Merdeka Rising

by Rory Marron

  Several Indonesian journalists raised their hands. Van Zanten ignored them and chose another Dutch correspondent.

  ‘Doctor, why has there been no move against the main rebel base at Yogya? Surely the more time they have the better prepared they will be to resist the attack when it is made.’

  ‘It seems that the British are reluctant to honour agreements about returning our territory. They are, of course, busy in Burma and Malaya looking after their own interests. Naturally we feel they are in breach of their obligations to an ally.’

  Meg stood up uninvited. ‘Doctor, could the British reluctance to risk the reprisals against tens of thousands of Dutch women and children still trapped in camps be another reason for this delay?’

  He nodded once. ‘The hostages concern us greatly, Miss Graham.’

  ‘Really? Dutch policy would seem to suggest otherwise. Especially with Dutch forces acting independently of the British.’

  Perplexed, Van Zanten looked at her. ‘Independently? I don’t know what you mean. Our forces are very limited in number. We rely totally on the British armed forces for support and logistics.’

  One of the Indonesian reporters stood up. ‘Doctor, at least five Indonesian fishing boats have gone missing recently. Wreckage washed up along the coast suggests fire or even explosion. There are rumours of a Dutch warship operating off Java. Is this true?’

  Mac was propping up the opposite wall to the Dutch officers. Meg’s instruction to him had been to watch Hurwitz and Visser very closely whenever Meg asked a question or someone mentioned ships or boats.

  Van Zanten shook his head and laughed. ‘That is a fantastic assumption! The nearest Dutch ships are at Singapore.’

  Clearly unimpressed by the answer, the Indonesian sat down. Van Zanten ignored him and addressed the Dutch correspondents. ‘As for fire and explosions, I agree those are not normal hazards for fishing boats but they are for cargoes such as grenades and ammunition. The hungry people of Java should ask whether their fishermen should be trying to put food on the table rather than aid rebels.’

  Meg saw the opening she was looking for and stood up again. ‘And what about Dutch gun-running, Doctor? Who is that serving?’

  Many of the Dutch journalists shook their heads derisively. Meg ignored them.

  Van Zanten rolled his eyes. ‘Miss Graham I think you are fishing without a hook!’

  Again the Dutch laughed.

  Meg shrugged. ‘I did go fishing the other night. And guess what? I caught a huge tiger-shark. It was such a shock that I had to be taken home in a Red Cross Ambulance!’ She sat down quickly, keeping her gaze on him.

  For an instant Van Zanten’s eyes flashed cold, then he was smiling again. ‘Shark fishing can be very dangerous…’ He nodded to a Dutch journalist. ‘Jaap, your question?’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor’, said the journalist respectfully. ‘How long will Japanese currency remain legal tender?’

  Outside in the car park, Mac could hardly contain himself. ‘How did you know? You should have seen the Dutch admiral’s face!’

  Meg smiled and began touching up her lipstick. ‘I was tempted to look. And the other two?’

  ‘Oh yes! They gave you very dirty looks and went out.’

  Meg grinned broadly. ‘Then the gun-running goes all the way to the top!’

  Mac looked at her accusingly. ‘You really did see a submarine didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes—’ She pursed her lips. ‘Sorry I couldn’t tell you. I—’

  ‘You don’t trust me?’ He looked pained.

  ‘Listen, I’m an American journalist. You’re a British soldier. The war's over but you still have to follow orders or you could be in big trouble. I don’t. I had one chance to link the sub to the ambulance. I couldn’t risk you blowing it by telling someone at the barracks.’

  Mac stared at his lap quietly. ‘You’re right. I would have told someone.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll drive, you report.’

  She laughed. ‘Deal!’

  Mac started the engine. ‘So, Miss Foreign Correspondent, where to now?’

  ‘Where do you think? My hotel room!’

  As the jeep moved off Brommer, the head of the Dutch Intelligence Service, turned away from the second-floor window. ‘That nosey bitch has left,’ he snarled.

  Van Zanten shook his head reprovingly. ‘Colonel, Miss Graham is exceptionally good at her job.’

  ‘Well,’ interjected Visser, Van Zanten’s deputy, ‘she could have got something from the British military police about the guns and the ambulance but how the hell does she know about Tijgerhaai!’

