by Rory Marron
A slight rise of the stricken Dakota’s nose took it over the southwest corner of a large village. Miraculously it cleared a railway embankment and bounced twice on light scrubland before slewing sideways into a dried-up river-bed. It came to a juddering stop.
Sharma untied himself from the webbing and started to help his dazed but apparently uninjured men. Billowing black smoke filled the fuselage. He smelt aviation fuel.
‘Quick,’ the pilot yelled, ‘everybody out. The tanks will go!’
As they scrambled clear they saw the flames were already spreading from behind the engine cowling along one wing. They ran, chests bursting until they were out of danger.
Standing with the RAF crew, Sharma counted his platoon twice then flopped down on his back in relief. ‘Lord Vishnu, that was a close one!
‘My best bat is in there, Hav,’ said one of them sadly.
Sharma sat up. ‘Bugger! The scorebook’s in my bag.’
‘Forget your bloody belongings!’ The pilot berated him. ‘Be thankful that we’re in one piece. Any broken bones?’
Eighteen bruised and bleeding Kumaons shook their heads.
Heat forced them back from the plane. As the flames took hold they stood in a loose semi-circle in quiet contemplation of what might have been.
The drone of engines high above started them waving. Heads craned to look for the second Dakota. The pilot, aged about thirty with a thin moustache, was almost cheerful. ‘Well, they can’t miss this signal fire!’
Smoke was rising, too. The other plane came in low, circled twice then rocked its wings in confirmation. Sharma and the others waved at the faces in the cockpit as it turned west for Batavia.
‘Right, then,’ said the pilot pointing. ‘Batavia’s about ten miles that way. Let’s start walking. With any luck we’ll meet the crash party coming for us. We’ll be home for din—’ He stared as a hundred or more young Javanese brandishing swords, spears and a few rifles appeared on the earth banks above them.
With wild whoops of triumph the Javanese rushed down the slope towards them. Hemmed in against the burning plane and unarmed apart from a couple of salvaged rifles, the Kumaons were trapped. They looked around in dismay.
Two Indians and one crewman tried to bolt through the lines but they were beaten down mercilessly with staffs and clubs. Sharma spun round, looking for his way to escape. A club struck him on the side of the head. He fell to the ground, unconscious.
A burst of pain in his thigh roused him. He blinked to try and focus but he felt only a pounding ache in his head. Another kick brought him fully awake. Someone was shouting in Malay.
‘Get up, pig!’
He tried to curl up to protect himself but found his arms were tied behind his back. Around him the other Kumaons and the RAF crew, all of them now naked, were being pulled to their feet. He saw he, too, had been stripped. Rough hands jerked him up, and then a fierce-looking youth came close and spat in his face. Sharma saw the youth was wearing his tunic.
Helpless, the Kumaons and airmen stood in a tight group surrounded by their near-hysterical captors. Anyone who reacted to the ferocious taunts or slaps was beaten.
Finally the Javanese forced them to form a ragged line. Jabs from spears and bayonets prodded them into a shambling walk in the direction of kampong Bekassi.
Sharma estimated they walked for about three miles. He was relieved when he saw the outlying buildings. It meant a rest, perhaps an opportunity to escape. His feet were raw and bleeding but he had decided to take any chance that came.
Bekassi was ready for them. Abusive men, women and children lined the road pelting the prisoners with rubbish, dung and stones. Hundreds of armed youths strutted about self-importantly, leading the chanting.
‘Merdeka!’—‘Indonesia’—‘Sukarno!’
Eventually the humiliated captives were led into the walled enclosure of the single-storey Bekassi gaol. To one side of the gate under a carpet of flies lay the bloodied, broken bodies of four men and two women. They passed the corpses in grim silence. Once inside they collapsed in exhausted heaps.
Sharma lay on the packed earth. He was streaked with human and dog excrement. Gashes and bruises dotted his body. All he wanted to do was sleep.
Drumming woke Sharma. It was very early morning and armed youths were among them, shouting and kicking their prisoners to stand. He tried to move but he had lost all feeling in his hands. His throat was parched. Nehra was lying on his front next to him with his eyes closed. With alarm Sharma looked at the discoloured, bloodless hands and knew his own would be just as bad. He risked a whisper. ‘Sourav, can you get up?’
