Merdeka Rising

by Rory Marron

  Another possibility suddenly struck him. Someone might have sabotaged his inventory… Patel’s eyes narrowed. He looked for Gupta, his deputy. ‘I bet it’s that bloody bugger, Sinda! He probably won it at cards from a Yank and decided to cause me administrative aggravation!’

  Gupta nodded sagely but did not look up from daubing the bottom of a bucket with bright red paint. The jeep had been virtually the sole topic of conversation all morning. ‘Maybe it’s his revenge for that cheap Siamese “scotch’’ you sold him.’

  ‘The “Loch Taye”?’ Patel looked pained. ‘It was a perfectly good scotch… For the price.’

  Gupta sighed. ‘Yes, but it would have been sound business practice to have first checked the labels.’

  Chagrin flashed momentarily on Patel’s face. The bottles had been emblazoned ‘Lok Thai’. He grunted as he watched Gupta press the bucket down on a piece of square, white cloth then lift it off to leave a print of a solid red circle. Gupta smiled and gave him the thumbs up. A dozen more ‘Japanese battle flags’ were drying on lines hidden amongst the stacked crates, ready for sale to newly arrived, gullible conscripts.

  Patel turned as two British officers walked over to the jeep. All morning it had drawn admiring, envious glances. Most of the British vehicles were patched-up survivors of the Burma campaign. The jeep was easily the most desirable piece of kit anyone had seen in months.

  Patel laughed under his breath. ‘Guppy, look there! More Captain-sahibs wishing they were Major-sahibs, so they could have that jeep and be photographed just like Mountbatten-sahib!’

  As the British left, they passed three Dutch officers coming on to the wharf. They also gave the jeep a studied once-over. Patel could not follow their conversation but he saw their condescending smirks as they observed the Indians unloading their own equipment. He watched them move to the area set aside for the Dutch supplies. Patel was more than a little envious of their brand new, lend-lease American equipment. Most of the crates had come from the stocks earmarked for the invasion of Japan.

  In contrast to the Indians, the Dutch were using Javanese coolies. Patel shook his head in silent disbelief. He would rarely let anyone near his supplies and certainly not on the first day of a landing in unfamiliar and insecure surroundings.

  Dutifully he went back to his checklist. Suddenly there was a loud bang and shouting from over by the Dutch section. Two coolies had dropped a large crate and it had broken open. Boxes of ammunition and spilled loose rounds were strewn across the wharf. A furious Dutch NCO was berating the hapless Javanese.

  Patel could see that the coolies showed no sign of being intimidated. Instead, they were shouting back and pointing angrily at the ammunition. More of them gathered. The Dutchman’s hand flashed up as he struck one of the Javanese across the face.

  Patel began to walk towards the fracas. Gupta and several other Indians followed him.

  The protestations by the Javanese were too much for another of the Dutchmen and he waded in, pushing them back to the crates. Some went back to work and Patel stopped, thinking the browbeating had worked. A sudden shout of ‘Indonesia Raya!’ told him he was wrong.

  Two more coolies lifted another crate to the edge of the wharf and then hurled it into the harbour. A murky brown plume spouted as the box vanished. Others cheered and rushed to do the same. In seconds, another half-dozen boxes had joined the first on the harbour bottom. Chanting ‘Strike!’, the coolies walked away.

  Enraged, the Dutchmen watched their workers leave. One had his hand on his pistol holster. Some of the younger Indian soldiers were laughing. When the Dutchmen saw them, their mood worsened. The biggest Dutchman, well over six-feet tall, turned and took a step towards one of the smaller Indians. His voice was a snarl. ‘You think that’s funny, boy?’

  ‘You cannot go about beating coolies,’ Patel called out jauntily as he closed the distance.

  ‘No indeed,’ added Gupta in a monotone. ‘It creates a terrible relationship between management and labour.’

  ‘Is that so?’ snarled the Dutchman. ‘Well you don’t tell me what to do, you brown bastard!’ He stepped forward menacingly.

  Patel smiled and glanced at Gupta who raised his eyebrows. Some fifteen Indians closed in, forming a tight semi-circle around the three Dutchmen trapping them against the stacked crates.

  ‘You don’t appear to get on well with brown bastards, do you, gentlemen?’ Patel grinned. ‘I wonder why? But never mind, we’ll help you recover your ammunition.’ He looked around at his men then spoke in Urdhu. ‘In the harbour with them!’