  ‘It’s worrying,’ nodded Brommer.

  Van Zanten gave him a sharp look. ‘What if she has a source inside NEFIS?’

  Brommer’s head shot up. ‘I don’t believe it. My people are—’

  ‘What about the local staff,’ Hurwitz shouted. ‘I mean some Dutch girls work as secretaries for the British. You get information from them. The British could have bribed one of yours.’

  Brommer looked affronted. ‘Non-military staff are forbidden inside my HQ. Any leaks must have come from here…or the naval office.’

  Hurwitz bridled, ‘That’s—’

  ‘Enough! Van Zanten slammed the table. ‘At the moment it does not matter how she knows. I want a solution. Brommer, that is your department. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Interviewing revolutionary leaders,’ Brommer said archly, ‘can be very dangerous, especially if there happened to be an assassination attempt on the politician…’

  Visser clapped. ‘Two birds with one stone?’

  Van Zanten slowly stroked his chin. ‘Just solve the problem.’

  Chapter Four

  Bandung Militia Barracks

  Yarek entered the office with a part smile and an overly loud greeting. ‘We were worried Bung Sarel, Bung Lamban. It’s good to see you safe.’

  Lamban, Sarel and four more of the Black Buffaloes from Sadakan village regarded him coldly. He looked around uneasily.

  Sarel was leaning against a desk. ‘Only you knew our precise travel plans Yarek. You left the meeting early. Lamban and I were arrested at a temporary roadblock on a minor road. Why did that happen?’

  Yarek shrugged but paled. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Don’t lie! Sarel snapped. ‘We have people watching the Dutch bases. NEFIS arrested you at Krawang with our leaflets. You were taken to their compound. Five hours later you were released and went directly to the Asrama.’

  Yarek dropped to his knees in supplication. ‘I was arrested. It’s true! But I didn’t betray you. I swear!’

  Sarel frowned. ‘And yet they let you go unharmed after just five hours. Why?’

  Yarek looked from face to face in desperation. ‘I was beaten but they got nothing!’

  ‘Really? Sarel half smiled. ‘Strip him!’

  In seconds Yarek stood before them naked and without bruises. He began to sob.

  ‘Please Sarel, NEFIS know your full name and the houses you use. They were going to catch you anyway—They threatened to arrest my parents and shoot my younger brother. I—I had no choice!’

  Sarel’s expression was pitying. ‘Oh, but you did, Yarek. You had a choice to die a martyr for the revolution at the hands of the Dutch, or to die a traitor now.’

  ‘Mercy, Sarel, I’ll—’ Yarek suddenly gasped, half-turned then pitched forwards.

  Behind him Lamban stared at his victim, the Death Shroud keris in his hand. Blood began to pool around Yarek’s corpse.

  British HQ, Hotel des Indes

  Wing Commander Ball yawned as he re-read his neatly typed report. He was pleased. There were no spelling errors and the paragraphing and indents made his suggestions seem far more measured than they had done in longhand.

  Nearby, Emmy Eberfeld sat in front of her typewriter filing her nails while she waited for his corrections. She was one of several Dutch hired by a desperate British HQ for secretarial duties. All the other girls had left for lunch. />
  ‘Emmy, you’re a marvel!’ Ball grinned. ‘I’ll bet you’ve got the fastest fingers in Java!’

  Behind her a signals clerk smirked, and Ball struggled to keep his face straight. Emmy sat expectantly, oblivious to the double entendre.

  ‘It’s excellent,’ he said warmly. ‘Title it, “RAPWI Report Number Three: West Java Evacuation Schedules”. Date it add my surname and initials as well, please.’

  ‘Of course, Wing Commander.’

  For a few seconds the typewriter rattled, then Emmy pulled out the sheet and carbon. She clipped the pages together and offered it smiling. ‘Here you are, all done!’

  ‘Splendid!’ Ball beamed. ‘Why don’t I take you to lunch as a little thank you?’

  ‘Sorry, Wing Commander I’ve got an appointment at one o’clock.’

  ‘Surely not with a man!’ Ball put his hands on his heart in pretended agony.

  Emmy giggled. ‘I’m not telling,’

  ‘Lucky fellow,’ smiled Ball. He reached across the desk for a stamp and pressed it firmly on the two cover pages. Emmy glanced down at the red-inked ‘Top Secret’.

