one more thing,’ Kudo called him back. ‘If the internees show any animosity tell your men to ignore it.’
Tjandi Camp III
Ota was filled with dread as he walked past the three corpses lying in front of the camp gate. There had been no answer from inside to shouts. Behind him, several of his men had rifles trained on the street to their rear. Others were forcing the lock with crowbars. The gate swung open.
‘Let’s go!’ Ota yelled, leading his men forward. Inside, he stopped abruptly. Facing him stood a row of about thirty tense, fearful-looking women clutching cooking knives, cleavers and sharpened bamboo staves. His men fanned out behind him. Many of the women shrank back.
Ota turned quickly to his men. ‘Stand down!’
His men lowered their weapons, staring at the motley group. Ota holstered his pistol. He saw many of them were still afraid of him.
‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ he said bowing. ‘I am Lieutenant Ota. We are here to protect you.’
They stared at him in shock and utter disbelief.
Ota’s men were already bringing in the bodies of Julia Stam and the others. Some of the women began to sob. Ota turned away and signalled the troop lorry forward, trying not to think about Kate.
‘Excuse me, Lieutenant.’
A woman in the centre of the line had stepped forward and bowed. ‘I’m Jenny Hagen. I’m the Camp Representative. We thought you were—’
‘I understand. Were there any others killed or injured?’
‘No.’
Relief surged through Ota. ‘We will mount guards.’
Jenny bowed again and led the women away.
Ota’s platoon took over the guardhouse. For an hour Ota concentrated on supervising repairs to the gate, positioning machine guns and organising perimeter patrols. His men were in good humour, amused by their reception committee after his warning about ‘animosity’. When he was satisfied he went back to radio to Kudo.
There was a knock on the office door. Kate stood in the doorway holding a tray and tin cups. Her face was flushed. ‘Hello, Kenichi,’ she said brightly. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse and figure-hugging shorts made out of white parachute silk.
Caught off-guard Ota was lost for words. ‘Kate…’ he said eventually, thankful that she was unharmed.
For several seconds they smiled at each other before Kate moved to the desk. ‘I thought you and your men might like some coffee. It came in the air-drop.’
He stood up hurriedly, his face reddening. ‘Thank you, that’s very kind. I—I was worried about you.’ Tentatively he reached for her hand.
She took his in both of hers. ‘I was scared but I’m fine now.’
‘Kate, I—’ he was suddenly unsure of himself. ‘Everything has changed. I mean we are no longer enemies.’
‘I was never your enemy, Kenichi,’ she said softly. ‘But there was still a war.’
‘Yes but I meant—’
One of Ota’s platoon strode into the room and the moment was lost. ‘I’d better go,’ mumbled Kate. ‘You must be very busy.’ She put one of the tins in front of him. ‘Sorry we haven’t any real cups.’ At the door she paused and bowed hurriedly. ‘Thank you for coming to help us.’ Then she was gone.
Kate was thumbing through one of the air-dropped copies of The Illustrated London News. Read by twenty people already, its pages were frayed and torn. Other occupants of the hut were playing cards, reading, sewing, anything in fact, to try and forget the terrible events of the day. There had been no journey in the straw basket to the cemetery for Julia Stam and the other dead. Instead, they had been buried that afternoon in a corner of the vegetable garden.
Normally, Kate would have been thrilled to have fresh reading matter but she could not concentrate on the articles. All she could think about was Ota. She gave up and lay down but could not sleep.
‘Shush! Listen!’—‘What’s that noise?’
The drumming carried in the night air like an irregular pulse. One by one the neighbouring kampongs took up the beat in reply. Whatever it was, Kate realised it was getting nearer. Conversation petered out. Curious, she decided to go and see for herself.
Once outside she glanced up at the nearest watchtower and felt oddly reassured by the familiar silhouette of the Japanese sentry. She noticed others doing it too. How ironic it was she thought. Four weeks ago we cheered to be rid of them. Now we’re scared that they might desert us!
Heavy clouds hid the moon and the stars. It would be quite a squall, she thought. She saw several women, also curious about the noise, heading for the gate. Kate joined them.
Ota stood in shadow, looking down the road towards the town. His men had searched the houses and gardens that afternoon but there had been no trace of the sniper. Even so, he was taking no chances. There were no lights on around the gate. The militia were Japanese-trained after all and standard procedure was to infiltrate a position in darkness�
�.
He was waiting for Suzuki, who had volunteered to scout the nearest kampong. There was a short whistle from Ota’s right followed by their call sign.
