2 Окт 2012 Digar 3
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When the weather is fine we can see the coconut, trees jutting out above the coastline. Somewhere behind that another fort lies hidden in the jungle. The population of Menari comprises a handful of shrimp fishermen and lepers. There are but a few of the latter group but you will still get a fright should you meet one without a nose and with big eyes.
Some of these inhabitants have horrible sores on their legs. I estimate his age at fourteen years. The native residents of Menari are poor. They live in small bamboo houses that they have built themselves. The rooves are covered with dry leaves artistically draped over each other and completely waterproof.
The walls are of braided bamboo. A house such as this consists of a front room and one or two bedrooms. The windows have no glass and are open. Above the windows a type of lean-to shelter is constructed that serves as an awning to ward off the sun or rain. It is secured against the bamboo wall above the window with bamboo hinges and held up with a stick that rests upon the window sill.
Should too much rain gush inside, the awning is folded shut. The lighting consists of small petroleum lamps with little strength. The kitchen is outside and occupies only a small part of the compound situated around each house. These bamboo houses are clustered together in small groups around each other.
Chickens, dogs, cats and the odd goat walk around freely. All these small houses are surrounded by giant bamboo clumps that shoot upwards in clusters in a fan -like formation and end in an embroidery of millions of thin branches from which masses of long pointy leaves hang down in all directions.
Through this spread, the leaves of the nearby clusters of bamboo meet each other to form a natural opaque canopy through which a ray of sun can barely penetrate. No wonder it is impossible to detect any form of life from the sky above. On the edge of the countryside, the jungle ends and changes into patches of wild vegetation where there is an interplay between grass and low thicket. The other open sections are too overgrown with low thicket to be of any use to us.
Here the shrub becomes larger as it encroaches on the edge of the jungle. Wild grass decorates the few paths that crisscross through the landscape, covered in places with long blades of overhanging bamboo and long grass. Along the coastal edge, the highlands suddenly descend into bare mud pools separated from each other by high narrow paths. A single path has been made a little wider as this leads to places where regular visits are expected.
During high tide, the tambaks are totally submerged while during low tide completely dry. Cracked surfaces caused by the hot sun display numerous holes about five centimeters in diameter in which mud fish find their hiding place until these again become submerged with water. The tambaks begin their outlet to the sea along the jungle edge. In the middle of the island not far from the kampong is our encampment, fully camouflaged by natural vegetation. The various sections and defense components are separated from each other and tucked away behind trees and bushes so as not to be visible.
There is the Commander group, the canteen, hospital, kitchen and the telephone and electricity power stations which are half buried in the ground. These sections are accommodated in groups of four barracks. They do not stand next to each other but at random and unequal distances amongst the trees. Each barrack can house about fifty men and each section has its own bathrooms and toilets. Well placed gravel paths connect all the different subsections with each other.
Here and there a side path wanders off from the main road and disappears, meandering into the darkness of the jungle. Sometimes we await a small train that transports food in containers and baskets to all points of the compass with the kitchen as starting point. The locomotive is powered by compressed air. There is thus no smoke that can betray its presence from the sky.
On the island there were very, few fruit trees. Coconut trees are scarcely present. Here and there groups of banana trees are found but insufficient in quantity for the requirements of the population. Rice definitely does not grow here and needs to be delivered from far afield.
The population subsists mainly on fish caught in rivers and the sea, a little ketella root type and a handful of rice. Along the edge of the island close to the coast are low-built reinforced concrete pillboxes, witnesses to the first line of defence. Such a pillbox is nothing more than a machine gun nest. Between the pillboxes and the forest edge, tambaks blaze in the sun or are drowned by water from the sea.
Masterly hidden behind the high bushes lurk heavy machine guns. Deeper inside the country, cannons and anti-aircraft weapons are set up. For the uninformed it will not be easy to notice any defence system.
Machine gun nests and trenches are artfully hidden away. Dozens of times I walk past them before finally discovering one of them. Cannons are so well hidden and camouflaged that they are difficult to see from a twenty metre distance. At the sea side is an inlet where a jetty for motor and rowing boats has been built. Natural mooring places, completely hidden under the overhanging greenery of trees and shrubs, are available for small boats that navigate the river.