  Taylor-Smith entered the office. He looked anxious and was relieved to see Emmy.

  ‘Excuse me, Tom. Emmy, this is very urgent. It’s only a short invitation. Do you mind?’

  Ball grinned at her. ‘You mustn’t make her late for her date, Major.’

  ‘Just put it there, Major,’ Emmy replied. ‘I’m taking a late lunch, so I’ll do it now.’

  Taylor-Smith heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Bless you!’

  Ball stood up and gave Taylor-Smith a copy of his report. ‘Would you pass this to General Chrishaw? I’m flying to Semarang today and then on to Surabaya to check out the camps before our transports arrive. You won’t see me for several days. God knows what I’ll find. Each camp I visit seems worse than the last.’

  Taylor-Smith nodded sympathetically. ‘I’d hate your job. The General’s enormously grateful.’

  ‘Well, I’m off,’ declared Ball. ‘Have a nice lunch, Emmy. Cheerio!’

  ‘Bye, Wing Commander. Take care,’ she replied.

  As soon as the two officers had gone Emmy pulled out a small mirror from a desk drawer and applied some lipstick. When she finished she stared mournfully at the clock on the wall, then set about layering the sheets and carbons for her next job.

  Five minutes later three copies of the invitation were ready on the desk. She reached down into a large straw shopping bag and took out a folded buff-coloured envelope marked ‘Batavia Women’s Institute’. Quickly she slipped copies of the report and invitation inside. By twelve fifty-five Emmy had walked to the end of Noordwijk and was on the Waterlooplein West. In the square to her left the twin, open ironwork towers of the cathedral shimmered in the midday heat. Moving briskly, she turned south, making the best of the shade offered by the tall buildings. She was a little out of breath when she arrived at the Concordia Club and, once past the guard, paused to dab her perspiration-dotted forehead. After straightening her hair she made her way to the garden terrace restaurant. Several tables were occupied, most of them by Dutchmen in NICA uniforms.

  A young officer stood and waved, giving her a dazzling smile. He took her bag and touched her arm affectionately. ‘You had me worried, Emmy. I thought you weren’t coming!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Hans,’ she sighed apologetically. ‘I had to do an urgent report.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s all right then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Emmy, you look lovely today.’ He poured her some chilled water. ‘So what was so important that it was allowed to keep us apart?’

  Her eyes sparkled and her voice lowered. ‘Oh, this and that. You know…’ she said teasing him, enjoying his attention. She reached for the menu. ‘Hans I’m so hungry. Have you ordered? I wonder if they have any fish today.’

  ‘I’m sure they have’, he grinned. ‘By the way, are you free on Saturday? We’re having a picnic. If you like you could bring some of the girls from the office. There’ll be lots of single men there.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Hans,’ she gushed. ‘They’ll all want to go!’

  His face suddenly clouded. ‘I hope I don’t have to work…’

  Emmy’s face was full of concern. ‘Oh, Hans, are you still in trouble with your Colonel?’

  He shrugged. ‘These days I can’t tell,’ he sighed.

  She reached across the table and patted his hand. ‘Don’t worry. I brought you something that will put your Colonel in a good mood!’

  ‘Really?’

  Emmy giggled. ‘Now what time on Saturday?’

  By two-fifteen, a still-smiling Hans Kern had reached his tiny office at the rear of the Governor’s palace. He was delighted with his lunchtime’s work. With RAPWI officers heading for Semarang and Surabaya it meant that the British would occupy them soon, which was good news—the rebels had been given free rein there for long enough, he thought. The real gem, though, had been the other document.

  There was only one cluttered desk in Kern’s office. He sat down quickly and took out Emmy’s envelope from his attaché case. As he re-read Chrishaw’s invitation to Dr Jarisha he smiled. Now he even had the date, time and location of their meeting! Elated, he let his thoughts run on. His superiors would be more than impressed.

  He reached for a phone and dialled. While he waited for the connection he drew a large, embellished ‘J’ on a desk diary page. ‘Got him!’ Kern mouthed quietly.

  After three rings a voice answered. ‘NEFIS HQ.’

  ‘This is Captain Kern, I must speak with Lieutenant Colonel Brommer!’

