Black Sun, Red Moon

by Rory Marron

  ‘Let them go!’

  Two minutes later Kudo arrived in a half-track. Nagumo and half his platoon followed him in on the run. Ota saluted Kudo then turned in surprise at the sound of sporadic applause as small groups of women emerged from the huts. Kudo stared as the clapping spread. Jenny Hagen and several of the others bowed.

  Kudo stood up. Unbidden, the women gathered round nervously. Many were still reluctant to risk a direct look at a Japanese soldier.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said in a slightly laboured English. ‘I am Major Kudo. I must try to regain control of the town. Be prepared to leave at short notice. Thank you.’ He jumped down and led his officers to the guardhouse.

  Bulu Gaol

  Sunlight reflecting off the whitewashed walls of the gaol made Ota squint even through the anti-glare filters on his field glasses. For fifteen minutes they had been watching the narrow barred windows and guard turrets that dominated the small square. They were perfect for snipers.

  Ota looked at his watch. Nagumo would now be in position at the rear, cutting off any escape via the canal, while Kudo was waiting one street back with the rest of the battalion and a second kenpei platoon. It was almost time. A few yards away Captain Wada, the kenpei in charge of the assault, blew his whistle.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Ota yelled. He rushed forward with eight of his men along the base of the exposed wall towards the main gate. Across the square a kenpei platoon also charged. There was no firing. Seconds later both squads were beside the heavy wooden gates of the gaol, catching their breath.

  One gate was slightly ajar. Pistol raised, Ota carefully pushed it wider. A bolt scraped on the worn stone paving but there was no response, only an eerie silence. Inside, he could see the wall of an inner courtyard and the start of a staircase leading to the parapet. He signalled to Yamanaka, the kenpei lieutenant, who darted through the gap. Six of his men followed him.

  Ota checked that Suzuki was covering him, and then sprinted for the stairwell. The prison seemed deserted. Quickly he sent two men up to the parapet and moved cautiously towards a single door with a small barred window. Yamanaka was already leading his men along the courtyard wall towards the rear gate. Pistol raised, Ota crept up to the door and peered through. He saw several bodies. Gently he tried the door. For a few inches it moved easily then stopped. A blood-stained hand was in the gap at his feet.

  Cautiously, Ota squatted and felt for a pulse. He lifted the pale, cold flesh only to find the arm had been severed below the elbow. With a grimace he let go.

  Two of his men heaved against the door. It swung open to reveal carnage. Corpses lay piled two, sometimes three deep in a twisted, blood-soaked mass at one side of the courtyard. On the other, hundreds of spent cartridge cases were strewn over the stone flags. A sickly-sweet smell filled the air. Ota moved forward slowly, stepping over the bodies. Clouds of flies rose up off sightless, bulging eyes and bloated, gaping mouths.

  A short exchange of shots came from the other side of the prison. Ota and his men sought cover. Two minutes later there was shout of ‘Aka Fuji!’ from a doorway across the courtyard. Ota answered and waited.

  Nagumo appeared, pulling a bandanna from over his mouth while taking in the scene in front of him. ‘There are twenty-two Dutchmen safe upstairs. The Indos were going to burn them alive. Yesterday they concentrated on us,’ he added quietly. ‘There must be at least a hundred more in the cells, these must have been killed last, in a rush. Elsewhere they used spears and swords.’

  Ota frowned. ‘The shooting?’

  Nagumo pointed to the second storey. ‘Yamanaka’s lot got two just in time to save the Dutch. Both dead.’

  Several kenpei appeared, leading out the Dutch captives who looked haggard and dirty but relieved. They stared at the corpses as they filed by.

  Ota and Suzuki went into the cell-block.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ Nagumo called after them. ‘It’s a slaughter house….’

  The cells were set out in a square on either side of a narrow corridor. Once the stone floor had been grey. Now it was stained with a thick film of dark dried blood.

  Ota looked into the first cell then shied away. Behind him Suzuki grimaced. ‘Uggh! The bastards!’ He pulled out a bandanna and held it over his mouth. Ota did the same. It did not help.

