by Rory Marron
Three Nissan 180 one-and-a-half-ton lorries entered the square on their way to Darmo. Their Rajrif drivers waved. One called out that he was glad someone could take it easy in the shade. Nambir laughed, trying to think of a riposte for when they returned. He watched the lorries until they were out of sight then looked back into the square. It was totally deserted. He glanced up at the clock and saw it was almost four-thirty.
Behind the clock face, the sniper was waiting for the minute hand to reach the half-hour. The cross-hairs of his telescopic sight were centred on the chest of the tall Indian soldier in the doorway of the Bank. Above the sniper, the clock mechanism whirred and the minute-hand moved. Just then the soldier stepped out of the shade and raised his face to look directly at the clock. At the last second, the sniper switched to a head-shot and squeezed the trigger.
Ferwerda Drawbridge
Sepoys Nakish and Salunke were watching a fishing boat glide sedately through the raised drawbridge when a sleek, red Chrysler Imperial Le Baron cabriolet approached them from the British side of the Kali Mas. They recognised Captain Simon Hunter at the wheel and saluted respectfully. Hunter had been with the Mahrattas through thick and thin since 1942.
Hunter was alone and returned the salute. He saw them staring at the car and grinned. ‘Not bad, eh? I chose this one from the motor pool myself.’ He became serious. ‘With any luck you won’t be here too long,’ he said easily. ‘This isn’t what we expected at all but stick with it. I’m going over to talk with the local militia commander to try and get more transport. I should be back in an hour.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Nakish.
The bridge dropped back into place with a heavy clang and the car crossed to the east side. The Indians watched as it turned into a side street. Nakish noted Hunter’s name and time—1530 hours—in the log.
An hour passed. No-one else, British, Indian or Indonesian crossed the drawbridge. A slow drumbeat sounded in an adjacent street then stopped.
‘Nakish! In the river!’ Salunke called out in alarm.
‘What?’ Nakish grinned. ‘Another dog?’ His smile vanished when he saw Salunke’s expression. He moved to the rail and saw the khaki-clothed body bobbing in the water. As it drew nearer they saw it was Hunter. His throat had been cut.
‘Lord Shiva!’ Nakish exclaimed. ‘Get him out!’ He was halfway across the bridge to the radio operator when he heard a menacing roar.
Shots rang out. Nakish turned to see dozens of armed figures pouring out of the side streets and charging towards the bridge. Bullets zinged off the ironwork around him. As he dived for cover the Mahratta’s Bren guns returned fire.
Screaming as if possessed, the Javanese came on, surging across the open approaches to the ramp. Against the prepared positions of the veteran soldiers it was certain death. In seconds the human wave broke and retreated, leaving over forty dead or wounded. Minutes later the pemuda charged once more.
Darmo
Meg and Daphne heard the shooting. They were in a small, ornamental park with eight of the children from the English class. The barracks was only a few streets away but the firing was between them and the British positions.
‘We’ve got to go right now,’ Meg said urgently.
Daphne’s face was pale. In Dutch she called the children from the swings. They came obediently and quietly, the younger ones already a little unnerved by the constant gunfire. She knelt down to look her charges in the eye. ‘On the way back, we’re going to play explorers,’ she said as cheerfully as she could manage. ‘Everyone get in a line and pretend to be in the jungle!’
‘Like in Sumatra, Miss James?’ asked one of the boys excitedly.
‘Yes, Hans,’ Daphne said smiling. ‘Pretend you’re in Sumatra. Everyone must keep quiet, so we don’t scare the animals!’
Hans turned to the little girl who still clutched her teddy bear. ‘Jopie, the tigers are going to eat your stupid bear!’
Frightened, Jopie began to wail. ‘I don’t want to play!’
Meg held out her hand. ‘Come on, Jopie,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s play together.’
Sniffling, Jopie gripped Meg’s fingers tightly. Meg led her to the back of the line. Daphne was at the front.
Outside the park the streets were deserted but Meg saw some Javanese women watching them from the upstairs windows of houses. All doors and ground floor shutters were closed. She knew they would get no help.
