The road to Sumbersari led uphill. A thin mist lay over the land and the cool early-morning air was bliss. I was in the first truck with the assault troops from 2-INBAT. We tucked into our K rations and swigged cans of Pabst as we drove. For want of coffee we rinsed our mouths with beer. It left us feeling groggy.
A mile or so from the village of Sumbersari, our truck hit a landmine and lurched to one side. We were all thrown clear. The truck behind swerved to avoid us and ploughed straight into the sawah. We came under fire from a long way off. I recognized the sound of Japanese Nambu machine guns and the pre-war Brownings used by the KNIL. I scrambled to my feet and checked my rifle. It was clogged with mud and I cleaned it with water from the sawah. Other marines yelled at me to take cover. I yelled back that it was the enemy, not me, they should be worried about.
We took as much spare ammunition from the damaged truck as we could carry and continued on foot. My whole body was aching. I felt shattered and my head was pounding. We walked straight across the plantations towards Sumbersari and heard only a few distant gunshots on our way. We approached a huddle of plantation workers’ houses. They stood deserted, damaged and looted. Fires were still smouldering here and there, and we saw the half-charred bodies of women and children.
Sumbersari behind us, we were finally allowed to stop and rest. I found a place to sit on the banks of a clear stream, where I rinsed and filled my water bottle, dropping in a couple of chlorine tablets. After a few minutes it was free of harmful bacteria and safe to drink. The tins of K rations were starting to taste better. I even ate the cabbage, though it left me feeling drowsy and constipated.
A dig in the ribs and it was time to move on. I have no idea how long I slept by that stream. The column travelled east towards Rogojampi, all the way to the Bali Strait. There we were to meet Orange Column, the marines who had landed at Banjuwangi and headed west. We hooked up at the agreed location late that afternoon, exactly as planned. We were allowed a long rest and treated to cans of Pabst beer. As if we weren’t dazed enough already.
Away from the front
When we had purged those areas, scores of Dutch planters and industrialists were able to return and start rebuilding their enterprises. Even so, we had to keep up intensive patrols. The furthest reaches of East Java were rough, mountainous and densely wooded, and many plantations belonging to Europeans who had fled – the Nolan family among them – lay abandoned. Indonesian guerrilla tactics made occupying such a vast region a major problem, and we were fortunate to have the assistance of KNIL and Dutch Army units. We carried out sweeping operations and rounded up large numbers of prisoners. In Rogojampi near Banjuwangi, I submitted extremists guilty of slaughter to harsh interrogations before dispatching them to SHQ-II in Jember. I was ruthless in extracting all the military information we needed from the remaining prisoners, which enabled our commanders to pinpoint guerrilla activities on their maps. Prisoners of no real use to us were released immediately, while the genuine suspects accompanied us on patrol with orders to guide us to their comrades’ positions. At the least sign they might be misleading us or manoeuvring us into an ambush, they were killed.
When a Marine Brigade Security Service detachment was established in Rogojampi, I was ordered to return to SHQ-II in Jember to recover from those tense weeks of battle. Lack of sleep had left me feeling wretched, a fate I shared with all of 2-INBAT’s assault troops. It was the first week of August 1947. The First Police Action, code-named Operation Product, was at an end.
*
I took my leave of the lads from the assault platoon. Second Lieutenant Havik of the Marine Corps thanked me for the intelligence work I had carried out, though I had done more than interrogate people… I heaved myself onto one of five empty trucks led off by a jeep, a small column heading for Jember to pick up food and ammunition.
I arrived at SHQ-II late in the afternoon and was welcomed by Adjutant Mulder of the Marine Corps. ‘So, Nolan, back at last,’ Mulder said. ‘We must seem like strangers after all this time. But I see you have brought us more than a few chests of documents and military items. Bravo! Oh, and Nolan, I have arranged a private room for you at the back of the building. A chance to unwind after weeks in the thick of it.’
