Close to the Wind

by David B Hill

  ‘Sorry. You say you were reduced to the ranks? Dismissed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The Javanese lit another kretek.

  ‘When I took the chance to go home and protect my family, I was paraded, stripped of my rank and discharged for dishonouring the company. It was a trick, to deter others, prove native leadership as unreliable and strengthen Dutch control. In front of my men they made me nothing again.’

  The man was staring out the train window into the darkness as he said it, looking backwards or forwards; it was difficult to be sure. Len thought of Nicolaas and his ambivalence about the end of Dutch rule. He began to appreciate the depth of feeling that might exist in the native population, and wonder if Haami Parata might ever find himself in such circumstances.

  The train rattled on, lurching where every rail was joined and squealing around corners. It slowed as it began what turned out to be a long incline during which the line appeared to be travelling across the face of steep country. Occasionally, in the distance through the dark and the foliage, Len thought he could see headlights: the dull lights of blacked-out vehicles wending their way across the mountainside on the other side of the valley. It stood to reason that the motorised column they had left at Bandung was continuing to Tjilatjap.

  ‘How did you get on the train?’ Johnny asked the man.

  ‘I have PNI friends in the railway.’

  ‘And Tjilatjap?’

  ‘My family live near Tjilatjap.’ The Javanese shifted his posture and leaned in closer. ‘My question is, who are you? You are Royal Navy? British?’

  Johnny produced his transport pass and handed it over. ‘Royal New Zealand Navy. Kiwis!’

  ‘Ah, Kiwis. Nieuw Zeeland, yes?’

  ‘And a Scot!’ Jock was now awake.

  ‘What are you doing here, Kiwis?’

  ‘Trying to leave.’

  The kreteks were passed around and the conversation carried on. They all listened quietly when the Javanese talked more about his recent experience.

  ‘If I was Ambonese or Moluccan, for example – Christian – my experience would have been different. But I am Javanese and a Muslim.’ He paused.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, Javanese are oxen, while Ambonese and Moluccans ride in the cart. They get the privileges while we remain in harness.’

  Len watched the man keenly. He was angry, his thoughts bringing him to silence for a moment.

  ‘You are lucky,’ he said, ‘that I am not Japanese, and you are not Dutch.’

  Johnny seized the moment. ‘Where are the Japanese, and where are the Dutch?’

  ‘The Japanese have landed west of Batavia, at Bantam Bay, where my company was fighting yesterday. They have also landed in the east, somewhere near Surabaya. Their aircraft attacked this road today, so they must have captured airfields. The Dutch are fleeing into their holes.’

  ‘How do you know this? There are no reports of Japanese activity to the south?’

  ‘My friends at the railway station told me. And no. Tjilatjap was still an open port when we left Bandung.’

  They sat in silence, drawing thoughtfully on their kreteks and letting the smoke slowly escape from their lips. It filled the carriage before being sucked out the open window. When the cigarette fell from the grasp of their Javanese friend and hit the floor in a shower of sparks, it became evident that he had fallen asleep. Len reached out with his foot and ground the butt under his foot, before hitching up the collar of his tunic and folding his arms across his chest.

  The whole thing was again a matter of time, set to the constant beat of the wheels over the tracks – ta-tum ta-tum, ta-tum ta-tum, ta-tum ta-tum. He looked across to the two Englishmen, sleeping resolutely through everything. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to sleep.

  As the train breasted the summit of the line and began its descent, the carriages changed their attitude with much banging and lurching. The English sailors hardly stirred. The first flicker of daylight reflected on the underside of clouds across the horizon. Then they left the tree-line of the jungle and, as they began to meander down out of the mountains, the landscape transformed once more, back into terracing again. The glimmer of the new dawn spread across the water in the paddy fields, while below they could see the tail lights of a convoy wending its way down off the mountain and across the plain towards the coast. It was fifty more miles to their last chance for freedom.

