Under the Java Moon, page 7
The two men flattened themselves just before a torpedo blasted behind them, splintering and rocking the minesweeper.
George groaned as he covered his ears. Waves of shock reverberated through him, and his chest felt like he had a truck parked on top of it.
“Vischer,” Hooft said. “Vischer, we need to jump.”
Again, George dragged his eyes open.
Hooft was on his feet, hovering over him, a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get off of this thing.”
“What about the dinghy?”
Hooft’s eyes shifted, and George looked over. One of the davits had broken, and the dinghy hung vertically.
“Maybe we can free it still,” George said as he pushed to his knees. His head pounded, and his limbs felt like they were on fire.
“It’s too far to reach.” Hooft grabbed on to George’s arm and hauled him up. “We need to get in the water.”
The men limped to the edge of the minesweeper, and they tumbled into the sea.
The water was like a slap to George’s senses. He sunk below the surface for a handful of seconds, and saltwater engulfed him. As he surfaced, he grimaced at the sharp pain of the salt seeping into his wounds. At least it would be healing to any abrasions.
The searchlights switched off, bringing more darkness to the glittering water now. Beyond, the ship was still burning, the fire spreading since the second torpedo hit.
George began to take in his surroundings, noting who was floating in the water alongside him. “Vos,” he said, when he saw the man bobbing not too far away, his life jacket holding him up. “Are you injured?”
“I don’t know,” Vos said, his eyes reflecting the orange flames leaping about the burning minesweeper. “We need to find something to float on before the ship goes down.”
“The Japanese are moving on,” another man said. George couldn’t see his face in the dimness.
Without anyone issuing an order, the men swam back to the minesweeper and, through helping each other, they climbed aboard.
Hooft sat where he’d crawled aboard, his breathing labored. George was worried about him, but he had to work to find items that they could float on. He and the other officers and sailors moved around the dead bodies and searched through the rubble. They tossed over life vests and wood planks.
“They’re back!” someone called.
No whining of an approaching torpedo this time, but open firing burst toward the minesweeper. Bullets peppered the deck and anything standing.
Like a synchronized drill, George and the other men leapt off board. Before he hit the water, George felt the hit to his foot. A bullet had either gone through his big toe or grazed it. The cold seawater numbed the sensation, but the aching was fierce.
The rain of bullets also dislodged the dinghy once and for all.
“We need to get that cut loose,” someone said. Maybe it was Hooft or another man.
George couldn’t be sure because his ears were buzzing again. Then he watched as Vos dove below the surface. Moments later, he and the dinghy appeared. He’d cut it loose, although the dinghy was badly damaged. At least it was still floating, and the bullets had stopped.
That had to be good news on a night where there was very little good happening.
George and Vos clung to the dinghy, along with a few other men, while Hooft floated with a long wooden plank.
The destroyers seemed to think all had been lost, and their large bulks edged away from the wreckage.
Dawn was still at least an hour way, but the black sky had shifted to a deep gray. The minesweeper was a sad, smoldering lump in the middle of the sea, soon to be a grave to the men who’d lost their lives. But there was food aboard, and the dinghy was ill-equipped.
“Let’s get back on the minesweeper and find food,” George said to the men floating about him. “Then maybe we can make it to an island and hide out until we can get help.”
The impossibility of his words should have been laughable. But the pale faces gazing back at him were devoid of any humor, or of any better ideas.
“Let’s go,” Rouwenhorst agreed.
It might be a risk, but they were desperate. They swam to the minesweeper again and hefted themselves on board. Again, George helped Hooft, who seemed weaker as time went on.
If only George was a doctor, or they had medical care. Every man was wounded in some way, but Hooft looked like he was a couple of steps from death’s door. Without the numbing protection of the seawater, George found it hard to put weight on his injured foot. A bullet had ripped through his boot and his big toe, taking a chunk of flesh with it. The wound needed to be disinfected and stitched, but finding food and drink was more important.
