Black Sun, Red Moon

by Rory Marron

  Chapter Eleven

  The Singapore Strait

  The Melchior Treub had already cast off and was nosing its way through the cluster of barges, small freighters and tugs on its way to the main channel. Meg could see nothing but massive, grey steel hulls looming above them. She abandoned her hope for a view of the city.

  In the wheelhouse, the captain was struggling with a chart of the harbour and shouting repeatedly at the lookout in the bows for signs of a passage through the steel maze. After a few minutes, she decided that he looked a little too nervous even for the difficult task at hand. With growing unease she began to consider the possibility that the Melchior Treub might not be the straightforward ferry she had assumed. After all, the ship had docked for little more than thirty minutes. Meg had bought no ticket, seen no port officials or paperwork of any kind. Only she had presented travel documents. Also, there had been no advertisement about the sailing. It was more than a little odd.

  She spent several minutes taking a casual turn around the deck, picking her way through a pile of engine parts, tools and rice sacks. One item of cargo, several long, narrow wooden crates stacked neatly behind the funnel, stood out. The crates were partially covered by a ragged tarpaulin. On the lower boxes she could see stencilled Chinese characters. Instinctively she knew what was inside. Eight years earlier she had seen similar-looking cargo on fishing boats off the Spanish coast. Yet she knew she had to make sure, so she found a jemmy among the tools, pulled back the tarpaulin and prised open the top box. The unmistakable smell of gun oil reached her even before she saw the rifles inside.

  Meg groaned. ‘Here we go again!’

  A crewman trotted by and stopped to look at her. Startled, Meg stepped back nervously. The young man merely pointed at the crates and grinned cheerfully. ‘Jap guns good!’ He then sped off towards the bow, pausing to shout up at the wheelhouse. The Captain leant out, looked at her sheepishly, and then went back to his charts.

  Meg was reassured by the Captain’s demeanour and she relaxed. It dawned on her then that she had been allowed on board as cover. She hammered down the lid, replaced the tarpaulin and found a seat in the shade.

  Thirty minutes later the Melchior Treub had left the inner harbour and was heading beyond the giant breakwater. Waiting freighters were strung out to the horizon, and dozens of water taxis and vendor boats were doing a roaring trade plying between them and the quayside. Meg noticed the visible concern of Captain and crew as the ship’ course carried it directly towards a row of anchored warships. Then she noticed Dr Jarisha leaning against the wheelhouse and decided it was time to find out if he was in on the gun-running.

  Jarisha greeted her courteously, doffing his hat again. ‘Miss Graham, it’s much more pleasant on deck isn’t it? You might be interested to know that Dr Melchior Treub, the gentleman after whom this ship is named, was a former director of the famous botanical gardens at Buitenzorg. Dr Treub—’

  ‘Dr Jarisha,’ she interrupted politely but firmly, ‘wasn’t it risky to dock at Singapore with a cargo of Japanese guns?’

  Jarisha raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, but it was a calculated risk. With so many ships coming and going, who has the time or—what’s the word, inclination?—to look hard at a mere ferry?’

  ‘The guns were already on board, Doctor. And the stop was very brief. Maybe the trip to Singapore was a detour to pick up something else, perhaps a special passenger?’

  ‘Indeed,’ he said nonchalantly, ‘perhaps a relative of the Captain’s...or even a war correspondent?’

  Meg gambled. ‘Or a revolutionary on a secret mission?’

  Jarisha’s eyes shone and he laughed warmly. ‘Hah! You’re very astute, Miss Graham. Let me assure you that you are in no danger from us. I allowed you on this ship because your occupation and nationality might help our cause. But I clearly underestimated you and for that I apologise unreservedly.’

  There was suddenly much less of an accent in Jarisha’s English. Meg found herself liking him and repaid the compliment.

  ‘I think I underestimated you, too, Doctor. My apologies.’

  She proffered her hand and noted the firmness in Jarisha’s clasp. She wondered who and what he was. ‘Do you know Mr Darusman at the hotel?’

  ‘Actually I do. We have broadly similar interests,’ Jarisha answered casually. He gestured at the scene around them, genuinely awed. ‘Have you ever seen so many ships? Such resources. Astounding!’