  British HQ, Hotel des Indes

  Major Taylor-Smith was incensed. ‘Seven guilders to the pound!’ ‘That’s the pre-war rate for God’s sake. It’s ten-and-a-half in the Netherlands, fifteen on the black market here. What damn cheek!’

  ‘Take it easy, George,’ Chrishaw said patiently, closing a file on his desk. ‘We’ll have to expect things like this.’

  A week before, London had agreed that 23rd Indian Division would make all local purchases through Van Zanten’s Administration in Dutch guilders. That morning the first of the bills had come in.

  ‘A formal complaint at least…’ Taylor-Smith sighed. ‘It’s so…ungrateful.’

  Chrishaw shook his head amiably. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it. Inform London and let them see the error of their accounting ways.’

  ‘But Sir, our costs have just risen by a third!’

  ‘Only on paper, George…the Indonesians won’t accept the new guilders anyway. I think Doctor Van Zanten is simply showing his displeasure after I refused to declare Jap currency illegal tender.’

  Taylor-Smith was calming down. ‘But you’ll have to at some point. We did it immediately in Hong Kong.’

  Chrishaw nodded. ‘Yes but what do you think the likely outcome would be if I, backed by all of fifteen-hundred men, suddenly decreed that the wage packets and savings of forty-odd million hungry and aggrieved Javanese were worthless?’

  ‘Well, yes, you’re right,’ Taylor-Smith conceded with a shrug. ‘But what will London—and The Hague—make of it? Van Zanten is bound to make another protest.’

  Chrishaw pursed his lips. ‘To misquote Rhett Butler, “Frankly, my dear Major, I don’t give a damn”. The economy must keep going. People must be able to buy food, everyone—our men, ex-POWs, internees, natives—even NICA staff.’

  Taylor-Smith nodded in agreement. ‘Talking of food, Sir, there’s rumour of a boycott of Dutch customers by native traders.’

  ‘Our troops as well?’

  ‘No, not so far. But as you say, they can’t make purchases if they receive their allowance in Dutch guilders.’

  Chrishaw began to straighten his silk cravat. ‘Hmm. I’ll have to do something about that. Every time Governor Van Zanten holds a press conference he manages to upset another group of locals. On Monday he revoked all promotions given to rail, water and power workers during the Jap occupation.’

 
; Taylor-Smith frowned. ‘What’s he trying to do?’

  Chrishaw laughed. ‘Oh, stir things up for the nationalist government by trying to undermine its authority. As a result, we now face the threat of an island-wide rail, water and electricity strike.’

  ‘Any advice from London?’

  ‘Heaps of it,’ Chrishaw said, swallowing a laugh. He cast an eye at the mound of papers in his in-tray and pulled out a sheet. ‘This gem came from the Foreign Office only this morning. I quote, “We suggest joint route marches by British and Dutch troops throughout Java to publicise and reinforce Allied authority.” How very useful.’

  Taylor-Smith rolled his eyes.

  Chrishaw leant back in his chair with both hands behind his head. ‘I rest my case!’

  Meg felt a little self-conscious as she entered the brightly lit hotel lobby. For the first time in weeks she was wearing a dress, nylon stockings and high heels instead of tunic, long shorts and boots. She handed in her invitation and was escorted into the reception by a smiling young sepoy private, his red tunic freshly ironed and starched. He left her at the end of a short line of guests being met by General Chrishaw and his senior staff.

  She waited patiently, glancing surreptitiously into the hall at the other women guests and congratulating herself on her foresight in shopping in Alexandria en-route to Java. Her light- blue silk dress, copied from a two-month-old issue of Vogue, had taken the Singaporean dressmaker only one afternoon to run up. It had cost Meg just a few dollars. In Java the silk was worth a small fortune. She was only sorry that she had no escort, but she was used to it and, she reminded herself, she was working. At first she was quietly pleased by the envious looks but then she found herself feeling guilty about her unfair advantage over the recently released internees.

  ‘Miss Graham, delighted you could join us!’ Chrishaw greeted her jovially. He was resplendent in dress uniform, his chest encrusted with medals and braid. She looked him over appreciatively from head to toe.

  ‘No-one can dress up like the British, General. If only General MacArthur would take a few tips from you!’