Right opposite our barracks are a couple of kampong houses, one of which has been transformed into a warong dining establishment. A real warong has seating facilities outside with or without tables, where the visitor is served a portion of rice with fish or pieces of meat accompanied with some vegetables in a banana leaf. He may as well eat with his fingers because a knife and fork are not provided.
If you are used to it, it is not difficult to take a mouthful of rice using your thumb and three forefingers. But this warong has no benches outside. You just walk through the entrance and sit wherever a chair or bench is available. There is also a table for those who wish to make use of it. The room is dark and polluted with cigarette smoke, pipe tobacco and sweet-smelling scents. Forget about what you are used to at home and rather order a plate of nasi-goreng, gado-gado, satee kambing or any of the other native delicacies.
Anything is better than camp food. But for me this whole activity is rather distasteful. Every evening it is full of these visitors, most of whom are used to such an environment and prefer to converse in Malay or Javanese rather than in Dutch. We Europeans never feel at ease amongst them and avoid such company as far as possible.
But here in the camp with all the different groups, we are more or less forced to accept this sort of degradation as part of our communal life. We must however control ourselves so as not to sink deeper into the morass. The native militia is however completely segregated. We never come into contact with them. On the first day of our arrival, we are escorted to our barracks which provides enough space for about fifty men.
On each side of the barrack are iron double bunk beds. Between the beds in the middle of the barrack are gun racks. I have in the meantime discarded my military equipment, placed my gun in the gun-rack, thrown my backpack on the bed and unbuttoned my collar. Then I go outside again. In the spacious front yard are long wooden tables on trestles around which wooden collapsible benches are available for those who want to make use of them.
It is here at this very table that I for the first time make acquaintance with professional -sergeant Hans Vermeulen of the second section. I still today see Hans standing there with his friendly laugh across his young radiant face.
Always perky and with an enormous vocabulary, he reveals himself as the organiser of the department of Rest and Recreation, simply referred to as R and R. He is the leader of a cabaret ensemble which he himself has established and for which he is now looking for new artistic talent who can, from time to time, provide entertainment for the upliftment of the soldiers in the camp.
Within fourteen days, he wants to give a performance in the canteen. I want to find out a little more and initiate a conversation. I introduce myself and tell him about my experience in the area of theatre, music and painting. I inform him that, besides the drawing pen and paint brush, I can also play the piano. We get on exceptionally well with one another and together finally compile a rendition that is worth listening to. During the rehearsals, Hans proves himself to be an outstanding entertainer and not to a lesser extent, a clear lyrical tenor.
A good music connoisseur would however concede that he needs more training under expert guidance. This will keep the men busy and consolidate their friendships. The first performance will take place on the day before Christmas to be repeated by a further performance the following day.
In the open yard next to the canteen we build a small stage wide enough for eight men. It does not require much effort to make a draw curtain in front, a plain decoration behind and a couple of side pieces to the left and right, behind which we can hide away when needed. For the theatre, we borrow chairs and benches from the canteen and arrange them neatly together with extra chairs and benches from the hospital.
It is of no importance to describe the program comprehensively. What I do know is that Hans received the resounding success he justly deserved. It was His manner of performance, the fluency with which he delivers his jokes, his witticism as well as his song repertoire are all a joy to behold. There is however one thing for which I do not have an answer. These are two extremely different dialects.
Nevertheless, he is a fine chap, a little boorish in his manner of speech but nevertheless a grounded guy. He is best described as a sensitive person. He is someone who listens and tries to understand you and is not insensitive to comments that one makes. He seeks contact with the outside world, a world he desires to inhabit in the way he chooses.
Domestic circumstances forced him to enroll for six years in the Royal Dutch-Indonesian Army. Sometimes I can read the expression on his face of how much regret he has about this enrolment. In his heart he is not a soldier. Out of necessity this is now what he has to be. Shall I just let him go on his way to choose his own path? Or will I extend to him the hand of friendship and help him to keep his head above the muddy waters? Military life as a whole is for him one great pool of mud through which he must somehow traverse at whatever cost.
