Black Sun, Red Moon

by Rory Marron

  A youth jabbed a finger at Mac’s cheek yelling, ‘Down with Imperialism!’ The policeman pulled the youth’s arm down.

  Mac heard the shrill tooting of a car horn and glimpsed the capped head and shoulders of an officer in naval whites waving a small British flag. ‘Make way! Make way there!’

  Instantly the policeman in front of Mac began pushing and shouting to people to move aside. Eventually the sullen crowd opened up and the car, a small, battered, black Peugeot, eased through. There was another naval officer at the wheel as well as a partly hidden figure in the back. As soon as the car was inside the Seaforth cordon the policeman returned to his position. Mac realised that the man was simply trying to do his job.

  His next surprise was when an attractive brunette wearing a safari-style olive jacket and knee-length shorts opened the rear door of the car. A camera hung from her neck. ‘Hi, fellas,’ she said to no-one in particular. She looked around and caught Mac’s eye. ‘Since no-one else will say it, let me. Welcome to Java!’

  Mac noticed the US Press flash on her shoulder. Bloody Hell! he thought, a woman war correspondent!

  ‘Thanks, Lieutenant Carter,’ Meg said to the sailor. ‘I couldn’t have made it here without you.’

  ‘My pleasure, Miss Graham,’ Carter replied. ‘I was wondering if you would like to join us on board Cumberland for dinner this evening?’

  Mac rolled his eyes derisively. Meg saw him.

  She gave Carter a gentle brush off. ‘Today could be a very long day. Let’s see how it turns out.’ Before the lieutenant had time to reply she had darted along the quayside, notepad in hand.

  Sudden, angry murmurs swept through the crowd and people began pointing. Mac glanced behind him. The launches were moving alongside the wharf. Their passengers were indistinct but fluttering above the second vessel was a Dutch flag. Murmurs became roars.

  ‘Merdeka!’—‘Merdeka!’—‘Indonesia!’

  Mac turned back to face the crowd. The policeman had moved along and he was facing two pretty young girls and an older man. Reluctantly, Mac pushed them back with his rifle. Behind him he heard the car being turned around and backed up to the wharf. He took another quick look and saw the American woman taking pictures.

  Meg could feel the animosity. She didn’t think it was a good idea to bring flag-flying Dutch ashore and had said as much to Carter over drinks in her hotel bar the night before.

  ‘Oh, the Javanese are peaceful enough,’ Carter had replied lightly.

  ‘With Americans and British,’ Meg had countered sceptically. ‘But look how they change if you mention the Dutch!’

  Carter had shrugged. ‘The Dutch officials say they are just a few noisy collaborators.’

  Meg had not been convinced. ‘Well they would say that. From what I’ve seen, it’s more than a few. Look around, everyone’s wearing red and white!’

  ‘But the Dutch are our allies—’

  ‘Our allies against the Japanese…against the Indonesians as well?’

  Carter had suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘Surely, we should help them after all we’ve been through together?’

  ‘Help them do what exactly?’ Meg had pushed.

  ‘Well, get back their property for one thing. There’s no law here.’

  ‘Dutch law or Indonesian law?’

  Carter had changed the subject and Meg had let the argument drop, hoping that Carter was right. Now, as she looked at the tense situation developing in front of her, all of her doubts returned.

  A large Dutch flag was unfurled on the second launch. Oh, boy, she thought, that’ll do it! She saw the first launch was full of journalists, press photographers and newsreel cameramen. Meg groaned as they scrambled up the wharf and took positions in front of her.

  ‘Hey, guys,’ she called out, ‘you’re blocking my shot!’

  Some turned and looked in dismay at her Press Corps insignia. One shouted angrily in Dutch to a uniformed officer holding a clipboard. ‘Major, you promised us an exclusive! What’s going on?’

  The officer strode up to Meg scowling. ‘I’m Major Osten, NICA Information Office,’ he said in heavy, Dutch-accented English. ‘Reporting is restricted to NICA-accredited journalists. How did you get here?’

  Meg had no idea what ‘NICA’ meant but she was a veteran at the accreditation game. She stood easily, one hand on her hip, the other holding up her papers. ‘What’s your problem, Major?’ Meg asked, feeling perplexed but looking confident. ‘I’ve accreditation with SEAC. This is a SEAC area and, if you didn’t know already, reporting restrictions ended weeks ago.’

