by Rory Marron
‘Be patient!’ Lamban growled, annoyed that his friend could be so carefree when he was wrestling with important decisions. ‘If you stuff yourself, you’ll be sick.’
Chastened, Karek became serious. ‘Have you changed your mind?’
Lamban’s expression hardened. ‘No. I am leaving for Djakarta in a week,’ he said determinedly, using the new name the Japanese had given their capital.
Karek looked away in disappointment. Lamban made another try to convince him to go with him. ‘Why don’t you come too? Even Maralik says things are changing. By the grace of God, Indonesia will soon be independent!’
A half-smile escaped Karek and Lamban pressed him. ‘Don’t you want to be part of it? You can tell your grandchildren how you helped make the country free!’
‘But Lamban,’ laughed Karek shyly, ‘the Japanese have already promised us independence. It’s the Jayabaya Prophecy coming true at last! Why can’t you just wait?’
Jayabaya, a twelfth-century warrior king of Java, had prophesied that the island would be set free from oppressors when a conquering power from the east would expel ‘white men’ and then leave after the life-span of a maize plant.
Lamban’s patience snapped and he gripped his friend’s arm tightly. ‘That’s your mother talking, not you! The Japanese are losing the war. Their promises are worthless!’
‘But the Dutch are gone!’
‘You’re a fool if you think the Dutch won’t try to come back. They ran from the Japanese but everyone says they’ll sneak back with the Americans. If we let them, we’ll be slaves again! We can stop it! We’ll be famous. But only if we go to the capital and help Sukarno.’
Sukarno was the leader of the pro-Japanese National Movement for Independence and the most popular of the Javanese nationalist politicians.
Karek had no answer. Lamban waved his arm disdainfully at the scene in the square. ‘Look around you! Today we have full stomachs but tomorrow we will be filling up on stale sago again. We can best help by going away. In Djakarta we can be useful. Maralik has taught us to read and write, and we have our training in the Youth Corps. Come with me! If we all join together the Dutch will never defeat us! We’ll be heroes!’
Karek’s eyes were bright now. He was clearly wavering. ‘Will we really be famous? I’d—’
‘And while the hero’s away who will help his father and brother meet the next rice levy?’ Behind them the familiar voice seethed with anger. Lamban looked down, while Karek turned sheepishly. ‘You’ll be heroes all right,’ Karek’s mother hissed. ‘Just like the dead boys at Kediri!’
Not long before, the Javanese militia in Kediri had mutinied. Rumours had spread that the Japanese had crushed it mercilessly and that many had been killed in reprisals.
Karek’s mother set down a leaf-tray laden with roasted fermented yam, sweet-and-sour fish, roast chicken, satay and goat-meat kebabs. Karek could not meet her gaze. As she walked away she shot a cold glance at Lamban.
‘Let’s eat,’ said Karek.
Lamban saw the fire had left Karek’s eyes. He knew then he would be travelling alone.
It was several hours later, sitting and watching the traditional wayang kulit or shadow-puppet plays, before Lamban finally began to enjoy himself. Adults and children alike cheered and shouted themselves hoarse as the pierced buffalo-hide silhouettes of the gods, ghosts and heroes of the Ramayana and Panji sagas flickered across the improvised, bed-sheet screen.
Attracted by the light from palm oil torches, moths and other winged insects settled on the stretched cloth. It was a balmy, windless evening and above them, clove-cigarette smoke formed thick, pungent clouds. Behind the screen, the dalang or puppeteer worked furiously, reciting from a scroll in ancient Javanese, mimicking different voices and swapping puppets at a frenetic pace. His narration was punctuated with mallet strikes cueing the accompaniment from the gongs, drums, cymbals, flutes and strings of the traditional gamelan orchestra.
As the last play began, Lamban was thrilled to recognise it as the tragedy of Diponegoro. The tale of the charismatic Javanese prince who had fought the Dutch only a hundred years earlier was his favourite. It was a popular finale. The audience was swept along in the saga of feud and final, fatal betrayal. Just when the dying prince was about to utter his last line, the dalang paused, his mallet raised ready to strike. He let the tension build. His audience were quiet, waiting for Diponegoro’s classic, lyrical farewell. Beside him the gamelan players, too, were silent and poised. With the strike of the mallet came a modern ad-lib, ‘Merdeka!’ Freedom! The word voice boomed around the square as the gongs and drums rang out in crescendo. At first the audience were surprised by the startling break with tradition.
