by Hall, Ian
He’d considered telling them that, rightly or wrongly, those who’d committed the atrocity truly believed that the victims were attempting to recolonise their nation. He’d mulled over the angle that some – or even all – of the perpetrators were probably decent people, led along by the mob. God knows, he thought, the world had had recent enough evidence of the power of a fanatic to influence weaker followers. He’d also considered suggesting to his congregation that man’s perceptions of right and wrong can be blurred when overlaid by cultural differences, and that other societies might have altogether different ideas about the sanctity – or otherwise – of human life.
All these arguments had failed when set against the sheer cruelty and barbarism of the treatment meted out to the victims, and in desperation he’d gone so far as to consider addressing the difficult concept of the justness of their own cause. The rightness of their basic humanitarian mission seemed indisputable, but he was well aware that many of the men also viewed their force as being in a virtual state of war with the Indonesian nationalists. That was an impossible complication, and he’d baulked at heading off in that direction. And anyway ‘justness’ was a difficult area. Philosophers had written volumes on the subject, but he’d often struggled, as had many of his clerical, political and senior military colleagues, with the whole idea of the ‘just war’. Although it was clear to him that, in this case, justness seemed overwhelmingly to be on their side, he also knew that both protagonists in any conflict usually think they are right. Indeed he knew well that opposing armies often prayed to the same god for success in their struggles.
In any case, he reasoned, a funeral service was an inappropriate place for such a discussion. And he suspected that none of these ideas was going to be in the least helpful this time. Either to him or to the men. In his tent last night, by the light of his lonely storm lantern, he’d prayed for guidance. But by the time he’d finally dropped off into an exhausted sleep, he’d still been left wanting.
****
Now, looking at the sea of faces in front of him, he knew he’d never seen such a complete turnout. It wasn’t just the Dakota squadron members. There were airmen from every section on the station. The fighter squadrons. The RAF Regiment. Staffs from the little headquarters. Attached army personnel, too. Recovering internees, allowed out briefly from the station hospital where they were recuperating prior to onward repatriation. They would all be looking to him for meaningful words – all expecting to receive comfort. With his page empty of notes in front of him he felt devoid of inspiration – afraid and vulnerable.
But there was no postponing the moment, and now the service was under way. Initially, he worked from the prayer book, and privately gave thanks for the support of the familiar phrases. A hymn followed. Not sung with any gusto, he noted without surprise. Men’s minds were not on the music.
And now it was time for the sermon. His congregation was waiting. He looked over the motley collection of uniforms – the blur of faces looking towards him. Across the rows of bare heads, the tropical breeze ruffled young hair. There was total silence. He searched for words; and he felt the cold hand of panic creeping up his back.
His gaze cast around and seemed to be drawn again to the small group of recovering internees. Putting on a little weight, perhaps, with the care they were receiving. But still standing out as pitifully thin.
And at that point, although he wasn’t conscious of receiving any specific inspiration, the words started to come. Hesitantly at first, he heard himself talking not of the murders and their lost friends, but of the good they were all doing in their mission in Java. He’d travelled on a number of flights, he told them, and he’d witnessed the pitiful sights they’d all seen amongst the human cargo they’d been carrying these past few months. He spoke of the rationale for their presence at Kemajoran. The reason that all of them were in Java, not just the transport squadron. The reason the fighter and reconnaissance crews were there. The reason there were not only Brits on the base, but also Dutch, Australians, Canadians, Indians – and even Japanese. The reason that many local people were employed in supporting roles. All of them were there responding to the one, all-important, humanitarian mission: the rescue, care of and repatriation of their fellow human beings. The internees and the prisoners of war.
At first his words sounded, to his own ears, hollow. He had never felt more conscious of being a mere, inadequate mortal. But somehow, as he progressed, he gained strength. The trigger seemed to be a change which was apparently coming over the congregation. A cloud seemed to be lifting and he knew that something – Someone – had intervened and picked him up, had picked them all up. He ended his sermon in the usual way by calling for a blessing on his words, and never before in his long ministry had that call been more sincerely made.
And now, as the service moved on to the committal of the bodies, he felt a kind of release. Although he knew that many tears were being shed, a new feeling of peace seemed, in some indefinable way, to have alighted on his congregation. On religious men and on those who weren’t. On men who needed religion only at that moment. And on those who, despite their lack of religion, had nevertheless felt the power of something higher in the funeral service.
As the final blessing ended, the chaplain turned to the makeshift altar, bowed his head and murmured his own personal prayer of thanks.
****
Five wooden crosses stood behind the five new RAF graves in the temporarily consecrated corner of RAF Station Kemajoran, joining those which marked the places where their comrades lay who had died earlier in the operation. As Ken Ticehurst and his crew filed past, tears filled their eyes at the sight of the name of Flying Officer Keith Smith. Their friend. Their cheerful, tousle-haired young Hurricane pilot. His life had lain before him. He was too young to have been taken in such a cruel and violent way. They would return to operations shortly, but he was gone. The scars would remain on their minds for a long time.