A few of them rummaged for anything to eat or drink in the pale light of dawn, and they made a paltry collection at one end of the sloping deck. Some of the other men transported the dead bodies to the railing, lining them up, as if they were simply in a roll call formation. One by one, they rolled the bodies off the ship. Then the rains started, and in a short time, most of the fire had been extinguished.
No one tried to take cover from the rain, they simply sat in it, letting it wash away the seawater.
As George lounged next to Hooft, trying not to think about the damage to his foot, the clouds parted, and the morning sun appeared. Very little was recognizable on the burned and melted deck. How much longer would it stay afloat? Beyond the vessel, the green sea endlessly stretched in all directions, with no ships in sight. The view was deceptive, this he knew.
Yet, exhaustion took over, and the lulling of the sea waves supporting the minesweeper almost put him to sleep. Had he accepted his fate that there was probably no way out of this situation alive? The sun’s heat intensified, drying the deck and warming the tops of their heads and shoulders.
If the Japanese military didn’t finish them off, then the sun would dehydrate them all. Or they’d die of starvation. They’d eaten food from the few surviving tins, and for the moment, George’s stomach was satisfied. He knew it wouldn’t last, though, and there was no extra food for another meal. His foot and toe were throbbing anew, but he was much better off than Hooft, whose face was a sickly pallor.
The crew’s hospital attendant’s mate, J. F. Van Beek, had his own injuries, and it seemed futile to try any treatments when all the medical supplies had been obliterated. So they would wait.
How long would it be until they could be rescued? Or would rescue even come?
The rumbling started out faintly, but every living man onboard knew immediately what the sound meant.
Planes.
The flicker of hope that the planes might be Allied aircraft died the moment Vos called out, “They’re Japanese bombers.”
George squinted to see the approaching Japanese seaborne bombers. The dark green and yellow bodies marked them as torpedo bombers. There was zero chance they’d fly over a Dutch vessel without firing.
“Get into the water!” someone shouted as the planes neared.
Was Vos yelling or someone else? George hoisted Hooft with him until they reached the railing. Once again, he tumbled into the murky, dark depths of the Java Sea.
Chapter Seven
“The trek to Bogor took eight hours. To avoid attracting attention, we blackened our faces, arms and legs with soot. Additionally, we had stained our hair with black dye, and we spoke as little as possible as we walked slowly along the side of the road. We children wore pajamas to conceal our white skin, while the women had simple cotton dresses with long sleeves on.”
—Barend A. Van Nooten, Cihapit Camp
Rita
The buzz of the radio was already coming from the dining room by the time Rita opened her eyes in the morning. The newscaster’s low, urgent tones filtered through the crack of her bedroom door. What was he saying? More bad news?
Through the curtains, she saw that it was early enough that Papa should still be home. Rita scrambled out of bed, careful to not make any noise and wake up Georgie. She snatched the teddy bear she slept with so that he could say goodbye to Papa as well.
She padded her way to the dining room, but there was no Papa having breakfast with Mama. Maybe he was still sleeping? Or maybe he had the day off? And they could do something fun?
But the words on the radio didn’t sound cheerful, and Mama sat at the dining room table alone, her glasses on the table, her head bowed as she listened.
Rita decided to wait a few minutes before asking Mama all her many questions. She slipped into a chair and clutched her teddy bear to her chest.
The words from the radio sounded rushed and panicked: “The battle for Java has started,” the announcer said. “Japanese forces have landed on the western tip of the island. Allied forces are on their way with a planned counterattack.”
Rita scrunched up her nose. She could only guess what a counterattack was; she didn’t dare ask her Mama.
“Refugees are pouring into Batavia from surrounding bombed areas,” the announcer continued. “The Red Cross is searching for locations to set up . . . Reports are coming in on the devastation by Japanese torpedoes to Allied ships in the Java Sea . . .”