Daphne, too, had seen the women. Undeterred, she pressed on, leading them through a maze of empty back streets towards the barracks, but nearer the shooting. As they approached one junction, drumming began. Daphne held up her hand. Quickly she led them down the drive of an abandoned house and into its back garden.
Where there once had been a neatly tended lawn, grass and weeds grew waist-high. Daphne turned and whispered at the children. ‘See! We really are in the jungle now!’
A thin, wooden lattice fence, flaky and brittle from lack of attention, barred their entry into the adjacent garden. Daphne glanced quickly at Meg then kicked out a section to lead them through. Giggling, the children followed, still enjoying their game.
On they went, climbing over walls, breaking fences or pushing through hedges until they reached the garden of a house on a street corner. Daphne signalled a halt. The firing was very close now and they could hear shouting in Javanese.
‘Stay here and don’t make a sound,’ Daphne said firmly but quietly. She crouched and went on alone to some thick bushes behind the wall. Meg saw her blanche, then beck for Meg to join her.
‘It’s awful!’ Daphne whispered.
Meg peeped over the wall and her face fell. They were opposite a T-junction and streets lined with small shops and boutiques. Several bodies lay sprawled in the open. At least three were white women.
‘Jesus!’ Meg mouthed.
‘The Indian soldiers are down there,’ pointed Daphne.
Meg took another quick look. A hundred yards away she could see a line of cars, upturned carts and piles of sacks protecting the approach to Darmo barracks. Every few seconds a shot rang out from the rooftops. Meg realised that the Javanese snipers were trying to get into positions overlooking the British perimeter by using the large rectangular chimney stacks as cover. There had to be another route, she thought desperately. She glanced at the road to their left and caught her breath. She nudged Daphne. ‘Look over there!‘
‘Oh, my God!’
Hundreds of waiting youths and militia sat or stood, apparently resting between assaults on the British position. In the midst of them, three bare-chested youths with long hair were shouting and gesticulating, leading chants.
‘We’ll have to make a run for it,’ said Meg, her stomach churning. ‘They’ll see us soon if we stay here.’
Daphne nodded nervously. ‘You don’t think they’ll shoot, do you? Not at children….’
Meg looked firmly at Daphne. ‘Tell them to run zigzag’. Her throat was dry.
Piru Singh was on a rooftop perch just in front of the Rajrif’s street barricade. He had waited five minutes for the shot at the sniper. At last his target peered around the chimney stack one inch too far. Singh squeezed the trigger and watched with quiet satisfaction as the body rolled limply over the edge of the roof and crashed to the pavement below.
He was scanning for his next target when he saw the small figures appear at the junction and start weaving towards them.
‘Hav!’ Singh shouted. ‘Children in the street!’
Havildar Ashok Ram risked a glance over a pile of rice sacks. ‘Cease-fire! Cease-fire!’ he shouted. ‘Push that cart back, quickly!’
Half a dozen Rajrifs dropped their weapons and strained to push the cart aside. Slowly it began to move, scraping on the tarmac.
Anxiously the men watched as the children, legs pumping, darted left then right past the corpses and rushed towards the them. Behind them came two women.
Meg, Daphne and the children had sixty yards to go when the first shot rang out. More follow
ed as the pemuda forced them to run the gauntlet. Bullets ricocheted off the tarmac. At the barricade they watched in horror.
‘Covering fire!’ Ram roared.
Many of the soldiers stood openly to shout and draw fire. ‘Don’t Stop!’—‘Run!’—‘Keep going!’
In fury the Rajrifs sprayed the rooftops and junctions. Two pemuda, tempted out of cover by the defenceless targets, quickly paid the price.
Meg’s head was pounding. ‘Zigzag! Zigzag!’ she panted to herself as she dodged, trying not to look at the dead in the street. Her chest felt tight and her legs were like lead. The barricade seemed no closer.
Behind one chimney stack a sniper took his time tracking the brunette in the khaki jacket, trying to anticipate her movements. He knew that at some point she would have to make for the gap in the barricade, so he waited for the easier shot.
At twenty yards, Meg glanced up to see the Indians waving. The first of the children had reached safety. A boy tripped, fell heavily and lay stunned. Meg changed course, knowing that she did not have the strength to lift him. A shot whizzed past her. Then she saw a turbaned Indian sprint out, scoop up the boy and dive back over the sacks.
