Chapter 9 Hari Besar; Cake from home; The Return; About Officers

HARI BESAR

It's hardly a good day for a celebration. The sky is grey and sagging like an old tent fly about the time our jeep swings on to the lawn of the Resident Administrator's building, but there's a big crowd here in their brightest colours. For the Dutch it is an important anniversary, the birthday of their beloved Queen Wilhelmina; for the Australian and American troops a postponed rest day; but for the Indonesian and Kaja-kaja citizens of Merauke it is a hari besar, a "big day" indeed.

Black men from Boeti village are here, their faces and beards daubed with ochre. The lawn is littered with groups of their women, squatting passively amidst baggage and restless kids, like tired mothers at Sydney's Easter Show, islands in a sluggish stream. Her-, and there black silk umbrellas are held aloft by trousered Chinese women from the tokos, the merchants beside them resplendent in shantung, suits or striped pyjamas and tiger shooting hats. Standing in shy groups are Indonesian housewives, small and doll-like in crisp white jackets and patterned sarongs.

Nearly all of them carry babies, in slings of batik cloth. Around these groups the crowd surges, and the colour pattern changes as the jungle greens of Australian servicemen give way to the spotless grey-green of Netherlands fusiliers and policemen, bearing sabres and automatic rifles; or to the blue jeans and jocular white caps of American Seabees, armed with carbines and cameras. Or perhaps to the whites and blacks and greys (with here and there an accent of blue or lollypink) of the Indonesian workers, lithe Javanese artisans, sturdy Timor fishermen, farmers and clerks and exiles, dhobis and crocodile hunters, brown men from almost every island in the East Indian archipelago.

Under the Poinciana trees outside the fence a couple of gangling American Negroes slump on midget swamp ponies, a skewbald and a grey. Everywhere there are children, darting through the crowd, chirruping with excitement.

This large audience is quite unofficial. The performance about to begin is for the entertainment of the select party reclining in rattan chairs along the Administrator's veranda, a line of elegant khaki figures relieved by the white gown of a missionary and the blue overalls of a R.A.A.F. corporal with a Brownie and plenty of nerve. Along the coral path leading to the veranda comes the first item of the day, a group of Ambonese urchins with shining faces and brand-new shorts.

They brandish toy spears and shields and shuffle their feet to the accompaniment of guitar, fiddle and finger-drum and the frantic whistles of the goeroe, their teacher. Finally the music stops and the lads march off breathless to a chorus of handclaps from both the Stand and the Flat. Now come their sisters, shy skinny girls, their eyes cast down. Beneath bright silk frocks brown feet tread lightly through the intricate weaving steps of a may-pole dance. Perhaps those on the veranda remember that in years past clogged feet danced these same steps on this day, and wonder when they will dance them , again. This time the applause is drowned by a new set of noises approximating very closely to a barrel-organ.

The crowd round the path bulges to allow the passage of a weird band composed of Kaja-kajas blowing bamboo flutes and whistles and beating crocodile-skin drums for all they are worth. Now it's the black children's turn. They wear mission clothes, blue skirts or shorts, and shirts of tablecloth checks. All except their leader, a plump lass arrayed in all the finery of Paddy's Market. When the hurdy-gurdy stops ~he advances with two others to the steps of the veranda, which they solemnly sprinkle with petals. 71-ie Kaja-kaja kids' dance is merely a slow stomp to a syncopated beat, but the song they sing in Malay reveals some beautiful husky voices.

And so the performance goes on, new groups pushing their way up the path to pay their tributes, all much the same. The old black crones remain squatting all this time, grinding betel-nut and rubbing it into their purple gums. During one of the interludes I notice on the far edge of the lawn a lone figure, tall and erect, a proud chieftain, no doubt a retired headhunter.