  The butchery had been systematic. In each cell it was the same: eight or nine limbless bodies. Bloody handprints and ‘Merdeka!’ slogans splattered the walls. The two men walked in silence. After the fifth cell, Ota stopped counting the corpses.

  On the floor above they found the same gruesome tableau except for two empty cells that had held the Dutchmen. Nearby two pemuda lay dead beside a jerry can of petrol. Eventually their circuit took them to the dining hall. It was thick with flies. Nagumo was there, squatting beside a figure in a yellow kimono. Ota picked his way through to join him.

  ‘Ahh, Kiriko-chan, I’m so sorry,’ Nagumo sighed as he laid a blood-stained shirt over her face. ‘I came too late….’ He looked up at Ota then indicated another nearby corpse. She lay on her side in a ripped under-kimono; her arms were tied behind her back. One had been dislocated in the struggle.

  Grim-faced, Ota drew his sword and bent down to cut Yuki’s bonds. He laid her on her back, crossing her arms over her chest. Her fingernails were broken and bloodied and he knew she had put up a fight. He reached for a tunic to cover her and read the name-tag ‘Taniguchi Yuji’. Ota looked around, knowing that Taniguchi’s body, disfigured and unidentifiable, was near.

  ‘Strangled,’ Nagumo said calmly. ‘They didn’t cut our women.’

  Ota looked up, then followed Nagumo’s gaze. In a corner four naked white women lay side-by-side on mattresses from the cells. Their swollen genitals were caked in dried blood. He went closer and saw their ankles had been tied, with the cord between left long enough to slip under the mattress, holding their legs apart. They had been repeatedly raped. At the end their breasts had been sliced off and their throats cut. He suppressed a shudder.

  Kudo and Captain Wada entered the hall. Ota could feel their rage.

  ‘I must know some of these people,’ Wada said solemnly. ‘Outside I recognised only Sato-san from Mitsubishi. In the garden we found bodies staked over red ants nests. They were eaten alive!’

  Kudo noticed the yellow kimono. He looked questioningly at Nagumo. ‘Kiriko?’

  Nagumo nodded.

  Kudo turned to a kenpei private holding a notepad. ‘How many?’

  ‘One hundred and eighty-seven, Major.’

  Wada bowed to Kudo. ‘I will inform HQ.’ He strode out.

  Kudo stood in a silent fury. A soldier came running. ‘Sir, a message from Captain Seguchi. He is exchanging fire with a large group of Javanese. They were seen leaving the prison just before we arrived. They outnumber him heavily but appear to be withdrawing. He’s requesting instructions.’

  Kudo rubbed his chin. ‘Tell him he is to pursue and continue to engage. Reinforcements will be coming via the Canal Road. I am declaring martial law. His orders are shoot to kill!’

  Djakarta

  ‘Selamat malam, Tommy!’

  Mac raised a hand casually in answer to the becak driver’s cheerful ‘Good evening’ then waved him through the checkpoint and onto the old, narrow drawbridge. The tyres hummed on the worn, ribbed planks then went silent as they hit the flat, pounded earth of the Chinese quarter of the city.

  ‘Want a smoke, Mac?’ Nesbit asked him idly.

  ‘No ta, mate,’ Mac replied, stifling a yawn.

  Nesbit struck a match on one of the thick iron bridge pillars, lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  The night was warm and almost still. Every few minutes the sound of gunfire crackled like fireworks in various parts of the city and neighbouring kampongs. A slight breeze was blowing along the Kali Besar river but it was not enough to deter the mosquitoes that made the most of the two soldiers. With the breeze came the smell of stale fish from the nearby market. Mac was not sure if it was pref
erable to the pungent odour coming from the canal. He was quite glad it was dark. The previous watch had reported at least five corpses floating past.

  Mac and Nesbit had been on duty for three hours. That afternoon, for the second day running, their platoon had patrolled the maze of alleys and network of soupy canals that made the Chinese quarter look like a teeming, noisy oriental Venice. Friendly greetings and gifts of bite-sized snacks had soon overcome the language barrier and put the Seaforths at ease. Relief on the faces of the Chinese had been clear.

  ‘At least they seem pleased to see us, Sir. Just like in Malaya,’ Mac had commented to the young captain leading the patrol.

