I reflect on the time we have shared in the deep conviction that we have worked in accordance with our beliefs and to the best of our knowledge. Duty, comradeship and honour: these three, in harmony with one another, have been our guides. Of course we have all made mistakes, most arising from the fact that error is inherent in the works of man and is therefore to be forgiven. Was it not our ideal to achieve perfection? Each of us knows for himself how close he came. The earliest memories of our small community lie in the United States, then in Malacca and then in our vision of the Indies. Those same Indies have brought us so many disappointments, yet have also made us men able and willing to bear responsibility under the most trying of circumstances, without the luxury of falling back on others.
In the States the Firefly was born, in Malacca it was baptized, and in the Indies it came to life and showed us the way from darkness into light.
Such are our memories, yet memories they would not be if old Firefly had not come to an end.
That time has come. And so we all go our separate ways, each man seeking out his own future, seeking to determine the path his life will take. We will be scattered across the world and dissolve into millions, yet all with a single memory. In these new circumstances, endeavour to show the spirit that made the Firefly bond so strong.
Wherever you may be, whatever trials you may face, try to hold on to your humanity.
To all those with whom these words resonate, I thank you for the comradeship I have found in you and from the bottom of my heart I wish you all the very best for the future.
GROENEVELD
Your dreams of the babu…
By mid-1948, many volunteer marines had reached the end of their tour of duty in the tropics. They were withdrawn from the front and stationed in Surabaya to await their homeward voyage. Their places were taken by marines fresh from Holland, young National Service conscripts who in no time had to be brought up to speed on the grim realities of guerrilla tactics and jungle warfare. I was still at SHQ-II in Jember when almost every Marine unit was recalled to Surabaya to be replaced by KNIL and Dutch Army units. This was to pave the way for the Second Police Action.
I was among those ordered back to GHQ in Surabaya. On arrival, I reported to my commanding officer, Piet Dikotta. It was all go at HQ. Spies and informers had already been dispatched to locations held by Indonesian Army units and other fanatical militant groups. Messages were coming back regular as clockwork and it was my job to assist in their evaluation. We made notes on our military maps.
Dikotta called me into his office one day. ‘I say, Nolan,’ he said, ‘you will be leaving your position as head of interrogation and returning to the outposts for six months or so. You will start in SHQ-III in Lumajang under the command of First Lieutenant of the Marine Corps Flip Lichtenberg. He will send you out to Marine Brigade Security detachments in his area. Your role will be to keep a close eye on Indonesian troop movements. Send me your full counterintelligence reports on a regular basis. I have already informed Lieutenant Lichtenberg of your arrival. You know the drill.’
The next day I was on a truck to Lumajang with my full pack. Dusty and weary, I arrived at SHQ late in the afternoon to a hearty welcome from Lieutenant Lichtenberg. I stayed a day or two to go through the intelligence reports and receive instructions, before being temporarily relocated to Corporal Zijlstra’s detachment in Tempeh.
The Tempeh detachment was a small-scale operation covering a limited area. Corporal Zijlstra was assisted by three interpreters and I became the fourth, but with a special assignment. The others were engaged in setting up native governance in the region and distributing textiles, food and medicine to the impoverished population.
I went out on patrol almost daily and covered the entire area. Here and there, I asked the villagers about movements by the Indonesian Army’s guerrilla units and relayed counterintelligence reports to GHQ in Surabaya every other day. Our small detachment received frequent night-time visits from the babus. Those women had no use for undergarments, hence the song known to many a Dutch marine:
Your dreams of the babu are made to last
Just lift up her sarong and ogle her ass
Flash Gordon and the Jungle Princess
I was ordered to leave for Senduro, in the shadow of the great volcanoes Gunung Bromo and Gunung Semeru. At the Marine Brigade Security detachment there, I reported to Sergeant Gio Montagne of the Marine Corps, an Indo who was cocky beyond belief. He was a hard-core Sixteen Sixty-Fiver and was assisted by a Marine corporal and a private first class. I joined a team of interpreters that included Freddie Onsoe, my old buddy Ben de Lima and a lad called Jan Abas, who would later become my sworn enemy.