  His bluff called, Osten eyed her disdainfully, then swore under his breath as a bearded, solidly built man in a neat, tan-coloured uniform came up the wharf steps to a barrage of hostile shouts.

  ‘Van Zanten go home!’—‘Indonesia Raya!’

  Osten rushed back to direct a uniformed newsreel cameraman.

  ‘Asshole…’ she muttered to herself.

  ‘Merdeka!’—‘Merdeka!’

  As the chanting throng surged forward, the thin line of soldiers were forced to give ground. An egg struck on Van Zanten’s chest and the crowd cheered. More rotten fruit and vegetables followed. British sailors hustled Van Zanten into the back of the car that was also pelted. Then the target switched to the hated Dutch flag and the officials beside it. They had nowhere to hide. In seconds both flag and officials were splattered. Steadily the hail of missiles forced them back to the wharf steps then back into the launches.

  In the chaos Meg glanced at the Dutch journalists. Most seemed surprised, even stunned by the attack on their representatives and flag. Only a few were taking photographs with any conviction. Major Osten’s cameraman was not one of them. Van Zanten’s car, horn sounding repeatedly, was trying to push its way through the surging crowd. Meg saw there was no chance of success. After nosing forward a few feet it was almost surrounded by demonstrators. Fists and banners were pounding on the roof of the car, matching the steady ‘Mer-de-ka’ chant.

  Meg heard glass break and guessed the headlights had been smashed. Finally the driver gave up and began to reverse. British soldiers were straining to hold back the demonstrators.

  Once the car was back inside the cordon of troops the crowd quietened. Suddenly its windscreen shattered. Meg glanced up behind her. Groups of youths wearing red-and-white bandannas lined the rooftops. More half bricks and stones rained down dangerously, drumming on the car’s sides, roof and bonnet.

  After a few seconds the back door opened and Van Zanten dashed for the safety of the wharf steps. Miraculously the stoning stopped. Jeers followed the fleeing Dutchman.

  Just as Meg was wondering what would happen next the launch engines burst into life. Van Zanten was leaving. On the wharf the Dutch journalists looked around uneasily. Then they, too, scurried back to their boat. Major Osten was among them. As he ran past Meg he glanced at her and her camera loathingly. Spontaneously the crowd began to sing the nationalist anthem.

  Mac had spent the entire episode standing between Souness and Nesbit trying to keep the crowd away from Van Zanten. His arms ached and he was drenched in sweat.

  ‘Oh, the thieving bastards!’ Souness was staring at his webbing belt in disbelief. The ammunition pouches had been cut open.

  Mac saw his own pouches were also empty and then that his bayonet had also been taken. All along the line, Seaforths began to swear as they realised they, too, had been expertly robbed.

  Two hours after Van Zanten’s retreat, the Seaforths, guided by some of the HMS Cumberland shore party were marching with full kit along the Harbour Road into the city. On both sides the terrain was open, with acres of commercial fishponds extending to the shore on their right and open scrub to their left. In contrast to the tense soldiers, the sailors were relaxed and seemingly unconcerned about their exposed position. Mac noticed that the few Javanese they met watched them impassively but with no sign of hostility.

  Rail tracks ran parallel with the road. Trains passed fai
rly frequently, blowing whistles to warn the Seaforths to stand clear. Passengers glanced up from pro-republican news-sheets to eye them curiously, as though they were little more than a casual distraction.

  A plaintive cry from the middle of the Seaforth column caught the mood. ‘Why didn’t we take the bloody train?’

  The quick reply was predictable. ‘Because we’re bloody infantry!’ Laughter ran through the men, breaking the drudge of the march. At the front, Brigadier King grinned.

  ‘I don’t get it, Mac,’ said Nesbit uneasily. ‘A couple of hours ago they would have brained us with rocks. Now they’re just ignoring us.’

  One of the marines in the shore party tried to explain. ‘That’s the funny thing about this shower. One minute they’re quiet and happy-go-lucky like, the next they’re in a boiling rage. They’ve nothing against us but the sight of the Dutch drives them bonkers. Blimey, they’ve battered some of them Dutchies black and blue this last two weeks, killed a few, too, I’ll tell you!’

  Mac shook his head. ‘Why the hell are we here, Nessy?’