Nehra managed to open his right eye. His left was badly swollen from a stone cut. He nodded weakly.
‘We’ll have to make a run for it,’ said Sharma. ’If we stay here we’re dead.’
Nehra tried to move and grimaced in pain. ‘I can’t feel my hands.’
A guard bellowed above them. Sharma gasped for breath as a foot slammed into his stomach. Nehra shrieked in agony as he was pulled to his feet by the ropes around his wrists.
‘Water, please,’ Sharma pleaded. The youths looked at him with bland indifference then laughed. Sharma looked around him in desperation. Across the courtyard he saw a young Chinese woman in another cell. Their eyes met and she looked at him with such deep compassion that a chill of foreboding ran through him.
A sharp jab in his thigh from a bamboo spear urged him on. Once again they were forced to march. Nehra walked with Sharma at the back of the line. ‘Hav, there are no villagers around.’ he croaked through his parched lips.
Sharma saw it was true. They were the only people on the streets. After several minutes they came to a large clearing by a steep section of the river bank. Several hundred youths stood waiting and jeering. Among them were clusters of frightened Chinese who were being forced to watch the proceedings.
In the centre of the clearing stood three powerfully built men wearing only loincloths. They held straight-bladed swords about two feet long. Four blood-covered corpses lay nearby. Sharma’s last, already faint hope that it was all an attempt to intimidate them vanished. Bile rose to the back of his throat. He swallowed forcibly.
A man in his early twenties with long, coiled hair and wearing the uniform trousers and leather boots of a Japanese officer walked into the centre of the clearing. He carried a Japanese pistol. Chanting began.
‘Merdeka!’—‘Sarel!’—‘Merdeka!’
Sarel called for quiet then spoke rapidly to the crowd. His occasional looks at the prisoners were disparaging. More than once the audience laughed as he made sarcastic comments. Few of the Chinese laughed. Then, at last, Sarel turned to face the Kumaons and the airmen. He paused before speaking in slow, accented English.
‘We are the Black Buffaloes and pemuda battalions, defenders of Free Indonesia. You are enemies of the Republic.’ He pointed at the men in loincloths. ‘Your punishment is death at the hands of the loyal slaughtermen of Bekassi!’
‘But that’s not true!’ Sharma heard the anguish in the voice of the pilot. ‘We’re not here to—’ There was a sudden silence as he was knocked cold by a vicious blow to the head from a rifle butt. Cheers ran through the watching mob.
Sarel smiled coldly at the four naked white men. ‘RAF bombs burn our rice. You move troops and weapons to help the Dutch, our enemies. It is very simple. Your guilt is beyond doubt.’ He turned then to address the Kumaons. ‘But I am sorry to see our misguided Asian brothers helping the heretic white imperialists… We offer you a chance to live. Water and food await any Muslim who will join us, and denounce the British and Dutch!’ He scanned the Kumaons slowly. Not a man moved or spoke.
Sarel shrugged as if expecting the outcome. ‘As God wills….’ he said quietly. At his signal the first three Kumaons were prodded forward. Sharma tensed when he saw Nehra among them. Nehra struggled defiantly but two of the youths quickly clubbed him into a dazed submission, forcing him to kneel facing the other Indians. Two guar
ds each placed a foot behind one of his knees as they cut his bonds, then pulled his arms out to his sides. Nehra grimaced in pain as the circulation returned to his hands.
His fellow Kumaons shouted indignation and disbelief. Irate, Sharma took a step forward. A rifle muzzle was thrust in his face by an eager, gloating guard. Sharma could see that the youth would have no hesitation in pulling the trigger. Reluctantly he backed off, still glaring.
A drum began to beat as the three stern-faced butchers took their positions behind their victims. The man behind Nehra was stocky and bald. Sharma watched him grasp the hilt of the two-foot long straight blade with both hands and hold it point down an inch above Nehra’s left shoulder.
Nehra, too, sensed the moment had come. He appeared to tense, then spat heavily and contemptuously towards Sarel. Eyes closed, Nehra bellowed the traditional Kumaon battle cry. ‘Nizam Asaf Jah ki jai!’—Victory to Nizam Asaf! It echoed over the river as the blade plunged into the triangle of soft flesh behind his collar bone and down into his heart.