Unlike Tempeh, the situation around Senduro was tense. The countryside was swarming with guerrilla units. Our post was close to the base of W Company, which had recently undergone a reorganization. The company’s first lieutenant was blond, six foot three and built like a truck. His favourite pastime was heading out on patrol at every opportunity, day or night. No wonder they nicknamed him ‘Flash Gordon’.
The area around Senduro stretched all the way to the southern flank of Gunung Semeru, Java’s highest peak. Deep valleys and ravines sliced through the rough terrain, home to mouse deer, venomous snakes, wild buffalo and black panthers. A paradise for hunters but given half a chance we steered well clear of the wildlife.
Flash Gordon turned up at our post one day to ask Sergeant Gio Montagne for at least two interpreters to assist him on a three-day patrol to Gunung Semeru. The objective was to find out more about Indonesian Army infiltrators and troop movements. Freddie Onsoe, Jan Abas and I were selected.
The next morning we were up at dawn, marching packs with double blanket roll, extra ammunition and hand grenades at the ready. With 75 pounds on our backs, we walked to the company post where Flash Gordon and his fifty infantrymen were waiting for us. We travelled on foot to the southern flank of Gunung Semeru with a ten-year-old Javanese boy as our guide. I walked at the front with Flash and the boy at my side.
The path grew steep and before long we were dripping with sweat. Then it petered out altogether. Only dense jungle lay ahead. Three infantrymen wielding big machetes came to the fore and began hacking their way through the thick lianas. I pulled out my fighting knife, but those vines were too tough. Our young guide walked into a liana that turned out to be a twelve-foot python. The snake dropped and coiled around the poor boy’s scrawny body with incredible speed. Three of us dived on that monster. A tough corporal with hands like coal shovels had the presence of mind to grab the snake by its head. Flash Gordon ordered us not to shoot, for fear of alerting the enemy, so we ripped into the snake with our bayonets and knives. I grabbed it by the tail and bent the end as far back as I could to relax the central nervous cord, but my own nerves were jangling so much that I ended up cutting the tail clean off.
Eventually the snake succumbed to the countless bayonet wounds and released its prey. Our young guide had lost consciousness. When he came to after a few minutes, I gave him a big gulp of coffee from my water bottle. Once he had recovered enough to get back on his feet, we continued our uphill journey.
The dazed boy looked up at me and said, ‘Tuan, the snake has crossed our path. Bad things will come our way. I am only the first to be touched by this ill fortune.’ I looked him in the eye and nodded to let him know I understood. Thanks to Uncle Soen and Pah Tjillih, I was familiar with these superstitions.
After two hours of hacking away at lianas without a let-up, we had barely advanced a hundred yards. I asked the boy if he knew any secret trails that led to the southern ridge. He did know of one. We had to backtrack a few hundred yards and take a path slick from the water that flowed downhill. Slipping and sliding, we crept up the mountainside, cursing and complaining all the way. Late in the afternoon we finally arrived at a clearing and rested there briefly. A medic attended to our poor young guide, whose struggle with the python had left him with two broken ribs.
Having l
et the boy sleep for half an hour, we regrouped and continued to follow the slippery uphill path. We came to a flat section, which on further inspection turned out to be an abandoned road. But less than a hundred yards on, it dissolved into jungle foliage so thick that even our machetes were useless.
All our attempts to find other paths came to nothing. Dejected and disappointed, we gradually accepted that we had no choice but to turn around. By the time we made it back to our post, night had fallen.
*
From reports by his informers and spies, Sergeant Gio Montagne had learned that a guerrilla group was laying low in a kampong some three miles from our base. The group was terrorizing the entire village and was led by a pemudi – a female pemuda – who had climbed to the rank of lieutenant in the Indonesian Army. We dubbed her the ‘Jungle Princess’, as she was rumoured to be a beauty with hair that fell in waves to her waist. Behind this beautiful façade lurked a cold-blooded killer.
After a long morning meeting, Sergeant Gio Montagne went to the company post to obtain the assistance of a squad of marines. I made sure my phosphorus bullets were ready for use in the dark.