  12

  Tjilatjap

  By the time they had fully descended from the mountains, they were all awake. Through the cool air, they were able to see below several rivers glistening in the early light, meandering across the grey coastal plain before emptying into the sea. Two columns of black smoke rose from near a river mouth to fuse with the heavy grey cloud overhead. When the train reached the coast, it was clear that the plain was substantially a marshland, and as the heat increased the atmosphere turned into a humid, smoke-laden haze that unified everything in a sfumato of sepia. They were heading where the smoke was most concentrated.

  The train was grinding slowly through paddy fields and over a road crossing when their Javanese friend stood up, shook hands loosely with his travelling companions and left. They saw him swing down from the train and jump to the ground, and watched as he began to jog along the raised path threading its way through the flooded fields, heading, they supposed, towards his home and his own war.

  Len pondered the circumstances of the two men they had encountered recently: a Dutch soldier and a Javanese soldier, both engaged in a battle for identity, one resigned to his fate, the other fighting for change. Then there was Nicolaas – how had he put it – ‘living in two worlds’. Len himself could make a case for that, but would he? If he had to make such a choice, what would it be?

  The train entered the outskirts of the town. Tjilatjap was a port on the south coast of Java, occupying a finger of land bound to the west and south by a river estuary and to the east by the sea. Behind the town and on the hills across the river, jungle-clad hills arced out into the sea, creating a wide bay and a secure anchorage for dozens of vessels, large and small. In and out of this fleet moved other vessels. Smoke from the stacks of many of the ships drifted up to co-mingle with a dense cloud of oil-fuelled smoke rising from the port. It was clear the Japanese net was beginning to close on Tjilatjap too. The local populace were largely absent, apparently hiding behind closed doors. Len saw a few, flitting furtively between buildings and houses. Closer to the centre of town, as morning cooking fires joined that of burning buildings, the smoke intensified. So did the traffic.

  As the train rolled slowly into the station, men began to jump and make off, while officers began shouting instructions and trying to impose order. With Johnny leading, the three men alighted and forced their way through the growing crowd and out onto the street.

  It was 8 a.m., now three nights since they had arrived in Merak. Which made the date March 2nd. How many days was it since they had left Keppel Harbour – seventeen? And here they were again, only marginally ahead of the enemy and facing another evacuation.

  ‘Déjà vu,’ muttered Jock.

  There was a depressing familiarity about the circumstances. It was like coming back to the beginning again, except this time they had no boat. Len thought he recognised others as survivors like them, coming from Singapore. Outside the station he looked around. Apart from the people, a long queue of empty vehicles – trucks, cars, buses, even taxis – stretched back on both sides of the road. Groups of men formed up in loose assembly and began moving off at irregular intervals. Judging by the smoke streaming skyward, the Japanese had delivered several raids already. Len began to thread his way through the mass, with the others following, and in this way the three sailors managed another mile towards the port.

  ★ ★ ★

  They were stopped by a roadblock, a detail of Hussars led by a Sergeant, who told them they should be heading to the beach; that this was the end of the road. This was clear. In front of them, there were vehicl
es abandoned on the road or pushed into the ditches on either side. All had either been set on fire or had their battery acid emptied over the engine and electrics. It was an eerie scene of destruction, unpeopled and desolate.

  ‘What if we wanted to go to the port?’

  The Sergeant was explaining that this was not possible when a tall, lean figure in a slouch hat came from behind a vehicle, buttoning up his trousers.

  ‘Gidday, mate. You blokes Kiwis?’

  ‘Royal New Zealand Navy. Reserve. On our way to Auckland. But Fremantle will do.’

  Johnny’s subtle humour was not lost on the Australian Captain. He looked closely at the three men. They stared back at him, all red-rimmed eyes, blistered lips and peeling skin. What they were wearing by way of uniform looked as if it had been on them for weeks, which of course it had.

  ‘We’re supposed to turn people away,’ the Captain said. ‘The port is under Dutch control, and we’re evacuating from the beach. But there’s a Dutch boat that has been abandoned by the local crew. Bloody Javanese. You can’t trust the bastards. The port authorities told me that the General Verspijk is supposed to be evacuating a number of foreign officials, civilians and people in business out of Java, but the crew buggered off. I promised to help if we could. You’ll have to hurry. Otherwise, you’ll have to head down to the beach.’