He is spotted straight away by a prowling Seabee who gives a shrill cry to his buddy and trots across the lawn with a Rolleiflex at the high port. The savage is a beautiful specimen, his body shiny with brown paint, wearing only the customary shell and ornaments. A white bone curves up from each nostril, croton twigs are stuck into the thongs about his biceps, and from the lobes of his ears hang many loops of Don R sig. cable. The native moves only his fingers to take tile proffered cigarette, and looks more noble than ever as the Seabee's bearded buddy ranges alongside him, striking an attitude that is going to have the folks back home in stitches. The cameraman is squinting at the darkening sky and opening his shutter. Scattered raindrops, scouts of the approaching storm, splash on the heads of new performers as they approach the steps. Up on the veranda some of the official party are beginning to sink lower in their chairs, cigars sag from pink faces. Maybe it is time we were getting back to camp.

At night there are more festivities, This time the unofficial audience has gained the administrator's veranda, and silhouettes jostle each other for window positions. Inside the building a capacity house buzzes with talk in five languages including American. From a leaning position against the wall I am able to see the audience as well as the impromptu stage rigged up at one end of the room. Behind the rows of officers and visiting dignitaries sit Indonesian soldiers and their families, rows of glossy black heads under the pressure lamps. Many babies are being fed without any fuss. Presently a Netherlands Army officer welcomes us all with a speech alternately in Dutch, English and Malay, and when presents prizes-cartons of Chesterfields- to the crock marksmen of his company. Just like speech-day back at school.

Quite a large part of the programme which follows is provided by a sextet of Javanese soldiers who play guitars and sing island folk songs-gay dances, working chanties and sad love ballads, including Trang Boelang, a song of moonlight destined to be adopted by our troops and bellowed from the backs of trucks homeward bound from the pictures. A slapstick sketch and a dumb-show by a French-born Netherlands sergeant of a modern Diana undressing for the bath tickle European and Asiatic alike. But the most memorable item is a Javanese Wajang, a traditional dance performed in costume by two Netherlands Navy lads, to the strange accompaniment of drums and gamelin. The elaborate head-dresses are familiar to us because they are like the ones which figure on our five-guilder notes. Slow, sinuous movements of the limbs and particularly of the hands portray the inevitable triumph of Good over Evil.

After the show, when the distinguished guests and other foreigners have departed, willing hands push back the rows of seats, and the Indonesians start up a dance. The womenfolk wear shoes for the occasion, and some manage to look serenely silly in imported Western garments. I am amused and perhaps disappointed to find the dancing and the atmosphere remarkably like that of a country barn dance back home: gay dogs whoop as they whirl giggling girls, sedate matrons romp graciously, young larrikins cannon into courtly old gents panting their way round the perimeter, flushed youths form a stagline near the doors.

Around one o'clock the guitars and ukuleles cease their strumming and the dance breaks up. Outside it is still drizzling but as the parties make off into the night the fading voices are warm with laughter. It's been a big day for the citizens of Merauke, a true hari besar.

"NX124490"

CAKE FROM HOME

N0 parcel from home has quite the appeal of a cake, and a definite routine has now grown up at the receiving end. The process is something like this:

The sar-major reads out a list of "parcels at the battery-office for the following". You go to the battery-office, and after searching through a pile of parcels you find one bearing your name and bear it triumphantly to the rent. You place it reverently under your bed until supper-time arrives. Then the precious cloth-enclosed shape is brought out, and you announce in a highly elated voice which, though you have striven to keep it nonchalant, is infused with pity for your less fortunate mates, "I've got a cake!" That announcement is greeted with more activity than the sar-major's bellow of "turn out E Troop".

Someone rushes at you with a pair of scissors, while two or three others are jammed in the door-way in an effort to find you a knife. While you are still struggling to remove the hessian, several knives are thrust at you, with orders in very definite terms to "shake-it-up". Your hands begin to shake with excitement and you learn that you are meant to shake-up the job not the cake. Finally the cloth comes
away, closely followed by the lid, and there, in all its glory (iced or otherwise), lies that coveted golden-brown creation, most desired by every soldier. You grasp the nearest knife firmly in your still-shaking hand and cut the cake in halves, resolving to save one half until tomorrow night.