  His officer had agreed. ‘Yes, the Chinese have been getting it from both sides. First from Japs because of the war in China and now the Javans think they’re pro-Dutch or black-market profiteers. Take your pick. Hundreds have been murdered in the last few weeks.’

  Around the old drawbridge it had been quiet with few people about. Mac was staring at the graceful metal arch overhead and thinking again about the friendly Malay girls in Alor Gajah.

  Nesbit let out a loud, ripping fart. ‘We won’t know much about it if that bastard thing falls on us,’ he said idly.

  Mac glanced up at the massive, solid-teak counterweight that sat fifteen feet above their heads. ‘Aye, that’s been up a good few years.’

  Nesbit was not listening to him. ‘I hate this place,’ he muttered. ‘We shouldn’t even be here.’

  ‘Orders are orders, Nessy,’ Mac said shrugging his shoulders.

  His friend looked at him sceptically. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mac, wake up! The fucking war’s over! This is politics.’

  ‘There are still thousands of Japs here, Stan.’

  ‘Och, the Nip bastards are all packed and itching to go,’ Nesbit said dismissively. ‘They’ll be sodding well home before we are! No, Mac lad, no! Think about it… The shooting we hear every night? That’s the bloody Dutchies settling scores with the Javans or the Javans getting revenge on the Dutchies. You’ve seen those arrogant clogheads. They think they can waltz back in and be lord of the bloody manor again. What gets me is that for some reason we’re helping them!’ In disgust he threw his cigarette into the dark water below. ‘I don’t know about you but I voted Labour for a ticket home. If the war was all about freedom, what are we doing here? We let them call us up to fight Gerries and Japs, not to help the Dutch keep their empire.’ He looked hard at Mac. ‘Some Mahrattas arrived today. I bet they and the other Indians are thinking just the same.’

  Mac frowned. ‘I know what you mean but don’t let the brass hear you talk like that or you’ll be for it.’

  Nesbit was not giving up. ‘I’m not the only one saying this. Just wait and see!’

  Headlights flashed as a car swept round the bend. Mac and Nesbit were not taking any chances. Stones thrown from passing cars had already injured two of their comrades. They readied their rifles and blocked the road.

  Mac was caught in the powerful beams from the headlights and had to shield his eyes with one hand. The car stopped abruptly, ten yards from them.

  Nesbit was off to one side watching carefully. ‘Jap staff car,’ he shouted.

  Mac went closer, peering at the large saloon. He could see nothing behind the dark windscreen. The only sound was the smooth hum from the powerful engine as it idled. As he moved out of the lights he saw the Japanese pennant over the bonnet. He told himself to relax. His orders were to be civil to the Japanese at all times. How that grated….

  Mac went to the driver’s window. When nothing happened he knocked. After another pause it lowered. A young Japanese soldier at the wheel shot him a vexed glance.

  ‘Nan da, aoi-me?’—What is it, blue eyes? The driver said sharply.

  ‘Just following my orders,’ Mac said sternly, understanding the tone if not the words. His animosity surged.

  Behind the driver the glass privacy panel was open but a lace curtain shielded any occupant or occupants in the back.

  ‘I need to see all passengers,’ Mac demanded.

  The driver sneered. ‘Nani?’

  A voice barked from behind the curtain. ‘Shizuka ni shite!’—Shut up!

  Instantly the driver bowed his head to his chest. The curtain flicked aside and Mac found himself looking into a plush, wood-trimmed interior lit by a soft light in the roof. Two middle-aged Japanese officers, each with rows of campaign ribbons across their chests, reclined on the leather bench seat. They were regarding him with casual curiosity.

  In the corner of his eye he saw Nesbit coming to attention. Almost too late, Mac remembered his military etiquette. His salute was crisp.

  The older of the two Japanese looked almost amused at his discomfort. ‘I am General Yamagami. Is there a problem, private?’

  Mac’s swallowed uneasily. ‘There is a curfew, Sir. Only military vehicles are allowed on the roads after eight o’clock.’

  Yamagami frowned. ‘This is my staff car. It is a military vehicle.’

  ‘Yes, Sir! Sorry, Sir. I did not see the pennant.’

