by Rory Marron
Holland’s public relations campaign in the United States had been very slick. The lobbying had swayed even President Roosevelt, ever conscious of his Dutch origins. At one meeting with Queen Wilhelmina, the gushing Roosevelt had publicly assured the Dutch monarch that they would indeed regain the Indies. Of course, this had been said in the dark days of the war when words had been cheap—the oilman had been right about that—but they had been recorded and filed away for future use.
In London, the British, with eyes on their own weakened empire, had given similar pledges. Van Zanten did not trust them. He suspected that if the British got a toe-hold in the Indies they would try to gain access to the islands’ vast natural resources for their own companies. At least, that was the unofficial Dutch line in Washington and it had got them some sympathy. Over in London, their representatives lobbied against American presence in the Indies equally effectively.
Their strategy had been working well. Van Zanten and his NICA staff had canvassed support in Washington, New York, Chicago and Los Angeles, hinting at trading opportunities in the Indies as ‘just’ recompense for American war aid. He had found a ready audience of businessmen who naturally did not wish to see those opportunities shared with other nations. Various pro-Dutch articles had appeared in American newspapers, placed by The Netherlands’ new friends in Washington.
It was a risky course of action but it was the only way he could keep the American stay short and the British out. It was a good plan and the Americans had fallen for it. Almost all of the East Indies had been assigned to the Americans. Only Sumatra was earmarked for British occupation, and MacArthur had been keeping Mountbatten on a very tight leash by denying him equipment and ships for troop movements beyond Burma. In any case, the British should have been busy for months with a new campaign in Malaya.
Van Zanten had calculated that by the time the British were in a position to invade Sumatra, the Dutch would have been well established in Java and the other islands and about to wave a tearful farewell to the Americans as they headed off to invade Japan. With a legal Dutch administration up and running in the rest of the Indies, the British would be presented with a fait accompli and have no option but to hand over control of Sumatra sooner rather than later.
He had been so sure of his plan that occasionally he had allowed himself to consider just how grateful his country would be for his services. A peerage was a certainty, and with it estates in Java and money for houses in the Netherlands…. All had been going so smoothly. For the last few months he and his staff had been in relaxed, even buoyant mood as the Americans had swept the Japanese from the Philippines. Allied assaults had been scheduled on Saigon and Singapore. Java was third in line. All he had to do was wait. It would have worked…if not for the A-bombs!
Japan’s surrender had shattered Van Zanten’s world. The moment was etched in his memory. He had been at his desk in Brisbane when the sound of car horns in the street outside had distracted him. A beaming Australian secretary had come bursting into his office, shouting ‘Turn on the radio. The war’s over! Japan’s surrendered!’ Van Zanten had felt a sudden, sinking feeling in his stomach. His carefully laid plans were in ruins. The contrast between the cheering Australians and the sombre Dutch officials had said it all. His staff knew as well as he that they were not ready. It was nine months too soon.
That night, while Brisbane celebrated wildly, he had railed against the Americans in a drunken rage, cursing their scientists and their secrecy. The Dutch were allies and they had not been told! The British must have known about the bomb and they had kept it secret too! Next morning the bitter facts remained: Japan was defeated, Dutch troops were still in the Netherlands and the United States was the de-facto ruler of Southeast Asia and the Pacific.
Beside him, Hurwitz finally woke. ‘How much longer?’ he shouted against the engines.
Van Zanten bit back his irritation and shrugged. As Hurwitz shut his eyes again Van Zanten eyed his travelling companion with contempt. He found him an arrogant bore. What rubbish they had concocted about this man, he thought. ‘Hero of the Java Sea!’ ‘The Dutch Churchill!’ My God, we must have been desperate! He knew for a fact that Hurwitz spent the Battle of the Java Sea ashore in Batavia. The man had probably never seen a shell fired in anger since 1918! Now he had been appointed his senior military commander….
The second blow to Van Zanten’s plans had followed soon after the first. MacArthur, busy preparing for the occupation of Japan, had ignored Dutch protests and assigned the entire Netherlands Indies to Mountbatten’s Command. The British would occupy the Indies after all! Then, just as he had assumed things could not possibly get any worse he read the Reuters news report that Sukarno and Hatta had declared the independent Republic of Indonesia.
