Black Sun, Red Moon

by Rory Marron

  There was little visible activity in the docks. Cranes and other equipment stood idle and rusting. A few fishermen were unloading their catch in baskets. But as the Melchior Treub approached its berth, people began streaming on to the quayside carrying banners and flags.

  Elated by his successful voyage, the Captain gave a deep hoot on the ship’s horn then leant out of the wheelhouse to shout triumphantly. ‘Merdeka!’

  His shout was returned enthusiastically from the quay, yet Meg sensed she was already the subject of some inquisitive stares.

  Two young militiamen in tattered khaki uniforms pushed their way through the onlookers to the edge of the quay. Meg saw pistols stuck in their belts. On Jarisha’s advice she had slipped on her safari jacket with US press corps insignia. Now she was glad she had done so.

  People began waving and the ‘Merdeka!’ chanting began yet again, this time interspersed with ‘Jarisha!’.

  He was standing some way from Meg, waving to the crowd. She watched him carefully. ‘Just who is he?’ she asked herself in amazement, delighted that she might have had an exclusive, two-day interview with a revolutionary leader.

  As if reading her mind, Jarisha turned and joined her. ‘Forgive me, Meg. I didn’t tell you that I have some political influence here. I’ve enjoyed talking with you these last three days. Now, to my great regret, I must say goodbye. I hope to see you again very soon.’

  Meg looked at him warmly as he held out his hand. She took it wondering what might have happened if there had been a third night. ‘I should thank you, Doctor. It’s been a wonderful voyage. I learned a great deal.’

  Suddenly he was sombre. ‘We have a word,’ he said softly. It is “keligsahan”. The nearest translation I can think of is “trembling”. Please be careful, Meg. Java is trembling.’ He let go of her hand and left her.

  The two militiamen sprinted up the gangway and saluted Jarisha. Meg saw them glance in her direction. When Jarisha answered, the open surprise on their faces was almost amusing. Any worries she might have had disappeared when the Captain pointed at her to the crowd and bellowed, ‘American!’

  On the quayside several people began clapping and shouting. ‘Truman!’—‘MacArthur!’—‘Liberty!’

  A battered, red 1935 Chevrolet Town Sedan turned swiftly on to the quay sounding its horn. Fastened to its bonnet was a small red and white pennant. Two men got out and waved politely to Jarisha. As he moved to leave the ship, he gave a polite bow to Meg for the benefit of the onlookers and then strode down the gangway to be lost quickly in the cheering throng.

  Suddenly remembering their duty, the two militiamen rushed back down to the quay and elbowed their way into the crowd in a frantic attempt to escort him.

  Meg watched from the ship until the car drove away. She was halfway down the gangway when two porters rushed up to her and started arguing over who would carry her bag.

  ‘Well!’ Meg said under her breath. ‘Let me just say it’s a privilege to represent the US of A!’ Then she held up her hands, shrugged helplessly. ‘Hotel des Indes, anyone?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Semarang

  Ota and Nagumo were alone in the bathhouse at the Officers’ Club. That morning Kudo had ordered the battalion to prepare for their withdrawal from Semarang to one of their prepared positions inland. All arms and ammunition were to be taken, as well as three months’ supply of food.

  ‘I hope,’ Kudo had told them, ‘that we will be at the new camp for three or four weeks at the most while the British establish their bases. They will then arrange for our disarmament and transport to a holding camp, probably in Malaya. In the meantime I think it is better if we keep out of their way. Unfortunately, our civilians and technicians are being harassed and robbed by Javanese, so any civilians who wish to join us at the camp will be permitted to do so.’

  Ota closed his eyes, feeling the heat from the water easing his muscles. Yet unease gnawed at him. It was a week since the surrender but still no British troops had arrived. Semarang certainly did not feel peaceful. Local gangs had assaulted several soldiers. In response, Kudo had confined everyone to barracks at night, so Ota had moved out of the guesthouse. Nothing was making any sense! His thoughts drifted to Kate. He had kept his promise. Soon she would be on a ship to Holland and safety. He felt glad for her even though they would never meet again. ‘I still can’t believe it’s over,’ he said suddenly, trying to put her out of his mind.

  Nagumo was staring up through the vapour at the bamboo ceiling. ‘Hmm,’ he groaned. ‘No-one can believe it!’

