Merdeka Rising

by Rory Marron

  ‘I am here,’ she said squeezing his arm.‘ When in Java, do as the Javanese do!’

  They wandered around the market for a few minutes. It was busy and noisy as traders touted their wares. Women shopped with their children in hand, grateful for the air of normality that had returned to the small part of Semarang within the British-controlled zone.

  Mac and Meg returned to their jeep. Miller and Rai were nearby, talking with a patrol led by Limbau. In four days the Gurkhas would withdraw to Batavia. They were laughing among themselves.

  A boy of about twelve walked past the jeep carrying a basket of coconuts. He started towards Mac and Meg, then noticed the Gurkhas and headed for them.

  ‘Hey, I’ll have one!’ Mac called after him, holding up a grubby bank note.

  The boy quickened his step towards the soldiers.

  Mac looked at Meg and shrugged. ‘He can keep his coconuts!’

  He glanced back and saw the basket on the ground and the pistol in the boy’s hand.’

  ‘Look out!’ Mac yelled.

  ‘Merdeka!’ The shout was shrill and nervous.

  Miller whirled, his arm rising in a protective reflex. Two shots blurred into one as a Gurkha flung himself forward. The boy ran, weaving among the panicked bystanders. Limbau and the others gave chase. A bullet had caught Miller in the left shoulder.

  Rai had landed heavily but managed to push himself up into a sitting position. He stared blankly at the blood welling from the centre of his chest. Slowly he fell backwards.

  ‘Oh no!’ Miller gasped. He knelt, easing the Gurkha’s head off the ground. ‘Medic!’ he bawled.

  Rai was wheezing and coughing up blood, and trying to lift his arms.

  Mac raced to him, helping Miller hold his head. In desperation he pressed a handkerchief against the wound. ‘Rai, laddie, hang on!’

  Rai tried to smile.

  Meg reached them, her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, God!’

  Rai stared at Miller, speaking in Gurkhali.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Mac asked, his face ashen.

  Miller shook his head in puzzlement. ‘He says he can’t remember the words. I don’t understand…’

  Meg knelt and clasped Rai’s hand in both of hers. ‘He means his courting song for Sarita!’ She smiled, tears welling. ‘Tell him he’ll remember the words for Sarita’s song tomorrow! Tomorrow, Rai!’

  Miller put his mouth close to Rai’s ear and spoke urgently. Rai’s chest heaved as he strained for breath. He nodded once weakly then the wheezing stopped and his head lolled back in Miller’s and Mac’s hands.

  Miller looked stunned. ‘He—he saved my life. Oh, Jesus! The bravest man I’ve ever known killed by a bloody child.’

  ‘What a goddamn useless waste!’ Meg blurted, burying her face in her hands. She sank down sobbing against Mac.

  A crowd began to gather. Mac glared at them, his rage building. A few seconds later Limbau and the other Gurkhas appeared across the square dragging the limp and bloodied young assassin on his knees across the market square. The onlookers parted and Limbau knelt beside Rai’s body and began to pray.

  ‘Just now,’ Mac snarled, ‘I could kill every Indo in this sewer of a town, starting with that little shit!’

  Miller looked icily at Rai's’ killer, then at Limbau. ‘Take him away!’

  Gently he reached out and closed Rai’s eyes and spoke softly. ‘O fall’n at length, that tower of strength, which stood four-square, to all the winds that blew…’

  He tried to smile at Meg but failed and bit his lip. He sniffed back his tears. ‘Tennyson, “Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington”, he said softly. It was the first poem I ever learned by heart….’

  Kemajoran Airfield, Djakarta

  The first of the C-47’s two huge engines started up, shattering the morning silence.

  ‘Time to go,’ Meg said softly and smiled. ‘I was determined that I wouldn’t say this… I won’t forget you, Mac.’

  ‘I’ll never forget you, Meg.’

  On their flight back to Batavia, Meg had talked of her work and the United States; Mac of Scotland. It had been their way of untying the last of the knots that bound them. They had spent a few last hours together at the hotel. Throughout the night the distant crackle of small arms fire of patrols chasing looters had accompanied their lovemaking. Somehow it had seemed apt.

  She kissed him tenderly on the lips. ‘Take care, soldier. Find yourself a good Scottish lass!’

