‘Thank you, Jacob,’ I said, ‘for resolving to help track down Papa’s will. But there can be no question of my studying at present. I have to earn money because no one is looking after Mama.’
Jacob handed me the folder. My mood was one of dismay as I accepted these documents on my background. It was time for me to have my say. ‘Mama, having heard all this, I – like Jacob – wish to change my surname so that later I too can found my own family tree and above all lead my own life. I now know that I will never legally bear the name of Nolan and so I wish to purchase the name “Noland” with a d and to live out the rest of my life under that name. Will you give me the money I need to change my name?’
‘Arto,’ Mama answered, in tears, ‘I understand your reasons. You are still my anak mas. Tomorrow I will go out and sell a little of my jewellery. Come here, Arto, and kneel before your mother. I will pray for you and give you my maternal blessing.’
I kneeled before her and laid my head in her lap. She clasped her hands above my head and began to pray. Everyone stood up and joined her in prayer. Now and then, I could hear a gentle sob and even I shed tears of disappointment. How could my father, a man of the law, have acted so lawlessly? How could he have done this to me?
It was time for the party to begin but I could do little more than stare vacantly into space. A few days later, Mama gave me my twenty-first birthday present: the 250 guilders I needed to change my name. Because of the war, I was required to wait. Mama kept the money until such times as I would be allowed to submit my petition. To alter my personal details, I would have to apply to the chief representative of the Crown in Batavia. Changing my name to Noland was a symbolic act. I wanted to distance myself from the colonial taint of the Eurasians and the fair-skinned Dutch Indo elite. It was a name that would make a new man of me: a Dutchman born of the Indies, loyal to the House of Orange of my own free will.
Interpreter with the Dutch Marine Brigade
December 1946. I was still a constable first class with the Municipal Police, deployed with Section 2 at Kaliasin. The work bored me. Relations between Truusje and I had cooled, but I still had the use of Inspector Van Meeuwen’s police motorcycle: the Harley Davidson with its 1500 cc two-cylinder engine.
I was out for a ride one day on Arjuno Boulevard, when I met my old pal Nono Sloesen, dressed in the khaki uniform of the Dutch Marine Corps. He talked at great length about the special forces intelligence work he was doing for the Marine Brigade Security Service. I asked him how to join up and he advised me to report to a man named Mulder, a captain in the Marine Corps and also an Indo.
The next morning I donned my police uniform, jumped on the Harley and rode to Firefly Barracks on Porongstraat in Wonokromo district. At the barrier, I asked the marine on duty if I could speak to the captain about enlisting. My request was granted and I parked my motorcycle next to the command building. A marine took me to see the captain. I saluted, he offered me a seat and proceeded to question me about my police duties. It did not take him long to find me wanting. He thought my appearance was too feminine and believed I had no place in a corps of hardened soldiers. I saluted and left his office.
My hopes crushed, I got back on the Harley and rode straight to Nono Sloesen’s house on Arjuno Boulevard. He assured me that a change of command was due soon and told me to try again when the new commander was installed in January 1947.
At the end of a night shift in late January, I went to the family home in the early hours of the morning, took a refreshing bath and changed into fresh clothes. Babu Tenie made me breakfast. Mama had woken and came to ask me what I was up to. When I told her I was planning to join the Marines, she protested. ‘I won’t have it! The school has reopened – go back and finish your studies. You have a future to think of.’
I let Mama say her piece and went down to Firefly Barracks a second time. Again I reported to the guard on duty and this time I was taken to see the new commander, Captain Rob Groeneveld of the Marine Corps. I stood to attention and saluted him. The captain held out his hand and introduced himself. He struck me as a friendly chap and asked me all kinds of questions about my past under the Japanese occupation and during the Bersiap period at the start of the Indonesian revolution. A first lieutenant of the Marine Corps was present throughout. We spoke for an hour, after which I was introduced to the senior interpreters Piet Dikotta and Bert Hermelijn. Piet Dikotta I already knew from the AMA Police Forces under British command. Captain Groeneveld decided that I could start work immediately. He summoned his senior NCO, Sergeant Major Vestdijk of the Marine Corps, to sort out the contracts. Proud as a peacock, I saluted the gentlemen of the staff, jumped on the Harley and rode back home.