Wearily, I shouldered my duffel bag and lugged all my gear to my room. Having put my things in order, I wandered through the building to check out the personnel and was amazed to see former prisoners doing housekeeping and admin for the Interrogation, Espionage and Documentation departments.
I found Bert Hermelijn and took him to one side. ‘What on earth are those pelopors doing here, Hermelijn? Surely you are not letting those bastards in on our military secrets?’
‘No, Nolan,’ Hermelijn replied, ‘I am not. “It takes a thief to catch a thief” is my motto. None of these chaps are guilty of murdering innocent civilians. The only one you need to watch out for is Wim Rompas. He was a member of the Kenpeitai under the Japs here in East Java.’
Hermelijn gave me the full tour. In the Interrogation department alone, I counted forty of those turncoats. There were also a few Indo girls hanging around, one of them Hermelijn’s floozy. He told me I could bed her sister if I had a mind to, insisting that I was just her type. She had been cleaned up, he explained, so I was in no danger of catching some venereal disease. I declined politely.
Operation Harlot
Mulder came up to me one morning after breakfast. ‘Nolan,’ he said, ‘I have a special assignment for you. Today you will be given a patrol of ten men and three empty trucks. Take a jeep, with Groeneboer as your driver. Your job is to arrest every whore in Jember and the surrounding area and load them onto your trucks. Bring them here for routine questioning and then to the city hospital for decontamination. I will have a word with the hospital governors beforehand. We need those whores to keep our boys happy. But don’t be led astray and stay on the alert for gangs of guerrillas.’
I answered with a stiff salute and headed straight for my room. There I strapped on my truncheon, stuck my fighting knife in my right legging, grabbed my trusty M1 and slung a few belts of ammo around my neck. The three trucks were waiting outside, along with Groeneboer and his jeep.
I took Harry Tjong and a former Indonesian POW with me in the jeep. The rest of my patrol climbed aboard the trucks. Off we went. The POW knew the way and directed us to Jember’s red-light districts. There we halted the column and conducted a thorough search of every house. The bounty was plentiful and our trucks were full within the hour. Those girls stank to high heaven! The fug of their perfume turned my stomach. We also searched their rooms for evidence of contact with guerrillas. When our little convoy was bursting at the seams, we drove our fragrant pickings back to SHQ. Other interpreters took over for questioning while we went back for another round-up.
When we returned with our second batch, the interrogation department was swarming and half the building reeked of whore. Questioning the women was a piece of cake, at least compared to interrogating guerrillas. They tried all kinds of seductive tricks on us, not least slipping out of their panties as provocatively as they could. The boys neatly typing up the interrogation reports looked more than a little hot and bothered. I took in the spectacle and laughed myself silly.
I signed off with Adjutant Mulder and went to my room. Throwing off my weapons, I lay down and fell into a deep sleep. By the time Jan Kraai came in to wake me for dinner, it was dark. The women with the worst infections had been carted off to hospital. The milder cases had been given injections and pills and sent home. One or two hung around and became lover girls for the Dutch marines.
Landmine No. 2
The following day I was dispatched with a pile of military maps and a new set of orders to the detachment in Bangsalsari. I hitched a ride with the food column. Other interpreters were sent on patrol to other towns, backed up by infantry.
A mile or so from Bangsalsari, our column had to cross a mountain pass and traverse a couple of heavily wooded slopes. Out of nowhere, a tree
came crashing onto the road. The commander’s jeep swerved to avoid it, hit a landmine and burst into flames. The blast catapulted lieutenant and driver from the jeep and left them badly wounded at the side of the road. The truck immediately behind the jeep hit a heavier mine and our truck was blown into the air along with it. Everyone was thrown clear. The other trucks managed to brake in time but we came under machine-gun fire from the hills on either side. Three lads from my truck died instantly. A couple of marines dived behind the .50 calibre machine guns and began spraying bullets in all directions. I lay dazed on the ground, feeling like someone had tried to pull my stomach out through my throat. My back was in agony. Bullets glanced off the road into the mud all around. I spotted my rifle and crawled a few yards to grab it, wiping mud and dirt from the barrel as bullets whistled past me. Directly ahead, in the tall grass on the hillside, a twin machine gun mounted on a gun carriage was spitting fire at the lads who lay scattered and groaning on the ground just a few yards away. I shot the gunner and his helper, killing them both.
