Merdeka Rising

by Rory Marron

  Mac backed away, looking around. He dashed for a doorway. Lamban was there before him, the klewang flicking close to his face. Mac slashed with the bayonet but watched in disbelief as the blade circled around his own and twisted it out of his grip. He was trapped. The Javanese was about to lunge for him when he half-turned and jumped aside.

  ‘Zaaa!’ Ota’s shout boomed as he thrust with a rifle and fixed bayonet.

  Lamban turned and parried the attack neatly, forcing Ota to pull up, then he cut quickly for Ota’s leading left hand and arm. Just in time, Ota jerked his arm away and the blade struck the barrel.

  Ota snapped the rifle back to his hip, the bayonet tip tracking Lamban’s body not his sword. He had the advantage of the longer weapon to keep his clearly skilled opponent at a distance.

  Mac moved behind Ota, realising with dismay that the officer’s pistol holster was empty. He pulled a five-round clip for an Arisaka from his belt and wondered if he could throw it to Ota. He dismissed the idea. There would be no time.

  Lamban made to close with Mac again. Ota cut him off. His frustration showing, Lamban began a sequence of fast left and right sword cuts that worked along the bayonet and then onto the rifle barrel as he closed. Ota disengaged with deft pull- backs and circular parries, fencing with the bayonet, jabbing repeatedly at Lamban’s head and chest to keep him away from Mac.

  Warily the two circled, Mac keeping behind Ota. Mac saw his bayonet by the wall, grabbed it, and then flung it at Lamban. It was on target but the sword flashed and the bayonet deflected harmlessly.

  Lamban darted in and tried to close on Ota by grabbing the rifle barrel. Ota whipped the stock upwards towards Lamban’s ribs forcing him to release and jump back. As Ota slashed, Lamban stepped forward, dodging past the bayonet. He dropped low into a spinning kick that hooked behind Ota’s front foot. Ota rocked back, taking all his weight on his rear leg. Lamban darted in to strike but Ota hopped back, pulling the bayonet to his body line, forcing Lamban to pause and take a new guard.

  ‘Allahu akbah!’ A second Buffalo emerged from the darkness, crossing behind Lamban. Ota saw him bringing up a revolver.

  Ota’s right hand curled around the butt of his rifle and he hurled it forward underarm. Lamban side-stepped but there was an audible thud as the bayonet speared the second attacker’s chest. The revolver went sliding across the stones into the shadows.

  With a growl of fury, Lamban came forward slashing at Ota’s torso. Ota just had time to unclip his sword from his belt. He caught the attack vertically on the leather-covered metal scabbard, then thrust the tip at Lamban’s stomach. Lamban palmed it aside and jumped back, then unsheathed a straight-bladed keris with his left hand.

  Ota drew his own sword, keeping the scabbard in his left hand as a club.

  They circled, making quick probing attacks, each gauging the skill of the other. Mac watched, heart beat racing, knowing his life was in Ota’s hands.

  Lamban attacked with a ferocious double-windmill action. Ota slashed down at his head. To parry, Lamban crossed keris and klweang high. There was a sharp snap and a length of steel clattered at their feet. The klewang had broken against the more flexible Japanese steel.

  More cautious now, Lamban threw the broken blade aside then flipped the keris in his left hand so that it lay along his forearm. As Ota came forward, Lamban moved to close the distance quickly, catching Ota’s blade against his own. He chopped hard with the edge of his palm at Ota’s inside right elbow. Ota grunted in pain, his arm numb.

  Lamban’s left heel flicked up behind his buttock, raising a hidden scabbard fastened to his back. Simultaneously his right arm reached behind his head to grasp the hilt. In a split second the Death Shroud keris was in his hand. He lunged for Ota’s abdomen.

  Ota anticipated the second weapon and pulled his scabbard in vertically, tight against his body and twisted. The keris sliced into the thick leather but slid past his torso. A quick jab with the scabbard caught Lamban in the ribs, forcing him to break away.

  Their chests heaving, the two combatants began to circle yet again.

  Booted footsteps echoed across the courtyard. ‘Ota-chu-ii, Doko? Ota-chu-ii!’

  Lamban looked left and right, gauging the distance of the approaching soldiers. He took two quick, long steps back to disengage, then brought his fists together in front of him in salute. Ota lowered his own sword and bowed. Lamban returned it, cast a last, bitter glance at Mac, and slipped into the shadows.