  Mac nodded and smiled. ‘Wherever you go, keep your head down!’

  ‘I’ve had it with war, Mac,’ she said shaking her head. ‘No more bullets!’

  ‘I’ll drink to that every St Andrew’s Day!’

  ‘Me, too,’ she said softly.

  She slipped out of his embrace and walked quickly up the steps to the plane. At the door she turned. ‘Take care, Mac. You’re one of the good guys!’ She waved once then was gone.

  Mac lit a cigarette and watched the Dakota rise into a cloudless, azure sky.

  Near Tosari on Mt Bromo, south of Surabaya, 1st November 1945

  At precisely eleven in the morning, just as the leaflets dropped in the preceding days had warned, the creeping shell barrage from the assembled Royal Navy destroyers and frigates stationed just off Surabaya began. General Chrishaw had threatened retribution if the killers of Brigadier Allenby were not given up. Surabaya’s citizens had sent no reply. Since Chrishaw was a man of his word, Surabaya began to burn.

  Bright orange and reds flashed within the billowing white smoke belching from the ships’ guns. RAF Thunderbolts bombed the town with impunity. In the bay, the landing craft carrying the Fifth Indian Division waited for the barrage to lift.

  From his vantage point on the mountainside overlooking Madura Bay, Lamban had a good view of the destruction. There was no answering fire from the town. Surabaya's women and children had fled but thousands of pemuda were sheltering in basements and cellars. The Arek Surabaya would fight, street-by-street, house-by-house, to defend their city.

  Lamban turned away, leading his battalion inland to fight another day.

  Tandjong Priok Harbour, Batavia/Djakarta, January 1946

  Excited Seaforths lined the railings of HMS Bulolo watching the slow but methodical loading of their equipment and the last of the fresh food for their voyage to Colombo. From Ceylon they would head for Malta, via the Suez Canal, and, finally, Glasgow. Their embarkation had taken most of the morning.

  Mac and Nesbit had already been on board for three hours. For them the sights and sounds of the docks had long palled. They lay on the crowded deck, resting on their kit bags. Around them card games had already started. Others just lounged and perspired in the hot sunshine simply enjoying doing nothing.

  Beyond the Djakarta skyline Mt Smeroe stood out above a carpet of lush green. Few of the Seaforths took any interest in the view. They were impatient to get underway.

  Mac smoked, his expression pensive as he considered all he had gained, and lost, on Java. Nesbit let him be.

  At first the jeers from the wharf were ignored. A small group of Dutch marines had taken offence at the British soldiers’ good humour and had made some uncomplimentary comments. But the Seaforths were used to it and merely watched.

  As time passed, the insults rose in volume. ‘Go home, Tommies!’—’We are better off without you!’—’We don’t need help from Empire losers!’

  Eventually the bored Scotsmen standing at the rails lost their patience. ‘Keep your bloody island, Dutchy!’—‘And your sodding coffee!’—‘You look German to me!’

  Card games were paused as more men took notice. It was something to pass the time.

  ‘Arrogant, ungrateful bastards!’ Nesbit spat.

  On the top deck, Brigadier King and Regimental Sgt-Major Cox saw that the Dutch officers on the wharf were making no move to control their men. At last the gangway went up, ironically bringing cheers from both sides.

  ‘Just in time,’ King said to Cox with a
wry smile.

  Cox nodded and shouted down. ‘That’s enough of that, you lot! We’ll be off soon enough so—’

  A loud blast from a steam-whistle drowned the rest of his words. He turned in irritation. A freighter, flying the Dutch flag, was easing into the berth next to Bulolo. It was the Johan de Witt, of Rotterdam. Lining her decks were hundreds of fresh-faced conscripts getting their first look at Batavia.

  On the wharf the Dutch marines and soldiers began cheering. Chants of ‘Netherlands!’ began. A military band struck up the “Wilhelmina” in welcome. Coolies and other Javanese on the docks stared in open dismay as the smiling, waving Dutch soldiers started to disembark.

  A native porter ran forward unfurling an Indonesian flag. He managed one brisk shout of ‘Merdeka!’ before he was clubbed and quickly hustled away by a Dutch shore patrol. It was clear nothing was going to be allowed to disturb the welcoming ceremony.

  ‘They don’t know what’s waiting for them,’ Mac said shaking his head.