  ‘Captain Seguchi reckons we’ll be imprisoned for five years at the least,’ Ota ventured, wanting to talk. ‘We’ll be thirty then. Just as long as we can go back….’

  ‘If there’s anything to go back to!’ Nagumo scoffed, wiping his face. ‘On the radio it said atom bombs destroy everything. No bodies, no bones, no blood. Nothing but dust!’ He took a swipe at the water and swore. ‘Shit! We still don’t know what’s really happening!’

  Over the last week Ota had never been more thankful that his family were farmers who lived far from targets for the Allied bombs. Others in his unit were not so fortunate. ‘Mura’s from Hiroshima,’ he remarked quietly. ‘And Yanase’s from Nagasaki. They’re both nervous wrecks. Mura’s been drunk for three days.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Nagumo said sitting up, calmer now. ‘The Major’s got someone watching him round the clock just in case.’ He wiped the perspiration off his face with a small towel, which he then soaked, folded and placed on top of his head before easing his shoulders under the water once again.

  Ota’s mood was dark. ‘I heard two more kenpei killed themselves last night. They used a grenade!’

  Nagumo shrugged. ‘There are rumours that the Allies are going to hang them all anyway. It’s those going over to the Indos who worry me. Some from the 203rd—Watanabe and Hayashi, remember them from Toyama?—they’ve joined the militia units they trained. And a handful from the 48th as well. Plus the odd kenpei, of course, including Shirai!’

  ‘Shirai, too?’

  ‘Yeah, good riddance I say,’ declared Nagumo.

  Ota frowned. ‘I’d have put money on him doing himself like his lieutenant. He’s that type.’

  ‘Well, apparently he’s in command of one of the Indo military police units along with a half-dozen of his men. They cleared out their armoury before they left.’

  ‘But it’s over!’ Ota said exasperatedly.

  Nagumo shrugged. ‘Not for Shirai! He’s desperate for a last crack at those hairy white apes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Yanase and Mura are thinking the same thing.’

  ‘It won’t change anything.’

  ‘No, but if your family, everyone, had been turned to dust, what would you do? Bend over for the new lord or try to rip off his balls?’

  Ota looked at him carefully. ‘Is that what we’re doing, bending over?’

  Nagumo let out a long sigh. ‘Our war is not Shirai’s or Yanase’s war. Not now, anyway. We might be officers but we’re still conscripts! I wasn’t fighting for the Emperor. I just wanted it over so I could keep my family out of it. You were doing the same.’ He paused, lowering his voice. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m glad it’s finished.’

  Ota felt a weight lift off him. ‘I thought I was the only one.’

  Nagumo sighed. ‘Only the madmen wanted to carry on.’

  They sat and soaked in silence for a while. Ota began to hum a folk ballad then stopped. ‘Well, whatever the reason, I think the Major’s right to leave here. The locals are starting to worry me.’

  ‘And me,’ agreed Nagumo. ‘Let’s hope the Tommies come soon so we can be off.’

  Ota stretched full length. ‘I’ll miss this bathhouse, though. Can’t we dismantle it and take it with us? Two months is a long time to go without comforts. After all, we’ll be in a prison camp soon.’

  ‘Uh huh. I’ve been thinking the same thing. But don’t worry,’ grinned Nagumo. ‘I’ve invited Kiriko and
her “civilian technicians” to come with us. I’m collecting them from the Sakura tomorrow.’

  ‘Trust you!’ Ota grinned. ‘What about the girls at the Akebono and Otowa?

  Nagumo grunted in dismay. ‘That sly bastard Ueda from the 203rd beat me to them!’

  They glanced at each other and for the first time since the surrender they laughed together out loud.

  Around noon the next day, just as preparations for the battalion’s move were almost complete, a black Peugeot 301 arrived at the main gate of the barracks. The car was bedecked with red-and-white nationalist pennants. ‘BKR’ was daubed in red paint on both sides.

  A few minutes later the delegation from the local revolutionary council was allowed into the compound. One was middle-aged, balding and, despite the heat, wore a suit and tie. The other two, dressed in brand new militia uniforms with captains’ insignia, were no more than twenty. All three looked intently at the activity outside the armoury and storerooms.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ Kudo greeted his visitors in slow but fluent English. ‘I am Major Kudo.’ Captain Seguchi and Sgt-Major Tazaki stood a few feet away.