  The Fourth Day at Ambarawa

  ‘Very good, Lieutenant, this will do fine,’ said Miller, ‘carry on.’

  Ota saluted. ‘Yes, Major.’ Under Miller’s command, the Kudo Butai were setting up checkpoints in the central square and the major road junction north of Ambarawa. There was still an air of tension, so they were taking no chances. Light machine gun crews were building sandbag nests and they were still wearing steel helmets.

  ‘Mac,’ Miller called out. ‘Let’s go and see what needs doing at the camps.’

  ‘Aye, Sir,’ Mac replied, glancing at second-storey windows. He felt very exposed in the street.

  Ota started to show Mac, Miller, Suzuki and Kondo the marks on his scabbard. Its brown leather cover was sliced to the metal beneath and stained.

  ‘What’s that?’ Mac frowned. ‘Oil?’

  Kondo shook his head. ‘Doku da!’

  Mac looked up questioningly.

  ‘Poison,’ Ota explained.

  ‘Christ!’ Mac gulped.

  A sentry alerted them. ‘Jidosha!’—Car!

  A black, open-topped tourer began to slow for the roadblock. Four uniformed Japanese officers were inside. One waved casually.

  Miller raised a relaxed hand. ‘It’s all right they’re Jap—’

  Ota glanced at the passengers and saw one was Shirai. ‘Teki da!’—Enemy! He shouted, dragging Mac and Miller down behind a wall of sandbags just as the front passenger stood and opened fire with a sub-machine gun. Sand spurted from the ruptured bags. Two men manning the light machine gun were cut down. The car sped past them.

  Ota was up quickly, drawing his pistol and firing two quick shots. He saw a rear light smash. At the same time Kondo leapt for the LMG, swung it around and fired a long burst. Bullets chewed through the tourer’s rear bodywork then shattered the windscreen. Suddenly the driver’s head lolled and the car crashed into a boarded-up Chinese hairdresser’s.

  Shirai and another man sprang from the car towards an alley. Ota fired three more shots but they were well out of range. Shirai reached the alley.

  As he ran the other Japanese half-turned and fired wildly. A second burst from Kondo hit him across the chest, throwing him hard against a wall.

  Ota rushed across the street, then flattened himself against the corner building. Cautiously he peered down the alley. There was no sign of Shirai. A door creaked open and Ota brought up his pistol. An elderly Chinese popped his head out, saw Ota and darted back inside.

  Miller joined Ota. ‘Have you seen him?’

  Ota shook his head.

  Right,’ said Miller. ‘I’ll go round the front in case he comes out of one of the shops.’

  Ota nodded and went forward. He tried five back doors that opened on to the alley but each was locked. Further on he came to a familiar, narrow side-road lined with the tailors, barbers, greengrocers and apothecary shops typical of a Chinese quarter. At one end of the road stood a high, whitewashed wall and pagoda-roofed gate to what he knew to be a Chinese cemetery. Shirai was pushing on the heavy double doors. He glanced back down the street, stared challengingly at Ota then went inside.

  Ota reloaded his pistol then sprinted for the cemetery. The door was still ajar. He crept forward, taking cover behind a banyan tree shading the entrance. Rows of room-sized tombs in black or white marble and granite stretched out in a rectangular grid pattern. Waist-high walls and narrow, pebbled paths separated the plots. Apart from the occasional chatter of a monkey in the tree the cemetery was quiet.

  He step
ped carefully, very conscious of the crunching of his boots on the pebbles. His pulse was fast, his breathing quick. Each tomb and pathway provided the opportunity for ambush.

  ‘Over here, Ota!’

  He spun round, raising his gun. Shirai was standing openly, not two yards from him aiming his pistol at Ota’s chest. For several seconds the two men faced each other in silence.

  ‘Why don’t we settle this the old way?’ Shirai said calmly, tapping his sword hilt.

  Ota nodded but did not move.

  Slowly Shirai moved his pistol off aim then returned it to its holster. He turned his back on Ota and headed without urgency towards the centre of the cemetery.

  Shirai’s back was an open target in Ota’s sights but he lowered his pistol and followed Shirai to see a small lawn bordered by benches. Shirai unclipped his sword from his belt. Ota did the same.