Cheerful by nature, he seeks distraction by choosing to recite and sing and tell jokes which he mostly thought up himself. I have decided I will help him. We will become friends. The future will determine whether I manage this in the right way. The first day of Christmas passes with fitting conviviality and piety. First there is the open-air assembly where our field chaplain opens with a prayer followed by a simple and comprehensible sermon presented in Dutch.
He has linked the birth of Christ with the events of today. He has given us consolation and strength and above all placed emphasis on camaraderie. The natural enmity between civilian and military is now a thing of the past. It is time that we find each other and support each other in the difficult circumstances in which we will soon find ourselves. We listen attentively to his riveting sermon. After this remarkable and interesting open-air exercise in worship, we disperse, each of us to his own barrack.
The rest of the day passes by, just as the previous days. There is not a lot of difference between a Sunday and a weekday. The Sergeant informs me that tomorrow, I must report for twenty-four-hour guard duty at the telephone exchange. That night I retire early to my bunk. I quickly take a cold bath and put on my uniform. Breakfast has in the meantime arrived by train and is at this moment being placed on the table in large baskets covered with mosquito nets.
The enormous tea urn is at the other side of the long table. Millions of blue horse flies cover the table like a deep blue-black sheet, glistening in the early morning sun that has grabbed its chance to peek diagonally across our table through an opening in the leaves of the canopy above. When someone takes his seat at the table, they fly up with a loud buzzing, only to descend again a short while later. It is absolutely impossible to quietly enjoy breakfast.
I must continuously swing my arms around before I dare take a mouthful. The buzzing mopeds crawl across my nose and lip, leering with greedy eyes at the round bread roll with cheese that I hold in my one hand, ready to take a dive. But for that they do not get a chance. Whilst swinging my arms, I quickly take a bite. I cover my mug of tea with a handkerchief as protection.
In the interim it is not possible to have a drink because then one or two of these flies will find themselves swimming in my tea. It is better to eat first, then drink the tea. As the day comes to an end it is time for the flies to sleep.
Then it is the turn of the mosquitoes to take over. By their millions they come out of their hiding places in the trees to descend upon us, sting, suck our blood and further make life for us as unbearable as possible. Once again it is morning and once again it is the turn of the flies to torment us.
I join up with five other men and a sergeant. We march smartly first in the direction of the kitchen where we sign in for our allocation of food so that it can be prepared and sent to us during the day. Luckily, we manage not to bump into Kapala Banteng. We relieve the guard and take turns every two hours on duty. A barbed wire fence containing only one gate at the front, secures the telephone exchange.
Right across from the iron gate within the perimeter under a tall tree stands the guard house, forlorn but not abandoned. Earlier on a weary soldier stood guard there, rifle at the foot and wearing a steel helmet. Now some other soldier stands there. Countless enormous bamboo provides a natural camouflage.
However, the radio in the camp keeps us informed every day of their approach. The tension increases day by day. We all feel this. Conversations take a different turn to those before. Our field exercises under the leadership of Captain Kirsten are intensified. The feeling to do our duty has replaced our civilian life of yesterday. We are now soldiers and ready for any incidents.
At least that is what I thought. There I stand, steel helmet on, with a mosquito gauze cover over my face, fastened under my chin, to protect me from mosquito bites. I keep my rifle ready at the foot. On my belt I have one hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition stored away in three pouches. The bayonet is fixed to the rifle. I am therefore armed to the teeth. I feel like a dangerous soldier not to be messed around with.
A torch with a blue light bulb inside, dangles from a thin cord attached to my belt. It is actually quite useless because a beam from this device will betray my position immediately. And this can be fatal.
I had better stick this thing into my trouser pocket I think. Nevertheless, I decide just to let it dangle there. The night is dark. Around me are an unending cluster of trees. For me the black outline of the fence and the train track outside are only dimly visible. Past the train track are more rows of trees and behind them the tambaks. I can see just a bit of the sea when the moon gets a chance to break through a gap in the clouds.
Then the waves sparkle like distant fireworks in the fantastic blue of the night. Suddenly that colour changes to indigo which transforms into deep black, the same black of nature between me and the trees across the road. The bamboo leaves sing their song of the storm. The bamboo stems crack at intervals like the rumble of dozens of drums. It is as if I hear an orchestra of wild impetuous music, violins, double basses and clarinets mixed with the percussion of timpani and drums.
