The Interpreter from Java

by Alfred Birney

  At nine-thirty, we piled into a half-track which took us to Marine Military Police HQ, where they typed up a detailed report on each of us. We had no idea of the political shockwaves these events were about to cause or the international press coverage they would attract. Pending preliminary investigations, none of us were allowed to leave the city.

  After questioning, I was assigned a defence counsel, Major Versteeg of the Marine Corps. The Military Police commander handed over my report and all other relevant documentation to him. I took comfort from the news that my commander-in-chief, Colonel Roelofs of the Marine Corps, was to attend the hearing of the court martial to defend his men.

  *

  It was getting on for December 1947. I was twenty-two years old. Major Versteeg of the Marine Corps had a reputation as a brilliant lawyer. Alongside my commander, Colonel Roelofs of the Marine Corps, I also had the backing of my battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Aberson of the Marine Corps. The involvement of these senior officers was reassuring, and the lads from the second prisoner transport were also able to count on their support. Everyone at the barracks was outraged by the big deal being made of the prisoner transports. Politicians and government officials were apparently less concerned about the countless Dutch women and children murdered by Indonesian freedom fighters. To us, it seemed perverse. Every man I met was griping, moaning and cursing about the situation.

  Confined to the city pending investigation and trial, I kept myself occupied with intelligence work at GHQ. Adjutant Mulder came looking for me in the barracks dormitory one afternoon. ‘Nolan, this evening you and the lads from the second transport will appear before the top brass at the Resident’s Palace. Questions will be put to you. Dress in your best khaki uniform and wear a tie.’

  I snapped to attention. ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Report to my room at approximately six-thirty this evening and I will take you there in the jeep. Let me tell you this in advance: Governor Van der Plas wishes to talk to you personally. He knows your family well. That is all, Nolan. See you later.’

  I left barracks shortly after six, and made my way to the NCOs’ quarters. On the way, I saw the lads from the second transport waiting for their truck to arrive. I knocked on Adjutant Mulder’s door and asked him to help me knot my tie, as I had never worn one before. This made him chuckle, but he did as I asked. I looked up and was surprised to see Captain Groeneveld of the Marine Corps enter the room. I snapped to attention and saluted.

  ‘Yes, Nolan, I have been summoned too,’ Captain Groeneveld said. ‘Rest assured that I have looked into this thoroughly. It will indeed be a case for the court martial, but given your actions on the front to date you have nothing to worry about. Everything you did was by the book. The Brigade Staff stands squarely behind you and the men from the second transport.’

  Captain Groeneveld and Adjutant Mulder got into the jeep and I jumped in the back. In the foyer of the Resident’s Palace, I saw many a staff officer from the various branches of the armed services. The mood was subdued. The truck carrying the lads from the second transport arrived soon after. They too were dressed in their finest. We exchanged uncomfortable glances. An army officer escorted us into a grand hall and gestured to us to sit down on a row of splendid chairs. From where we were sitting, we caught an occasional glimpse of the big conference room where the heads of staff were busy discussing our ill-fated transports. Among them I spotted General Spoor, Governor Van de Plas and Colonel Roelofs. None of us felt in the least at ease.

  After a long wait, we were all admitted to the conference room and came face to face with the assembled top brass and political bigwigs. General Spoor and Colonel Roelofs spoke in our defence, as those responsible for both transports. They did so with conviction and with passion. The worst of it was not being able to say a single word on our own behalf.

  When the spectacle was over, I was called into the library by Governor Van de Plas. I had a lengthy and gratifying conversation with that illustrious gentleman. Among the things he said to me was, ‘I say, Nolan, I know your family well from my time in Jember. Before the war, I visited them on more than a few occasions. You are a son of which Nolan?’

  ‘The lawyer Willem Nolan,’ I answered. ‘I am his youngest son. Did you know him? Many prominent men here in Surabaya knew my late father.’

  ‘Indeed I did!’ the governor answered. ‘He was not one of the planters – I remember him now.’