  ‘Because we’re here, laddie,’ Nesbit shrugged. ‘Remember when I said the army wouldn’t let us off the hook easy? Well, this is—’ Nesbit stopped and stared, his face suddenly pale. He let out a shout. ‘Japs!’

  Mac saw a half-track and two troop lorries heading towards them at speed. Rising-sun emblems were visible. Around him his fellow Seaforths were reaching for their rifles.

  King turned to face them, raising his hand to stop the column. ‘Easy now, men! The Japanese are co-operating with us.’

  RSM Cox bellowed at them. ‘Shoulder arms!’

  There were some anxious glances and muttering among the Seaforths but the command was obeyed promptly.

  Beside Mac the sailor was amused. ‘This takes some getting used to, mate,’ he said knowingly. ‘For the last two weeks, their brass have been driving around town proud as fucking peacocks. You’d think they’d won the bloody war!’

  Mac and Nesbit shared a disbelieving look then watched as the Japanese vehicles drew up a few yards ahead of them. A burly Japanese officer jumped down from the step of the half-track and walked casually to King and the two captains with him. The Japanese looked curiously at the lines of staring Seaforths.

  ‘That’s Major-General Honda,’ the marine whispered. ‘Only two hours late! Devious bastard if ever there was one. Watch this, though. Jap officers are supposed to salute ours first, whatever their rank. They don’t like it one bit!’

  After a brief but clear moment of hesitation on Honda’s part he saluted. King, apparently unconcerned, returned the salute immediately as did his junior officers. For a short while the two men talked then Honda returned to the half-track. In the lorries, Japanese soldiers sat silent and impassive, rifles braced between their knees, ignoring their former enemy. But as they drove past, Mac noted the darting, suspicious looks from some and the cold animosity from others.

  ‘Now I’ve seen everything,’ declared Nesbit miserably. ‘We’ve just waved cheeri-bloody-o to a bunch of armed Japs who are riding when we’re walking!’

  ‘Something isn’t right here,’ muttered Mac.

  The sailor chuckled. ‘Welcome to batty Batavia, mates!’

  Tjandi, Camp III, Semarang

  Ota was crouched behind sandbags by the open camp gate. He was peering anxiously down the street through field glasses, and then back up to the man dangling from the ladder. The young private had been hit in the shoulder and his leg had caught in the rungs. Now he was groaning as he tried to make himself sway.

  ‘Sano, keep moving!’ Ota yelled. He squinted up at the shadows in the bay bedroom window of the large, ransacked house diagonally across the street. Now not even doors, windows or light fittings remained. All the house had left was its commanding view of the approach road to the camp. Ota had put his best marksman, Harada, in there before dawn. He swore under his breath. ‘Kuso!’—Shit! ‘Come on, Harada get him!’

  Another shot took a chunk out of the bamboo rung a few inches from Sano’s head. Sano began a frantic wriggling and let out a shriek. ‘Haraadaaa!’

  Seconds later Ota heard Harada fire. Silence ensued. Ota could see nothing. Sano, utterly exhausted, was barely moving.

  Two hundred yards down the street hunched figures broke from the cover of a garden fence to cross the road. Slung, limp, between two men was a wounded third. Ota grinned and slapped his thigh in satisfaction. He spun round. ‘Quick, get Sano down!’

  Moments later the lanky, lean-faced Harada appeared at the camp gate. Across his arms he was cradling a Model 98 Arisaka 7.7mm rifle fitted with a telescopic sight as if it were a baby.

  ‘Well done!’ Ota said in congratulation.

  Harada saluted. ‘I could have got all three, Lieutenant….’

  ‘I know,’ said Ota, ‘but our orders are clear. Minimum use of force in self-defence only. Now go and get something to eat. Afterwards try a stint in the school tower. You should be able to keep an eye on things from up there.’

  Harada saluted and went over to Sano, who was being tended by a medic. Sano glared at him. ‘Osoi ja’nai!’—You took your damn time!

  ‘Gomen!’—Sorry! Harada smiled sheepishly. ‘I was taking a leak.’

  The rest of the platoon roared with laughter.

  At sundown Ota was called back to the gate. Sentries had heard more chanting. Corporal Suzuki handed his field glasses to Ota. ‘It looks like mainly women and children, Sir.’

  Ota frowned. ‘Yes. Let’s hope they just want food and that there are no surprises.’