Behind the screen there was a flurry of movement before the merah-putih, the red-and-white nationalist flag of Indonesia, rose high on a bamboo pole. Suddenly the dalang’s intention was clear. He began to chant, striking the mallet in time.
‘Mer-de-ka!’—‘Indo-ne-sia!’
Quickly the audience took up the chant. ‘Mer-de-ka!’
Lamban felt elated and cheered. A few began to sing ‘Indonesia Raya’—‘Greater Indonesia’—a song banned by the Dutch. Many more joined in.
In the midst of the tumult, Lamban was experiencing an eerie inner calm. Images of the valiant deeds and sacrifices of the wayang heroes filled his mind. He felt a new confidence and purpose surge through him. Lamban had glimpsed his destiny.
A day later, just after dusk, Lamban cycled to the narrow wooden bridge at the eastern end of his village. Karek was waiting with his bicycle, a long section of notched bamboo and two canvas bags. It was to be their last foraging expedition.
For some time they rode in silence along quiet lanes listening for Japanese patrols. It would take them about an hour to reach the outskirts of Semarang.
‘Which one?’ Karek asked excitedly.
‘The school at Tjandi,’ Lamban smirked. ‘They won’t expect us again so soon.’
Before long they were in open country and making quick progress on the narrow, raised banks of compacted earth between the neat sawah—flooded rice paddy—terraces that stretched for miles.
Lamban glanced skyward. The cloud cover was breaking up and shafts of moonlight were playing over the glass-like surfaces of the terraces. He pulled up. Ahead of them was the Garong River. It was about thirty yards wide at their chosen crossing point.
Carefully they hid the bikes in some bushes and then stripped. They put their clothes into the canvas bags and entered the river. Lamban went first, carrying the bamboo pole. The water reached their necks but it was slow moving and they crossed quickly. As they dressed they could see the lights of north Tjandi a few hundred yards away. To the south, the area around the former school was in darkness.
Lamban and Karek kept low, jogging alongside irrigation ditches for cover until they reached the first houses. Minutes later they were crouching at the foot of the high, woven-bamboo fence around the vegetable plots. From the bags they removed some bamboo pegs, a roll of twine, and a small jar. It took only a few seconds to fit the pegs into the pole to build a makeshift ladder and thread the twine through one end.
Without speaking Lamban stripped again. Karek opened the jar of palm oil and he began smearing him from head to toe.
Karek tapped his shoulder. ‘Finished!’
Again Lamban looked up, hoping for more clouds but instead saw it was still clearing. ‘I’ll be about ten minutes,’ he whispered. ‘Keep your ears open!’
Karek propped the ladder against the fence.
Lamban climbed quickly, the twine coiled in one hand and one of the bags in the other. At the top he paused briefly then sprang forward. He landed cat-like on all fours, eyes sweeping left then right, his mouth slightly open to sharpen his hearing. Satisfied, he crept back to the fence. ‘Now the ladder!’ Quickly he stepped back taking up the slack in the rope and began to pull. He felt Karek lift it and seconds later the pole flicked high over the fence. Lamban caugh
t it neatly and placed it along the base of the matting. Against the woven bamboo it was almost undetectable.
He had raided Tjandi Camp III several times, so he was familiar with the layout. Across the vegetable garden lay the first line of unlit huts. To his right was a guard tower, so he circled away from it, crouching and heading for the rear of the nearest hut. He made a mental note to take some peppers on his return.
Shadow at the backs of the huts gave ample cover and he quickly worked his way along. Windows were open and he could hear coughing and snoring. It would have been easy for him to sneak inside but he did not want food on this trip. Yet the first few huts were a disappointment and he was forced to work deeper into the camp.
As he peered around the back of the fifth hut he grunted in satisfaction. Strung between it and the next were rows of full washing lines. He darted among them and began to search. Some large, cumbersome western underwear caught his eye. He was amazed that a woman would wear such things. Next to it hung a frilly cotton blouse about Malini’s size. His young sister would be pleased. Seconds later it was in his bag.