The bodies of the Indian soldiers who had shared the fate of the RAF men had been taken away by their unit for a funeral according to their own customs. It was all done and a page was turned. The squadron commander had no wish to belittle the scale of the event they had all had to live through, or to hasten the dismissal of their dead comrades, but he sensed in his men a great release of emotion and a need to return to operations as soon as possible.
CHAPTER 22
So the very next day they were carrying refugees again at full capacity, and if any of them uttered a silent prayer as they flew over the village of Bekasi, they didn’t let it interfere with their work. And resumption of the humanitarian task seemed in some ways to purge any hate they might still have felt.
Anxiety over their own safety appeared also to diminish as evidence began to mount that the atrocity might, in a strange fashion, have lanced a boil. Whether or not the guerrillas felt any shame for the terrible act they had perpetrated, the British airmen would never know. Perhaps the freedom fighters realised that they had made an appalling mistake. Maybe they were finally coming to realise that the British had no part to play in restoring the former Dutch colonial regime. But for whatever reason, the threat to those involved in the operation seemed daily to fade.
Serious fighting would continue in some corners of the island for a good while yet but, little by little and with the utmost care, it became possible to reduce security measures as guerrilla action decreased both in the town and the airbase. The hierarchy dared to hope that the operation had passed its nadir, and that the RAF would be able to play its part without undue hindrance in the liberation of the remaining camps.
And a month or two later, with the consecration of a plaque made by men in the station’s own workshops and bearing the names of the dead and a record of the event, the squadron commander began to believe that a line had been drawn under the bad times.
Although the seasons didn’t have the same significance as they had back home, in Java being marked more by shifts in the prevailing wind and onset or c
essation of the monsoon rather than by changes of temperature, Macnamara felt somehow there was more of a spring-like atmosphere in the air. Now he became able to deal with a number of items on his list of urgent jobs. He would first and foremost get down to pressing for the rotation of some of his longer-serving men, of speeding up the repatriation of those who really ought to be moving homewards by now.
And there was also an urgent need to improve recreational opportunities. He was aware that there were men on his squadron who had worked for three and a half years without leave, and he meant to do something about that. With times easier now, he had his eye on the Royal Navy’s small landing craft, which they’d informally offered as transport to the coral islands in the Bay of Batavia. He understood there to be marvellous swimming to be had out there, and he envisaged his airmen enjoying camp fires on the beach, their beer bottles cooling in the sea. A few days at a time just sleeping, eating and relaxing would, he knew well, do the world of good.
But it would take time to organise such delights, and there was still work to do. One March morning found Ken Ticehurst’s crew up as usual well before daylight, each making his laboured way to the mess tent for a pre-flight breakfast. They were exhausted by the daily grind, worn down by too many flying hours and too few days off, and their appetites were unlikely to be stimulated by the dismal fare which would be put before them. Reconstituted egg powder; canned tomatoes; dry biscuits; runny butter from tins; thin jam. A repetitive menu, swallowed with the sole intention of keeping the body’s machine ticking over. Only occasionally would the men be served with something they would eat for the sake of enjoyment. The authorities knew well the morale effect of good food, and the cooks did their level best. But the plain fact was that for years the forces had had to exist with what could most easily be transported and what was locally available.
“Come and get it then, my lovelies.” The duty cook grinned encouragingly. “Steak eggs and chips for breakfast!”
Mention of what would be every last man’s favourite if he could have the meal of his imagination at least brought a wan smile to a couple of faces, but unprintable comments invariably followed when they glimpsed the actual offerings of the day.
“A chance would be a fine thing.” Dusty thought wistfully of steak and chips as, with little enthusiasm, he collected the dispiriting plateful from the counter and made his way through to the tables. His appetite was hardly improved by the sight that greeted them in the dining area.
“Oi – move yer backside.” Freddie prodded the snoring form that was one of the mess cooks sleeping on their trestle table. The grubby creature stirred reluctantly, pulling on his boots as he unravelled himself from the cloth he had wrapped around his greasy body the previous evening. Their tablecloth. With distaste Dusty smoothed it out, trying to ignore the patches of sweat which marked the areas where the man’s grimy feet, encased in their pungent socks, had spent the night. In an effort to bring a little civilisation into their lives they had prized their tablecloth. Now, it seemed, it had been doubling as a bedsheet all along. With a scraping of benches on duckboards and with sighs of resignation, the crew sat themselves amongst the debris of the cook’s sleeping arrangements.
Ken, as with all the Canadians and Australians who had served on the squadron, had even greater reservations than the others about the canteen. Not that those nationalities were unable to improvise with their rations, for many of them were experienced backwoods operators, generally smarter than the average Brit at living off the land. But they’d never been able to share the RAF airmen’s enthusiasm for many of the dishes the cookhouse served up with such monotonous regularity.
“Good grief, man, what’s that disgusting mess you’ve got there?” Ken was peering with distaste at a brown slop which was insinuating itself across the WOp’s plate.
“Shit on a raft, skipper. Lovely grub.” Freddie attacked his chopped liver on greasy fried bread with every appearance of relish.