  Familiar chants of ‘Merdeka!’ and ‘Sukarno’ grew louder until the ragged procession waving anti-Dutch and anti-Japanese banners halted a few yards from the gate. Two women set a Japanese flag alight.

  Ota gave a command. ‘Now!’

  As the gate swung open six of his men walked out. They were unarmed and carrying sacks of rice. The chants petered out as the soldiers dropped the sacks then stepped clear. For a moment the women hesitated, then they rushed forward, flinging aside their banners and flags. In seconds the sacks were cut open and the delighted women squatted, busily scooping handfuls of rice into their sarongs and headscarves. Ota allowed himself to relax.

  Suddenly a woman at the front of the crowd darted forward. ‘Help me, please! Onegai!’

  A sentry moved out, rifle across his body, to bar her way. Still shouting she flung off her headscarf. Ota saw she was white. ‘Help! Au secours!’

  ‘Let her in!’ Ota commanded.

  The sentry stepped smartly aside and the woman sprinted through the gate. She dropped to her knees panting. ‘Merde! I made it! Thank God!’

  Ota was coming down from the parapet when he saw Kate shouting to the woman.

  ‘Juliette!’ Kate reached her and they embraced. ‘I’ve been so worried about you!’

  Juliette burst into tears.

  Ota led the distraught Juliette to the guardhouse. She was hungry and clearly exhausted. Corporal Suzuki waited patiently by the door. Ota asked Kate to get her some water.

  ‘Oh, we were so scared!’ Juliette sniffed. ‘Every night they would stand outside the Sakura, shouting and calling us names. No-one would dare come in. Not even the cooks.’

  Startled, Ota realised where he had seen the woman before. While she sipped her drink he interpreted for Suzuki. ‘Please, continue, Miss,’ he said gravely.

  Juliette composed herself. ‘The night before last they threw rocks through the windows. Two of the girls were hurt. Kiriko told us she was closing and going with the Japanese soldiers. She said we could all go with her. Everyone was so relieved. There were five internees still there: four Dutch and I. We decided we would go back to our camps. I wanted to leave immediately but the others decided to wait for the morning.’ Her shoulders heaved and fresh tears ran down her cheeks. Kate crouched and put an arm around her.

  Juliette stared at the floor. ‘I found these clothes and then I climbed down a drain-pipe and put a basket on
my head, like a native. It was dark but suddenly there was a lot of shouting and men with burning torches. I wanted to run but I made myself walk. They smashed open the side door. Inside the girls were screaming but I kept walking. When I reached the corner of the alley, I saw Kiriko and the others dragged outside. They were beating them with sticks….’

  ‘You’re safe now,’ Kate said quietly, gently patting Juliette’s shoulder.

  Kate caught Ota’s eye. The warmth of her look lifted him. ‘Please, Miss,’ he pressed, Juliette, ‘what then?’

  Juliette swallowed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I went down to the next alley then back on to the main road. Javanese soldiers and gangs were everywhere. I saw them take some Japanese from the Hotel Pavillon.’

  Ota’s expression darkened. ‘Do you know where they took them?’

  Juliette nodded. ‘I heard them say “Bulu”.’

  Ota explained to Suzuki. ‘I must inform the Major. Get the radio operator to raise the barracks now!’

  Suzuki saluted and left at a run.

  Ota turned back to Juliette. ‘You have been very brave. Thank you.’ He saw Jenny Hagen and Lucy Santen approaching the hut. He looked briefly at Kate and strode out.

  Juliette eyed Kate quizzically. ‘Wasn’t he the one at the Sak—’

  ‘Rest now, Juliette!’ Kate interrupted loudly, her face reddening. ‘You’re very tired!’

  Jenny and Lucy rushed in. ‘Juliette! It is you!’ Lucy hugged her. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Just tired—and hungry!’ Juliette replied weakly.

  All four jumped as more shots were fired at the camp gate.

  ‘Lieutenant!’ The shout came from Harada in one of the guard towers. ‘Armoured car and infantry approaching from the south!’

  Soon Ota could hear the rattle of heavy machine guns beyond the fence. ‘That’s the Major,’ he called to Suzuki.

  Harada called down again. ‘They’re running from the houses, Lieutenant. Many targets!’

  Ota stepped up on the ladder and saw pemuda fleeing the withering fire from the armoured car.