The night
Meanwhile there’s a question that will not leave me be. Do the nightmares of the father infect the son? Do I share them without him even knowing? When I go to sleep, it’s never with my back to the door… still frightened as a child in the dark. It has made me a night owl. I play and teach guitar in the afternoon and evening. At night I write these words. Or read a novel. Or – a real talent this – I stare into space and talk to myself. Dialogues not monologues, because a voice inside me answers. Not a ghost or a stranger. The voice is my own.
The night is my enemy, my father’s paladin, and so I stay awake. A vigil that lets me keep a close watch on the night. Heir to the Eagle, who slept with his eyes half-open. Days bore me, if I’m honest. They are not my friends. Tolerable at best, when summer brings sun enough for the beach and the slosh of the sea. Otherwise the days here in Holland are hellish grey. Yet as soon as I cross the border, I live by day, rejoin the rest of humanity: Indonesia, Greece, America, France… Even the likes of Germany, Austria or Scotland, where the cold can be just as cruel. Another indication that something’s up. Then again, perhaps it makes perfect sense… My father’s war raged overseas, but for me it is set in Holland. And so it’s only in Holland that the night is a threat that keeps me watchful and wary. One strange noise is enough to send me creeping up or downstairs in search of an intruder. Sometimes I grab the sai, the three-pronged Japanese weapon Uncle Karel handled so well, or the bō, the Japanese staff I wield for my kata moves at the dojo. There I stand, primed to beat any trespasser to a pulp. All out of fear – fear of whom? The Eagle, my father, is thousands of miles away. Yet he is the only one who comes to mind.
Given the crimes he committed, the Eagle’s fear that some kris-wielding Javanese might burst into the bedroom and slit his throat is understandable – for an adult, not for a child. But the fear that seizes me is too complex, I cannot explain it to anyone. Like my old man, I have been through dozens of girlfriends. Sadly, I have turned out to be an impossible creature, barely capable of cohabitation. Each and every girlfriend got to hear my list of bedtime instructions: dos and don’ts in case she woke to see a maniac dive out of bed in the middle of the night and cower in a corner, trembling. Do not run to me. Keep your distance. Do not touch me, or my fear will turn to violence. Call me by my name. Then I will hear that you are a sweet woman with whom I have shared a loving embrace. And not the ghost of my childhood, the Eagle who stalked me when I sleepwalked and pelted me in the face with cold wet flannels.
Whacking your sleepwalking son in the face with a wet flannel, is that an act of paranoia? A paranoid man has no time for games, seems to me – what, with the government, neighbours, friends and family breathing down his neck. Or in this case your son, an eight-year-old boy whose bed was never his friend, only a place from which to run. At the children’s home, surrounded by the other boys in the dormitory, I did sleep through the night. And never once walked in my sleep.
How the Eagle used to hate my sleepwalking. One night I walked clean out of the house and rang the neighbours’ doorbell. A kind couple, they opened the door and even let me in. Their home was nice and warm, a peaceful house where no war was raging. My freedom was short-lived. Ma fetched me back and, with a dazed look in her eyes, handed me over to the former prisoner interrogator: ‘What were you up to, over there with the neighbours?’
Was I too pro-Indonesian for him even then? He must remember the critical questions I asked as a kid, unable to grasp why he had fought for the Dutch against his own people. A beating was the only answer he gave me.
But the very last time I asked him whether he might have fought on the wrong side after all, he hesitated and then replied ‘Yes… Perhaps I did, yes…’
It was shortly after he had handed me his memoirs, typed again from scratch. Believe me when I say I hope he didn’t mean it. I could never wish that on him: the horror of realizing that everything he did was wrong.
*
Little Sister told me he wants his coffin to be draped in the red, white and blue of the Netherlands. As arranged in his last will and testament, with Big Sister as his sole beneficiary because his other four kids are clearly good for nothing. Even as a dead expat in Spain he wants to show that he fought for this cold, damp country. Funny, I always thought he wanted to be buried here in Holland. I still have a letter from him, with a copy of his funeral insurance policy. I have no idea whether it’s still valid or whether he has since made other arrangements. It wouldn’t surprise me. Six feet under, Dutch mud is sure to be so much colder than the soil of Spain.
The Dutch flag… Does he really think those Spaniards give a toss about a war between the Netherlands and Indonesia? They probably don’t even know what the Dutch flag looks like; the red-white-and-blue comes a very distant second to the orange shirts of the Dutch football team. It’s not like any of the Dutchmen and women he fought for will be standing at his graveside. The vast majority have no idea what really happened over there on the other side of the world, and those that do deny it. I know, there I go again, riding my hobby-horse into the ground. The family killjoy.
Does he refuse to come to Holland because he hates this country? Or is it just that he can’t be arsed? He is one of a rare breed of grandfathers, one who has never seen his grandson, let alone heard him play guitar. He has never asked after him in any of his letters. My son is curious about his unknown granddad, asks about him now and then. The answers I give are circumspect. I am not about to follow in my crazy father’s footsteps and burden him with all the shit that’s going on in my head.