‘Red Fuji!’
Moments later the young corporal darted through the gate. Suzuki was a former long-distance running champion. His breathing was relaxed. ‘Lieutenant, around two hundred people are coming this way, mostly youths.’
‘Weapons?’
‘Bamboo spears, swords, machetes, rakes and a few shotguns.’
‘Well done.’
Suzuki saluted. Ota addressed the men at the gate. ‘No firing unless I shoot or I am hit. Send a sit-rep to Battalion HQ. Get ready!’
By now the drumming was much louder. Ota made out the faint glow from burning torches. He heard Suzuki giving instructions behind him. His eighteen men were split into four groups positioned loosely around the parade area and main school building, with six men at the main gate. He could not defend the entire perimeter if the Javanese called his bluff.
The marchers rounded the bend three hundred yards away. They strode quickly, chanting, roughly ten abreast. ‘Death to the Dutch!’—‘Merdeka!’
They were a hundred yards from the gate when Ota felt the first drops of rain. At fifty yards he gave the command. ‘Now!’ He closed his eyes as searchlights bathed him, the gateway and the front rows of the marchers in a sea of white light. The chanting stopped and the youths slowed, shielding their eyes.
Ota walked forward to stand in the middle of the road. A few feet from him, also illuminated, was the machine gun crew.
Again the mob stalled, unnerved by the soldiers’ presence. Shouting continued at the rear. ‘Merdeka!’—‘Allahu akbah!’ There was still an air of menace.
Ota could see the indecision on many faces but not all. He strode two paces forward, hands behind his back, away from his sword and pistol. He spoke firmly in rehearsed Javanese.
‘All internee camps are under military protection. There is a curfew. Go home!’
Overhead, thunder clapped and in seconds teeming rain began drenching them all. Ota stared, ignoring the pounding drops. He could see only the first few rows of hostile faces.
Curtly he spoke again. ‘You are breaking the law. Go home, now!’
The rain was bouncing up off the road. Ota was worried in case the searchlights shorted. He remained in the open, stock-still. A few of the front marchers looked about them for support. There was none. Slowly the crowd started to break up. Ota felt chilled but he stood and watched the youths slink away.
As suddenly as it had begun the rain stopped. Bright moonlight lit the camp. Ota turned and ordered the lights switched off and the gate closed. Like him, his men were soaked but they were relieved, and proud of their officer.
Ota glanced at Suzuki. ‘Get them into dry clothes in sections. Then have some food. Keep the towers manned.’
On his way back to the guardhouse Ota noticed the group of bedraggled women, including Kate, whose drenched silk top and shorts were plastered to her like a transparent skin. There was appreciation in their looks. He acknowledged them with a slight bow and walked on. To his great surprise Jenny Hagen bowed back, then Kate. After some hesitation the others followed suit.
Chapter Fifteen
Tandjong Priok Harbour, Batavia/Djakarta
Landing Craft Infantry (LCI) 217 was designed for short ferrying and not long voyages. It was pitching and rolling in the heavy swell. Along both port and starboard sides men—officers and other ranks—stood shoulder to shoulder, bracing themselves against ropes, as they vomited.
Mac’s stomach had emptied hours before and now he was bringing up bile. Beside him, Bob Souness, a six-foot-two Glaswegian, was deathly pale and could hardly hold himself upright. Souness groaned. ‘Jesus Christ! We could be on one of the Clyde bridges at Hogmanay! And I hav’nae touched a drop!’
‘I’ve never felt—’ Mac’s reply died in his throat as a whiff of Souness’s rancid breath triggered another spasm. He dropped down to lean against the wet steel plates, hugging his knees to his chest till the cramps slowly subsided. Fucking hell! He wanted to shout. You win a sodding war and as a reward the army have you swimming in your own puke and shit! Opposite him a miserable Stan Nesbit sat huddled and equally pale.
For three weeks Malaya had been a paradise of easy duties, fresh food, relaxation and fraternisation with the locals. The order to leave had come suddenly, late one night. At first, wild rumours circulated that they were going home. Later, the talk was of Japan. Spirits still high, the Seaforths had headed for Port Swettenham singing the old infantry favourite, ‘We don’t know where we’re going but we’re on our way!’ Once aboard the LCI, they were told their destination was the Netherlands East Indies. Neither Mac nor any of his comrades had any idea where that was.
None of them had anticipated four days and nights in a glorified iron bucket, eating cold sausages and beans out of tins. They slept where they sat. Pails served as toilets. In turn they had been roasted by the sun, then soaked by downpours. The relentless thumping of the large marine diesel engine had driven them to distraction, except when the bilge pumps failed and a foul mixture of seawater, vomit, urine and faeces rose around them.