  ‘They’ll find out soon enough,’ replied Nesbit, raising two fingers to the crowd on the wharf.

  ‘How can they take on fifty million and win?’ Mac asked aloud.

  Nesbit uttered a loud, cough-disguised ‘Mer-de-ka!’ Gradually it was taken up in unison along the length of the ship.

  ‘Mer-de-ka!—Mer-de-ka!’

  On the wharf the band struggled against the growing chant. Dutch officials and soldiers stared at the Scotsmen with unconcealed fury.

  Cox turned questioningly to King. ‘Sir?’

  King shook his head, smiling, then coughed. ‘Mer-de-ka, RSM!’

  Cox grinned. ‘Absolutely, Sir!’

  With a short blast of her whistle, Bulolo eased away from the wharf. As one the Seaforths cheered. Finally they were going home.

  The last British service personnel left Java in November 1946. The Netherlands refused to recognise Indonesia’s independence and continued to oppose the Republican Government until December 1949 when, after political and economic pressure from the United States, Dutch military intervention ceased and a peace agreement was signed. The Republic of Indonesia became a member of the United Nations on 1st January 1950.

  Epilogue

  Glasgow, Scotland, October 1990

  A weary Ota re-checked the name and address of their hotel, put his reading glasses away and got into the front seat of the taxi. Nagumo was already snoring in the back seat between Sano and Harada. Ota leant back and closed his eyes. He felt a slight twinge of arthritis in his left knee but it passed.

  It had been a tiring but certainly entertaining ten days in Paris, Rome, Florence and two nights in Amsterdam before the short flight to Glasgow. Time had flown by and they were almost at the end of their reunion trip. Ota wondered if it would be the last—he was approaching seventy after all. Kudo and Kondo had died the year before. Another heart-attack would finish Sano, and Nagumo’s liver was failing….

  Ota forced himself to think of something more pleasant. In Amsterdam they had toured the canals and seen the Old Master paintings in the Rijksmuseum. After dinner on their second night Nagumo had, inevitably, insisted on leading them to the famous red-light district to see the girls on display in their brightly lit windows.

  ‘Look at this!’ Nagumo had exclaimed with delight. ‘Almost like the old days in Tokyo! It takes me back!’

  They had dawdled, in a boisterous humour, managing to lose the years for a few precious minutes. Nagumo “window shopped” for them, pointing out the undeniable charms of the waiting women. A dark-skinned temptress had caught his eye. ‘What I’d give to be twenty years younger!’

  ‘Forget it, Nagumo-san,’ Harada had quipped. ‘We’re just pedestrians now!’

  Beside Ota the taxi driver gave two quick pips on the horn to an errant cyclist. Ota’s half-opened his eyes, no more. He, smiled, reminded of the scene at Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport… Their late afternoon flight had been rescheduled for the early evening, giving Nagumo ample time for yet more ‘Dutch courage’ before he took to the air.

  Ota had gone in search of a Japanese newspaper. When he arrived at the gate his jaw had dropped. Nagumo, rather the worse for drink, was stripping to his underwear while explaining in Japanese to the bemused security team that if he had lost his right arm instead of his left, he would at least have been able to play a bit of golf at Gleneagles.

  Sano, who had been doubled over with laughter, told Ota that the metal detector was sounding every time Nagumo walked through it, to the immense frustration of the guards who could find nothing on him. Eventually they had accepted that forty-five-year-old shrapnel deep in Nagumo’s back was triggering their sensors. Nagumo had been summarily dressed and escorted patiently onto the aircraft….

  The taxi radio crackled and Ota woke again. He was nursing a small flight bag on his knees. In it was the gift he would present at the dinner in Melrose the next evening. It was beautifully wrapped in delicate, handmade paper and tied with red, blue and white ribbon. They were not quite the colours of the British flag but were the nearest match available in the gift-wrapping section of the Mitsukoshi department store in Tokyo.

  The present, a gold Seiko carriage clock, was the reason they had come to Scotland. It was a gift from the 16th Imperial Japanese Army Veterans’ Association to their last commanding officer, General Sir Philip Chrishaw.

  Ota still had his doubts that a clock was the most suitable gift for a man aged ninety-six.