  More headlights flashed followed by the rattle of a large diesel engine. An open-topped, six-wheeled lorry pulled up a few yards behind the staff car. Mac could see the rows of helmeted Japanese in the back.

  Yamagami’s expression did not change ‘And so is that.’ A searchlight mounted on the lorry flooded the scene, blinding Mac and Nesbit.

  ‘Yamagami-taiji, daijobu deshooka?’—General Yamagami, is everything all right?

  Yamagami quickly wound down his window and raised his hand, signalling his men to stay put.

  ‘May we proceed?’ Yamagami asked quietly.

  ‘Yes, General, sorry to delay you, Sir,’ Mac replied crisply.

  Both Mac and Nesbit saluted again.

  Yamagami returned it promptly. ‘Carry on,’ he said politely.

  The saloon’s engine revved as it sped away. Seconds later the searchlight was cut and the lorry set off in a lumbering pursuit. As it went past, Mac again noticed the tense stares from the Japanese soldiers.

  When the lorry had crossed the drawbridge the two Scotsmen stared at each other.

  Nesbit shook his head. ‘Did you hear that smooth bastard sitting there sword and all? “Carry on” he said, just like one of ours!’

  Mac gazed after the lorry. ‘Nessy, we’re in a sodding madhouse!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Semarang

  Ota’s eyes were bloodshot as he peered from the top of a church tower overlooking the imposing blocks of Victorian-style municipal buildings at the heart of Semarang. The fight for the town was proving slow and bloody. In three days the longest spell of sleep he had managed had been four hours.

  The Indonesian militia had withdrawn in good order, fighting street-by-street, house-by-house, as their Japanese instructors had taught them. And they had taught them far too well, thought Ota. So far, Kudo Butai and the Semarang kenpeitai had lost nearly forty men dead with dozens wounded.

  The pemuda had made wild, suicidal charges armed with broken bottles, machetes, knives and clubs. Ota had no idea how many had been killed. Many hundreds lay dead in the streets. Now, though, the last pockets of resistance were crumbling. It was almost over—at least, he corrected himself—it would be if the reports of militia reinforcements coming from the north proved false. He doubted the information. Where could they have come from?

  He panned his field glasses to the east, trying to spot the roof of the Army and Navy Club, wondering if it had been damaged. A hot bath would be so good….

  Beside him Harada whispered. ‘Lieutenant, many militia coming up the road to the bridge. At least a company!’

  Ota cursed silently and re-focused on the T-junction. Two green lines—worryingly long lines—of troops were visible on either side of the narrow road, making for the bridge over the Kali Semarang, the small river that wound through the town.

  Harada moved to slide his rifle out through the stone grill- work. Ota stopped him with
a raise of his hand. ‘Wait, the machine guns will get more of them. Then help keep them pinned down.’

  ‘For a while at least…’ Harada said quietly.

  Ota counted down as the troops reached the junction. ‘Three, two—’ The Nambus opened up.

  Five Gurkhas were hit in the first hail of bullets. Rai was saved by the corner of the office building and the inexperience of the gunner, who aimed slightly too high. Instinctively he dived through the nearest window. A split-second later, John Miller landed half on top of him.

  Bullets were churning up the street, drilling into the brickwork and window frames. Chunks of masonry and wood showered down on them.

  Miller leant back against a desk. ‘Christ, that was close!’ he said breathlessly. He sat helplessly, listening to the wounded men outside. ‘Damn it!’ Their move up from Semarang harbour had met no opposition. Occasional gunfire from the town centre had put them on their guard but skilfully executed ambush had not been expected.

  Rai crawled among the desks to the end window. He took off his slouch hat and raised it gingerly on the end of his tommy gun. Glass shattered and the hat flew ten feet across the room to land on a desk. He retrieved the hat and showed Miller the neat, round hole punched through the crown. He tried the other side of the window. There was no shot. Carefully he rose to peer across the canal. He looked knowingly at Miller. ‘They’re well trained, Major-sahib. Maybe some Japs have decided not to surrender,’ he added quietly in Urdu.

  Miller sighed. ‘Oh, God, that’s all we need! I better inform the CO….’

  Black Sun, Red Moon: A Novel of Java

  concludes in

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