The next morning I handed in my resignation to the Chief Commissioner of the Municipal Police. After a considerable show of reluctance, he finally relented and I said farewell to my superior officers and fellow constables. That same evening I rode that mighty Harley over to Arjuno Boulevard to return it to Inspector Van Meeuwen with my thanks. Surprised, he asked me what this was all about. His daughters appeared on the porch behind him, and Truusje flew into my arms and kissed me. I looked at the three of them in triumph and said, ‘I have signed up with the Marine Brigade and will continue to fight as hard as I can against those pelopor savages. I will take revenge for what they have inflicted on me and on so many others. I will sacrifice myself for Queen and Country! If I should die, then so be it. And as for you, Mr Van Meeuwen, you have falsely accused me of practising guna-guna. A more serious accusation is barely conceivable and for this reason I will now take my leave of you.’
Inspector Van Meeuwen froze. Truusje burst into tears and tried to throw herself into my arms again, but I shunned her and walked away without a word of goodbye.
Halfway down the boulevard, I hailed a becak and asked the driver to take me home. My mind was a jumble of thoughts – ugly, mournful and happy. My love for Truusje was strong, but I still felt far too young and restless to marry her. The closer I came to Undaan Kulon, the more relieved I felt. I wanted to be free, to feel no love for any girl. I had to stay tough; this was war, after all. Arriving home, I grabbed Mama by the shoulders and said proudly, ‘Mama, from tomorrow I will be a marine and fight the enemy with renewed vigour. My salary will be much higher, so I will be able to give you more financial support.’
‘But I do not want you to be a soldier!’ Mama whimpered. ‘You might be killed! Look at what happened to your cousin Willem. Are you out of your mind?’
‘Mama, I am duty bound to take care of you. Jacob and Karel do not want to support you financially. I am the only one who can do anything for you. The police paid me a pittance for those long, demanding shifts, and they were dangerous too.’
Early in the morning I said farewell to Mama and walked to Undaan Kulon, where I took a becak to Firefly Barracks. The duty officer sent me to see Sergeant Major Vestdijk of the Marine Corps, who took me to the quartermaster’s store, where I was fully kitted out as a marine. Vestdijk then summoned the head of household services to escort me to the interpreters’ dormitory. There I met a few boyhood friends, including Nono Sloesen and Harry Tjong. Two ammunition chests piled one on top of the other served as my bedside table. I hung my M1 Garand rifle from the straps on my folding bed and placed my bayonet belt at the foot.
After downing a mug of coffee, I went to see Piet Dikotta in his office. He was head of Espionage and Documentation. I got better acquainted with Bert Hermelijn, chief interpreter with the Interrogation Department. Between them, these two men would be responsible for my training. Interrogation of political prisoners and POWs was to be my primary duty. Training was to take two weeks. In the meantime I underwent general military training alongside many other interpreters. This consisted of daily marches in full combat gear to the golf course at Wonokromo, where I was able to let rip on the rifle range.
Back at barracks, we were instructed on how to maintain an assortment of infantry weapons. Each interpreter harboured his own feelings o
f hatred and revenge against the barbaric Indonesian freedom fighters. Our number included Indos, Chinese, Javanese, Ambonese and Manadonese and we trained with a grim fanaticism. There were Indo boys who had seen family members raped, tortured and killed before their eyes. They, more than any of us, were champing at the bit to be sent to the front line. I waited my turn to be allotted a frontline posting. First I had to complete further training in prisoner interrogation, writing up interrogation reports, and the appraisal and transmission of details of military importance. I also learned to process the entire administration of prisoners from capture to arraignment. My duties were both extensive and important.