  ‘Actually, I have. At Normandy.’

  Impressed once again, Jarisha drew back slightly. ‘You covered the invasion?’

  ‘I got there a couple of days after the landings. The US Navy wouldn’t let me near a destroyer, so I posed as a nurse and stowed away on a British hospital ship. There was a floating city off the Normandy coast.’

  Jarisha did not reply. Instead, he was looking hard at her. He nodded as if confirming a diagnosis. ‘One day, I hope to read your account.’

  Meg decided to press her advantage. ‘What’s the story with the guns?’

  Jarisha shrugged. ‘Oh, I’m not involved with those. They are from a Japanese armoury in Sumatra. Conveniently, the old ferry service ran from Sumatra to Singapore then on to Java. It was a perfect cover for—’

  Frantic shouts from the wheelhouse interrupted them. Binoculars in hand, the Captain was gesturing at the warships ahead. Meg waited for Jarisha to interpret. He seemed both concerned and amused.

  ‘If you don’t mind, the Captain requests that you to go to the bow and make yourself “visible”. There’s a Dutch frigate moored ahead and it might present a problem. He’d like you to distract the Dutch crew. If they are suspicious about this ship and have a launch they may try to board us, or radio another ship to intercept us in the Straits.’

  Meg went forward wondering why she was helping. Her policy was to be neutral but, she reasoned, she first had to reach Java. Being escorted back to Singapore by the Dutch Navy did not appeal to her at all.

  She gave the Captain a vexed glance. There was a pleading look in his eyes. She laughed and took off her sun hat, tied her jacket around her waist, unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse and leant over the bow rail, enjoying the sea breeze in her hair and on her shoulders.

  The line of warships lay about half-a-mile away. The narrow channel was taking the Melchior Treub very close to them. She saw there were only a few men on deck. Most of the crews would either be having lunch or avoiding the midday sun. Meg wondered then whether the Captain’s timing was deliberate.

  It was not long before the steamer was noticed, and then Meg. Sailors began waving and shouting to her. She drew herself up and waved back savouring the thought that she was probably the first white woman many of them had seen in months. ‘Sorry I’m no Mae West, fellas,’ she shouted unheard into the wind. Whistles and shouts from the men carried back to her. There was, she thought, obvious method in the Captain’s madness.

  By the fourth warship she was beginning to enjoy her role. The fifth, a frigate, flew the Dutch flag. They would pass it by a mere fifty yards. Suddenly the Melchior Treub seemed very small and fragile.

  Meg imagined one of the warships’ gun turrets turning on them and felt the adrenalin rush. She laughed and placed her right foot on a lower rail to show some leg and let her hips sway provocatively with the rise and fall of the ship. Meg saw the frigate’s name, Tromp, on a banner hanging over the side. Her face beaming, she blew kisses enthusiastically at half-a-dozen Dutch sailors who almost fell over the side, waving and shouting back at her.

  ‘Ahoy!’ she yelled, smiling and waving.

  Only then did she see the submarine. Sleek and grey-black, it was nestled against the frigate, riding high in the water and rocking gently. Two bulbous torpedo tubes at its sharp prow made it resemble a giant predator. On its conning tower a white silhouette of a shark shone in the sunlight. Beneath it was a name, Tijgerhaai.

  ‘Tigershark,’ Meg muttered aloud, seeing the closeness to the word in German. Suddenly she felt m
uch less confident about the Captain’s bluff. There was no sign of life on the submarine but she was greatly relieved when there was no challenge. She put on her jacket and went back to Jarisha. ‘I think it worked. I didn’t see anybody rushing to a radio.’

  Jarisha was clearly delighted, as were Captain and crew. ‘Your performance was superb. Well done!’

  Meg glanced up at the wheelhouse. ‘Tell the Captain he’s a first-class pirate.’

  ‘He’ll be horrified. He’s a servant of the revolution!’

  She changed the mood. ‘What are our chances, Doctor?’

  ‘Good, provided we don’t hit a mine! The Captain says there are not yet many Dutch ships in the area. We have seen two in port today, so that’s two fewer to chance upon us at sea—unless they come after us!’

