Merdeka Rising

by Rory Marron

  Two more men charged after him. Those inside heard them gunned down. Chavan looked at Rane who shook his head. ‘No, the bastards can come and get us,’ he said hoarsely. The two men embraced.

  There was a roar as the attackers charged.

  ‘Steady, Mahrattas!’ Nimse barked.

  Bayonets raised, they braced as baying Javanese came rushing through the entrance and shattered windows.

  ‘Shivaji Maharajah ki jai!’

  Sheer numbers of attackers swamped the Mahrattas. Dozens of hands grabbed for them and they were lifted and carried out like human trophies.

  Chavan was flung down and struck his head on the road. Dazed he saw Nimse held while he was run through with bayonets and spears. He could not see Rane. Hands grabbed at him. He fought wildly until a rifle butt slammed against his head.

  Kali Mas

  A large, ocean-going tug chugged past the three tired, sodden men clinging to a log nestled against the sheer concrete wall of the Kali Mas. They had been in the canal for nearly two hours, working slowly downstream, using moored boats, barges and flotsam and jetsam for cover. Dusk was falling.

  Mac was caught unawares by the bow wave. It splashed him in the face and open mouth. He gagged and spat. ‘Christ! The taste of home. It reminds me of the Clyde.’

  Knowles peeped around the front of the log and saw yet another group of pursuers seventy yards away on the far bank. They began shooting wildly at something floating in midstream.

  ‘The bloody canal’s full of bodies,’ said Knowles. ‘They can’t tell if it’s us.’

  ‘Let’s keep moving,’ whispered Weston. ‘It’ll be dark in twenty minutes. We’re sitting ducks here.’

  Mac and Knowles looked up and saw a large apartment or office building built flush to the concrete bank. They nodded.

  ‘Off we go then!’ Weston said without enthusiasm. He ducked under the water and surfaced a few feet away behind a rusting iron barge. The other two followed.

  As darkness fell their pursuers lobbed flaming torches over the water, firing at random targets. Eventually they lost interest in the chase.

  When they reached a wharf the saturated soldiers took the opportunity to rest and warm up. Mac eased himself out on to the steps gratefully. His uniform was covered in a film of oil, algae and faeces. He shivered as he examined the puffy and wrinkled skin on his arms and hands.

  Weston, equally stained, looked at him. ‘God, Mac, you stink!’

  Mac managed a laugh. ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘We should split up,’ Knowles whispered. ‘The water’s tidal from here on. We’ll stand a much better chance alone. With any luck C Company will have held the drawbridge and the harbour….’

  There was a long silence as they weighed up their chances. Anything could have happened in the last few hours. Mac knew Knowles was right but it did not make him like the idea any better. He suddenly remembered the bird calls of the Gurkhas back at the Chindwin. ‘What recognition signal should I use? Sentries at the bridge are likely to shoot at anything that moves.’

  ‘Good point,’ replied Weston. ‘Try “Maharajah Shivaji” followed by “British”. That should do the trick.’

  They moved off at ten-minute intervals. First Weston, then Knowles. Mac counted the minutes then, reluctantly slid back into the river. He swam slowly into mid-stream, trying not to splash and praying that the moon would remain hidden.

  After a few minutes a wooden crate bobbed alongside him and he clung to it, letting the tide take him. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he made out other objects in the water. Rats were congregating on them, gnawing and squeaking. At first Mac assumed they were grain sacks. Later one of the ‘sacks’ bumped against his crate. To his horror he saw it was a headless and limbless torso in what was left of a uniform tunic.

  Time dragged and the water drained his body heat. He began to feel numb and sleepy. Light flickered across his face and he opened his eyes. Ahead of him torches flashed over the water. Behind them loomed the dark, angular framework of a drawbridge. Instinctively Mac rolled on to his back, closed his eyes and played dead for the second time that day. Muffled voices reached him, and then a beam hit his face. He tensed, waiting for the shot.

  ‘It’s MacDonald! Damn, he was so close!’ It was Knowles’s voice.

  Mac grinned. ‘Call me the Maharajah of Glasgow!’

  ‘Marvellous cuppa, Sir!’ Mac shivered as he gulped the hot, sweet tea.

  The two officers led him along the bridge to the bullet-riddled gatehouse. Weary but still vigilant Mahrattas sat in small groups, their weapons near to hand. With every footstep Mac trod on spent cartridge cases.