*
One morning I and four other interpreters were ordered to interrogate five pemudas who had been taken prisoner, members of a fanatical guerrilla movement called the Indonesian People’s Revolutionary Front. The charges brought against them included the murder of Reverend Laloe on the town square in Porong. Another three of their group were still at large. The captives’ confessions revealed how the pastor had met his end. I told my fellow interpreters I had known Laloe well, that this kind-hearted Manadonese clergyman had christened me, my mother, my sister and my half-sister at the Protestant church on Bubutan during the Japanese occupation. The five killers sat patiently on the ground, staring indifferently into space. I ordered them to get up quickly and we proceeded to kick them to the ground. They writhed in pain. Then I asked them who had tied Reverend Laloe to the tow hook of the truck. Two of the pemudas confessed. I kicked them until they passed out. When they came to, I asked them who had been driving the truck that dragged Reverend Laloe across the square until he died. No one said a word. I stamped on their chests until their ribs cracked. The other interpreters sat at their typewriters and hammered out the interrogation reports.
Every day, alongside our military exercises, I had to interrogate prisoners with my fellow interpreters. Every interrogation involved the use of severe force and each time the torture I had suffered flashed before my eyes.
When I was home on leave one weekend, Mama handed me a letter from the Military Service department of the General Staff of the Royal Netherlands East Indies Army. On my return to Firefly Barracks, I reported to Captain Groeneveld with the letter and he provided me with a cover letter stating that I was already in active service with the Marines. I was given permission to visit the KNIL’s Military Service office, not far from the Red Bridge. I turned up in my utility uniform and the guard sent me to see a lieutenant. I tried to explain that I was unable to fulfil my military service with the KNIL because I was already in active service with the Marines, but he was having none of it and sent me to see the general. The man just about exploded.
‘I will not accept this, Nolan!’ he screamed at me. ‘You will rue the day! I can assure you of that!’
‘I will rue the day as a marine, Sir, when I am sent to the front.’
‘Out of my sight! Dismissed!’ he barked. ‘And never let me lay eyes on you again!’
I sprang to attention, saluted, turned on my heels and marched out of his office feeling relieved. Even then, I had little respect for the KNIL’s fighting power. I had seen them run as the Japs advanced on Surabaya. Back at barracks, I informed my senior officers that the matter had been resolved and I was free to resume training.
The marines I encountered could be divided into three main categories. First there were the Sixteen Sixty-Fivers, who took their name from 1665, the year the Dutch Marine Corps was founded. They were professional marines with a six-year contract that was up for automatic renewal until they retired. I soon realized that most of them were the kind of soldier I needed to watch out for: often petty, all too ready to open their big mouths, adept at sucking up to their superiors and shitting on those below them.
The second category consisted of war volunteers on a three-year mutual contract. Trained in the United States, they were a cheerful bunch on the whole, though aggressive and often spoiling for a fight. On paper, this was my category too, though I was on a one-year ‘local’ contract that was extended automatically. Needless to say, it was also the category to which most of my good friends belonged.
No provisions whatsoever were made for us interpreters. We were handed our pay and that was that. It barely occurred to us at the time, but if you were married with children and killed in action, your dependents had to dry their tears on nothing but an additional one month’s wages. Many a dead interpreter’s family must have been reduced to begging in the streets.
The third category of marine were the conscripts. They had undergone a brief spell of conventional battle training in the Netherlands, before being marched onto a boat to the Indies to face the rigours of guerrilla warfare. These poorly prepared young lads accounted for most of our fatalities in later battles.
On patrol with the Marine Brigade Security Service
On completing my intelligence training, I was assigned to Krembung as additional manpower for Marine Brigade Security Service, Detachment III. The quartermaster issued me with a camp bed, two blankets, a poncho, four hand grenades and four types of cartridge for my M1 rifle. After an early breakfast, I loaded my gear onto a truck stacked with food crates and we set off. The pals I had trained with were stationed elsewhere.