  He urged them to make a quick decision.

  ‘Well, do you want to help man this boat? If you do, you’d better leg it. Head for the port and look for the Verspijk.’

  ‘How far, mate?’ Len asked.

  ‘See that smoke? That’s it.’

  ‘Good on you, mate.’ Johnny shook the Australian’s hand. ‘And good luck.’

  The three men hastened off in the direction of the smoke.

  A sense of security enveloped them when they finally reached the wharves, a familiar domain, in spite of evidence of recent Japanese air raids. Warehouses were damaged or destroyed, rail lines writhed and twisted in the air, and small, half-sunk vessels hung from the wharf. Of the few people who were around, most were Dutch soldiers, pickets of some sort, protecting what was on the wharves from sabotage or theft. One vessel sat at its mooring unmolested it seemed, and they went towards it without challenge for a closer look.

  The ship was a well-worn passenger cargo vessel of about 600 tons. It had a black hull and grey topsides, and displayed the livery of the local Dutch shipping company KPM. As the three pondered the possibilities, a Dutch officer emerged from a small warehouse nearby that was still apparently undamaged and came towards them.

  ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’

  His civility seemed wildly incongruous.

  ‘We’re looking for the General something or other,’ offered Johnny, continuing to look hard at the vessel.

  ‘Ah. The General Verspijk? You’re looking at it. Are you part of the new crew?’ he asked, peering closely at their uniform insignia.

  ‘We hope to be,’ answered Johnny. ‘Is there anybody on board?’

  ‘Ha, ha. Is there anybody on board?’

  Why was it, thought Len, that men often laughed when circum-stances were anything but funny? Was it fear? Resignation? Irony?

  The officer suddenly yelled out, shouting loudly in Dutch. After a few moments, a head appeared over the rail of the bridge deck, and answered in a low tone heavy with resignation.

  ‘Ja, ja, ja.’

  ‘Your crew has arrived.’

  ‘Crew?’ Whoever it was peered down at them. ‘You call that a crew? How far am I supposed to get with three men?’

  ‘Not any men, Kapitan: Nieuw Zeelanders!’

  ‘Nieuw Zeelanders? Aha. Nieuw ZEE-landers!’

  The head disappeared, and the four on the wharf waited a few moments before the captain of the General Verspijk presented himself at the bottom of the gangplank. He offered a hand to Johnny.

  ‘Oudenaarde. Captain of the Verspijk.’

  They shook hands. Captain Oudenaarde hung on to Johnny’s hand and turned it over, giving its calloused hardness a critical appraisal. Oudenaarde himself looked similarly raw and rough-edged, the remaining inch of a Sumatra No 6 jammed in the corner of his mouth. His uniform was care-worn – sand shoes, khaki shorts and singlet. He was a rough diamond, but with a confidence that had been born of ten years commanding coastal vessels around the challenging waters of the Dutch East Indies and northern Australia.

  He inclined his head towards the Verspijk.

  ‘There will be a group coming soon to make up the numbers. British, I think. Then I would be leaving Tjilatjap as soon as possible.’

  He turned and walked back up the gangplank onto his ship, indicating that the three sailors should follow.

  ‘I will show you my ship and you can tell me what you can do. My damned crew left when the first planes attacked. Fled like rats. I only have my engineer and first mate left. Henk! Wim!’ He bellowed the names.

  ‘Ja, ja, ja.’ These voices, too, sounded resigned. They were followed by the sound of boots on a ladder, then a head emerged from a bulkhead door on the main deck where they stood. It was the first mate.

  ‘Hello? Crew! Lekke. Brouwer, Henk Brouwer.’

  Behind the mate came the engineer, wiping his hands on an oily rag, which he thrust in the pocket of his equally oily overalls before offering a hand to each of the three Kiwis.

  ‘Wim Honig. Tag.’

  ‘Honig is our engineer.’ They shook hands with him.