Then I hear a trumpet. But this appears to be the distant sound of howling at the moon. This must come from the direction of the canteen. The more intensely I listen, the more I hear. The slightest cracking of a branch makes me look back. My section commander, sergeant-major Aalbersen, once warned me of the 5th column and the native militia.
Both are not the least to be trusted. I try to look left and right through the black spots between the trees for something that moves. Do I not hear a heavy stone falling diagonally just to the left of me? No, it must be my imagination. The tropical night has enveloped me. Tropical nights are always very interesting and because of their secretive mystery, so impressive. They capture and scare you at the same time.
Or they can take you away from the world of your existence and bring you closer to God. It is the power of nature that through the absence of sunlight, the night emerges as a dense fog of secrecy, which slowly but surely envelopes and holds you in its grip from which you cannot escape. It enhances your spirit like dense wine that is transparent to a certain depth. You can no longer estimate distance as it creates different and frightening hallucinations You cannot get out of it unless you escape it, if you get the chance.
But I have to stay put. The sounds become stronger and the distances shorter. I try to pierce the darkness and to distinguish the sounds. I become suspicious and careful at the same time. I certainly should not stay right in front of my guard house if there is someone who wants to shoot me.
I take a step sideways, but then I think someone can attack me from behind. I jump back to where I was first standing, my gun at the ready. But then I realise that I have been mistaken, fool that I am. I laugh at my own fear and try to resist it. I stand there for certainly an hour, maybe longer, when I suddenly bec0me aware of a beam of light that I have not noticed before. I focus sharply, but then it is no longer there.
It stays away for a while until the moon peeks through the clouds again. And there is that beam again. Now I see it clearly. It is the reflection of the moonlight on the railway line. Yes, this is it, because now the moon is looking for a hiding place behind a cloud as the light streak dissolves in the dark of night.
Now I look to the right and at that moment I think that I see something move between the trees on the left side of the gate. I turn my head quickly but the figure disappears in the darkness of the following tree. I feel my hair under the steel helmet stand on edge. I hold my gun in both hands, the index finger close to the trigger.
Then suddenly I see a bent figure detaching from that tree. It disappears with a few feline jumps in the shadow of the next tree. This is my chance, I think. I scream against the wind:. Can you not understand me? He gives the password. Now I grab my flashlight that still dangles on my belt, press the button down and direct a narrow blue beam on his face.
Just in time, because I see that he is taking his pistol out of the holster. Immediately I point my gun at him and turn the safety catch off with a click to the left. My flashlight is now hanging down. My call to the sergeant turns out to be unnecessary. He is already standing next to me. You are going to wake up the children with your screams. I will open the gate for you. A moment, please. My throat is hoarse from shouting for help. Are you deaf or are you asleep? In addition, we are not to leave out post under any circumstances, be it for shouting or anything else.
The sergeant pulls his hand back. The pair disappear. Twenty minutes later I am indeed relieved of my duties. Inside, the sergeant tells us that he has telephonically reported the entire incident to Sergeant-Major Aalbersen and Captain Kersten. Our sergeant is of the opinion that the lieutenant was drunk and disappointed, because he could not attend the cabaret show.
He had been missing for four days. Kapala Banteng had taken care of that. Sometimes we have to go out at night to arrest a fisherman who accidentally forgot to extinguish his lamp light. Then Sergeant-Major Major Aalbersen enters our barracks in search of volunteers. He and I had got to know each other well. He knows that I am always willing to accompany him. Such a nocturnal search through the slippery tambaks in the direction of the lamplight is an adventure.
With his long heron legs, the Major leads the way. And with his sharp cat eyes he sees exactly where he walks in the dark. Another time we had to catch a spy that lies anchored somewhere out in the Strait Madoera in a prauw. We surprised him in his sleep and took him with us. The next day we surrendered him to the military police in Surabaya, strictly guarded, as you would a registered parcel.
Our captain has drilled us well. He has made an exceptionally sympathetic impression on all of us. He is, just like us, a Landstormer. He never curses. His language is civilised and friendly but strict and businesslike.