  ‘What’s been happening?’ Mac asked looking inquiringly from Weston to Knowles.

  ‘It’s quiet now but it’s been a shambles’, Weston sighed. ‘Colonel Hughes has taken over the brigade. Somehow he managed to get from the Marine Hospital to Brigade HQ by jeep. He and Major Cane have been negotiating with the Javans for a cease-fire. We’ve lost a lot of men.’

  ‘And Darmo, Sir?’ Mac was thinking about Meg.

  ‘We haven’t heard much’, Knowles replied. ‘But there are reports of an attack on an internee convoy. Many killed and missing.’

  Mac’s head dropped. ‘What now?’

  ‘A formal cease-fire is due to come into force at 0900. General Chrishaw and Sukarno will be here at ten.’

  ‘And guess who’ll be driving the General!’ Knowles added, clapping the subdued Mac on the shoulder.

  ‘Uh?’ Mac tried to be cheerful. ‘No day off then?’

  ‘Not a chance, Mac’, Knowles said quickly. ‘We’re at war here—whatever the politicians might say back home. The BBC has already reported Allenby’s murder. General Chrishaw wants first-hand accounts from the three of us as soon as he arrives. He’s been on the radio and threatened Surabaya with a pasting if the Indos don’t grant the internees safe passage and hand over the Brigadier’s killers. I think Java will now have London’s undivided attention.’

  ‘About bloody time!’ Weston grumbled. ‘The General also wants written reports on the Brigadier’s death for Lord Mountbatten and the Chiefs of Staff in London, so the sooner we get cracking the better. Come on, we can get cleaned up at the HQ.’

  Mac gulped down his tea and shivered. ‘No rest for the wicked…’ he muttered to a red-eyed Mahratta sentry. The English was lost on the sepoy but not the universal tone of the much-put-upon enlisted man. The sentry smiled briefly then his gaze went back to the canal.

  Hotel Michiels

  Mac’s morning had passed in a blur of activity. He had driven Colonel Hughes to meet General Chrishaw’s plane at Morokrembangan in a five-vehicle convoy. Sukarno had flown in separately.

  Back at the HQ, Chrishaw had listened to his account of Allenby’s death without interruption, and then congratulated him on his escape. Afterwards Mac had resumed helping out in the busy HQ hospital.

  He was taking a break when Wing Commander Ball arrived from Darmo with news that Meg was safe. ‘She had a close shave,’ Ball told him. ‘It was sickening!’

  Just then a Mahratta military police sergeant strode into the hotel and went through to Hughes’s office. Two more policemen were outside, escorting a white male prisoner in the uniform of an Indian Army sepoy. Conversation and activity stopped. A ripple of anger ran round the servicemen in the foyer.

  ‘Who’s that, Wing Commander?’ Mac asked casually.

  ‘Well, well,’ Ball replied sardonically. ‘I suspect it’s the infamous Captain Henssen sprung from his Surabaya cell. I heard he was being brought in today. Word has got round.’

  ‘I’d like to punch him,’ grunted Mac.

  ‘Many in 49th Brigade would string him up if they got the chance,’ said Ball. ‘The MPs had to bandage his head, stain his face with coffee and dress him as a sepoy for his own safety. General Chrishaw wants him expelled from the Indies. Of course, the Dutch have protested to London.’

  Haggard and shoe-less, Peter
Henssen was escorted into the lobby. His hair was unkempt and an almost full beard covered his lower face. He was also sporting a very recent black eye. Muted but audible comments followed his progress. ‘Imbecile!’—‘Stupid bastard!’—‘Arsehole!’

  Henssen’s eyes flared briefly then his head dropped and he let the MPs lead him up the stairs, followed by the armed Mahratta who would stand guard outside his door.

  Mac turned the ambulance into the drive of the Simpang Hospital. Ahead, half-a-dozen Indonesian militiamen were lounging by the entrance.

  ‘Slow down, Mac’, Ball said calmly. ‘And look confident!’

  ‘That’s not so easy for a mere enlisted man, Sir.’

  Ball laughed. ‘That’s the spirit!’ His face darkened as he noticed the Lee-Enfield rifles sported by some of the militia. ‘We know where they got those…’ he said bitterly.