Meg cut in once more and made a last straight dash, head down. The waiting sniper tensed and came up higher on his elbows—a little too high. His rifle dropped from suddenly senseless fingers He slumped with a bullet in his head, courtesy of Piru Singh.
A Rajrif grabbed Meg and pulled her down behind the barricade. She knelt head down on her hands and knees, her chest heaving. Nearby a frantic Daphne was gathering the sobbing children to her and counting aloud.
‘…six, seven. Seven! Jan, Heidi, Molly, Jaap—Oh, Jopie! Where’s Jopie?’
Havildar Ram caught Meg’s eye and shook his head. Cautiously she peeped back down the street. Her stomach twisted. Twenty-five yards from the barricade a ragged teddy bear sat upright on the road. Nearby lay a tiny figure with golden curls and outstretched hands splashed with blood.
‘Oh, God, no….’ Meg groaned.
Daphne screamed. ‘Jopie!’ She rushed for the gap in the barricade. Ram was ready and grabbed her.
‘No, Memsahib! No, please!’ Ram consoled her. ‘There is nothing you can do. The little one is dead.’
Daphne struggled vainly for a second then slumped against Ram in tears.
Gently, Meg pulled her away from the Indian soldier, who looked slightly uncomfortable. The two women huddled around the weeping children, trying to comfort them.
Drums pounded at the end of the street followed by angry roars.
Singh called down from the roof. ‘Here they come again, Hav!’ Unhurriedly he reached for another five-round clip.
Book Four
Chapter Nine
Internee Convoy Seven, Surabaya
Captain Deshi Chopra of 123rd Field Transport Company allowed himself to relax a little. His convoy from Gubeng to Darmo was making good time. A few minutes earlier they had checked in with the Rajrifs at the Brugstraat Bridge and were now turning on to the wide, tram-lined Palmenlaan. Chopra estimated they would reach the hospital on Darmo Boulevard in another ten minutes. At least now we’re over the river, he thought with relief. He did not enjoy shepherding women and children.
Behind his jeep were twelve T-16 six-wheelers crammed with nearly four hundred internees and their meagre belongings. Darmo would be their last stop before a ship to Singapore and beyond. Despite their cramped and uncomfortable conditions, the internees were in good spirits. Occasionally Chopra could hear them singing folk songs and nursery rhymes.
His watch said four thirty-five. This last trip of the day had gone fairly smoothly—under two hours in total—but he had wasted nearly an hour enforcing the one-suitcase rule.
‘Captain…’ said the driver, indicating ahead and already slowing the jeep.
Their way was blocked by two dilapidated cars parked at right angles on each side of the road. Between them a palm-tree-trunk lay across oil drums to form a makeshift barrier.
‘Stop now!’ Chopra ordered.
The jeep jerked to a halt twenty-five yards from the barrier. A squealing of brakes followed as the convoy also halted.
Chopra counted half a dozen youths manning the roadblock. Two held rifles, the rest were armed with bamboo spears. He looked around him. Rows of houses with low-walled front gardens lined the street. Automatically his eyes swept along the roof-lines. If it was a trap they were sitting ducks….
A jemadar sitting behind Chopra readied his rifle.
‘Easy, Jem,’ said Chopra, getting out of the jeep. ‘No sudden movements.’
Young, impassive faces stared malevolently. Chopra heard heavy footsteps behind him as Sevkani, the tall, powerfully built Mahratta havildar in charge of the convoy’s escort, came up to see what was happening.
‘Trouble, Captain?’ Sevkani asked quietly, taking in the scene ahead.
‘We’ll know soon enough, Hav. Ask Subedar Ratra to come up here,’ said Chopra. He wanted to confer with his second in command and was wondering whether to show force or to try and talk his way through. With the twenty-two Mahrattas and his thirty-two drivers and co-drivers he had just over fifty men. All were armed but they were strung out almost three hundred yards along the road.
Chopra made his decision. ‘Hav, you stay here.’
He walked forward alone. Five yards from the barrier he stopped in surprise. About two-dozen more youths armed with rifles had been hidden from his view behind bushes. They were all aiming at him.