  Beneath them the ship checked and its roll suddenly became more pronounced as they entered the deeper waters of the Singapore Strait. She looked back solemnly at the armada and wondered what would become of it now that the war was over. Then she remembered the crates of guns. On Java another war was about to begin….

  Singapore-Ceylon Air Corridor, late September 1945

  Wrapped in greatcoats and blankets, the eight passengers aboard the RAF C-47 Dakota were making the best of the noise and uncomfortable canvas and steel seats by trying to nap, read or contemplate. The aircraft was only an hour from Ceylon but the loud, constant drone from the twin engines discouraged conversation.

  Until three days previously, the windowless C-47 had been an air ambulance. In its hasty conversion to an air-taxi, two stretchers, one blood-stained, had been left bolted to the exposed internal fuselage ribs.

  Four of the men and the two women passengers were British, and on the second leg of their return to England. They were taking the overcrowding and inconveniences imposed on them in their stride. The other two men were not. Since leaving Brisbane in Australia, they had made no attempt to mingle at any of the refuelling stops. Instead, they had remained aloof. One of them was tall, overweight and in his late sixties. He wore a Dutch admiral’s uniform. The other, much younger, was dressed in an expensively tailored tan uniform. His full beard was almost as disconcerting to the British as the gold-stamped ‘CvZ’ monogram on his attaché case. The mysterious ‘NICA’ insignia on his uniform, which remained unexplained, further increased their reserve. In any case, ‘Netherlands Indies Civil Administration’ would have meant little to his fellow passengers.

  There was another, more obvious, difference between the two sets of passengers. The British were all in high spirits; still riding the wave of euphoria generated by the Japanese surrender. Consequently, they found the makeshift seating bearable and the minimal attention afforded them by the flight crew irrelevant. On the other hand, His Excellency Dr Charles Van Zanten, Acting Governor-General of the Dutch East Indies and his companion, Admiral Jurgen Hurwitz of the Royal Netherlands Navy, were rather glum. Hurwitz, though, had managed to fall asleep. Van Zanten could not, for he had much on his mind.

  One of the crew appeared from behind a wall of crates and made his way around the passengers with a lid-less, deep-sided biscuit tin in one hand while he steadied himself with the other.

  ‘Cuppa, Sir?’ The airman mouthed, rather than spoke the words, not even attempting to battle the noise.

  Van Zanten’s lips curled in undisguised distaste at the sight of the milky brew in the chipped enamel mug. He could not tell if it were coffee or tea. Spilled liquid sloshed around the base of the tin. He took a mug because he was cold and it at least looked hot. It was too hot and he splashed his trousers. By the time he looked up to ask for a cloth the crewman had already turned away and was oblivious to his call and wave.

  Van Zanten sighed, and then swore. ‘Stront!’—Shit! No one heard him.

  Although it was out of character, the expletive made him feel a little better and he toyed for a second with the idea of saying it again. Then he scowled, annoyed at his loss of composure. The spill was a further if minor mishap in what had been a disastrous two weeks. Idly he glanced over at his companion. Hurwitz dozed fitfully.

  Van Zanten’s head was throbbing after three days of constant engine noise. He was exhausted and craved sleep. Above all, he needed time to think about the disaster that had befallen him. Time he did not have. Simply put, Charles Van Zanten had managed to let control of the Netherlands East Indies slip from his fingers. Now, he had to try and to get it back. All he had so far were vague promises….

  During the war, the Allied governments had, in public at least, committed themselves to the return of all colonial territories captured by Japan. In fact, Van Zanten knew the Dutch were powerless to assert any claim on their former territory. They had neither troops nor ships in Southeast Asia. This weakness was making the Dutch Government in The Hague very nervous. There was a great deal at stake. The Netherlands’ East Indies territory made the Dutch empire the third largest in the world, and the Dutch had every intention that it would remain so. Planning and preparation to achieve that goal had been both intense and very expensive.