You take the half chosen for immediate sacrifice, and after a quick mental calculation divide it into the required number of slices, always taking care that your own slice is slightly larger than the rest - and distribute them around the tent. For a short space of time almost complete silence reigns, but is broken ultimately by voices mumbling through mouthfuls of cake bestowing all the blessings of the Celestial Powers on the head of the baker.

Finally, the last morsel is washed down with cocoa. There are sighs of contentment, but it is short-lived, for soon they remember the other half. They start in domineering tones, but come down by easy stages until they are beseeching you to cut it up. At first you are adamant, but finally you acquiesce and the whole of the cake has gone.

"VX61841 "

THE RETURN

THE train rattles on, swaying and bumping. I sink back in my comer seat of the carriage. Snatches of the past week flash before me - the ship from the north slipping out before dusk through the straits, leaving behind those kunai-clad mountains sloping sheer to the sea-passing through the staging camp. I was sure I saw "Massa" there, the same smiling, cheery Massa. As he passed me I whispered "Mate"-I always called him "Mate" at school - but he walked on without a word. No one worried me that day at the L.T.D. Now the train is rolling past Cooroora. Over to the cast spreads the Wallum where Geoff and I cantered over the frost-covered melon-holes.

I settle down as the train steams through the night. Christmas Eve! By the time we arrive Mum and the girls will be at Midnight Mass. Not long now! We clatter through the yards and lurch to a stop beside the long welcome platform.

Jerry the porter doesn't recognize me. My kitbag with its stencilled "J.J. Carroll" is in the cloakroom.

Two couples walk ahead of me. Our footsteps echo in the quiet street.

It is almost midnight as I enter the reverent silence of the cathedral with its soft lights and rose windows, the candles in myriads, altar cloths spotless.

There are Keith and young Potter, and George Stevens with his mother. In her usual place kneels Mum; head bowed, soft light on her silver hair, eyes bright, Dad's mother-of pearl rosary in her hands. She prays earnestly. My sister Mary kneels beside her, Mary of the sparkling eyes and gay laughter; she has been a very happy person always, her arms so fragile and white, and those slim fingers which bow "Ave Maria" so wistfully on her violin.

Wearing the little perspex crucifix I sent her is little Eileen, who always seems about to smile-the same little baby sister who used to nestle in Dad's arms-I can remember his holding her ever so tenderly and patting her fair head. Kevin is at the end of the pew, kneeling, erect, staring ahead.

A few seats ahead is Maureen, dear Maureen, my first sweetheart, the gay, laughing dark haired colleen in pinafores now grown up. She seems so earnest tonight. "I'll remember you at Midnight Mass," she wrote once.

There is the age-old atmosphere of Christmas-the intent sincerity of young faces-the earnest responses of altar boys in surplice and soutane-the glorious voices of the boys' choir.

How happy I am to be back. For me Christmas-time was always a story-book time; a jingling and tinkling of bells in the snow; a sky sprinkled with twinkling stars; stories of shepherds tending their flocks; the angel's "Unto you is born this day a Saviour . . .tales of Christmas trees sparkling with candles; singing of "Silent Night" and "First Noel"; a time of gifts. I remember those toy soldiers Uncle Frank gave me that Christmas when. I was six.

I have a feeling of deep, still repose.

The Gloria is over and we have risen for the Gospel. The priest moves down the altar steps past the altar rails and slowly mounts the pulpit.

"In the Name of the Father . .

"Your charitable prayers are requested .

Why, Mum's eyes are really bright with tears, Mary's hand finds hers, Maureen gazes straight ahead, Kevin bows his head, Eileen's shoulders are shaking.

"John Joseph Carroll . . . killed in action . .

Oh, Mum!

"QX38867"

ABOUT OFFICERS

All characters mentioned herein are fictitious and any similarity between characters and persons living is purely coincidental, and has no relation to anyone in particular - I hope!

All officers are gentlemen. This is prescribed by the good book, but it does not necessarily follow that all gentlemen are officers.

To be an officer you have to be fearless, a born leader of men, have some special qualification, know someone, or just be lucky.