Throughout Java there was a shortage of clothing. No-one in Sadakan had had a new shirt, kembang or sarong since the Japanese invasion. For everyday wear, Malini and the other girls wore sacking or reworked rags. Only the Dutch had extra clothing. In seconds he grabbed two more blouses and a checked bed sheet that would serve as a sarong. Just as he was reaching for another sheet there was a shout.
‘Thief!’—‘Help! He’s taking our clothes!’
Two girls on a veranda were pointing at him. A commotion began in the huts.
‘Swine!’—‘Quick, let’s get them!’—‘Native bastards!’
Lamban ducked back quickly under the rows of washing. Only when he emerged at the edge of the camp’s central square did he realise he had gone the wrong way. Cursing his carelessness, he rushed back. As he darted under the last row of sheets he found himself facing several women brandishing brooms and pans. Other women and children crowded the hut entrances and windows. When they saw he was young, naked and alone the women’s confidence grew.
‘Look! He’s starkers!’—‘Clara, go inside!’—‘Hey, don’t chase him away!’
Lamban knew that the guards would be coming to investigate. He let his shoulders slump dejectedly in apparent surrender.
Emboldened the women moved to encircle him, thinning out as they did so. His quick dart forward caught them by surprise. Hands grabbed at him but slipped off his oiled arms and torso. He sped towards the garden, losing himself in the shadows. His pursuers were in no condition to give chase and he left them panting and swearing loudly into the night. Lamban was back at the ladder and over the fence before the guards had even reached the first line of huts.
Guest House Berg, Semarang, April 1945
Beads of perspiration shone on the young man’s close-cropped scalp. Below his white cotton headband his neck and shoulders glistened. His thin, sleeveless white vest was soaked at the small of his back and into the top of his thin white cotton loincloth. A ceiling fan whirred in a vain struggle against the heavy afternoon air. In truth he was oblivious to both the temperature and the noise. His angular features were stone-like as he knelt in total concentration at the low table.
The slim, weasel- and badger-hair brush made steady, controlled progress up and down the handmade paper. In its wake, neat columns shimmered a slick black on the white background. Pausing briefly, the writer dipped the brush in a small, ceramic ink bowl before he began his closing paragraph.
I ask you to forgive this negligent son for not writing to you for many long months. You have all been in my thoughts each day. I dearly wish I could have helped you with the harvest this year. Please do not worry about me. I am keeping well and have many fine comrades. We are soon to face the enemy once again. Should anything happen to me do not grieve or mourn. If there are no more letters do not be distressed, for you will know I am discharging my duties faithfully. Good-bye.
Your son, Kenichi.
His hand came to a measured stop in the bottom left-hand corner of the page. Carefully he raised his forearm to disengage the brush cleanly from the paper then placed it gently, point up in a plain bamboo holder. He stared at the drying ink, hands lightly on his knees. His legs ached for he had been kneeling for over an hour. Again he willed himself to ignore the discomfort and re-examine his work. Finally, he exhaled heavily and sat back on his heels, then rolled his head to ease the stiffness in his neck. Around him crumpled sheets of paper lay scattered over the floorboards of his room. He had written the same letter six times but only on this last attempt had he been satisfied with his calligraphy. His gaze flicked to the oiled wrapping cloth that had protected the precious paper and envelopes for nearly three years. There was just one sheet left.
Lieutenant Kenichi Ota of the 16th Imperial Japanese Army had not expected his farewell to take so long to write. It did not concern him that millions of other young men had written the same prescribed phrases justifying their sacrifice. This last letter was all his family would have of him once his body was lost in the battle for Java. No fragment of his bones would rest in the family altar. He was twenty-four years old and a bachelor; no son or daughter would honour him during O-Bon, the annual Festival of the Dead.
Ota folded the paper neatly to fit the envelope that was already addressed to his father. He did not seal it because army censors would read it before his family, if they ever received it, for the enemy now controlled the seas and skies beyond Java. He knew he had delayed too long.