  He then asked me to give a full account of the events of my prisoner transport. I dredged up every last detail. A soldier serving as a waiter brought us cool drinks and cigarettes. When I was finished, the governor tried to impress upon me the nature of the current political situation. He advised me not to limit my view to a purely military perspective.

  It slowly began to dawn on me that a soldier is nothing more than an instrument in the hands of politicians. At first, this made my blood boil. Then came bitterness and disillusion. I had hoped so fervently for a return to life before the war but this conversation robbed me of all hope, dashed every illusion. I had the feeling that we were losing the political game and could only win by military means. The conversation over, I snapped to attention and saluted. I thanked the governor and left the Resident’s Palace feeling utterly despondent. I headed straight for Tunjungan and proceeded to drown my sorrows at the Marines Club.

  ‘What on earth are we fighting for?’ was the question that kept spinning around my head. There was little time to dwell upon these dismal events. I was given a post under the head of Department IV, Piet Dikotta. Although he was my direct superior, he treated me more like a younger brother. Whenever my mind was in knots or I was facing other problems, he was always there to lend a listening ear.

  Court martial

  The day of the hearing came for me and the lads from the second prisoner transport. We jumped on a waiting truck and set off for the naval court martial in Gubeng district, near the viaduct over the railway. A huge crowd had gathered. Journalists wielding cameras came and went, snapping photographs and scribbling notes. We were led inside and taken to a large waiting room. I was pleased and relieved to see not only our most senior commander, Colonel Roelofs of the Marine Corps – the tiger of the Gubeng Marine barracks – but also Lieutenant Colonel Aberson of the Marine Corps, commander of the second infantry battalion and Blue Column; Captain Groeneveld of the Marine Corps, my most senior commander within the Marine Brigade Security Service; his right-hand man, Lieutenant Brink of the Marine Corps; and of course Adjutant Mulder of the Marine Corps, commander of SHQ-II. Other staff officers of the Brigade were also in attendance. I even caught a glimpse of General Spoor, High Commander of the Land Forces in the Dutch East Indies.

  My wait was mercifully short. Major Versteeg of the Marine Corps, counsel for the defence, entered the waiting room, singled me out and led me to the courtroom. There I caught sight of our very own Admiral Hellfrich. I halted before the dock, saluted and stood to attention until the judge gave me permission to sit. The prosecutor, himself a Marine officer, was clearly troubled by the notion of fellow marines being hung out to dry in the face of such intense political pressure. His indictment was brief and he made a procedural demand of ten years’ imprisonment. Then it was the defence counsel’s turn to speak. He presented as mitigating arguments the fact that I had given the prisoners food and drink during the transport, paid for out of my own pocket, that I had asked both Van Tilburg and the Van Gelders for an open cattle wagon and been refused, and that, having been assigned a covered goods wagon, I had protested at the lack of ventilation. I had improvised to the best of my ability but, during the long journey in excessive heat, I had been unable to prevent a number of prisoners from collapsing due to heat stress and lack of oxygen.

  After the defence counsel, Colonel Roelofs and Lieutenant Colonel Aberson took the stand and spoke powerfully in my defence. The judge was convinced of my good intentions and acquitted me of the charges. I could have cried out with joy. The judge gave the command ‘Dismis
sed!’ and I was free to leave the courtroom.

  Out of solidarity, I returned to my seat to await the verdict of the second prisoner transport. After their hearing, the lads told me that severe sentences had been handed down: eighteen months for the first lieutenant of the Marine Corps, one year for the lieutenant of the tank division, nine months for the sergeant major of the Marine Corps and six for a marine first class and another marine. We cursed among ourselves and had lengthy discussions with all the staff officers present, even the officers of the Big Shit.

  When it was all over, the sentenced marines and I travelled in becaks, jeeps and dokars to the Marines Club. The place was packed. We drank heavily and the guilders flowed freely. The club resounded with our curses and calls for reprisals. Cries of ‘Death to the Merdeka’ rang out. To me it made little difference, I was already bent on revenge and even tougher action against the pelopors. I had read combat intelligence reports detailing our losses and how the bodies of marines killed in action had been defiled and hacked to pieces.