  Captain Oudenaarde led the three into the chart room of the Verspijk and offered coffee from a pot sitting on an element. The men grabbed a mug eagerly and sat down on the bench seats. They shovelled spoons full of sugar into their drinks and stirred vigorously. Wim Honig tore bananas from a bunch hanging above the chart table and handed them to each of the sailors. Len and Jock were gratified to see the chart was of the West Australian coast. As they sipped the steaming coffee, Johnny and Captain Oudenaarde discussed what duties the three new arrivals would perform. Because of his rank and his navigational and man management skills, it was decided that Johnny would act as second mate, while Jock and Len would perform watch duties. In the meantime they set about preparing the vessel for sailing, taking stock of fuel, water and food; oiling and greasing moving parts; securing equipment on deck.

  The doubt and uncertainty they had felt on arrival at Tjilatjap was now replaced by anticipation – even excitement. But just as Len began to feel comfortable, a generator fired with a bang, and a cloud of black diesel smoke burst from the exhaust overhead. As the generator began chugging away irregularly, another noise began to claim their attention. They all stopped what they were doing. Suddenly in front of them, from low over the hills and barely a mile away, a flight of nine Japanese aircraft roared into view, heading straight for the bay and the three tankers and several dozen vessels, large and small, anchored there. Len instinctively cast around looking for a weapon, but found none. He was forced to watch helplessly as the planes began to attack the ships. Defensive fire rose nevertheless to meet the attack, and it became obvious very quickly that the tankers were the principal targets. As bomb splashes around them rose skyward, other ships began to make smoke, in an effort to confuse the enemy pilots.

  The attack was over in a few minutes, but, as the sound of combat abated, a second wave of enemy aircraft arrived, their approach again shielded by the surrounding hills until they were almost upon their prey. One aircraft came straight at the port, all guns blazing. Nobody noticed at first, until bullets began to strike the wharf, shredding parts of the warehousing and forcing men onshore and aboard the Verspijk to throw themselves under cover. Bullets thwacked into the ship’s superstructure, narrowly missing Jock on the bridge deck. When the planes flew off and the smoke and gunfire subsided, the tankers lay at anchor still, apparently unscathed, and the sailors returned to their work with renewed urgency. Several other raids occurred as the day progressed, but smoke from the fires on the wharf perhaps shielded the Verspijk from further notice from the Jap
anese pilots.

  Their work was nearing completion when they heard a commotion from the wharf. Len looked down. A hundred or more civilian evacuees looked up, eager faces who – like him – were looking at the Verspijk and seeing more than a worn and tired steamer. They were seeing hope.

  A few were sailors, British and Australian, who had the good fortune to have survived the first Battle of the Java Sea. They boarded the boat as quickly as they could, and over the course of the day other groups arrived, all of them civilians, evacuees from Singapore or Java. They included the Australian Consul General for Batavia, and the General Manager of the Far East bureau of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, Charles Moses. During the morning, a small convoy of ships from Batavia, escorted by HMAS Yarra, among others, arrived, but were ordered to continue with haste for Fremantle. The Japanese fleet was seeking to blockade any escape route, and time was crucial. By the time Verspijk had received its complement of passengers, the window for a successful escape was infinitesimal.

  Among the ship’s company, if it could be called that, was only a handful of trained seamen, but Captain Oudenaarde became a lot more animated when he realised they might make the difference, and that he and his boat might yet escape. As the tempo and noise of activity rose on board, a fresh cigar glowed in the corner of his mouth, and he puffed away ever more energetically. Johnny and a civilian engineer had already been with Wim Honig to inspect the engines and organise the engine room, while a group of civilians, bank officers and insurance clerks, who had been detailed to the stokehold were instructed in the vital science of shovelling coal. Some of them gave the impression of not knowing which end of a shovel to hold, but after some brief, pithy words from Wim Honig, they began to appreciate the importance of the task, and re-addressed their role with studied determination. Jock stayed on the bridge and familiarised himself with elements of the Dutch language relevant to the steering and navigational gear, while Len led a group that worked its way around the vessel, stowing and securing equipment and making it seaworthy.