Mama turned off the radio, and then she noticed Rita at the table with her.
“You’re up early,” Mama said, but she didn’t seem surprised at all. Her eyelids were droopy, as if she hadn’t slept much. She put on her glasses. “Was the radio too loud?”
“I don’t know,” Rita said. She couldn’t remember if she’d been awake before noticing the radio sounds. “Did Papa already leave?”
“Yes, he’s helping with the war,” she said on a sigh. “He might be gone a while.”
Rita was never sure exactly what “a while” meant when adults said it. “Is he on a submarine?” Papa talked about them a lot. Maybe he was fighting the Japanese forces on the Java Sea? If that was true, would his submarine be hit by a torpedo? No, that couldn’t happen. No one could see a submarine since it was underwater.
“He’s not on a submarine,” Mama said, but her lips quivered. She pressed her fingers against her forehead. She sometimes did that when she had a headache.
“Are you sick, Mama?” Rita asked. “I can make you soto.”
It was too early for the cook to arrive, but maybe her mother was hungry. And Kemala made big batches of soto—a soup made of broth, meat, and vegetables—and it would be easy to heat up on the stove.
Mama gave Rita a soft smile. “Thank you, but I’ll lie down for a little while. If Georgie wakes before Oma, can you play with him?”
Rita agreed, but before Mama could go to her bedroom, someone knocked on the front door.
It was so early in the morning that Rita couldn’t guess who it might be. Even Johan wouldn’t come over before breakfast. And the cook came in the side door, but it was still too early for her to arrive.
Mama’s pale face went even paler. “Wait here, Rita,” she whispered.
Rita wanted to see who it was, though. She moved to the edge of the dining room where she glimpsed part of the front door. When Mama opened it, a dark-haired woman walked in. Rita recognized her immediately as Aunt Tie, Papa’s half-sister.
Aunt Tie looked a lot like Papa, with her dark hair, but instead of golden-brown eyes, they were mud-colored. Unlike Papa, she didn’t really seem to like kids, even though she was almost twenty-nine. Whenever Georgie or Rita would try to talk or play with her, she’d shoo them away. She lived somewhere else in Batavia near her job. She usually came over when Papa was home, so why was she here now? And why was she carrying a suitcase?
The women’s voices were low, and Rita couldn’t make out everything they said. Then Mama turned and saw Rita. “Aunt Tie will be staying with us for a little while.”
Aunt Tie moved farther into the house. She glanced at Rita, then back to Mama. “My neighborhood has little water. Some places were bombed, and now we’re being told not to come into work.”
“You can stay here as long as you need to, certainly,” Mama said, although there was no smile in her eyes when she said it.
Aunt Tie’s very next question was, “Where’s George? Is he at headquarters this early?”
Mama hesitated. “He’s on a mission, but I’m not sure where he is or what he’s doing.”
Aunt Tie narrowed her eyes. “Ah.” Her gaze shifted to Rita again, then she pursed her lips.
“This way,” Mama said. “You can sleep in the spare bedroom. We’ll be having breakfast in about an hour.”
Aunt Tie moved past Rita, not greeting her at all. “I’ll lie down until then. I had to walk farther than I wanted to.”
Rita watched her aunt lumber past with her bulky suitcase. It rattled along the floorboards, and the sound would probably wake up Georgie and Oma.
Somehow, though, both of them stayed asleep. Maybe because sometimes in the middle of the night, sirens awakened everyone, and they’d have to go into the bomb shelters. That had taught them to sleep through other noises.
Rita walked out to the veranda after Mama and Aunt Tie disappeared into their rooms. At least Mama could get some rest and hopefully feel better. Rita sat at the top of the steps and watched the eastern horizon lighten. Laan Trivelli stayed very quiet as the sun came up, since there weren’t any children going to school. Men and women weren’t heading off to their jobs either, since so many places had been closed down.