  The older Javanese stepped forward and bowed. Pinned to his lapel pocket was a small red and white ribbon.

  ‘My name is Orubu, Major,’ he said politely. ‘I am the new mayor of Semarang. With me are representatives from the Badan Keamanan Rakjat—the BKR—the People’s Security Force.’

  Kudo gave him a small but polite bow.

  Orubu looked across the parade ground at the vehicles. ‘You are leaving Semarang, Major?’

  Kudo kept his voice casual. ‘This barracks will be used by British troops. We are relocating.’

  Concern flashed in Orubu’s eyes. He spoke quickly in Javanese to the two militiamen. They, too, suddenly became tense and spoke among themselves briefly. Orubu turned back to Kudo. ‘When will the British arrive?’

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Orubu, all troop movements, even those of the British, are confidential.’

  Abruptly Orubu stood to attention. ‘On behalf of the Government of Indonesia,’ he said officiously, ‘I demand that you surrender your arms and ammunition. We guarantee you no harm, Major.’

  Kudo’s expression did not change. ‘I am under direct orders to maintain law and order. Surrender of weapons has been expressly forbidden.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Major, the Allies are not aware of the new situation here.’ Orubu’s tone was impatient. ‘This is now the Republic of Indonesia and the legal government has authority in all negotiations over foreign troops.’

  Kudo stared at him impassively. ‘Demands are not negotiations. My orders are very explicit, Mr Orubu. I cannot agree.’

  Orubu interpreted again for the militiamen who glowered. His own irritation showed in the tone of his voice. ‘Major Kudo, two days ago, Major Koga at the Banjumas Garrison had no hesitation in surrendering his arms to BKR representatives.’

  Kudo kept his poker-face. He hoped Orubu was lying. If not, what was Koga doing! ‘I am surprised to hear that,’ Kudo said with a troubled frown. ‘If it is true, Major Koga is in breach of his orders. I intend to obey mine.’ He beckoned to one of the nearby privates for his rifle. The soldier presented it with parade-like precision. Kudo showed Orubu the circular, multi-petalled design stamped into the blued metal of the breech.

  ‘Mr Orubu,’ he said sternly, ‘the chrysanthemum is the personal symbol of His Imperial Majesty. We carry these weapons on his behalf. They are not mine to give up.’

  The Javanese glanced at each other in confusion. ‘I believe you are playing with us,’ Orubu replied derisively. ‘No doubt the gallows the Americans are building for His Imperial Majesty will also be decorated with a chrysanthemum!’

  Kudo’s stared back at him frostily.

  ‘We can guarantee your safety Major…’ continued Orubu, ‘but only if you co-operate.’

  ‘And if I do not?’

  ‘Our people wish to be free. Emotions are running high. You have two hours to make a decision. Good afternoon, Major.’

  The three men returned to their car and left. Kudo turned to Seguchi and Tazaki. ‘Double the sentries, and then set up heavy machine guns and a mortar battery at each gate. Station observers and runners at the canal bridge. They are not to shoot under any circumstances, even if they come under fire. Is that clear?

  Both men saluted smartly. ‘Understood, Sir.’

  Tjandi Camp III

  ‘They won’t listen to me anymore, Lucy,’ sighed Jenny Hagen. ‘Yesterday I was called a bossy bitch. All I did was ask who was on latrine duty.’

  Lucy Santen laughed sarcastically. ‘I know what you mean, Jen. I have patients with gastric problems demanding tinned pork.’

  They were on the balcony of the infirmary, sharing a cigarette. After two weeks of more and better food, the mood of the women and children in Tjandi had changed from jubilation to mounting frustration over their continuing confinement. Beyond the bamboo fence, life seemed to be returning to normal. Each day, villagers from the neighbouring kampongs entered the camp to barter fresh vegetables and fruit for Red Cross food tins and clothing.

  Jenny Hagen was taking the brunt of the dissatisfaction. Even on the day of the Japanese surrender, several women had ignored her pleas to stay in the camp and left in search of their husbands and older sons. As the days went on, increasing numbers also upped and left or refused to take their turn at cooking, gardening or cleaning duties.

  ‘Have you seen the vegetable plots recently?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘No, but let me guess. A garden of weeds?’