  Melrose

  Chrishaw sat in front of a roaring fire in the farmhouse’s sitting room, nursing a shot of ten-year-old Talisker single-malt on his stomach. Birthday cards filled the mantelpiece. He was smartly dressed in jacket and collar and trademark cravat. What little was left of his now white hair was brushed back.

  There was soft knock on the door from his part-time secretary, the long-retired but sprightly Major Robert McCrae, formerly of the Seaforth Highlanders. ‘Sir Philip, everyone is here now.’

  ‘Right,’ said Chrishaw, his gaze on the graceful curve of the Japanese sword propped against the mantelpiece where it had stood for over four decades. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  Many of the older guests in the crowded lounge were members of the Burma Star Association. Others were some of his regular correspondents—military researchers and scholars—for whom Philip Chrishaw was a living piece of military history.

  The evening went well. Though Chrishaw was a little frail and preferred to sit in a wheelchair, he was, as usual, the perfect host. He took the presentation of the clock in his stride, shaking Ota’s hand and posing for some group photographs. Afterwards, drink flowed and people mingled.

  A woman in a smart but practical trouser-suit button-holed Ota. She held a note pad. ‘Hello, my name’s Judith Stott. ‘I’m a journalist with the Daily Telegraph’s Scottish bureau.’ They shook hands. ‘Tell me, Mr Ota,’ she asked with interest, ‘it must cause some surprise in Japan that your last commander was a British general?’

  Ota shook his head. ‘I must tell you that outside our senyukai—our war-comrade clubs—we rarely speak of the war, not even to our families. It was a long time ago. No one is interested in old men’s tales.’

  Stott looked at him quizzically. ‘You think so? Look over there.’ She indicated the small group hovering around Chrishaw. Some of them had already produced maps of the Burma campaign or copies of once-secret signals and were asking the General questions. ‘They and others like them all over the world would visit everyday if they could,’ said Stott. ‘You should see his post bag!’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Ota, ‘but General Chrishaw was a very important man… It’s different in Japan. Since the war, most people are anti-military.’

  She nodded. ‘I see. When I heard you were making the presentation I decided to read some of the old news reports,’ I couldn’t find any mention of Japanese soldiers helping the British. Perhaps the government did not want to admit what was happening? It must have been very strange for both sides—I
mean for the British and Japanese?’

  ‘Oh, yes’, replied Ota. ‘It was chaos. Though I think the Indonesians got the biggest surprise. I’m sure they never expected us to fight them.’

  Stott smiled as Chrishaw escaped a group of historians and directed McCrae to wheel him over to join her.

  ‘Very smart, Sir Philip, as always,’ Stott said beaming. ‘You, too, Major.’

  The two old soldiers were clearly pleased.

  ‘Thanks, Judith,’ Chrishaw replied warmly. He grinned slyly at McCrae. ‘It’s good to have a young woman in the house who’s not a granddaughter or a great-granddaughter!’

  They all laughed.

  ‘I only said I liked your tie, Sir Philip!’, she replied smiling.

  Chrishaw beamed. ‘Old soldiers don’t die, you know, Judith, their medal ribbons just fade away.’

  She went on, notebook poised. ‘I was just telling Mr Ota that I’ve been reading some of the press reporting on Java. I found one by Meg Graham in one of her books. I hadn’t realised she had been in Java, too. Did you ever meet her? She’s something of a role model.’

  ‘Oh, yes indeed,’ Chrishaw said nodding. ‘Sharp as a pin! Good dancer if I recall. Sense of humour, too! Her writing was perceptive. I always thought she’d leave her mark.’

  ‘Miss Stott,’ Ota asked politely, ‘Did you say she wrote a book?’

  ‘Several actually, the one I mentioned is called Masks of Conflict.

  Ota wrote down the title and saw a contented-looking Nagumo approaching, glass of whiskey in hand.

  The evening drew to a close with the taking of some more group photographs. Just before the farewells, Chrishaw slipped out of the lounge and went into his sitting room. He returned with the sword across his knees.

  Ota and the others stared, jolted by the sight of the weapon.

  Gradually the room fell silent as people realised something unplanned was about to happen. Chrishaw unwound the red-and-gold tassel and partially unsheathed the blade. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, forty-five years ago, General Yamagami surrendered this sword to me on Java.’ He paused, looking down at the still-bright steel. ‘I think it’s time it was returned.’