‘Merdeka!’ Great roars from the Buffaloes and pemuda drowned the gasps of horror from the prisoners who watched the executioner withdraw the blade and raise it high above his head in triumph. Thick blood bubbled up from the wound. Nehra’s head sank limply on to his chest.
Two youths brandishing cleavers stepped in and hacked off Nehra’s arms. His body pitched forward, legs jerking sporadically. Another pemuda strode forward and chopped off Nehra’s head, picking it up by the hair and tossing it contemptuously down the river bank.
One by one the Indians died until the earth in the centre of the clearing was churned red under the feet of the blood-splattered slaughtermen.
Standing in a slowly diminishing huddle, the Kumaons honoured their doomed comrades, shouting their names. Yet each chorus was weaker than the one before it.
Tears of rage and pride filled Sharma’s eyes. Fifteen times he watched the blade fall and the mutilation that followed. Not one of the Kumaons had faltered or pleaded for mercy. And each time Sharma made a point of scowling at the Buffalo guard nearest him.
Finally it was his turn. His mouth was parched and he felt embarrassed because he knew he would not be able to spit like Nehra. What courage his friend had shown! Beside him the last two of his men wore blank, numbed expressions. They said their farewells.
Sharma glanced at the RAF crew who stood or knelt with pale, hollow expressions. Most of them were mouthing their own prayers. Clearly the Buffaloes were saving them for last.
He straightened and nodded to the airmen. ‘May your God go with you,’ he called softly but did not notice if they heard him. He was turning away when he saw a young girl on the other side of the river. She was in her mid-teens and holding a water jar. Sharma thought of his own daughter whom he had not seen for three years. They would be about the same age. She stood staring at the pile of butchered corpses, transfixed.
Some of the youths saw the girl and began rushing across the sturdy, multi-piled bridge over the river. Sharma willed her to run. Too late she dropped the jar and bolted. When they seized her Sharma’s rage returned. With it came the taste of saliva.
As the Buffalo guard prodded him forward Sharma whirled. His grin was manic. Surprised, the guard took an uncertain step backwards. ‘I am Arman Sharma of Hyderabad,’ he raged, ‘havildar in the 19th Kumaon! Who are you, you worthless, cowardly little shit? You’re not fit to wipe the arses of those warriors!’
His guard did not understand the torrent of foreign words but the contempt and fury in the voice was clear. His rifle came up ready.
Sharma laughed shrilly, baiting the youth one last time. ‘Fuck Sukarno!’ Then he charged. ‘Nizam Asaf Jah—’
The shot boomed over the river, echoing off the opposite bank, silencing the mob.
Surabaya
Two large Plexiglas gun blisters on the Catalina-PBY flying-boat gave Henssen a wonderful view over a familiar, bustling central Surabaya. To his amazement there were cars, carts and bicycles in the bustling streets. Unlike Batavia, wartime camouflage had already been removed from the roofs of buildings and people were seated at tables on café terraces or sitting in parks. Small crowds stood outside cinemas and work crews were out repairing roads. It seemed the city was fast returning to its pre-war normality.
Encouraged, Henssen directed the pilot to circle over the harbour and naval base at Tandjong Perak. There was little obvious damage to the infrastructure of the shipyards, quays, submarine docks and warehouses. He smiled, glad now that Java had been spared Allied bombing. It meant his mission would be so much easier.
His eyes raked over the Japanese vessels in the harbour as he jotted down types and numbers. Here he was disappointed. A fire-gutted destroyer sat in dry dock. There were also two submarines but even from the air these showed crippling damage from depth-charge attacks. Other craft were mainly small torpedo boats and river patrol launches. Only a Hasutaka-class minelayer, anchored out in the roadstead, appeared serviceable. Henssen had an idea. If the minelayer were seaworthy she might be used to ferry Dutch reinforcements over from New Guinea…. He made a note to suggest it in his first report to Admiral Hurwitz.
The Catalina’s engines changed pitch as it banked to begin its final approach. As they descended, Henssen noticed at least ten Japanese Navy reconnaissance planes as well as three large transports lined up at Morokrembangan airfield. He scribbled more notes.
A rising-sun flag fluttered atop the airfield flagpole. Henssen frowned. ‘We’ll see about that…’ he said under his breath. Several Dutch flags were packed in his luggage.