  Bodyguard

  I received orders to return to SHQ-II in Jember, where I was still head of Prisoner Interrogations Department III. I went to the quartermaster to replenish my kit and ammunition as usual, before going to Piet Dikotta’s office for further counterintelligence instructions. I received a large sum of Indonesian currency for the espionage fund, then signed off with Sergeant Major Vestdijk of the Marine Corps. The dispatcher arranged for my transport and at the last minute I was handed a hefty sack of post for the men stationed in and around Jember.

  Weighed down like a beast of burden, I heaved myself into the waiting M2 fighting vehicle, which joined a column at Wonokromo that was due to stop in Jember on its way to resupply frontline troops. It was early morning, not too warm. On long trips like this, I usually knotted a large handkerchief around my neck to protect my nose and mouth from the dust clouds, and wore sunglasses under my double-layer helmet.

  By the time we reached Jember, late that afternoon, I was half-dead and caked in dust. Our vehicle first made a quick stop at the battalion staff’s building to hand the postbags to the dispatcher, then headed for the SHQ-II building I knew so well. Harry Tjong, the Madjoe brothers and other interpreters helped me unload all the baggage, which included chests of ammunition and hand grenades.

  I reported to Adjutant Mulder and was warmly welcomed by all and congratulated on my acquittal in the prisoner transport case. The babus and some of the boys’ girlfriends prepared a hearty meal for me. At the dinner table, comrades crowded round to hear every last detail of the court martial.

  Next morning, I heard from many of the boys that a bunch of Indonesian mass murderers transported to Surabaya to stand trial were already back on the streets after serving sentences of four to six weeks. This pissed us off no end. Some told me they had taken the law into their own hands. They had waited on a couple of those bastards at Jember station, accompanied them to their lodgings and executed them before they could kill anyone else.

  *

  A few days later, Colonel Roelofs of the Marine Corps and his staff paid SHQ-II a visit. He needed a bodyguard to accompany him on an inspection of all posts in the region held by the second battalion, including the Marine Brigade Security Service. Adjutant Mulder selected me for the job. Once I had prepared my marching pack, I reported to Colonel Roelofs. In accordance with protocol, I snapped to attention and saluted, but the Colonel could not have been friendlier.

  ‘At ease, Nolan,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you here again. The news of your acquittal was most welcome. Let me be brief, the staff is implementing a reorganization and you are to help us as a bodyguard. I have every faith in you. Even Captain Groeneveld has a good word to say about you. Unfortunately he will soon be leaving. Were you aware?’

  ‘No, Colonel,’ I answered, ‘and if that is the case I will miss him sorely, both as a commander and as a good man.’

  ‘Come, Nolan.’ In a fatherly gesture, Colonel Roelofs took me by the shoulders. ‘Let us prepare to inspect the posts.’

  Colonel Roelofs was a splendid chap: damn tough at times, but always fair. The crew stationed in Surabaya knew him as ‘the tiger of Gubeng barracks’ and he had certainly been ferocious in my defence at the court martial. I was proud to serve under such a man. As a high-ranking officer, he was accompanied by a rifle squad of eight infantrymen, mostly seamen with no combat experience, straight off the boat from their motherland. I felt sorry for those barus. During the First Police Action, many such lads had lost their lives. Some of the bodies we found had been mutilated beyond recognition or hacked to pieces.

  The colonel inspected his retinue, told me to take a seat in the back of his jeep and gave the signal for us to depart.

  From Jember, our route took in over twenty-five locations. The inspection as a whole lasted several days and, everywhere he went, the colonel held extensive discussions with the commanders of the detached units. The guerrilla activities of the Indonesian Army and other militant groups were gathering momentum and we came under fire as our column left Rambipuji for Bangsalsari, a notorious hotbed of resistance. Our colonel’s jeep led the column, of course, his staff flag flying proudly in the wind.