When you are an officer you are "commissioned". It is not stated what you are commissioned to do, and a certain degree of mystery surrounds this commission.

The number of officers who may be commissioned on the strength of any one unit is laid down by the powers that be in what is known as a War Establishment. This also lays down the number of men who may not be commissioned. These are known as other ranks.

In some units there is a great number of other ranks and a few officers. In other units there is a great number of officers and a few other ranks.

In the latter case it is usual to see officers creeping around furtively in search of other ranks to find someone to whom to give an order. It is, however, unusual to find an other rank.

Other ranks start from gunners, privates, troopers, sappers, etc. and go up to warrant officers. The latter are horribly close to being officers but just miss out.

The lowest-ranking officer is a lieutenant, or subaltern. Subaltern is derived from the Latin word subalternus, sub meaning under, and alternus meaning another.

This is what he is-under another, or rather others. His chief job is passing down to the other ranks kicks in the pants which he has received from his superior officers.

He can be recognized with his shirt on by the fact that he wears two things like bottle tops on each shoulder-strap. These are known as pips.

If he has not got his shirt on, he can usually be recognized by the fact that the species frequently sports a small moustache of the toothbrush variety.

This ruling is not foolproof, as some lieutenants have been unable to cultivate a moustache, but I give it to you merely as a general rule.

The next step up is the captain. This gentleman-all officers are gentlemen-is usually distinguished by a slightly bigger moustache and the addition of one pip to the shoulder, making a total of three.

This word is also borrowed from the Latin and comes from the word caput, the head.

This makes him the head of a company of soldiers.

This company of soldiers may be big or small or non-existent depending on the terms of the War Establishment hereinbefore mentioned.

One of the chief jobs given to a captain is that of Waiting Member on a Court-Martial. What he is waiting on or f or has not been defined, and the captain himself is left in the dark along with the rest of us.

This waiting seems to prey on his mind and weigh down heavily upon his shoulders as do the three metal pips. He gets very morose.

At a certain age a captain' is either (a) retired, (b) made a major, (c) left as he is.

The last is because of certain special qualifications of which he is in possession. The number of captains with special qualifications is truly amazing.

After a captain comes a major. There is not a great deal of difference in these ranks and captains and majors usually call each other by their Christian names.

A major is distinguished by the fact that he wears a crown on his shoulder. This, I think, is in lieu of four pips which would be a bit heavy to carry around. They usually go to extremes with the moustache, and to all intents and purposes this takes on the form of a swipe across the mouth with a tar-brush.

A major, on being made such, is said to have attained his majority. I personally do not know what this means, but think it has something to do with being over twenty-one years of age.

The major is the general utility man in the army. He is most useful as the President of a District Court-Martial. He can usually be employed as the Officer Commanding a subunit. If he should be lucky enough to command a number of sub-units he becomes a Commanding Officer.

That is the chief difference between an Officer Commanding and a Commanding Officer-they both command, but the Commanding Officer commands the Officer Commanding. This is all rather confusing, and unless a detailed study is made of the subject the average layman will not understand it.
Personally, I have never been able to fathom it myself, but I have only been in the Army four years.

Other duties which are entrusted to a major are: Draft Inspecting Officer, Mess President, and O.C. of Troop Trains.

This last tours the country at the Army's expense and has who is technically called a "roving commission".

The next higher than a major is a lieutenant-colonel. He wears on his shoulder the crown of the major plus one pip. This entitles him to award other ranks up to twenty-eight days' detention and fine them up to £5

He tells the other officers what to do and they do it. He is continually signing letters written by other officers on his behalf. He is held in respect by majors, awe by captains, fear by lieutenants and fear and trembling by other ranks. Most lieutenant-colonels are Commanding Officers.

After the war they usually become members of exclusive clubs and are attacked by gout.

Other officers are more scarce and run from colonels up to generals. The latter are most scarce, and due to lack of personal experience I will conclude this treatise.

These notes are not to be taken as complete, but rather to be looked upon as broadly outlining the various ranks and their duties, and may be elaborated through personal contact and experience.

"NX--Y'