Ken held his nose and pushed his own plate sadly aside, his appetite totally destroyed by the slurping creature beside him. “Honestly, you guys, I have simply no idea how you came out on the winning side in this war. You didn’t need an enemy; you had your own cooks.”
“Don’t know what’s good for you, you colonials ...”
Freddie dodged a box of salt tablets heading for his nose. The scene was as familiar to them as the flights were routine, and the gentle banter continued as they gradually came to life.
This particular day there was an additional man amongst them – one who had never been up to start his work at that hour of the morning; one who had never shared the delights of an aircrew breakfast.
Aircraftman Patterson, the admin clerk, was to spend his promised day on the operation, shadowing the crew throughout the several missions they would carry out. It had been the wing commander’s intention to get this organised more or less as soon as he’d had his initial chat with the troublemaker, but Bekasi had, quite naturally, overtaken all other plans. Now, it was possible that the utility of Patterson’s flights would be much reduced, for the CO had been assured by his shift NCO that there had been no more talk of revolt since the massacre. This Macnamara could readily believe, and he had considered the various logic strands which would likely have affected Patterson’s recent thinking.
First, it was possible the men’s desire to go home would have been reinforced by the brutality of the attack on their comrades. The guerillas could have won the day, chasing out the supposed intruders by causing terror in the colonial ranks. But he knew instinctively that such a result could never have been achieved by such means. He was certain that the men’s resolve would have been strengthened rather than weakened by the threat of further violence. And that, if anything, the incentive was now there to redouble the efforts to get the job done as quickly as possible in the face of such opposition. Therefore he reasoned that the men would tend, now, to be less rather than more susceptible to subversive talk than they would have been prior to Bekasi.
Second, he knew that the massacre would inevitably have had some kind of effect on Patterson himself. It could, Macnamara knew, have stiffened his determination to raise the mob. On the other hand, the wing commander thought it much more likely that the potential troublemaker would have been affected for the better by the terrible event. He, like every last man on the camp, would have gone through the awful night following the revelation of the true scale of the atrocity, and he too would likely have been moved by the funeral. Whilst, Macnamara acknowledged, Patterson might not have experienced anything as dramatic as an epiphany, he was still subject to human emotions like the rest of them.
Thus, on balance, the wing commander thought it more likely than not that a casevac flight for Patterson was less necessary now than it had been earlier. Nevertheless, he had resolved to press on with his plan. Partly as a precaution against any possible rekindling of the airman’s revolutionary instincts; but more because he had promised this action and wished to see it through. He was aware of the weakness of issuing empty threats, but more than anything else he saw the most likely outcome of the flight as being a neat closing of the circle.
So here Patterson was, and as he moved with the crew into the operations tent and watched as they crowded around the chalkboard showing the daily schedule, he himself was experiencing the kind of feeling a new boy would on his first day at school. The hustle, the briefing and the repartee; all were strange and tended to leave him on the periphery. He was amongst strangers; on the edge of the crowd; surrounded by unknowns. He felt helplessly inadequate amongst others who knew their job inside out; he almost felt as though he was in the way.
In fact, as the wing commander had surmised, Patterson was at this juncture already a changed man. He had worked out early on in his time at Kemajoran that this was a close-knit group of men who were doing a job in which they believed. Certainly they all wanted to go home; but the general atmosphere appeared, despite the shootings and bombings in the town, to be one of
determination to see the task through despite the opposition. And, having lived with them through the Bekasi episode, he had been staggered by the unifying and stiffening effect the tragedy had had on the squadron.
And, he admitted to himself, the effect it had had on him. He had arrived in Java with much of the poisonous attitude of one who had been part of an under-employed team in India. They’d had too little to do there, no prospect of imminent repatriation and too much time to spend stirring up trouble. But now, here, he recognised the importance of the current mission and was willing to throw in his lot.
Thus when the crew’s air medic pushed his way through the scrum and introduced himself to the cashier’s clerk, Patterson was ready to do whatever the day would bring.
“Bert Edwards. Good morning. You’re going to spend the day with us?” He stuck out a hand.
The airman took it and nodded. “Yes, corporal. Aircraftman Patterson.”
“Call me Bert.” The face was friendly and open. “We’re pretty informal within the crew.”
Patterson’s astute antennae picked up the implied reference to his being a part of the team today. He had no idea how much the wing commander had told the men of his history. Perhaps Bert was a clever psychologist, he thought, but he certainly seemed to be in friendly hands. At any rate, he reasoned, being suspicious wasn’t going to help. He really had no option but to play the day at its face value. He hazarded a smile. “Jock will do for me.”
“Jock it is, then. Well, Jock, we’re off to Semarang. Two return trips at least. Possibly three. Depends how smoothly it goes. What hold-ups we encounter. Freight and supplies outbound, released internees homebound.”
“And you’re going to baby-sit me for the day.”
“I certainly am not, mate. I’m going to be far too busy for that. I’ll be doing my flight medical work on the home runs, and lending a hand with whatever else needs to be done on the outbounds. It’ll be a heavy day and I’ll be needing your help.”