Regimental Sergeant-Major Cox was propped against a gun-mount at the stern of the craft silently cursing the brass-hat arsehole responsible for their predicament. He glanced back at the flotilla. He could see two of the three craft that followed them. Each was pitching like his, with similar wan faces visible along their sides.
A few feet to Cox’s right, on his raised seat within the gun turret, Brigadier King caught the cold anger on Cox’s face and decided to delay the briefing. Not that he blamed his RSM in the least. King was fighting his own stomach and was equally furious at their situation. ‘Nearly there, RSM,’ he said encouragingly. Cox barely looked at him.
King was glad the end of the journey was at hand. Ahead, he could see the comforting profile of HMS Cumberland on station just outside the harbour. They would not be completely alone. Still, he wouldn’t know until he landed if he was in command of a fighting unit or a company of hospital cases.
He thought about his orders again. What the hell were they heading into? In their present state they couldn’t take on girl guides, never mind Japs. No, not the Japs, he reminded himself, thinking of the last, incredible communication from HQ. While the rush transfer to Java had been surprise enough, the sealed instruction that had come just before they embarked was easily the strangest he’d received in six years of war. Once again he read it, even though he already knew the wording by heart.
Upon arrival Batavia proceed immediately set up/policing safe zone(s). Japanese NOT to be disarmed until further notice. If situation requires you are authorised to use Japanese to maintain law and order.
When King had shown him the signal Cox had been left stunned. ‘What can it mean, Sir?’ he had asked incredulously.
‘It means, RSM, that Java is going to be interesting!’
‘But us and the Japs together! That’s ridic—’
‘Unexpected, eh?’ King had cut in quickly. ‘Keep this to yourself for the time being. It will come as a shock to the men.’
Cox had shaken his head. ‘They won’t like it, Sir!
‘I don’t like it either.’
King’s sense of foreboding had grown. Just what, he wondered, awaited them in Java? And what was HQ thinking in using the Japs! What if they refused to co-operate? There were over forty thousand of them on Java. He had three hundred and twenty exhausted men. It did not seem like nearly enough for an invasion! Even so, he thought, anything was better than sitting in this bucket of cess. He looked at the dark strip of land looming ahead, grateful that one torment, at least, would soon be over. His explanation to the battalion about their destination and the Indonesian declaration of independence had been greeted with silent but evident dismay. He had told them patrols from HMS Cumberland had reported the city quiet but tense. ‘We’re here,’ he had said, ‘
simply to look after our POWs and to watch over the Japs. That’s all. However, there are armed groups of nationalists in and around Batavia, so we need to be on our guard.’
Mac felt himself crouching as the steep blue and black roofs of the warehouses and buildings came into view. His heart was pounding. Hundreds of people were lining the wharfs. He knew that beyond the breakwater, Cumberland had its guns trained on the city but it did not make him feel any safer. He had seen two of the cruiser’s launches join the rear of the flotilla. One carried men in tan-coloured uniforms, the other photographers and newsreel cameramen. Mac paid them little mind.
All too soon he could see the mass of banners and homemade flags, and then the men and women lining the wharf. They stood in an eerie silence, their faces impassive. In Malaya the Seaforths had been cheered. Crowds had waved British, American and even Russian flags. Not here. Then he noticed the placards and slogans painted on the warehouse walls.
Atlantic Charter means freedom from Dutch Imperialism—People of Soviet Russia, China, India support Indonesians. Britain?—Hands off Indonesia. Respect our Constitution!—Workers of the world support our fight for freedom!—Monroe said America for the Americans. We say Indonesia for the Indonesians!—Hospitality for anyone who respects our constitution!
‘I’ve no objection to that,’ Souness muttered as he read the slogans aloud. ‘Have you, laddie?’
‘No, it’s fine by me,’ Mac replied under his breath.
There was a slight scrape as the LCI slid against the quay. A gangway was pushed out quickly and the first Seaforths shuffled across quickly and gratefully onto the quayside.
Willingly, Mac followed, the feel of land underfoot quickly reviving him and the others. A shore patrol from Cumberland formed up alongside them. Still silent the crowd fell back as the British troops moved slowly forward.
Mac found himself facing a short, expressionless Javanese policeman in a peaked cap and uniformed shirt. He wore a flap-holster on his hip. Several more armed police were hemmed in between the crowd and the Seaforths.