The flying boat came in low over a few brightly coloured fishing boats. Red and white nationalist flags flew from their sterns. Henssen did not see the fishermen making obscene gestures in response to the Dutch markings. On the calm water the Catalina skipped just twice, then settled in the gentle swell of the landing dock.
‘There’s a reception committee,’ the pilot called out with evident relief. He had been far from keen to fly over the city.
Through one of the portholes Henssen saw a line of Japanese marines drawn up near the jetty. ‘Yes, they were advised I was coming,’ he said casually, enjoying the emphasis he put on the ‘I.’
A neat, young Japanese captain greeted him with a crisp salute as he stepped off the jetty. ‘Captain Henssen?’
Henssen nodded, paused, and then saluted in return. The Japanese continued in slow but precise English. ‘My name is Saito. Welcome to Surabaya.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ he said casually. ‘Actually, I know the city well. I have a house here.’
Saito nodded. ‘Yes, 15 Weltgarten.’
Henssen tried to hide his surprise. Then he realised that the Japanese had had over three years to examine the files abandoned in 1942. They would know everything about the Surabaya base and its officers, including the fact that he was actually a Naval Reserve officer with a wartime promotion. He wondered if that would lose him status in dealing with Admiral Shimizu. No, he decided quickly. He was still SEAC’s representative…
‘I’m sure the house is in very good repair, and my car too,’ he replied easily. He introduced his companions. ‘These are my aides, lieutenants Vlek and Croeuf.’
Saito’s face remained expressionless but he saluted again and led the three men towards a gleaming, white Mercedes 290 Mannheim cabriolet. ‘Admiral Shimizu is expecting you.’
Henssen stopped. ‘First, I’d like to take a tour of the naval base.’
Saito checked momentarily and looked at his watch and frowned. ‘I think you should first see Admiral Shimizu. Today he is—’
‘I think you forget, Captain,’ Henssen said firmly. ‘I am the chief Allied officer in Surabaya. I will decide when I see your Admiral.’
Saito swallowed his objection and issued new instructions to the driver.
Henssen switched on the light in his hotel suite, closed the door, threw his attaché case on the bed then kicked at a rattan chair, sending it sliding ac
ross the floorboards. ‘Bloody hell!’
When he had eventually arrived at Second Expeditionary Fleet HQ, he was informed by a polite but less than sympathetic aide that Admiral Shimizu had just left Surabaya to visit naval personnel in Bali and would be back the next day. The Admiral had been expecting his visitor to arrive much earlier and had delayed as long as possible. Henssen had seethed in silent humiliation through a very uncomfortable dinner, convinced that everyone—including Vlek and Croeuf—was laughing at him.
A few minutes later there was a knock on his door. He opened it to find an anxious-looking Vlek.
‘Captain,’ said Vlek uneasily, ‘there’s a demonstration gathering. Word about us has got round!’
‘Demonstration?’ Henssen opened the windows to his balcony and heard shouts. ‘Freedom or Death!’—‘Indonesia Raya!’
On the street below him about fifty young Indonesians faced a line of Japanese marines guarding the hotel. The scene did nothing for Henssen’s foul mood.
That night the Dutchmen’s sleep was disturbed several times by bursts of gunfire. Henssen decided he would complain to Admiral Shimizu most strongly about his lax interpretation of Allied instructions.
Henssen filled his time before Shimizu’s return by demanding detailed inventories of arms and equipment from the Japanese army and navy representatives assigned to assist him. He ordered the canals swept for mines and inspected the barracks that would house Allied troops. He also visited his own house to check for damage. Three Japanese officers were living there, one of who was Saito. He took great pleasure in giving them twenty-four hours to find alternative accommodation.
Yet Surabaya made him feel uneasy. He travelled in a Japanese staff car with an escort of marines because Saito told him bluntly that if he were unescorted he would be killed. From the car he saw the bands of armed youths on street corners often jeering at Dutch civilians trying to buy food. Despite Saito’s objections he insisted on stopping to intervene when an elderly woman was being jostled at a stall. It had been a mistake, for the sight of his uniform turned a few abusive youths into a potentially riotous mob. Saito had only managed to diffuse the situation by whisking the angry but chastened Henssen away from the market.
