by Rory Marron
As the evening went on, Van Zanten’s impatience mounted but nothing in his expression gave any suggestion that his British hosts’ relaxed geniality was fuelling any frustration. Surreptitiously he scratched his ear. His deputy took his cue.
‘Admiral Patterson,’ Visser began, his voice a little too loud. ‘I was outraged and dismayed to see the rebel flag flaunted all over Batavia. It is a symbol of collaboration with the Japanese and an insult to our armed forces and to Her Royal Highness Queen Wilhelmina. I formally request that it be banned immediately and burned wherever it is found!’
Other conversations quickly died. Patterson glanced at Chrishaw as he answered. ‘Doctor Visser, I am aware of sensitivity over this issue but as far as I am concerned people can fly any flag they like. What I dislike is one group forcing another to fly a flag they do not want.’
Visser pushed himself back in his seat, affecting surprise and affront. ‘So when innocent Dutchmen are murdered by thugs for defending their country’s honour you will take no action?’
Patterson’s tone did not change. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. The deaths here in Batavia and in Surabaya disgust me. Alas my resources do not allow me to play policeman.’
‘Merely Solomon!’ Visser interjected.
Patterson ignored him. ‘Of course, from tomorrow General Chrishaw will be in command of all land-based operations.’
All eyes turned to Chrishaw. ‘Flag-flying can be a very dangerous sport, Doctor,’ he said calmly. ‘The Indonesians appear to have absorbed your countrymen’s enthusiasm for it. Frankly, I don’t see the point in seeking to aggravate an already difficult situation.’
‘So you prefer to avoid confrontation?’ Visser quipped acidly.
‘While we have so few men, continuing Admiral Patterson’s policy seems sensible to me. We must concentrate on real problems not symbolic ones. Until all the internees have been liberated from those dreadful camps I think anything that will make life more hazardous for them should be avoided, don’t you agree?’
Visser sat forward raising a finger. ‘It depends on the final—’
‘A point well made, General,’ Van Zanten interjected amenably. Visser would have said more but a sharp look from Van Zanten stilled him. ‘Now, this is a rather fine wine, Admiral,’ he continued. ‘I find it remarkable that I am drinking a 1936 Côtes du Rhône. Where on earth did you get it? A bit of piracy in the Mediterranean?’
Instantly the mood eased and the relief among the junior British officers was palpable. For several minutes Patterson explained some of the more resourceful ways of maintaining a well-stocked cellar on a warship in hostile waters.
At just past nine-thirty, Patterson waited for a lull in the conversation. ‘Gentlemen, may I suggest we take brandy and cigars on the foredeck.’
Murmurs of approval ran around the table. Patterson led his guests up to the cooler air where two stewards waited with trays of drinks and a box of cigars. He had given strict instructions for two petty officers and one of his first lieutenants to escort Van Zanten, Hurwitz, Overbeck and Visser throughout the evening in the hope that the presence of junior officers would prevent the Dutch from posing difficult questions. Once on deck, he was disconcerted to see Chrishaw hemmed in by Van Zanten and Hurwitz, with his officers effectively blocked off by one of the ship’s gun turrets. Patterson took a sip of brandy and squeezed through to Chrishaw.
‘A most excellent meal, Admiral,’ effused Hurwitz. ‘You must let the Royal Netherlands Navy return the invitation when Tromp or one of her sister ships gets here from Singapore.’
Patterson nodded politely. Upon his request, Mountbatten was refusing to release any Dutch vessels from the joint Allied Naval Command. The last thing he wanted was a Dutch warship operating independently off Java. ‘I shall look forward to it,’ he replied casually.
‘Yes, so shall I,’ Chrishaw added. ‘I hear a Dutch Christmas dinner is a sight to behold.’
Patterson tried not to smile at Chrishaw’s veiled inference of a ten-week delay.
‘This really is an impressive vessel,’ Van Zanten commented easily. He turned, raising his arm as if to survey the ship, effectively pushing the loitering British officers further out of earshot. Patterson and Chrishaw did not notice the sudden change in Hurwitz’s manner as he acted on his signal from Van Zanten.
‘Admiral, General, we—that is, NICA—are of the opinion that quick action by the British could end this nationalist nonsense almost overnight.’