‘Don’t just lie there whining for your mother!’ I yelled. ‘Shoot for fuck’s sake! Blast them all to hell!’
Even though they were severely injured, they screwed up all their courage, got hold of their weapons and returned fire as best they could. Thankfully, the gun battle did not last long. The enemy fled, leaving their heavy artillery and dead comrades behind.
The danger gone, I almost collapsed from the pain. The marines who had escaped unscathed did their best to help their wounded mates. An injured truck driver had found the strength to radio for help, and an hour later around twenty marines arrived in a column of half-track ambulances and two trucks, into which the dead and badly wounded were loaded.
I scraped together everything intended for the detachment at Bangsalsari and we continued on our way. On arrival, I handed the commander the post and material he had requested and immediately slumped into a chair. He told me to report to the sick bay in Jember the next day.
A plan of action was quickly drawn up. The detachment was dissolved without delay and moved to Kencong to provide reinforcements for the Marine Brigade Security detachment stationed there. Meanwhile, reprisal expeditions were to be carried out around Bangsalsari the next day.
Before nightfall, I returned to Jember with the same column. My back and stomach were still raw with pain, and I turned in early without eating. The next morning I felt a little better and reported to Adjutant Mulder of the Marine Corps to request a place on one of the reprisal expeditions to Bangsalsari. My request was granted, not least because I would be able to point out where the ambush had occurred.
When we arrived at the scene, everyone except the drivers and the .50 calibre machine gunners leapt from the vehicles. The rest of us combed the area in rifle squads of ten, gunning down every armed man we came across.
*
With a rifle squad, I approached Bangsalsari kampong. A warm welcome awaited us: volleys from knee mortars and automatic weapons. We responded in kind. I started by scanning the trees and roof tiles for signs of movement. A pelopor opened fire from among the branches. I fired back. His sniper carbine with telescopic sight fell to the ground and he hung dead from the tree to which he had tied himself. Catching a flash of gunfire from the door of a kampong house, I circled round, lobbed in a hand grenade and dropped to the ground. One terrific blast and the firing stopped. I stormed the house with two marines and saw a bunch of wounded pelopors on the floor. My mates put them out of their misery, one bullet for each man. We piled their weapons at the door to be picked up by the marines behind us, and ran from one house to the next in quick succession.
I approached one of the larger buildings, where I thought Islamic clerics might be holed up. I kicked the door down and stood face to face with a kyai, brandishing a poisonous kris. I pumped two bullets into his chest and stuck my bayonet in his throat. Another kyai charged from the right. With no time to pull my bayonet from the dead man’s body, I drew my fighting knife. The fanatical bastard ran straight at me, I kicked the kris from his hand and skewered his throat with my knife, withdrew the blade quickly and planted it in his chest. A faint crack of bone, a deep rattle and he sank slowly to the floor. Behind and to the left of me, my mates were fighting off fanatics who had leapt from the shadows. We could not fire for fear of hitting one another, but every last one of us escaped without a scratch from those poisonous blades.
By this time my back was giving me hell. I tried to block out the pain but to no avail. It was taking an age to clear Bangsalsari and the surrounding countryside. We were lucky that no marines lost their lives, though some of us were badly wounded. A number of prisoners were brought to me for interrogation and I did not spare them. They confessed that their group had rigged up 100-pound aircraft bombs as landmines. I flew into a rage and kicked their grinning heads in. Later my mates shot them dead.