Hack
Here you are, Mr Smart Arse. I have purloined a secret document or two from the confidential archives, the sewers of the colonial war. ‘Hacking’ to us geeks. I have read Pa’s memoirs, three times no less, from A to Z. And unlike your good self, I am completely on Pa’s side. To you, dear brother, I say grab another torch and let your little light shine on other people’s bullshit for once. Take a look through Pa’s eyes and leave the Dutch and the Indonesians to swap their fairy tales. The official history is a lie in any case. In those interminable emails of yours, you ask me who to believe: Pa or a journalist who flies all the way to Java for one sweaty interview with a little man from a kampong and then tries to flog it as the scoop of the century. You don’t want to see Pa as a murderer. That’s your problem, and not your only one. Unlike me, you have never been in military service. You didn’t even make it to the end of the medical! They took one look and knew you weren’t fit for the army. You’d have been out there in your foxhole strumming your guitar and serenading the enemy. Riddle me this, Smart Arse: can anyone in military service, who has been given a licence to bump people off, honestly be called a murderer? Was our very own Soldier of Orange, immortalized on stage and screen, a murderer? No? Then what was he… a hero? Oh, so what does that make Pa? Read the confidential documents attached. Wait and watch this space for an email about something Pa kept to himself. And wait means wait! Don’t bug me in the meantime. I’m working on a synth track in 11/8 time.
Philip Noland
No virus found in this message
Secret
THE ROYAL NAVY OF THE NETHERLANDS
Marine Corps
Surabaya, 12 March 1947.
No. 220/3/47/509
From: Commander of the Marine Brigade
To: Commander of Naval Forces in the Dutch East Indies
Subject: Payment of civilian interpreters
Ref.: Your letter No. A2 3a/1/3 dated November 1946
I have the honour of informing Your Excellency as follows.
1. At the time of your above-mentioned correspondence, the following salary scale applied to Civilian Interpreters in the service of the Marine Brigade.
1st class: 65 guilders per month
2nd class: 95 guilders per month
3rd class: 155 guilders per month
4th class: 200 guilders per month
2. It transpires that the designation of ‘interpret
er’ is an inaccurate representation of the military nature of the work carried out by said personnel. Allow me to draw your attention to the fact that the majority of them engage in the same work as military servicemen on the front line. They are both uniformed and armed, and given the particular nature of their work, are often exposed to even greater risks than the men of the infantry patrols.
Such circumstances had not been envisaged at the outset.
In other respects too, most notably the interrogation of prisoners of war and the drawing up of reports and/or recommendations, their work goes far beyond the duties that the service originally had in mind for them.
3. It therefore appears to me to be not only desirable but also essential that the personnel in question be paid to a level that reflects their present role.
As regards distribution across the four classes, I would like to maintain the current distinctions but bring them in line with the levels of pay given to Marine First Class, Corporal, Sergeant and Sgt Major or Adjutant, i.e. approx. 100, 155, 225 and 300 Dutch guilders per month respectively. Such an arrangement would, in my opinion, result in a fair pay structure.
4. This arrangement is solely intended to apply to the uniformed and armed section of these employees.
For those to whom this does not apply, the existing payment structure should be maintained.
I would like to request that you look kindly upon this proposal and notify me of your decision as swiftly as possible by telegram.
Commander of the Marine Brigade, Colonel of the Marine Corps,
[signature]
Reply
2 June 47
R.168/4/17
C I V I L I A N I N T E R P R E T E R S.
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1. In response to your correspondence of 12 March 1947 No. 220/3/47/509, I have the honour of informing you, my distinguished colleague, that I was struck by the fact that a number of the civilian interpreters are uniformed and armed.
2. While such a situation is understandable, I am compelled to point out that it runs counter to their position as civilian public servants and may place both the service and the individuals concerned in considerable difficulties.
3. Having accepted the proposal that the interpreters in question should be given the status of military personnel, I request that you provide a list of the surnames and given names of the individuals concerned, accompanied by date and place of birth, nationality and the military rank that, in your opinion, they should be given within the Marine Brigade. In the event that they already have military status, please state their current position and/or rank and the relevant section of the armed forces.
I would also appreciate a copy of the security screening report for each individual.
4. My aim is to incorporate the civilian interpreters into the naval forces, in accordance with Art. 99 of the military service regulations for the Dutch East Indies (I I.V. XIV) and in a rank befitting the authority they are to exercise, or compatible with the services required of them.
5. In the event that one or more of these men are currently in military service with a branch of the armed forces other than the Royal Navy, the necessary measures will be taken at this end to bring about their transfer to the naval forces.
6. Another possibility for calling up these individuals for military service is contained in Military Regulation No. 157, a copy of which is attached for your cognizance.
7. If you would prefer these men to be drafted and brought into service by the Marine Brigade in accordance with the above regulation, might I request that you inform me accordingly.