The two Britons maintained an uncomfortable silence. Hurwitz waited expectantly.
‘Really…?’ Chrishaw replied reluctantly.
‘Yes, we suggest the British invite the two sides—Dutch and Nationalist—to a meeting on board Cumberland.’
Patterson and Chrishaw exchanged looks of genuine, pleasant surprise.
Hurwitz continued apace. ‘Yes, then once Sukarno, Hatta, Sjahrir and Jarisha are on board they can be arrested and shipped off to face trial for treason!’ He smiled and took a gulp of his drink. ‘With their leadership behind bars the—’ He paused because he had caught Patterson’s shocked expression. Chrishaw chose to stare into his brandy balloon.
Hurwitz and Van Zanten waited uneasily.
Patterson's measured reply did not disguise his indignation. ‘Admiral Hurwitz, I will do my best to forget what you have just proposed. I am astounded that you could even think that I would permit one of His Majesty’s Ships to be used for such a treacherous purpose! Britain’s position here is delicate enough. I trust that in the future you will not try to make our situation more complicated than it need be.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Chrishaw added quietly.
Hurwitz’s face flushed in embarrassment and he attempted to laugh it off. ‘Only joking, Admiral! I doubt Cumberland’s brig is big enough. Hah! But you can’t deny it would make our work so much easier.’
For several long minutes they struggled with strained, artificial pleasantries before the Dutch party made their excuses. As their launch sped away from the ship, Patterson let out a long, exasperated sigh. ‘Good God!’
‘Can you credit it?’ Chrishaw snorted. ‘We’re doing business with a couple of gangsters!’
Patterson shook his head. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this place, Phil. It could be bedlam. And the Dutch are our allies!’
Chrishaw raised his eyebrows and nodded. ‘Of a kind…’ he replied quietly.
Hurwitz managed to contain himself until he and Van Zanten were in the car and heading back to the city. Visser was in a second vehicle behind them.
‘The British will do nothing for us!’ Hurwitz raged. ‘They might as well cut out the blue from the Union Jack and fly just red and white! The bastards actually accused me of treachery!’
Van Zanten turned his gaze to the window. ‘Yes, I realise now it was a mistake to suggest it. You know the British. Traps are “not cricket” as they say.’
‘But you said we needed to know whether the British will support us or not. ‘They—’ Hurwitz suddenly pointed forwards. ‘Oh, look at that Jap shit!’
General Yamagami had returned the Governor-General’s American limousine a few hours earlier. A red, silk Shinto travel amulet still hung from the rear-view mirror. Hurwitz would have reprimanded the driver but for the closed partition.
‘Yes, I did,’ Van Zanten said quietly. ‘We got our answer. Now we must make the British come round to our point of view.’
‘But how? You heard them!’ Hurwitz was still fuming.
‘At least we agree with them on one thing’, Van Zanten put his fingertips together and paused. ‘Java is a dangerous place. Eventually British soldiers will be killed. When that happens they will be less keen on “fair play”. We must anticipate this happening sooner rather than later.’
Hurwitz’s eyes widened.
Van Zanten ignored his unease. ‘We are playing for very high stakes, Jurgen. An empire no less! Never forget that.’ He put his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. ‘Arrange for Vi
sser and Brommer to see me tomorrow morning at ten.’
Ketapang, Djakarta
‘Why do you do this?’ Fear weakened the thin, elderly man’s voice. He knelt to try and rescue the pocket watch and smashed photograph frame from under the heavy, deliberately clumsy boots of the soldiers. He gaped as one soldier swept clear a shelf of crockery with the barrel of his rifle. Sounds of casual, wanton destruction echoed around the small bungalow.
‘My name is Kesawana,’ wailed the man. ‘I work for the railway. Before God I swear I have done nothing wrong! Leave my home!’
A solider trudged in from another room holding a foot-square Indonesian flag. ‘Captain Mollet, we found this.’ He gave it to the Dutch captain who smiled in contemptuous triumph at Kesawana.
‘Look at this, Voss!’ Mollet said in exaggerated surprise to a burly Dutch military police sergeant.
Voss grinned.
‘Why lie?’ Mollet snarled at the kneeling man. ‘You ran trains for the Japanese. That makes you a filthy collaborator.’