  His men rushed the helpless Dutch, grabbing them, and then casting them into the water one after the other.

  The Dutch swam to some steps cut into the quay. Humiliated and stinking of waste and diesel, they began the long walk back to the harbour entrance past dozens of jeering Javanese.

  Hotel des Indes

  ‘All right, MacDonald,’ Taylor-Smith beckoned, ‘in you come.’

  Chrishaw had his head down over a pile of paperwork.

  Mac saluted. He knew only that the General wanted to see him.

  ‘Afternoon, MacDonald. Take a pew,’ Chrishaw said affably.

  Taylor-Smith ushered Mac to a seat directly in front of the desk, which was positioned to give the General a view of the luxurious hotel gardens.

  ‘How’s the leg?’

  ‘Much better now, thank you, Sir. But still painful…’ Mac replied warily. In truth he was surprised that Chrishaw knew or cared. He glanced at the cluttered desk and saw two books among the papers. One was a thick, leather-bound copy of the History of Java by Stamford Raffles; the other was Birds of the Netherlands East Indies.

  ‘Painful? Hmm… I’ve got driving duties for you,’ Chrishaw said suddenly. ‘Is your leg up to it?’

  Mac sat up keenly. ‘Oh, yes, Sir!’

  ‘It gets better,’ Chrishaw laughed. ‘You are to be a chauffeur for a lady.’

  Mac’s eyes widened. ‘A lady?’

  ‘Yes. An American war correspondent to be precise. Her name is Megan Graham, Miss Graham to you. You might have seen her wandering about the town in all the wrong places?’

  ‘Yes, General. I have as a matter of fact. I saw her at the harbour when the Dutchies—I mean the Dutch Governor—tried to come ashore.’

  ‘Right,’ Chrishaw mumbled in a non-committal manner. ‘Of course from the journalistic point of view, Miss Graham’s usually in the right place. She’s experienced and very independent. Even so, I’d be happier if she had a British driver for a few days just in case. Murder, rape and robbery are rife, in addition there’s always the risk of the odd sniper!’

  Mac nodded gravely. ‘Yes, Sir.’ Only the night before a patrol had been ambushed and two soldiers killed.

  ‘Listen,’ Chrishaw continued, ‘you’re to be her driver. She’s the boss but use your judgement about where she wants to go. I don’t want you both kidnapped or worse. Is that—’

  Chrishaw was sitting stock still, his mouth open. Mac saw he was peering over his shoulder and out into the garden. He started to turn.

  ‘Don’t move!’ Chrishaw’s commanded hoarsely. Mac and Taylor-Smith tensed.

  They both watched as Chrishaw’s right hand began to inch slowly across the top of the desk. ‘He’s in the nearest tamarind tree!’ he whispered. ‘MacDonald, I want you to stay absolutely still. George, you can back away. He can’t see you.’

  Relieved, Taylor-Smith took several, quick steps until he was pressed against the wall.

  Mac sat rigid, staring at Chrishaw’s hand as it moved at what seemed a snail’s pace towards the desk drawer. He felt a moist chill between his shoulder blades and his heart began to race. His mouth went dry. ‘Just say the word, Sir,’ he managed to croak.

  ‘Hmm?’ Chrishaw muttered, not seeming to hear. His hand was now hovering over the drawer. ‘He’s well camouflaged,’ he said under his breath. ‘I don’t know how I saw him!’

  Mac, amazed by the General’s composure, brace
d himself for the shot. He wondered if he would hear it, then remembered the adage that you never hear the one that gets you. His pulse was surging, his throat felt parched. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. He glanced pleadingly at Taylor-Smith who leant calmly, even indifferently, against the wall. Chrishaw’s hand dropped below the desktop.

  Mac heard the drawer slide open. He’s too slow! His chest tightened as Chrishaw’s hand reaching. ‘I’m ready to move, Sir,’ he gasped.

  ‘What was that?’ Chrishaw muttered distractedly. His eyes were bright but he seemed completely oblivious to Mac. His hand was out of the drawer and was moving furtively back to his lap.

  Mac could not see the pistol. His mind was jumping. What was Chrishaw doing? A handgun against a sniper!

  He was about to fling himself to one side when, at last, Chrishaw’s hand rose above the desk to his face. Mac’s jaw dropped.