He cleared his throat. ‘I am an Allied officer on official—’
‘Merdeka!’ The shout triggered a volley.
Chopra was flung back five feet before his torn, already lifeless body hit the ground. Several of the bullets passed through him, shattering the jeep’s windscreen. His driver and the jemadar died in their seats.
Other concealed ambushers took their cue and started shooting. Sevkani dived behind a lorry wheel as rifle and light machine-gun fire raked the vehicles. Canopies shredded as bullets and then bamboo spears punched through the canvas piercing mattresses, suitcases or flesh. Shrill, frantic screams of terrified and wounded women and children blended with gunfire and the dull pops of exploding grenades.
Four bellowing pemuda raced at Sevkani with swords raised. ‘Indonesia Raya!’
Sevkani shot the first two but the others closed on him and he was about to club them with his rifle when three Mahratta sepoys appeared at his side, firing. The pemuda went down feet from them. Sevkani looked back along the line and saw his men scrambling to return fire as best they could from behind or under the vehicles.
Subedar Javagal Ratra, the second in command, had started for the head of the column when the shooting began. ‘Take cover!’ he yelled frantically to the internees. ‘Hold up mattresses!’
Ratra began to run back, certain that the trap was closing behind them. Some pemuda were already pushing a car out of a driveway to try and block any escape. He saw one of his drivers manage to turn by crashing his vehicle through a picket fence and race down the road. The car was not yet across the road and the lorry slammed into the front, overturning it and crushing two of the youths.
‘Go! Go!’ Ratra bellowed.
Three pemuda gave chase. Ratra knelt and shot two of them. The third pulled up and flung a bamboo spear that stuck in the wooden tailboard.
The road was now swarming with armed pemuda. Ratra retreated to join two Mahrattas who were readying a Bren gun between the rear wheels of the last lorry. Bullets bounced off the road.
‘Keep them back!’ Ratra urged, quickly loading another clip.
The gas-operated Bren rattled as the gunner squeezed off the entire magazine. Twenty pemuda fell in less than ten seconds.
There was a clatter on the tarmac just feet away.
‘Grenade!’ Ratra shouted, pushing his head against the ground. The blast rang in his ears but he was unharmed.
Shrapnel had caught the Bren loader in the thigh but the man
ignored his wound and calmly slotted home a replacement magazine. Another wave of youths surged forward. Again the Bren swept the road.
At the head of the convoy, Sevkani heard the rear Bren and guessed they were trapped. There was a booming roar as a petrol tank exploded and a six-wheeler was engulfed in flames. Screaming women and children leapt from it. He saw two hit by bullets.
‘Set up behind that wall!’ Ratra ordered. The gunners sprinted from under the vehicle and dived over the brickwork. More pemuda rushed from behind the barricade but the men with Sevkani picked them off. Six more attacked, uttering wild, piercing screams. A burst from the Bren scythed them down.
Suddenly the ambushers fell back to regroup. In the lull snipers continued to take pot shots at will.
Sevkani was counting his dead and wounded when he saw Ratra coming towards him.
‘We must get them under cover!’ Ratra yelled.
Sevkani looked around in desperation. Standing back from the road were five large detached-houses. They appeared abandoned. ‘Over there,’ he pointed. ‘It’s the only place!’
Ratra nodded and shouted. ‘Everyone out. Now!’
His men set off down the convoy, dropping tailboards and urging the occupants out from under mattresses, cases and corpses. Roars erupted from the pemuda. Bunched between the vehicles, the internees were easy targets.
Sevkani saw a woman stagger, reaching for at a spear lodged high in her back. As she did so a chanting youth surged forward and hacked at her chest with a machete. Before Sevkani could bring up his rifle the attacker sprang cat-like up the side of a lorry and on to its roof, sliced through the canvas top and dropped down inside. Women began shrieking. Sevkani swore and started to run for the lorry but then saw a Mahratta leap up, rip open the side canvas with a bayonet and climb inside. Seconds later the soldier jumped back onto the road, his bayonet bloodied.
Other soldiers were already charging to secure the houses but, as Sevkani had hoped, they were unoccupied. The internees began bolting for the protection they offered.