Voss slid his boot under a carved reading stand.
‘No! Please—’ Kesawana pleaded, reaching out helplessly.
Casually, Voss flicked the stand sending the green-bound copy of the Koran to land face down on the littered floor.
Kesawana began to sob.
At the doorway, Amit Rahman turned away and walked back to the narrow street. The Indian havildar was deeply troubled. Corporal Nambiar and the rest of his section were facing away from the house in a rough semi-circle in case of any protest from neighbours. Rahman knew his men were listening to the commotion. Their joint British-Dutch patrol had already spent three fruitless hours in the kampong. At each house the routine of damage and brutality had been the same. They had been relieved when they heard that Kesawana, a ticket inspector on the State Railways, was the last on Mollet’s list of suspects.
The ransacking continued but Rahman said nothing. He did not want to show his disquiet. While the desecration of the holy book had disgusted him, he knew it would enrage the Muslims among his men.
Force of military habit made him check the street again. It was eerily silent, empty apart from two dogs, one of which was urinating on the wheel of their lorry. Immediately after the patrol had been spotted, villagers had rushed inside bolting doors and shutters. As far as the rest of the residents of the kampong were concerned, the unfortunate Kesawana and his family were on their own.
Two women, one a daughter holding a young child, ran out of the house in tears. Rahman stepped aside to let them go past him. His men did likewise.
Voss, his shirt soaked with perspiration, emerged a few seconds later. Behind him a Dutch soldier was prodding sickly looking youth forward with his rifle. Rahman saw the youth’s hands were tied. Three more Dutch privates followed them outside.
‘Take him over there,’ Voss said gruffly.
Rahman smelt burning. Wisps of smoke were drifting through the doorway. The older of the two women moved back closer to the line of Indian soldiers. She was staring at her home, her hands over her mouth in horror.
Mollet appeared next, the small flag crumpled in his hand. He held it up to Rahman with smug satisfaction. ‘No doubt where his loyalty lies.’
Rahman looked at the house. Thick smoke was now billowing out of the open door. There was no sign of Kesawana. Mollet seemed unconcerned.
Two Indians had to restrain the women to prevent them going inside. They were both screaming for the old man to come out. Rahman took three steps towards the door.
‘Havildar, stop!’
Rahman turned. Mollet shook his head very slowly from side to side. Rahman frowned, glanced at Corporal Nambiar, then he took another step.
‘I am in command!’ Mollet shouted furiously. His hand moved to the handle of his holstered Colt automatic pistol.
A quick side-glance told Rahman his men had anticipated his action. Nambiar had already moved to one side of the Dutchmen. His Sten gun was at forty-five degrees.
Heads turned as Kesawana staggered out of the doorway, coughing. He was groggy and bleeding around the head and face. In each of his hands was an unfastened suitcase stuffed with clothing. Wedged under his arms were the photograph and his Koran.
A burst from Voss’s Thompson sub-machine gun almost lifted Kesawana off his feet. He crashed to the ground, dead. The women shrieked.
‘That was murder…’ Rahman muttered, thinking aloud.
Voss’s eyes flared and he started forward with a menacing yell. ‘Stront!’—Shit! ‘Who asked you, you little brown bastard!’
Rahman said nothing. Instead, he stared at the barrel of the machine gun which was just inches from his stomach.
Voss snarled, baring his teeth. ‘Whose side are you on, boy?’
Rahman looked questioningly at Mollet but the Dutch officer wore an amused half smile.
In the quiet, the sudden metallic clicking of weapons being readied was jarring. Taken aback, Mollet and Voss looked behind them to see the eight Indians well spaced, their guns trained on them and their men.
Mollet, now uneasy, snapped at Voss in Dutch. ‘That’s enough! Back off!’
For a moment it looked as if Voss would lose the battle with his rage then, slowly, he let the gun barrel drop. Still glaring at Rahman, he stepped back to stand with the dumbfounded Dutchmen.
Rahman looked at Nambiar and nodded. Very slowly his men lowered their weapons. All except for Nambiar.
Mollet swallowed, weighing up his options. ‘Havildar, you will apologise to Sergeant Voss and retract what you just said. If not, I will put you on a charge.’
‘I cannot do that, Captain.’