  In mid-May that year, Van Zanten had been able to return to the Netherlands, via the United States, for the first time in six years. Germany had surrendered only days before. His rushed visit lasted less than a week, during which he had assured his new Government that all was going well with plans for the return to the Indies. The pressure on him, from official and unofficial quarters was considerable. At one Foreign Ministry dinner he had been button-holed by Johann Heysel, a senior director of Royal Dutch Shell, the Netherlands’ largest company. Clutching a large glass of rye whisky, the jovial oilman had led him aside, and then tried to grill him for information. Van Zanten had been polite but evasive. Heysel had quickly become blunt.

  ‘I should not have to remind you, Acting Governor-General, of what the Indies means for the Netherlands. Forget—if you can—your title, your palace and your servants. Java alone can provide us with coffee, tea, lumber and rubber worth billions of guilders a year. Oil from Borneo an equal amount. Look around you. What do you see here? A bloody wasteland! The Nazis took everything: fuel, plant and machinery, ships, locomotives. Holland is an empty shell. If we are ever to recover our economic strength and influence then we must have the Indies back soon! Even then it will take years to repair the damage to the infrastructure.’ Heysel emptied his glass and immediately took another from a waiter who was hovering with a tray of replacements.

  Van Zanten, ever cautious, had reeled off a stock reply. ‘The Allies are committed to returning our territory. There are agreements that—’

  ‘Don’t try to palm me off with that rubbish!’ Heysel interrupted. ‘Remember, my company funds this Government! You’re to be the Government’s man out there. If you fail the Government, you fail us. The consequences for your own future should be obvious.’

  Van Zanten had begun to wonder whether the encounter was the coincidence it first seemed, for Heysel had not finished. ‘Agreements are nothing more than promises. Promises are often broken. Times are changing, and empires are fast going out of fashion.’

  Once again, Van Zanten chose to be diplomatic. ‘But the British have signed—’

  ‘What have they signed?’ Heysel snarled, losing his patience. ‘A worthless, three-page “Understanding” between London and The Hague. Open your eyes! The British have already agreed independence for India and Ceylon. Once the war’s over, Malaya and Burma will surely follow. Look at the wider picture. You’ve been stuck in Australia for too long, worrying about a few troop movements and supplies. Haven’t you read the Atlantic Charter? It’s hardly pro-Empire!’

  This time Van Zanten’s surprise had been genuine. ‘You’re not suggesting that the Charter applies to Asiatics! Our natives won’t be ready for independence for another century.’

  ‘That may be,’ Heysel had said lowering his voice, ‘but Royal Dutch takes great pains to know what is going on in Washington. It is, of course, only prudent when our competitors have such enormous r
esources. You perhaps don’t know it but the American newspapers are suddenly demanding self-determination for the peoples of Southeast Asia. Why now? The answer is simple. The Americans want access to those markets, and so they want the Southeast Asians to “self-determine” that trading with them and not Europe is to their advantage.’

  Heysel knocked back his drink and beckoned for yet another. Van Zanten was now convinced the conversation was far from accidental. Heysel had looked around them and then drawn closer.

  ‘Have you any idea of the size of Royal Dutch’s investment in the Indies? In many ways the Indies are Royal Dutch. We do not want competition. What the Americans say officially and do unofficially is quite different. Look at Indo-China. They are spouting on about the gallant Vichy French forces but they won’t help them. Our sources say most of their supply drops are deliberately going to the Vietnamese nationalists. Paris is very worried. So are we.’

  His warning delivered, Heysel had muttered an excuse and left. Van Zanten, convinced that he was far ahead of the other players in the game of empire, had quickly dismissed the oilman’s concerns.

  The Dakota lurched suddenly and he grabbed at the seat next to him. Hurwitz barely stirred. Van Zanten leaned back in his seat and allowed himself a blast of self-pity. He had been so far ahead! For two years he had played Mountbatten’s Command against MacArthur’s, fuelling rivalry, carefully withholding information on the Indies and deflecting any plans that might have given either a base in the islands.

  It had been clear to Van Zanten that the United States was to be a key, new player in the game. His only advantage was that the Americans themselves had not quite realised the fact. He had thought he had time. America could not police all of Southeast Asia even it wanted to. First they had to invade and conquer Japan. That should have taken them another eighteen months. The equipment and manpower required would be immense—an operation bigger than the D-Day Normandy landings—and against hostile civilians as well.