Our patrol set off late in the evening, as the sergeant wanted to catch the enemy as they slept. One of his informers came with us. We supplied him with an old Mannlicher rifle, some ammunition and a bayonet.
Conditions were against us: a full moon in a cloudless sky swarming with a million stars. We marched to the kampong in under an hour. Up front with Sergeant Gio Montagne, our informer pointed out a large wooden building with a thatched roof: a boarding house where around fifteen of the terrorists were billeted. At first, we saw no guards but we were mistaken. Our informer signalled that one guard was posted at the front and one at the rear. Quickly and silently, we took up our positions. I crept up on the guard at the rear and buried my fighting knife deep in his neck, turning the blade forty-five degrees and slicing through his jugular before pulling the knife out. He fell to the ground spluttering. Another marine similarly disposed of the guard at the front door.
The rest must have heard the dying men splutter, because muffled noises started coming from inside the building. I withdrew to my shooting position behind a couple of plantains. The others dived for cover among the thick bushes that surrounded the boarding house.
Sharp blasts from Sergeant Gio Montagne’s jungle carbine signalled the start of the attack. My eyes were fixed on the back door. It swung open suddenly and two shadows came running out. Peering through my sight smeared with phosphor, I took aim and fired. One shadow hit the ground, then the other. More pemudas fled the building and were gunned down one by one by the other marines. Then I spotted the Jungle Princess emerging from the building, unmistakeable due to her long hair. She made a run for it. I aimed and fired. Two shots. Both missed. Five marines entered the boarding house, shooting anything that moved. When the battle was over, I stepped inside and counted six bodies.
‘Damn it,’ Sergeant Gio Montagne shouted, ‘we let the Jungle Princess escape!’
‘I had her in my sights but missed,’ I admitted.
Disappointed, we tramped back to our post. On the way, Freddie Onsoe gave me a sly grin and asked if perhaps I hadn’t missed on purpose…
*
‘You know what, Nolan?’ Sergeant Gio Montagne said the next day. ‘It’s time to live dangerously. I plan to dispatch five informers to track down what is left of that gang. One of them is the Jungle Princess’s brother. However, it means arming them, and that’s what’s putting the wind up me. What’s to stop those buggers walking out of here and turning our own weapons on us?’
I thought for a long time and finally said, ‘It’s a risk we have to take. But we need to know what route they are taking. If they break their word, they must be made to pay.’
The sergeant summoned the five informers, issued them with weapons and instructed them to locate the rest of the guerrillas. Their assignment was to capture or kill them and return within forty-eight hours.
The informers left that same evening, well-armed and with a decent amount of ammunition for their Mannlicher rifles. Sergeant Gio Montagne handed the Jungle Princess’s brother a Schmeisser submachine gun and two spare magazines. No sooner had they left than the sergeant ordered two more informers to shadow them.
A day and a half later, I gave the sergeant a worried look. ‘Any sign of life from those five? I don’t trust them one bit. Only twelve hours left.’
He nodded reassuringly.
In the meantime, my friendship with fellow interpreters Jan Abas and Freddie Onsoe began to sour. They were openly critical of the Dutch government and the military policy in the Indies, and I found myself doubting their loyalty to the Netherlands and the House of Orange.
*
The forty-eight hours ran out slowly with not a word or a sign from our five informers. Night had fallen: bright moon, clear sky. Feeling uneasy, I went to my room, fastened my belt, slid my fighting knife into my right legging, grabbed my M1 and went outside. In the distance, five shapes appeared carrying a stretcher between them. I approached the ungainly procession and saw they were carrying not one stretcher but two, cobbled together from branches and palm leaves. The five laid their stretchers on the ground in front of our post. Their leader pointed to the bodies and said, ‘Tuan, here lies my sister, the one you call the Jungle Princess. On the other stretcher lies the man who was her lover and second-in-command.’
I praised them and shook them by the hand. The other interpreters came and joined us. Sergeant Gio Montagne was visibly relieved as he took back the weapons he had lent the five informants. He went back inside, fetched a pile of banknotes bearing the head of Sukarno and paid them handsomely. They expressed their deep thanks and shook us all by the hand.