  In the middle of Bangsalsari, the colonel gave the sign to halt and got out of the jeep. The gunfire intensified. Down the length of the column, commands to return fire rang out. Accompanied by me and a few infantrymen, Colonel Roelofs walked straight through the kampong and had me lead him to where the shots were coming from. Cane in hand, he passed on his orders to his adjutant. The colonel trusted me blindly. Walking beside him, I saw a door ease open and the barrel of a rifle emerge. I ran towards the house, my M1 blazing, kicked in the door and fired in all directions. I quickly reloaded and fired shots into every room, then kicked the back door off its hinges in search of more guerrillas. I saw no one and retraced my steps to assess the damage. Three bodies lay on the ground, one still moving. I drew my fighting knife, stabbed the man in the throat and turned the blade forty-five degrees before pulling it out. I wiped my bloodied knife clean on his uniform, spat in his face, got to my feet and rejoined the colonel.

  ‘Three fewer hostiles to worry about, Colonel,’ I said. ‘We can move on.’

  ‘Well done, Nolan,’ the colonel replied. ‘I know who I can count on.’

  Meanwhile, the other infantrymen had responded to the enemy fire and driven off our attackers. I gave the barus within earshot the usual warnings about snipers in the trees, landmines and booby traps. I saw them turn pale, but the sooner they learned, the better.

  Near Umbulsari we once again came under fire, though less intense than in Bangsalsari. Both held painful memories for me as the places where my vehicle had hit a landmine, so I was more alert than ever. Searching houses as we went, I killed another few pelopors. In the direct vicinity of Kencong, our column was greeted by a salvo of whistling bullets, but as our vehicles approached their positions, the enemy fled.

  At the next Security Service post, we stopped for lunch and the next meeting. As Colonel Roelofs’ bodyguard, it was my job to stay close to him at all times. Many an intel officer shot me an envious look, but I shrugged them off. I was only doing my duty.

  We set up camp for the night near Puger, on the south coast of East Java. After dinner, the colonel gave me permission to take a walk on the beach with a few of the marines.

  The next morning we continued on our way to Balung, Wuluhan and Ambulu, where we came under attack once again. The M2 fighting vehicle bringing up the rear had to overtake us to mow down the pelopors as they ran.

  Jenggawah and Mangli were next on our list. We were attacked near Mangli and again our combat unit responded with heavy fire. On we went, through South Jember to Wirolegi and then to Majan, where we stopped at another Security Service detachment for lunch and detailed discussions of the local situation with the commanders.

  Some of my mates from that detachment were surprised to see me. ‘Hey, Nolan, been brown-nosing your way int
o Colonel Roelofs’ good books? You’re fairly climbing the ladder.’

  ‘I have never brown-nosed my way into any commander’s good books,’ I snapped back. ‘The opposite if anything! I am the colonel’s bodyguard and you know what that entails.’

  Some low-ranking soldier piped up. ‘I can see why they picked you for such a shitty job. You wouldn’t catch me playing bodyguard to some big wig. I’d rather make it home with all my limbs attached. To hell with that crap.’

  I held my tongue and found myself a quiet place to eat and drink. That afternoon, we began the return journey to Surabaya. Everyone was tired. Late in the evening the whole shebang ground to a halt at the gates of the Brigade Staff on Coen Boulevard. The colonel thanked me and I was free to return to the headquarters of the Marine Brigade Security Service.

  There, the change of command had already taken place. Captain Groeneveld had been transferred to the Intelligence Section of A Division, to be replaced by Captain Galliër of the Marine Corps. We were unhappy about this, as Captain Groeneveld was very highly respected, especially among the war volunteers. The air was blue with cursing and complaints. I will never forget the letter the Captain wrote to us, the men of Firefly Barracks.

  Firefly, January 1948

  FAREWELL AND REMEMBRANCE

  To all those who regard the Firefly as their emblem.

  Should you re-read this brief letter at some later date, may it give you cause to look back and reflect on all the comrades with whom you have shared the bitter and the sweet under the name Firefly. And as you look back, be sure to remember those who made the greatest sacrifice a man can make, and who did so for you and the cause for which we fought. Our thoughts turn to them, for they have borne the consequences of their ideals.