  Facing each other, they drew their blades and threw the scabbards aside.

  They approached each other warily. Both knew that the contest would be very short. Shirai held his sword slightly above his head. Ota, in contrast, kept his blade angled at his right side, pointing down and away from Shirai. His feet were spread as he took a low stance.

  Shirai looked around him. ‘Well, it’s a different audience this time,’ he quipped dismissively. ‘An audience of the dead!’ He leapt forward, trying to take Ota by surprise, slashing at his left shoulder.

  Ota dodged and the sword cut only air. His quick counter flicked upwards from right to left, striking the underside of Shirai’s steel helmet and cutting through the leather cheek strap.

  Shirai jumped back and his helmet fell to the ground revealing a long diagonal cut across his left ear and temple. His fingers traced the welling wound and he grinned maniacally. ‘First blood to the farmer!’

  Suddenly Shirai lunged fencing-style with a single-hand grip. Ota side-stepped but not far enough and the tip pierced his thigh. He grimaced.

  ‘Aha!’ Shirai laughed and again thrust low then slashed at his torso. Ota blocked hard left and cut back horizontally across Shirai’s chest, nicking his left shoulder.

  Enraged, Shirai cut quickly for Ota’s head. Ota deflected the strike but stumbled and had to step back. Shirai pressed his advantage, lunging again. Again Ota dodged to the side, simultaneously cutting upwards right to left, slicing deep into Shirai’s inner thigh. Shirai gasped but his motion took him on. He crashed against Ota, forcing him off the lawn and back over a wide, rounded headstone.

  Shirai’s elbow whipped across Ota’s mouth and chin. Ota’s head rocked back against the stone.

  Their two sword guards were locked together over Ota’s chest. Eyes bulging with effort, Shirai heaved trying to force his blade into Ota’s neck. Perspiration on Shirai’s forehead dripped into Ota’s eyes. Ota felt the cold steel cutting his skin but he could sense Shirai weakening. Warm dampness soaked his waist and thighs as blood spurted from Shirai’s severed femoral artery, rapidly draining his strength.

  Puzzlement showed in Shirai’s eyes as inch by inch Ota began to push him away. Shirai was grunting with effort. Suddenly he shifted, coming up using Ota’s strength, then slammed his sword hilt down at Ota’s eye. Ota rolled his head and the brass pommel glanced off his helmet and on to the headstone, chipping the marble. He flung Shirai to the side and slipped free, taking a low guard position.

  Shirai stood unsteadily, staring down at his blood-soaked legs. He raised his sword and took a step forwards but his legs gave way and he dropped, snarling, onto his knees. His sword slipped from his fingers. He glared at Ota, smiling thinly. ‘So, Ota, the field is yours again! Now are you going to watch me bleed to death or end it properly?’

  Ota reached slowly for his pistol but Shirai shook his head. ‘No! My choice in the manner of my death! Will you do me the honour of being my second?’

  Tension played on Ota’s face as he considered the enormity of the dying man’s last request. Despite his revulsion he could not refuse. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Good!’ Shirai grunted. With a supreme effort of will, he shifted into a formal kneeling position, forcing his back straight. He looked at Ota and leant forward in a controlled bow, extending his neck. ‘Yoroshiku onegai shimasu.’—I beg your understanding.

  Ota bowed and repeated the phrase with equal formality. Out of respect for martial tradition he had practised kaishaku—the Second’s Cut—many times but always on a tied bundle of soaked reeds. In preparation he moved to stand slightly to the left of the kneeling man, so that the readied weapon would be out of his line of sight.

  Slowly he raised his sword above his head, slowing his breathing, relaxing his muscles. Shirai’s breath was coming in short, noisy rasps. His expression was blank.

  Ota’s eyes were focussed on Shirai’s stretched nape and his first vertebrae. His concentration was total. He was unaware of Shirai’s trembling right fingers inching under the flap of his pistol holster.

  Ota took one second too long. Shirai twisted, snatching out his pistol. He glared up, lips drawn in a triumphant rictal grin. Ota started his cut, staring down the barrel, knowing he was a dead man. He did not hear the shot. Neither did Shirai who was flung prone at Ota’s feet with a bullet through the heart.