I took a furtive look at Freddie Onsoe and Jan Abas and saw pure contempt and hatred in their eyes as they observed us marines. Jan Abas in particular looked daggers at me…
The ravine
Unable to sleep one night, I went out onto the veranda to chat and drink coffee with a couple of men from the kampong. Ben de Lima joined us. I found myself thinking about one of the mysterious, almost incredible stories Pah Tjillih used to tell and I asked the villagers what night it was according to the Islamic calendar. This was in the early hours of Friday morning and they explained that it was jumat legi or ‘sweet Friday’. I came up with the devilish plan of trying something Pah Tjillih had once told me. I went to the kitchen and found a lemon. Back on the veranda I said to Ben and the villagers, ‘See those two dead bodies by the roadside, brought here on stretchers a few nights ago? Would you like to hear them groan in pain?’
The villagers knew instantly what I was talking about and nodded, but our lads looked sceptical.
There were still some patches of dried blood on the spot where the stretchers had first been laid. I cut the lemon into pieces and squeezed the juice onto the blood. Before long, agonized groans rose up from the ground. Even Ben and I were chilled to the bone, and the hairs on the back of our necks stood on end. I had never done such a thing before but I had always believed what Pah Tjillih had told me and it sent a shiver up my spine. The villagers heard the groans too and mumbled all manner of prayers for the salvation of the souls of the two terrorists who had been gunned down.
*
Whether it was due to the hatred shown by Jan Abas, my grisly prank on jumat legi, or the excessively gruelling patrols with Flash Gordon I do not know, but on one of those countless night patrols I tumbled eighty yards into a deep ravine. I no longer remember how many infantrymen it took to rescue me from my plight and haul me back up again.
My landing had been so awkward that the pain in my injured back flared like never before. Sergeant Gio Montagne packed me off to Lumajang on the next mail and supplies truck, where I signed off with First Lieutenant Lichtenberg of the Marine Corps at SHQ-III. After the standard administrative rigmarole, a jeep was arranged to take me to the local sick bay. There I folded out my camp bed in a ward with f
ive other marines with non-critical injuries. The medical officer in attendance, Dr Verbeek, was assisted by a senior nursing officer with the rank of sergeant.
One ward down from us were six Madurese soldiers from the KNIL’s Tjakra Brigade. They had not been wounded in action but were being treated for venereal diseases contracted by messing around with loose women in and around Lumajang. Madurese soldiers had a fearsome reputation as fighters who were not to be trifled with, but before long I was on fairly good terms with them. We traded native goodies, with the Dutch boys treating the Madurese to cheese and other typically Dutch fare.
There was a lack of medical equipment at the sick bay. They had no X-ray machines or infra-red lamps. Every other day, Dr Verbeek gave me injections to combat my fever. It was a damnable treatment. I received a jab after breakfast and then lay on my bed shivering to the bone, despite the blankets piled on me by my fellow soldiers. After an hour or two the fever would subside, leaving me completely exhausted. My mouth was dry as sand and though I was dying with thirst, I had no appetite at all. By evening my body was burning up and I was so delirious it was as if a fever dream had taken hold of me. The medic appeared every now and then to give me two vitamin tablets. This went on all week and I was supposed to lie flat on my back as much as possible.
One feverish night, after hours spent tossing and turning, I went outside and lay on a low wall by the porch. Suddenly, all hell broke loose among the Madurese lads on the VD ward. Crazed with fever and pain, one of them had charged into our ward and started shooting up the place with his Lee Enfield rifle. Despite my wretched fever, I had the presence of mind to run back inside and jump that trigger-happy lunatic. I forced him to the ground and kicked his weapon out of reach. Grabbing my M1 from the rail on my bed, I pulled out my bayonet and rammed it onto the muzzle. I turned back to the incensed soldier, who by this time had recovered his Lee Enfield, and a life or death battle ensued. By this time, my roommates had tumbled out of bed. I saw them grab their weapons and run for the door, then my mind went blank.
The Interpreter from Java Page 37