  Jenny held her head in hands. ‘Hardly anyone is willing to work. They say there’s no point because we’ll all be leaving in a “couple of days” or “next week”. God I hope they’re right. But what if they’re wrong?’

  ‘Then that will probably be your fault, too!’ Lucy quipped. ‘I think you should just—Oh, look!—Isn’t that Patrice and Erik? They’ve come back!’

  Jenny saw a woman and a small child walking slowly towards one of the huts. They carried rucksacks and looked exhausted. A small crowd was gathering around them. ‘I’d better go and see what’s happened.’

  ‘I hope her husband’s all right,’ Lucy replied.

  By the time Jenny reached the hut the number of onlookers had reached nearly fifty. She pushed through to find Patrice sobbing on her former bed. Her five-year-old son, Erik, was standing by his mother. He saw Jenny and spoke. ‘Some bad people are living in our house!’

  ‘Who’s in your house, Erik?’ Jenny asked, bending to look the child in the eye.

  Patrice looked up and drew Erik to her. ‘Oh, Jenny,’ she said sniffing back the tears. ‘I went to our house to get it ready for when Johan comes back. There were squatters there, natives. They wouldn’t leave.’

  There was a flutter of incredulity among those listening.

  Jenny frowned. ‘But what about the police?’

  Patrice began crying again. ‘They took the squatters’ side! They said that “foreigners” had no property rights!’

  There were shouts of indignation. ‘How dare they!’—‘Grasping sods’—‘They have no right to do that!’—‘Just wait till our troops get here!’

  Jenny gave her a hug. Patrice started sobbing again. ‘We walked for two days. I had such a lovely home. All I wanted to do was make it nice again….’

  Over the next week other former inmates drifted back to Tjandi with similar stories. A few had been robbed. All over Java, Dutch-owned property had been seized. Around Tjandi hostility and intimidation was growing. Fewer villagers went in to the camp to trade. Food deliveries by the Japanese also became less frequent as they searched ever wider for fresh food. Gradually the atmosphere in the camp changed. Duty rosters were filled without prompting, vegetable plots were tended again and latrines emptied as the women took refuge in a familiar routine.

  Bad news had not all been outside the camp. Despite Lucy Santen’s repeated warnings about the risks of a s
udden, large intake of richer foods, fourteen women had died. She was still attending to eight others in the infirmary with gorging-related complications. Kate’s friend, Anna was among them.

  Lucy and Kate finished the now much reduced rounds and headed, as usual, on to the balcony while Lucy lit a part-smoked cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Anna will be fine. Unfortunately most of the others will have stomach trouble for the rest of their lives.’ She did not hide her anger. ‘You told them, I told them, till I was blue in the face….’

  Kate patted her hand. ‘Lucy, it’s not your fault! You’ve worked miracles here. We’ll always be grateful.’

  Lucy gave her a sharp look. ‘Kate, whatever you do, don’t drop your guard now.’

  Kate was startled. ‘But the war’s over! We’ll be going—’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Lucy said quickly. ‘The war’s over but we aren’t free or safe. Use your eyes and ears! You’ve heard those who’ve come back. It’s dangerous! Even the police are hostile. Worst of all, there’s no word about our soldiers.’ She drew heavily on the last of the cigarette before stubbing it out. ‘To be honest, I’m more scared now than before.’

  Kate felt a little unnerved. Lucy Santen was probably the toughest, most resourceful person she had ever known. ‘You’re just tired, Lucy,’ she said encouragingly. ‘All you need is some rest.’

  ‘Is that your prescription, Doctor?’

  Their laughter was cut short by the sound of an aircraft engine. The Mosquito was low enough for them to see the blue RAF roundel on the wings. Kate let out a shriek. ‘It’s a British plane!’

  Below them people were looking up and pointing excitedly. Some began to wave and shout. ‘Help us!’—‘Please, help us!’—‘We’re here!’

  Kate was on her tiptoes waving frantically at the fast-moving craft. Above them the small, sleek, twin-engine plane waggled its wings in a salute that brought a cheer. Kate and Lucy hugged each other.

  The aircraft circled lower and Kate could just make out the heads of the two pilots. The watchers cheered again as leaflets swirled like confetti in the plane’s wake. They scattered all over the camp and beyond the fences. Several fluttered near the balcony. Lucy caught one.