The Vice-Admiral,
Commander of Naval Forces in the Dutch East Indies,
signing on his behalf:
The Head of Department I,
Naval Captain,
Commander of the Marine Brigade
S u r a b a y a
-------------------
[signature]
Special Service Employees
Dear Mr Smart Arse,
At kenpō school, I recently trained with three generations of the same family: son, father and grandfather, an old man from the former Dutch East Indies. That old man, the school’s founder, was the embodiment of zanchin. He sat there on the couch surfing the net on his laptop, but nothing escaped his notice. The second his son or grandson missed a beat in the demonstration, he was up on his feet correcting them. I got talking to the old man and he asked about my name, like they always used to with Pa: if it was Nolan without a d, you know the story. He was Ambonese and knew Pa from back in the day, though the difference in their ages meant they never fought alongside one another. Under colonial rule he was registered as a ‘native’, which gave him no incentive whatsoever to side with the Dutch. Pa with his semi-European status was at least one rung up the social ladder, at school if nowhere else. Our native boy from Ambon could just as easily have fought for the Indonesians, if they had been the ones to shove a rifle in his hands. His only thought when revolution broke out was that he needed a weapon and fast. It barely mattered to him which side he fought on, as long as he was able to defend himself. It was sheer coincidence that he ended up with the Marines, where he and Pa crossed paths once in a while.
Here’s where it gets interesting… Do you know what they called him and Pa and all those other ‘native chaps’? Special Service Employees. That was the official name for the interpreters. It’s a title Pa never uses. Understandably, because for him it was all about being a marine. Being a marine meant he was somebody. As a Special Service Employee, he was nobody.
When soldiers arrive in a strange land and can’t speak the lingo, they need to enlist local interpreters and guides. This was also true of the Dutch Marine Brigade, dispatched to Indonesia when the Netherlands refused to relinquish sovereignty.
Pa and the kenpō teacher were boys from East Java, cut adrift in the aftermath of the Japanese occupation. They spoke several languages, knew the local customs, were able to distinguish between the various sections of the population and were ready recruits for those macho Dutch marines. Those secret documents prove that their role went way beyond that of guide or interpreter. For the British they were guides, for the Dutch they were interpreters with an extremely broad remit. Reason enough to keep them out of the history books, quite apart from the fatherland’s general reluctance to bring up the matter of colonial violence. As Special Service Employees, they did not qualify as members of the military, but they were armed. A crafty job title, Special Service Employee: it covers a multitude of sins, as those boys found out to their cost.
In the grand scheme of things, you would expect the marines to go in and attack a village, round up any suspects and haul them back to base for interrogation, where the interpreters would be waiting. But an army is little more than a hastily assembled bunch of lads who given half a chance would rather be splashing about in the kali with the local babes. So they send the Special Services Employees on ahead as cannon fodder and follow along behind providing cover. According to the kenpō teacher, the SSE boys were more heavily armed than the average marine. That explains those photos where you see them wielding daggers, cutlasses and sometimes even samurai swords, alongside their modern firearms and hand grenades. For years you thought the Dutch asked the questions and all Pa did was interpret and type it all up. And yes, that’s how it was supposed to be. Poor Pa, sitting at his typewriter, looks on as Indonesian rebels are horribly tortured and it drives him mad. That’s what you want to believe. Only that means pushing Pa’s memoirs aside, dismissing them as fiction. But, by definition, war is not the way things are supposed to be. War is anarchy dressed up, a masquerade of uniforms, ranks and chains of command.
The kenpō teacher reckons there were 130 Special Service Employees like Pa, most of them assigned to the Marine Brigade Security Service, which was involved in the Police Actions. But before, between and after those campaigns a host of covert operations took place, such as Pa’s hunt for the Jungle Princess. Even after a ceasefire was ag
reed with the Indonesians and an official demarcation line was drawn, Special Service Employees were sent across it to seize enemy fighters. An ugly business, because officially those SSE boys were not military servicemen, nor would they ever be. Some were decorated, some were not, but in the end those trappings count for nothing.
There was no military pension for Pa in recognition of what he did for his so-called fatherland. There was no psychological support in the fifties. Special Service Employees were kept under wraps. Pa could well be the only one who committed his memories to paper, to show that he and his comrades existed. What son wants to read that his father set fire to villagers’ houses with rounds of phosphorus bullets and shot down anyone who fled, in the very region where he had been nursed back to health as a baby by his aunts and uncles? You don’t want to know. I do. War is war, and it’s as old as the human race. War is part of life. You shrink from life, and that’s why you only come out at night.
*
At the end of the war, a number of Special Service Employees defected to the other side, and the Indonesians cobbled together a blacklist from the names in the defectors’ notebooks. Pa’s name was on there. So was the name of the kenpō teacher. When the first Special Service Employees were murdered, an unwritten law kicked in: ‘once a marine, always a marine’. They may not have been marines, but the SSE boys were colleagues, comrades. And so the marines took them under their wing, without government permission needless to say. It was left up to Pa to fetch them from their homes, risking his life in the process, but at least the Navy commanders decided to get the SSE boys out of East Java, knowing it couldn’t be left to some Queen’s envoy or other. It was the Marine Corps who made sure Pa was decorated, a tribute from his comrades.
The Interpreter from Java Page 47