Rita pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin atop them. The only sounds were the birds announcing the morning and the distant chatter of monkeys. Monkeys didn’t come much into the neighborhoods since the residents would drive them off.
The door of Johan’s house snapped open, and Kells loped out into the yard. He headed toward a tree to do his business. Moments later, Kells settled on the veranda of the Vos home, tongue hanging out as he surveyed everything with a keen eye. No one else came out of the house.
As the morning awakened and bloomed with heat, Rita saw four people walking along the road. It was their cook, gardener, maid, and nanny—all walking together. It was an unusual sight because the gardener didn’t usually come until later in the day.
Something prickled along Rita’s neck, as if a spider had been caught in her hair. She brushed at her neck then stood to watch the approaching people. There was something different about their expressions. They looked downcast and very serious. Had something terrible happened? Did they have an injured family member?
By the time they reached the veranda, it was clear that Anja had been crying. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she kept wiping at tears on her cheeks. Dea kept an arm about Anja. Kemala kept her hands tightly gripped in front of her, and Bima’s mournful expression made Rita feel like crying herself.
“Hello, Rita,” Anja said. “Is your mama awake yet? We need to speak with her.”
“She’s in her bedroom,” Rita said, not sure if her mom was asleep or awake. She could peek in though. “Come inside.” She wasn’t used to being a hostess, but this is what Mama would have said.
Bima shook his head. “We will wait out here.”
Rita thought that was strange, but she hurried inside. She walked quietly to Mama’s room and opened the door with a single creak.
Mama was lying on her side, facing the door, but her eyes were open. She blinked then moved to her elbow when she saw Rita. “Is something the matter?”
Rita guessed it showed on her face. “Nanny, the cook, the maid, and the gardener are all standing on the veranda. They want to talk to you.”
Mama sat up fully, then climbed out of bed. She reached for the nightstand and gripped the edge for a moment. After taking two deep breaths, she said, “Wait in the house. I’ll speak to them outside.”
Rita didn’t want to wait in the house. She wanted to know what was happening. She wanted to know when Papa would come back. She wanted to know why Mama hadn’t slept well last night. She wanted to know how long Aunt Tie would be staying here.
So Rita moved to the front room after Mama went outside. She could hear a little of the conversation through the screens at the windows. But it didn’t make sense. Why was the gardener saying he was going into the army? He wasn’t Dutch. And why was Anja crying so hard?
Rita’s stomach hurt, and it wasn’t because she hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. This was a different kind of hurt.
When Mama came back inside, her own eyes were watery. She didn’t tell Rita that she shouldn’t have listened at the window. No, Mama sat down on the couch next to Rita and pulled her into her arms.
Rita didn’t know why Mama was hugging her, but hugs from her parents were always welcome.
“Why was Anja crying?” Rita asked after a few silent moments.
Mama sighed again. She was doing a lot of that this morning. “With the Japanese soldiers invading our island, the local natives don’t want to be outside of their neighborhoods. There are many rumors that the Dutch people will have more curfews and rationing.”
Mama straightened and pulled away from Rita. “They are very sorry, but they can’t come to our house for a while. Probably not until the Japanese troops leave.”
Rita knew that Georgie would be very sad about their nanny. Rita felt sad too, but she hoped it wouldn’t be very long before her friends could come back. “Why is the gardener joining the army? He’s not Dutch.”
Mama’s brows lifted. “Oh, Rita. He’s not joining the Dutch army. Japan is asking for Indonesian volunteers to join its forces, and if they don’t . . .”
When Mama didn’t finish, Rita was even more curious.
“What happens if they don’t?”
Mama looked away, her gaze on something across the room. “There are only rumors. But they are being threatened with imprisonment.” She suddenly looked at Rita and grasped her hand. “It’s nothing for us to worry about now. This is a lot for you to understand. We will stay here, in our home, safe and sound. We’ll pray for all our friends, and for your father, and for the war to be over soon.”