For three weeks he had been kept waiting for a flight to Ceylon. Now he had to go cap-in-hand to Mountbatten. It was checkmate to the British.
Alor Gajah, Malaya, late September 1945
For the first time in five years Alun MacDonald was polishing his boots willingly. He glanced around the open-sided, eight-man tent then looked at Stan Nesbit who was oiling his Lee Enfield rifle on the next bed. The entire battalion was caught up in the excitement of the day.
‘Hey, Nessy,’ called Mac. ‘Look at that then! You really can see my handsome face in these boots.’
Nesbit laughed. ‘You’ll see the RSM’s face in them soon enough, Mac. He’ll think he’s dreaming. If we’d looked this good in Glasgow we’d have made guard duty at Bucky Palace!’
Mac shook his head, smiling. ‘Sod that! This is the only one that counts for me. I’ve waited five years for it. We all have.’
Nesbit was grinning. ‘The buggers will want a few more parades out of us before they say “Cheerio”, Mac.’
‘That may be, but the war’s over. Today the Japs surrender to us. To us, mate! This is the one I’ll want to remember, not some daft square bashing in the rain so some English general can look good.’
Mac sensed a sudden quiet. He glanced at Nesbit and saw him peering very closely at his rifle. Other heads were down and curiously silent. That meant only one thing and he braced himself for the tirade from Regimental Sergeant-Major Cox. He jumped up and turned around. The bearded, stocky Cox stood resplendent in his medals with his favourite ash swagger stick under his left arm.
‘MacDonald, your views on parades, spit and polish and senior officers are well known to all and sundry, so that’s enough of that.’
‘Yes, RSM, sorry.’
‘Good grief! Are those your boots?’
‘Yes, RSM,’ Mac’s voice was pained.
‘Well now, you see what you can do when you put your mind to it. I may even have you doing mine until you’re demobbed and the army loses your obvious talents.’
Mac’s face fell but he sensed he was safe. The rest of the platoon laughed. Cox, caught up in the general mood, allowed himself a smirk.
‘Now lads,’ Cox added more earnestly, ‘Mac here’s right about one thing. Today is special and I want you at your best out there. When those Japs march in and see you I want them bloody well dazzled. Remember, we’ve all suffered for this day and lost a lot of muckers along the way. Get cracking!’
‘Stand at...ease!’ Cox’s voice boomed and five hundred pairs of shining boots stamped down in unison on the hard, bare earth. The sound echoed around the small soccer stadium. It was mid-morning and very humid. The sun was burning. Even the short march from the barracks had left the men with dark sweat patches on their clean, pressed shirts. No-one had complained.
Mac, for one, was enjoying every minute. He was very glad to be there. Everything was as it should be, he thought. Even the pipers had sounded better than usual. His eyes were drawn repeatedly to the trestle-table standing almost at the centre of the baked pitch. Draped in a cloth, it flashed a blinding, almost painful white in the sunlight. It was a simple piece of furniture, yet he marvelled at its significance. It means we’ve won! He realised he was smiling. Careful n
ot to move too much, Mac soaked up the atmosphere.
To one side of the table stood Major-General Harrison chatting with other officers of 23rd Indian Division. To the other stood a colour guard for the British flag and a collection of regimental standards. Two facing rows of Seaforth Highlanders, bayonets fixed to their rifles, lined the final approach to the table.
The rest of the Seaforths and 178th Field Regiment, Royal Artillery, were at the north end of the field. Lined up around the sides of the field were other representative units: Mahrattas, Rajpurtana Rifles, Bengal Sappers and Miners, Punjab Regiment, Gurkhas, Patalia Infantry and Royal Indian Artillery. A Sherman tank, gun-barrel lowered, was stationed at each corner of the stadium, their crews stood beside their machines.
Local dignitaries and their families occupied a tiered grandstand behind the Seaforths. On the three other sides, behind low walls, the general public jostled for position on earth banks. Many were cheering and waving homemade British and Malay flags.