  The General was holding a pair of field glasses and was grinning widely. ‘Green hornbill, male, a real beauty! It’s native to Java. I was hoping to see one while I was here. What a bonus! Apparently, someone freed the birds in the zoo aviary last week, so anything is possible at the moment!’

  Mac’s shoulders sagged as he relaxed. He let out a loud sigh. Taylor-Smith was laughing at Mac’s expense.

  Chrishaw lowered the glasses to reveal amused, twinkling eyes. ‘Are you all right, MacDonald? You look a bit peaky suddenly. What was that you said?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir,’ Mac managed a wry grin. ‘Pity you haven’t got a camera handy.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea! Remind me to get one, Major.’ Now, back to business. We—’

  Mac jumped as shot sounded from near the front of the building.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Chrishaw stood.

  Taylor-Smith was rushing to the door. ‘Very close!’

  ‘Probably the Dutch offices,’ Chrishaw agreed. ‘Come on!’

  Outside they saw a noisy crowd forming in front of the tall, iron gates of the municipal building that housed NICA staff. Dutch marines and native troops were trying to force the Javanese away from a sentry box. Chrishaw pushed his way through. Sprawled on the pavement was a dead Javanese youth. A bullet wound in the middle of his chest showed clearly on his white shirt. Beside the body was a small Indonesian flag. Chrishaw fixed his gaze on a Dutch captain. ‘What happened here?’

  ‘I’m not sure, General. The guard felt it necessary to open fire.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did!’ Chrishaw whirled to face the guard. ‘Why?’

  The guard, an Ambonese, not much older than twenty, shrugged then spoke in Dutch.

  ‘He says he was abusive and threatening,’ the Captain explained casually.

  Chrishaw was staring at the nonchalant guard. ‘Was he armed?’

  Again the Captain interpreted. The guard’s answer was short.

  ‘No, Sir, he was not armed but he could have been. Protesters gather here regularly throughout the day.’

  ‘What about witnesses?’ Chrishaw looked at the accusing faces in the crowd. ‘This is a busy street. Somebody must have seen it!’

  Much less enthusiastically the Captain turned and addressed the crowd. A middle-aged, neatly dressed Javanese man raised a hesitant finger to point at the guard and spoke in English. ‘I saw the boy carrying the flag as he went past. He was shot for no reason!’

  ‘You can’t believe these rebel sympathisers,’ snarled the Captain. ‘They’ll say anything!’ He glared balefully at the Javanese who shrank back.

  Chrishaw’s frustration was obvious. ‘Captain, perhaps the guard can explain the threat to his life from an unarmed youth?’ His tone was steel-like.

  Shaking his head and shrugging, the guard mumbled a reply. Chrishaw did not wait for the translation. ‘Then in God’s name why did he shoot him?’

  People in the crowd began to shout. The guard was non-committal but unrepentant. Finally the Captain turned to Chrishaw. ‘I think he was provoked and—’

  ‘Put that man under arrest,’ Chrishaw said tersely.

  The Captain stared in askance at Chrishaw. ‘Arrest? But he was a rebel sympathiser—’

  Two British military policemen pushed through the crowd. ‘Sergeant,’ Chrishaw snapped, ‘arrest that soldier.’ He pointed to the Javanese witness. ‘Take a confidential statement from this man and bring it to me, no-one else.’

  The Dutch officer moved as if to accompany them. Chrishaw raised his hand. ‘Captain, you and your men will remain here and assist Major Taylor-Smith and the MPs. MacDonald, come with me. You start your new job this afternoon.’

  Meg sipped her tea. It was deliciously fresh. Chrishaw put down his cup and cleared his throat. ‘Miss Graham, as someone who’s being driven around in a clapped-out Citroen, I have some enviable news. You’re to have use of a brand new jeep.’

  His amusement showed in his eyes and Meg relaxed. The invitation to tea had arrived shortly after rumours of the altercation at the docks had reached her. She had been wondering if the two were connected.

  ‘To be frank,’ Chrishaw went on, ‘I do have concerns about your movements. Most of Batavia is outside our control. I think it best if you travel in a very noticeable vehicle.’

  Meg’s face clouded but Chrishaw carried on quickly. ‘You’re movements will not be vetted but I do insist that you have a driver. I’ve already asked Brigadier King to spare one of his men for a few days. His name is MacDonald. He’s downstairs.’