  Mac nodded. Images of the mutilated corpses in the Kali Mas came back to him. He felt a flush of anger.

  Surabaya had been a disaster for the British. On the way to the hospital Ball had given him a quick summary. ‘It was touch and go for quite a while. If Sukarno hadn’t come and broadcast, and if Chrishaw’s bluff had failed, then the entire Brigade would have been wiped out. As it is, we lost over four hundred and thirty men in three days! There must be easily five thousand Indonesian dead.’

  ‘I still don’t know why we’re here, Sir,’ Mac’s dejection had been undisguised.

  ‘Yes you do!’ Ball had said quickly, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mac had nodded in understanding. ‘Because we’re here!’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘But how can we trust the Indos after this?’

  ‘Allenby gave his life for the truce,’ Ball had replied earnestly. ‘It’s fragile but it must hold…if only for a few days. Colonel Hughes insists we must abide by it to the letter. Allenby had to agree to Indo guards on the convoys from Darmo to the harbour. Understandably enough that won’t go down well with the internees. Basically we’ve got just a few days to get nearly seven thousand women and children out. HMS Sussex and HMS Bulolo are waiting to ferry them to Singapore. But the Indos keep delaying things. And the General’s ultimatum isn’t making things any easier, either.’

  ‘Will he really order the town shelled?’ Mac had asked.

  ‘No question,’ Ball had said emphatically. ‘He’s a man of his word.’

  ‘Christ!’ Mac had blurted. ‘What a mess! We’ll be stuck here for bloody years!’

  Ball had eyed him reproachfully but aware of Mac’s recent experiences, said nothing.

  Mac stopped the ambulance outside a little way from the main hospital entrance. Young, heavily armed militiamen watched them suspiciously but an officer soon appeared to escort the unarmed Mac and Ball. Corridors, offices and waiting areas were crammed with wounded Indonesians, nurses and anxious, angry relatives.

  Icy stares and jeers followed them as they went through to a small room guarded by two more militiamen. Inside they found three bandaged-swathed Indians.

  ‘I don’t understand how these blokes are alive and the others aren’t’, Mac said quietly.

  ‘Luck of the draw’, Ball replied, glancing at a list of names on his clipboard. ‘The militia took some prisoners but the mobs did not. Twenty-two men have been returned to us so far, mostly from hospitals or prisons.’

  Only one of the wounded Indians was conscious. His expression brightened at the sight of the British uniforms.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ Ball beamed at him jovially. ‘You’re coming with us. Name and number?’

  ‘34125 Chavan, M, 6th Battalion, 5th Mahrattas, Sir.’

  Ball searched through his list and then made a tick. ‘Ah, here you are. Chavan, Maruti. You’re a lucky man!’ He was turning to the others when Chavan spoke in halting English.

  ‘Excuse, Sahib. 35163 Rane? Padurang Rane. Same battalion.’

  ‘Rane…’ Ball flicked back through the pages of his list and quickly found the name. He paused then shook his head in commiseration. ‘I’m afraid Sepoy Rane is listed as missing.’

  Chavan’s eyes dropped. He lay back on the bed, his gaze distant.

  Simpang Mosque, Surabaya

  Sarel was elated. He had addressed the huge, already ecstatic crowd in the square for ten minutes. They stood before him, a sea of expectant young faces, banners and placards held high, hanging on his every word.

  After Sukarno’s plea for a truce over the radio the militia units had restrained the pemuda and taken control of key buildings. Sarel was not concerned. He had seen the fire of revolution lit in Surabaya. Fanning the flames across Java would now be easier.

  ‘Arek Surabaya!’—Surabayans! Sarel’s voice boomed. ‘God has granted us victory against the imperialist Dutch-British and their Indian lackeys! They have lost their stomach for the fight because our cause is a true and just jihad to free Indonesia!’

  The crowd roared its approval. ‘Merdeka!’—’Merdeka!’

  Suddenly sombre, Sarel held up his hands for quiet. ‘Over the last three days, many of our brothers have fallen in the battle for Freedom. We who live have an obligation to those glorious martyrs for In—do—ne—sia.’

  Again the crowd cheered.

  He waited for silence. ‘Our struggle is not over. As I speak, our brothers in arms at Ambarawa and Semarang fight the colonialist oppressors. I ask you. Will the heroes of Surabaya go to their aid?’