At the thought of the final stand his expression hardened. How strange fate had proved! It seemed like only yesterday that he was on the troopship watching the gun flashes from the great naval engagement over the night-time horizon. Their convoy had resumed its southerly course unopposed. Before them lay the defenceless Indies, the Allied fleet already starting to rust at the bottom of the Java Sea…. Cheers of Banzai! —Ten Thousand Years! — had rolled from ship to ship over the gentle swell. Twenty-five thousand voices greeted the rising sun and saw it anoint the polished steel of their raised bayonets and swords. They had felt invincible—and so they had been. The Indies had fallen to them in nine days!
Now the tables had been turned. The coming Allied invasion meant his certain death. He hoped he would find the zangyaku-sei—the brutal, savage spirit—needed to die well and with honour. Yet every night doubts came to taunt him in his fitful sleep.
He sensed where his train of thought was taking him and he desperately tried to fight it but, once again, he failed. For the thousandth time he wondered whether he would die by bomb, bullet or bayonet. Images of the bloodied and maimed dead at Buitenzorg came back to him. He could still smell the cordite…. It had been the only heavy resistance, and his first experience of battle. Just five hundred Australians had held them, fighting tenaciously for two days. Then suddenly they had given up and thrown down their weapons, many reluctantly. He had felt sorry for them because they were good soldiers, shamed by the Dutch General who had ordered their surrender…. A sharp rap on the door made him jump.
‘Ota! Ota! Iru ka?’—Are you in there?
He recognised the ever-cheerful voice and relaxed. ‘Dozo, haite.’—Please come in, he croaked. His mouth was dry.
Shinichi Nagumo, a fellow lieutenant and also his best friend, entered briskly. Nagumo was short and stocky with an easy, affable nature. They were both from Gunma, a prefecture north-west of Tokyo, where Nagumo’s father owned a small sake brewery and Ota’s father was a rice farmer.
Behind a pair of black, round-rimmed, military-issue glasses Nagumo’s eyes flashed mischievously. His uniform was heavily patched. Harsh sun and monsoon rains had taken their toll on the thin green cotton. It had been two years since they last received new uniforms.
‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ he said excitedly, hitching up his sword belt. The curved blade, protected by a leather-wrapped scabbard, was a family heirloom. It was also a little too
long for him. Ota found the habitual motion amusing but his friend just shrugged it off, blaming taller ancestors.
Ota knew Nagumo had caught his gloomy expression and would have also guessed its cause. They had known each other far too long. Nagumo’s friendship meant a great deal to him. Now, as the end neared, he knew he would need it even more. The two had first met at their university kendo club six years earlier but they had been only casual acquaintances. Ota was poorer than most of the other students and had shied away from their epic drinking, gaming and whoring. In contrast, Nagumo’s enthusiasm for all three was legendary.
Nagumo whipped off his cap, eased his sword from behind him and dropped heavily onto a chair by the door, carefully keeping his boots on the mat that defined the shoes-on area of the room. He saw the envelope and writing set on the table.
‘So you’ve written the damn thing at last! I did mine months ago.’
Ota did not answer.
Upon graduation, Ota’s student deferment of conscription ended. Days later he had received the dreaded ‘Red Paper’ and instructions to report to the Toyama Military Academy in Tokyo. He discovered Nagumo was in the same intake. Basic training at Toyama had been brutal and harsh for the two provincials who had suffered discrimination and beatings from those who resented the growing numbers of conscripts in the once-elite officer class. Some mornings they had drilled with black eyes and ribs so painful they could hardly bear to stand straight. Not surprisingly the two had soon become firm friends.
The jibing had been silenced in the kendo hall. Both Ota and Nagumo were skilled fencers but Ota was exceptionally talented and well trained. There was a long martial arts tradition in his family, and his father had begun teaching him how to handle sword, spear and staff almost as soon as he could walk. The young Ota had proved a natural fencer, and a succession of school, municipal and prefectural kendo championships had eventually led to a bursary towards his university fees.
Nagumo was less skilful than Ota but was equally devoted. Though there was little between them in fighting spirit, Ota’s technique would usually tell but not without Nagumo’s dogged determination forcing Ota to use all his guile. In the tripping and throwing of the last-man-standing mêlées at Toyama, they were invariably the last two competitors. Their prowess led to a new, if grudging, respect at the Academy. The bullying had ceased.