  Chrishaw missed her slight smile. ‘MacDonald’s excused patrol duties because he’s had a bad leg. Still, he can be useful while he’s recovering.’ The General waited for the outburst on restricting the freedom of the press but it did not come.

  In fact, Meg gave him a beaming smile and mimicked a proud, southern-belle accent. ‘Lordy, Gen’rul, ah thought y’all were going to confine me to ma’ quarters.’

  Chrishaw’s shoulders shook. ‘My dear lady,’ he laughed, ‘the British don’t go about doing things like that. More tea?’

  ‘Oh, yes please. It’s the best I’ve ever had! That reminds me, we gave a really good tea party once.’

  ‘Let me guess. In Boston in 1776?’

  They both smiled, liking each other. He refilled her cup. ‘There you are. It’s first-flush Darjeeling. One of the perks of commanding an Indian Army division.’

  ‘But not for much longer, I guess?’ She regretted the question even as she spoke. ‘Sorry, General, it’s force of habit. I didn’t intend to raise the subject of Indian independence.’

  Chrishaw was unfazed. ‘This isn’t an interview we’re having a conversation. There have been Indian levies in the British army since before the battle of Plessy in 1767.’ He smiled. ‘You see, even as we were about to lose one colony we were gaining another!’ His expression became thoughtful. ‘Forgive me if I sound boastful but today the British Indian Army is probably one of the finest organisations—military or civilian—the world has ever seen. Nearly a million Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Buddhists, Zoroastrians and Christians operating together, often in mixed regiments. It’s multi-faith, meritocratic, non-partisan as well as efficient and capable. It has worked spectacularly well, Miss Graham. Not a bad epitaph!’

  Meg nodded. ‘There will be an Indian Army, though, without the British. You’re sure it will change?’

  He sighed, raising his open palms. ‘Oh, vestiges of tradition will remain I suppose. But a political division of British India that leads to a separate Muslim state would mean arguments over borders, and a splitting of regiments, resources and recruitment. That will destroy the whole ethos of the army. To adapt a phrase, it ain’t broke, but the politicians will want to fix it!’

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir, said Taylor-Smith. ‘Wing Commander Ball has just arrived from Singapore.’

  Chrishaw nodded. ‘Oh, good! Show him in. Miss Graham might be interested in his work…women’s angle and all that.’

  Meg frowned accusingly at Chrishaw who smiled. ‘Please don’t take it the wro
ng way. Ball is assigned to Recovery of Allied Prisoners of War and Internees.’

  ‘Wow!’ Meg laughed. ‘That’s a mouthful.’

  ‘Isn’t it just. It’s “RAPWI” for short.’

  A short, stocky man with sleek black hair and hard features entered the room.

  ‘Ah, Wing Commander, good to meet you at long last,’ Chrishaw said warmly. ‘Your reports are first class—if rather disturbing.’

  ‘Very pleased to meet you, too, General,’ Ball replied confidently. The two men shook hands.

  Chrishaw turned to Meg. ‘Wing Commander, let me introduce Miss Megan Graham. She is with the US Press Corps.’

  Ball stepped forward, smiled and offered his hand. ‘Tom Ball, delighted.’

  ‘Same here, I’m sure,’ Meg replied with a smile. She noticed a burn scar running down one side of Ball’s neck.

  Chrishaw continued in good mood. ‘The Wing Commander has been here for some weeks now, zipping about the internee camps around Batavia, Buitenzorg and Bandung. He even has his own plane—one of your marvellous Dakotas! He’ll be going to Semarang and Surabaya very soon. Why don’t you go along? I’m sure it would make an interesting article for your readers. I’ll assign you a vehicle so you can get about. Your driver can go with you on a temporary secondment to RAPWI. How about that, Wing Commander?’

  Ball nodded quickly. ‘It’s fine with me, Sir. We can always use more help…and publicity!’

  Meg eyes narrowed. ‘General, is this a reward for not writing about the incident in the market and the squabble at the docks, or do you just want me out of the way?’

  Chrishaw feigned outrage. ‘My dear, how could you think that of one of His Majesty’s Generals? I simply wish to be of service to the Press.’

  Meg grinned. ‘In that case, General, you’ve got a deal.’ She stood and Chrishaw rose as well. They shook hands.