It was a dusty ride over bad roads from Wonokromo to Krembung, around twenty-five miles south of Surabaya, in the Porong Delta. On arrival, I reported to Detachment III, which was based in a governor’s residence near the sugar factory. The commander was Sergeant Cornelissen of the Marine Corps, a white Indo born and raised in Holland. He showed me to my room, which I was to share with an Ambonese soldier by the name of Ben de Lima. I folded out my camp bed and attached my mosquito net to poles at each corner. Then I took a refreshing bath.
At the base, we had a couple of babus and a house boy to attend to all the household chores. When night fell, the babus were kept otherwise occupied by the Dutch marines. This appeared to be standard practice. Ben de Lima and I were indifferent to their physical charms.
The road to the sugar factory was blocked by a barbed-wire barricade and an access barrier guarded by a handful of infantrymen from A Company. Every day around dinnertime, the poor from the kampong would come to the barrier and beg for leftovers. We fetched the occasional sack of sugar from the factory warehouse and struck up a lively trade with the locals. A cup of sugar would get us an egg, a saucepan of sugar a whole chicken.
A ceasefire was in place but it was being violated by both sides. We were lucky that the pemudas were poor marksmen, so poor in fact that not one of us was wounded, never mind killed. That said, many of the Dutch lads succumbed to the usual tropical diseases: everything from malaria, dysentery and diarrhoea to ringworm and nasty rashes. We patrolled night and day, and under cover of darkness we often came close to the demarcation line. Now and then we encountered small bands of Indonesian Army infiltrators. Brief skirmishes took place, generally resulting in the deaths of a few pelopors and the rest being taken prisoner. For every dead pelopor, I carved a notch in the butt of my M1 rifle.
Every pelopor we captured underwent tough interrogation. They were guilty of massacres on simple villagers and Chinese merchants and their families. But that was not all: they took a perverse pleasure in carving up bodies. Some Chinese women and children had their limbs severed before being buried alive. After questioning, the culprits pointed out the graves and we got them to dig up the bodies. We had little patience with those savages. If they refused to confess, Ben de Lima and I threatened to make them eat paper and drink their own urine. These threats worked. Once interrogation was over and the reports were drawn up, prisoners were transported by way of General Headquarters at Firefly Barracks to Surabaya’s notorious Werfstraat prison.
In mid-March, A Company was put on high alert throughout Krembung district. Ten-tonners loaded with ammunition and equipment shuttled back and forth. I had to bid Ben de Lima farewell, as I was the sole interpreter from Detachment III to be assigned to the first platoon
, which was to accompany a platoon of assault troops through Mojosari to Mojokerto, a short distance inland. Ben de Lima and I had shared some good times during those weeks in Krembung.
At the crack of dawn, I filled my knapsack with ammunition, hand grenades and K rations. The rest, including my mosquito net and folded camp bed, went into my duffel bag. My baggage was then labelled with name, registration number and unit. Over my shirt, I hung two slings each with six clips of .30-cartridges. My fighting knife for man-to-man combat was strapped to my right calf, the sheath tucked in my legging. I sharpened the blade on a whetstone with a little water till the edge was keen enough to shave the hair from my legs.
I joined the assault troops and the lads from the Demolition Group in the first truck. Sergeant Cornelissen shook me firmly by the hand and wished me luck. Both groups rode to Porong first and then across Porong Bridge into hostile territory. We met with little resistance. Not far from Mojosari, the tanks and armoured vehicles stopped at a river, where a bunch of amtracs stood waiting as planned. We leapt out of the trucks and marched aboard. When the ramp slammed shut behind us, we felt the full heat of the exhaust pipes, which ran through the body of the vehicle and out the top to keep it watertight. Pouring with sweat, we cursed like devils.
The Interpreter from Java Page 29