Not long now, Mac thought excitedly. He could hardly wait. Five years in uniform! He remembered the words of his friend, Bill Stuart. They had been in Burma, knee-deep in mud in a trench. ‘One day, Mac,’ Stuart had said, ‘it will end. They’ll say, “The war’s over, men. It’s all settled. Time to go home. Run along now.” We’ll have no idea of the how or why of it. We might be back in India miles from the nearest Jap and that will be that. But no matter what the brass say, it won’t be over for me until I see those bastards bowing and scraping and handing over their bloody swords. I want to see it for myself. They owe us that.’ Three days later Mac had helped bury Stuart in a temporary, rain-filled grave at the Shenam Pass.
Mac’s thoughts drifted. Images of the suicidal Japanese assaults and the desperate fighting in the muddy darkness rushed back to him in chilling flashes. How could they sacrifice themselves like that, he wondered? Sometimes the British and the Japanese lines had been so close that grenades had been thrown back and forth three or four times before they exploded…. The Japs never surrendered, not even the wounded. His jaw hardened as he remembered Archie Ferguson.
He was brought noisily back to the present by sudden, gleeful cheers from the crowd. A pipe band marching four abreast entered the far right-hand corner of the stadium. Following them, between a guard platoon at front and rear, came twenty-four Japanese officers and about one hundred and fifty other ranks. Heads still and keeping their eyes low, the Japanese came forward. But as they marched, the officers with swords at their sides, Mac saw the white knuckles and quick, nervous glances. He smiled. It was good to see the bastards humiliated!
At the sight of the enemy, Mac felt himself tense. In the centre of the field, the British and British Indian officers moved to form a line behind the table. As one, the Seaforth guard came to attention then stepped forward in a half lunge, rifles at the ready position, their bayonets forming a corridor of steel. The crowd jeered in a mixture of English, Malay, Chinese and the coarse Japanese that they had learned in three years of occupation. ‘Baka!’—Fools!—‘Scum!’—‘Maketa-yo!’—You lost!—‘Bastards!’ Rotten eggs and vegetables flew in salvos but fell short of their targets. Sentries moved quickly to restrain several spectators from charging forward with buckets of human waste.
The Japanese officers did their best to ignore the insults and came to attention smartly a few feet from the table. The other ranks lined up quickly to their rear. When the Japanese general saluted, General Harrison followed Mountbatten’s orders and waited a full five seconds before it was returned.
Harrison slowly unfolded a sheet of notepaper and stepped up to the microphone. His tone was clipped and precise. ‘We are today conducting this ceremony to receive and witness in front of local civilian representatives the formal and unconditional surrender of Japanese military forces in this vicinity to Allied Forces. As Senior Allied officer in this area, I now call upon the Senior Japanese officer present to come forward to sign the document of surrender. In addition, as ordered by the Supreme Allied Commander South-East Asia, he and his officers will also surrender their swords.’
Uniformed interpreters repeated the General’s words first in Japanese, then in Malay and Chinese. As Harrison gestured to the Japanese general to approach the table the crowd roared exultantly.
Mac savoured the scene. The Japanese general was a short, rather chubby man and the only Japanese in a full dress uniform. His tunic was dotted with award clasps and ribbons. His face pale, the defeated officer swallowed hard and stepped forward, clearly struggling with emotion. Reaching to his left, he unclipped his sword from its strap then lifted it horizontally in both hands with his arms outstretched. A short white ribbon was laced through the guard. He bowed low to Harrison and laid the sword across the table. Then he picked up a fountain pen, only to hesitate and look up. A British aide stepped up quickly pointing to the spot. Hurriedly the general signed and stepped back in line.
One by one the Japanese offered up their swords until the pile on the table was over a foot high. When the last officer had returned to the ranks, their general saluted again. This time Harrison returned the salute promptly. Then the Japanese were marched out of the stadium.
Mac laughed when he saw the escort lead them much closer to the crowd, well within range of eggs, fruit and worse. That afternoon the Seaforths were stood down. Their celebrations lasted until dawn.
Kandy, Ceylon
Van Zanten and Hurwitz were met at the sprawling, busy RAF Kandy base by a smartly dressed and, as Hurwitz quickly pointed out to Van Zanten, a rather junior British captain named Hinton. To Van Zanten’s immense irritation, Hinton felt obliged to liven up the journey by describing Kandy’s cultural attractions.