‘You saw a collaborator resist arrest.’
‘I saw an old man shot dead and innocent women and children—’
‘Innocent!’ Mollet scoffed. ‘Ha! None of these kampong rats is innocent. I’m surprised at you, Havildar. And you call you yourself a good soldier!’
Rahman held Mollet’s gaze. ‘I would never say that but General Chrishaw did call me so in Burma when he presented me with the Military Medal.’
Mollet stiffened as if he had been slapped. He had been commissioned in May 1945 and had never seen combat. ‘Well, we shall see about that. Come on, Voss!’ He turned sharply and led his men off without their young prisoner.
Several times Voss looked back, still glowering.
Rahman let out his breath, untied the youth then slowly went over to the dead man. He picked up the Koran, brushed off the dirt from the cover and placed it on his chest.
As soon as he stepped away the women rushed up to kneel and begin their mourning wails. Rahman led his men back to their transport. Along the street shutters began to open and faces to peep out.
‘Bloody hell!’ Nambiar cried. ‘We nearly shot those buggers!’
‘They nearly shot me first!’ Rahman replied.
‘My God, Hav,’ said another soldier. ‘What will happen now?’
‘Nothing,’ Rahman replied calmly. ‘But after I make my report I don’t think we’ll be going on any more patrols with the Dutch.
Chapter Two
Japanese HQ, Djakarta
General Yamagami opened the hand-written note and read it aloud to Major Miyoshi, his aide-de-camp. ‘My dear Yamagami, The war is over. A “traditional farewell” will serve no purpose, so please join me for tea at three on Wednesday. Chrishaw.’
‘Out of all the British generals, they send him!’ Yamagami laughed.
‘What does he mean,’ Miyoshi frowned, ‘by “traditional farewell”?’
Yamagami was still staring at the note. ‘He is asking me not to slit my belly.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Miyoshi. ‘You’ll go?’
‘Certainly! As I recall, General Chrishaw makes a very pleasant cup of tea.’
Yamagami saw Miyoshi’s confusion. ‘In 1929 I spent a liaison year in England, attached to the then Colonel Chrishaw’s staff. I enjoyed my time there. He and I exchanged Christmas and New Year cards�
��, Yamagami sighed, ‘until 1941… He’s a an honourable man, a sincere Christian and a superb commander.’
Miyoshi nodded in understanding. ‘Shall I telephone to accept the invitation and arrange for an interpreter?’
‘Yes, but not until this afternoon. Don’t bother about the interpreter. Chrishaw knows I speak English.’
A clerk knocked and entered. ‘Excuse me, Sir. There’s an urgent signal from Semarang. Major Kudo reports a serious disturbance.’ He handed over the message and left.
Yamagami sat up. ‘That’s odd. When are the British going to Semarang?’
‘They are not informing us of troop movements or numbers’, Miyoshi replied. ‘We’re listening in, of course… They’ve only a battalion here, so I doubt they would split their forces.’
Yamagami nodded. ‘Perhaps we’ll find out tomorrow. In the meantime, remind Kudo to tread softly. Let’s hope it’s just a bit of looting.’
British HQ, Hotel des Indes, Djakarta
Chrishaw stood up from behind his desk as Taylor-Smith showed Yamagami into his office. An elegant, gilded long-case clock was sounding its third and final chime. Taylor-Smith closed the door behind him, so the two men were alone.
‘Good afternoon, General Chrishaw,’ said Yamagami. He saluted stiffly, bowed and waited. Chrishaw returned the salute then stepped forward, smiling and proffered his hand. ‘Good afternoon, General Yamagami.’
Yamagami’s shake was formal, his voice hesitant. ‘It has been some years, Sir. There are many officers named Yamagami. I had hoped you would not recognise my name.’
Chrishaw shook his head. ‘Oh, the British Army always keeps an eye on former guests. In fact, I’ve followed your career with considerable interest, particularly since 1941.’
Yamagami bowed again. ‘I am dishonoured before you now, Sir.’
‘And so you should be,’ Chrishaw replied sharply. ‘For the moment, however, we need to discuss the present, not the past. Have a seat.’ Chrishaw pointed to two curve-backed colonial-style chairs separated by a low table. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘No sugar, General.’