  Shouts of ‘Yes!’—‘Yes!’ echoed around the square.

  Sarel raised his hands, this time beseechingly. ‘Who will follow me to final victory?’

  A new, bellowing chant began, building rapidly. Sarel led them, punching the air in a brisk three-beat count, his face triumphant. ‘Am-bara-wa!’

  Chapter Ten

  The Oengaran Hills near Ambarawa, Central Java

  A shout from the lookout brought dozens of pemuda to the ridge. ‘Bung Lamban, another convoy!’

  Lamban glanced at the line of trucks winding along the narrow road several hundred feet below then reached for his field glasses. He watched them for a few seconds then sat back against a large rock. A rustle of frustration ran through the half-dozen youths with him on the ridge.

  One could keep silent no longer. ‘They are within range of our mortars. Let’s attack!’

  Lamban smiled and shook his head. ‘Save your ammunition, Subo. Wait for the sure kill. You are too—’ A slight movement by his foot caught his eye.

  From head to tail the scorpion was about five inches long. It was a glossy dark brown moving deliberately from stone to stone, keeping to the shade while searching for prey.

  Lamban came up on his haunches and placed his hand, palm-down and with his fingers spread on the powdery earth directly in the path of the scorpion. Instantly it sensed the vibration and stopped.

  Conversation among the now perplexed youths petered out. They drew nearer. Lamban paid them no attention. His hand remained motionless.

  After several seconds the scorpion continued forward, resuming the hunt. It was three inches from his hand when Lamban quickly lifted his index and second fingers, spreading them wide, mimicking a large, predatory spider.

  Immediately the scorpion shrank back, its tail arching upwards and over its body. At the tip, the comma-shaped sting quivered, ready for the strike. It scuttled quickly left then right, seeking escape.

  Deliberately Lamban inched his hand still closer to the scorpion. Some of the onlookers, disconcerted by the strange duel, exchanged uneasy looks.

  Suddenly Lamban’s hand darted forward in a circling blur. In a split second his hand returned to its start position. His middle finger had gouged a low ring of raised earth around the scorpion.

  His face expressionless, Lamban withdrew his hand and sat back. ‘Watch and learn.’ His voice was dispassionate. ‘It could simply climb over the dirt and escape. Instead, it is too excited, trapped by its own instincts. There can only be one outcome.’

  Within the traced circle the
agitated scorpion began to spin, probing frantically. The youths watched in utter fascination. Tail twitching in an innate response to a perceived threat, the scorpion continued its frenzied scuttling. Seconds later its nervous system overloaded. In the blink of an eye, the tail flicked forward, once, twice, thrice, sting plunging, piercing its own thorax and pumping venom. Within two seconds, the scorpion arched slowly upwards, then flipped over onto its back. It lay convulsing as the fatal paralysis took hold.

  Lamban reached down, took the dying insect between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed. The carapace burst, splattering his fingers in blood and entrails. Wide-eyed, the youths watched him unsheathe his keris and anoint the blade with the poisoned entrails.

  When he spoke his gaze was already on the familiar figure working his way nimbly along the ridge path towards them. ‘Whites are dangerous, like the scorpion but if we are patient they will destroy themselves.’

  Eagerly the youths nodded, the awe and fear was still in their eyes when Sarel reached them.

  ‘That was the seventh convoy,’ Lamban informed him casually. ‘Ten lorries and a few cars each time. They moved about fifteen-hundred Dutch today.’

  Sarel looked at the sun. It sat low in the west. ‘That’s about half of them. This will be the last one today. They won’t want to risk the roads at night.’

  Lamban nodded and smiled. ‘Can you blame them?’

  ‘Not really,’ laughed Sarel leading him away from the group. ‘Where are their tanks?’

  ‘Two in the centre, near the hotel. Two by the church.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Sarel muttered. ‘What do you think?’

  Lamban picked up a twig and used it to point. ‘The British are rushing. We have received no word of any reinforcements coming from Semarang or leaving Djakarta. I think this is all of them.’

  ‘I agree,’ Sarel replied in frustration. ‘We could have destroyed them at Surabaya if Sukarno hadn’t arrived and started bleating about “world opinion”. I wonder whether world opinion will save him from the rope if the Dutch ever catch him.’