‘We’ll be passing the Temple of the Tooth,’ he told them enthusiastically. ‘It’s supposed to have one of Buddha’s teeth. Mind you, the old boy’s molars crop up all over Asia. Must have had a mouth the size of Wembley Stadium!’ When neither Van Zanten nor Hurwitz responded he sought refuge in the weather.
‘The air here is wonderful. Spent a while in Burma a few months back. Damned oppressive, very unpleasant.’ Finally, sensing his two passengers’ lack of interest, Hinton gave up.
Van Zanten closed his eyes against the glare of the sunlight that flashed through the palm-tree canopy. When the car stopped for the first of two checkpoints, Hinton made another stab at conversation.
‘Almost there! The HQ was a hill station before the war. The owner’s big in tea. He was at school with Lord Mountbatten and offered it for the duration. Most generous.’
An expanse of high, white-stone wall appeared ahead. Sentry boxes manned by tall, bearded and turbaned Sikh guardsmen stood to either side of the wrought ironwork double gates.
Some shops—little more than huts—and stalls were clustered a few yards from the entrance. At the approach of the car, vendors and beggars surged to it from either side. The Sikhs blocked them and the car whisked through the gates, then turned sharply behind a tall, clipped privet hedge. A few seconds later they were driving past neatly kept shrubs and lawns that appeared to run on to the horizon. Flamingos and other colourful water birds preened themselves in ponds that dotted the huge expanse of garden.
The road followed a gentle, rising sweep up a hill where a grand, gleaming, white estate house dominated the brow. Set back from it on either side were a number of guest villas. As they drew nearer, Van Zanten noticed incongruous rows of squat, prefabricated huts that presumably provided accommodation and office space. Near them, a large array of tall radio masts emphasised the scale of South-East Asia Command.
In front of the main house several people lounged on deckchairs around a luscious and startlingly green lawn where a game of croquet was in progress. Apart from the fact that most of the people were in uniform, the scene could have been of a summer fête at an English country house.
As their car pulled up two others were pulling away. Van Zanten glanced behind and saw another car a few hundred yards behind them. Their arrival wa
s attracting no interest other than a casual turn of heads. ‘No one here to receive us!’ Hurwitz muttered in Dutch.
From behind another tall hedge came the sounds of happy, excited voices and the dull thwack of tennis balls. Van Zanten remembered how one British combat veteran had referred scathingly to Mountbatten’s HQ as ‘Wimbledon’ because it was ‘all balls and rackets’. He managed a weak smile. No-one could poke fun at the British like themselves.
With an effort he put his mind to work and started to pump the effusive Hinton for information. ‘How many are there on the Admiral’s staff, Captain?’ he asked cordially.
Hinton jumped at his chance to impress. ‘Well, people come and go all the time but at the last count, just over seven thousand.’
‘That is impressive,’ Van Zanten replied.
‘Of course, they were mainly here to plan Operation Zipper. Now all that’s been cancelled I suppose we shall all be moving on. Pity really. The riding, shooting and parties are marvellous.’
Van Zanten looked around at the couples sitting on the veranda. A number of older officers were strolling arm-in-arm with much younger uniformed women. ‘I’m sure they are,’ he said with only a slight trace of the cynicism he felt.
‘Uh, Operation Zipper?’ Hurwitz boomed, disturbing a number of people on the deckchairs. ‘What’s that?’
‘The invasion of Malaya,’ Van Zanten said quickly, wanting to silence the loose cannon beside him. He shot Hurwitz a firm look to reinforce the message.
‘Oh, of course…’ Hurwitz mumbled and then was quiet.
Hinton looked a little quizzically at Van Zanten. ‘You’re well informed, Sir. The codename has only just been declassified.’
Van Zanten patted his shoulder. ‘We’re on the same side, Captain.’
Hinton excused himself and the two Dutchmen were shown to an airy if simply furnished bungalow. A cook was already at work preparing their dinner. Hinton had informed them that they were to meet Mountbatten the next morning at eleven o’clock. Before leaving Australia, Van Zanten had requested an immediate meeting with Mountbatten but by now he had realised he was in no condition to open negotiations. Glad for the chance to rest, he bathed and was asleep by nine.