Arriving back at SHQ-II in Jember, I went straight to my room and threw off my marching pack, before going to the commanders’ office to report on our sweeping operation. The next morning after breakfast I went to the sick bay. I was examined by Dr Jacobus, medical officer second class, who diagnosed me with a form of sciatica. I thought this strange, as sciatica is almost unheard of in the tropics. The upshot was that I had to spend three weeks flat on my back in the sick bay.
I ended up on a large ward with seven men, all with relatively minor injuries. The eight men on the next ward had not been so lucky. We visited them on a daily basis to pump them full of hope and courage. Those Dutch lads did not have it easy. Some of them cried at night, calling out for their mothers and their loved ones in Holland.
Lying still for so long made me restless. Thoughts of my friends, my childhood and the violence I grew up with began nagging away at me. Dead and wounded marines were brought in almost daily, doctors and medics came and went, and the operating theatres were working round the clock. With a couple of mates, I sneaked into the mortuary rooms sometimes to see who had gone to meet their maker. I recognized drinking pals from my weekends on leave. It was horrible to see them lying there, half-mutilated or torn apart by machine-gun bullets. I swore revenge and asked to be discharged, but they told me I had not yet recovered.
A son returns from the grave
After a month confined to the Jember sick bay, I was discharged towards the end of August 1947 and given four days’ leave to visit Surabaya. Since landing at Pasir Putih for the First Police Action, I had not had a single day to myself. I was in reasonable shape, though a little weak, and my back still hurt now and then.
I set off, unaware that my brother Karel had been to see Mama one evening after work. Ella and Poppy were there too. Karel summoned them to the dining room, along with Babu Tenie and Kokkie Tas and told them he had sad news.
Sitting at the table, Karel began, ‘Ma, Ella and Poppy, babus, when Arto came to say goodbye to you all, he took me aside and said that if I did not hear from him in six weeks, I was to let you know that he is no longer with us. That time has come. I have had no word from him and must therefore assume that he is dead. I have asked the few marines I know for news of Arto, but no one could tell me anything. Many marines have lost their lives in East Java.’
Everyone, even Poppy, burst into tears. The babus were inconsolable.
Jan van der Burgt, a marine second class who worked at the Marine Corps bakery, paid occasional visits to Ella. During my absence, my sister had been liberated from the women’s internment camp near Malang. Jan was having a fling with the woman next door, Mary Scheffer, whose husband was still a POW. When Jan stopped by a few evenings after Karel’s announcement, Mama and Ella asked him to find out if I was really dead. The next day, he was taking the train to Bondowoso and Jember to deliver a consignment of bread and other supplies. The Marine Brigade Security Service detachment in Bondowoso referred him to SHQ-II in Jember but, instead of going there, he took the advice of a medic and went directly to the sick bay. That morning, the bodies of a number of marines killed
in action were due to be transported to Surabaya for burial at Kembang Kuning military cemetery. Jan asked the staff about me. A sergeant consulted his paperwork and found my name, jotted down in error by another interpreter. Shocked, Jan slunk away and returned home, where the sad news plunged my family into grief.
Meanwhile, I was on the train to Surabaya. On arrival, I shouldered my transport pack and trudged out of Gubeng station. It was late afternoon but the heat was still stifling. I hailed a becak and slumped into the seat. The driver cycled slowly to Undaan Kulon, turned onto Heemskerkstraat and stopped outside No. 5. I paid the man, slung my trusty M1 over my right shoulder and dragged my gear onto the porch. I could already see Mama sitting there. She looked up and saw the ghost of her son. The poor woman had already rolled up my mattress and burned incense in my room. I had to shake her to convince her I was real. She began to cry.
I dumped my pack in my room, where the air was still thick with incense. In my confusion, I walked back into the dining room with my weapon still in my hand. The babus came to greet me with tears of joy. Then, through the window, I spied a child of around two years old playing in the back garden. A girl with slanted eyes.
‘Who does that Japanese child belong to?’ I shouted, and aimed my rifle at her. When the babus saw what I was doing, they flung themselves at me. My gun went off and the bullet missed the little Jap girl.
The Interpreter from Java Page 34