  For several seconds Ota stared at the body, then slowly looked around the cemetery. His face pale, his gaze travelled on, beyond the wall to the white, square bell tower of Ambarawa church some three hundred yards away. Slowly he lifted his hand in acknowledgement; quite certain he was in the crosshairs of Harada’s scope.

  Semarang Docks, late October 1945

  Chrishaw, Edmunds, Bentham, Ball and Miller saluted as the three hundred and seventeen members of the Kudo Butai came on to the dockside past the guard drawn from the Gurkhas and Mahrattas. They paraded six abreast behind their flags, with rifles sloped and bayonets fixed. Officers marched with their swords drawn. Nestled against the wharf, the rusting freighter that was to carry them to internment on Rempang Island was getting up steam.

  Wounded men marched or limped alongside their fit comrades as best they could. Many of the battalion were wearing white cotton slings around their necks that supported plain wooden boxes holding some of the bones of their fallen comrades.

  At the end of the dock the Japanese halted to stack their rifles, ammunition belts and bayonets. On Kudo’s order, every chrysanthemum crest had been filed off the guns. Virtually disarmed, Kudo Butai reformed ranks and marched back. A small table, draped with a white cloth had been placed in front of the General.

  Mac was in the front row of a mixed group of servicemen who had joined the Ambarawa relief column. He looked at the table and found it hard to believe it was only three months since the surrender ceremony in Malaya. Then he had been elated, even angry. Today he felt sympathy for dead men and relief at being alive. He looked over at Meg who stood among a small group of RAPWI staff and curious civilians. She had flown in from Djakarta with Chrishaw. The RAPWI plane was returning that evening. Mac would be on it with her, his secondment to Ball’s staff at an end.

  Chrishaw began his speech. ‘Men of the Kudo Butai, in the past weeks you have performed a number of difficult tasks promptly and professionally. One day, I hope that full acknowledgement of your effort and sacrifice to protect the innocent on Java will be known by your countrymen. It is something of which you and they can be proud. From this day, you are no longer under arms. As you lay down your weapons and leave this island, know that you have earned the gratitude of 23rd Indian Division and, indeed, of the internees whose lives you helped save.’ He paused for the interpreter, and then continued.

  ‘I now call upon Major Kudo to surrender his sword. May it never again be drawn against a foe.’

  Kudo approached Chrishaw and Bentham with his sword in his left hand and saluted. The two British officers returned the salute immediately. Kudo stepped up to the table, taking the sword in both hands horizontally. His bow was almost horizontal. He straightened, and offered the weapon to Chrishaw who received it
in both hands, then handed it to Bentham. ‘I think this is better in your care Brigadier.’

  Bentham smiled. ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  Kudo slowly came out of his bow.

  ‘I’m glad you are not joining General Yamagami in Singapore, Major,’ said Chrishaw. ‘I am pleased that we are no longer enemies.’

  ‘So am I, General,’ replied Kudo.

  Bentham stepped forward and shook Kudo’s hand. ‘My best wishes for the future.’

  Kudo nodded once, stepped back three paces back and saluted once again.

  One after another, the Japanese came forward until the table was piled high with swords. Mac noticed Ota standing beside a comrade with one arm. The wounded man walked forward purposefully, limping slightly to offer his sword. Then came Ota.

  Mac watched with added interest as he added his sword to the pile, wondering if he had really seen him smiling slightly. He hoped so. At that moment he knew that his war with the Japanese was over.

  Thirty minutes later the Kudo Butai had boarded the ship and the gangway had been raised. With a single, long hoot from the whistle the ship cast off. Relaxed, smiling Japanese lined the passenger rails. Miller waved a final farewell to Kudo who stood on the stern deck. Miller came over to Mac, Meg and Rai. ‘Well, what a strange way to end a war, waving goodbye!’

  Central Market, Semarang

  To the clear delight of a stall-holder, Meg was examining an antique blue-green, batik-dyed silk sarong decorated with open clam shells and swirling surf. ‘I’ll have to be careful what I wear with this or the Goddess of the Southern Seas will send a typhoon to New York!’

  Mac looked at her in confusion. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ Meg laughed, handing over a thick wad of Japanese guilders.

  ‘This’ll turn a few heads in Glasgow!’ Mac said grinning. He was holding up a bright green silk tie. ‘What do you think?’

  Meg shook her head. ‘No greens, Mac. Not till you’re off the boat and home.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were superstitious.’