In his civilian life he was editor of a newspaper. So, he knows how to deal with people. We have always spoken with respect to Captain Kersten. Besides, there is no one who dares to say anything bad about him or they will regret it. Our army food is not always of the best quality. For example, the rice is often undercooked, the vegetables too hard or too raw, the meat not well prepared and the soup is usually full of small beetles.
That soup is causing consternation. If it happens again that we find beetles swimming in the soup, we will for once not eat the soup. But today it is worse. For fun we decide to measure the thickness of the beetle layer with a piece of paper. We measure about half a centimetre of these vermin. We cannot take this anymore and there is great indignation about this. One of us takes his plate and goes straight to the fort commander.
The sergeant tries to dissuade him, but without success. We wait in suspense for his return. What will the Banteng say? We are not at all satisfied with this statement. Someone wants to speak to the cook himself. Another proposes to report this to the doctor. But Corporal Zimmer likes to go directly to our captain. Is he not ultimately our commander? This is then carried out. Captain Kersten inspects the kitchen and releases a report. Two days later our doctor is transferred to Madoera and the Major-doctor of Madoera comes to take his place.
First our new doctor inspects the hospital and then the kitchen. He has seen how the cook, with his half naked torso and arms bare, cuts through the oblong buns and then spreads them with butter. He puts the rolls on a table, uncovered and in immediate reach of the countless blue flies. Then the cook opens a number of cans of sardines and throws the contents into a tub. He then puts his bare arm into the tub, stirs the contents together with his hand, fetches a handful of sardines and spreads it on the buns.
After this is all over, the Major-doctor has a chat with the cook. I made the fire and then boiled water for the tea. Here the doctor interrupts him. I suppose, if you first do this heavy work beforehand, will you not sweat a little bit? Strength is needed to open these few hundred cans and this is turn will cause you to sweat. Do you see these flies here? The breakfast that you have made, is there some of you left therein as well?
I already have mine in my stomach you see. I always eat first before I begin work. He sees his pale face, trembling lips, drooping mouth corners. Then those pale-gray watery eyes with red edges …. This is enough for him.
The bare-armed cook clicks his heels, salutes with his fish-fat hand as the doctor leaves the kitchen. That same day the news finds its way through the camp like wild fire. He has syphilis. This horrible word is like a thunderbolt from the clear heavens above.
A thunderbolt that echoes for a long time. From then on, we get better food. So Kapala Banteng has finally listened to us. The sergeant with the guards who were relieved from the different posts now march off to the watchtower.
It is night and it is raining. The forest is black and where we now stop, indigo-coloured. An Indo and I are assigned to climb the fifteen metre high iron lookout tower. When one climbs up and reaches the top, those below recede from view. Well, it is now my turn to climb.
It must have been an entertaining sight for my comrades to look at a plump figure like mine climbing up a fifteen metre high perpendicular iron ladder. Fully equipped with heavy ammunitionpouches on the belt and my rifle slung over my shoulder, I desperately try to work my way up rung by rung.
Every now and then my ammunition pouches get stuck at the bottom of a higher rung. I hear the salvo of laughter resonate through the humid night. Their comments are definitely working on my nerves. I must have climbed about four metres when I dare not go any further. When I look up the tower disappears into the heavens above and the ladder merges into the blackness of the sky. And when I look down I can barely notice the figure of the sergeant.
Then, on the next attempt to work my way up, I feel something crawling down my neck. I begin to sweat anxiously. With one hand, I hold on firmly and press myself awkwardly against the ladder and with my other hand I feel for the thing that is moving back and forth across my neck. I feel the end of a thick rope and at the same moment I hear a voice from above that I must attach my rifle to the rope and that I will then be able to complete my climb more easily.
When I do this, my gun disappears up into the darkness and I slowly climb higher and higher. How far? A few more steps, then I see a hand grab my collar and I am pulled up. A moment later I sit on the steel platform panting from fatigue and anxiety. This is my first tower climbing experience. Fourteen days later, I find myself climbing like a cat in a tree. It is just as dark as the first time.
My Indo-companion precedes me to lead the way. We easily make it onto the steel platform and the sit in opposite corners. The four steel plates around the square platform and an atap roof above us protect us from rain and wind. We close the lid of the trapdoor. It is pitch dark. We cannot see one hand in front of the other. I lean against the steel plate behind me, stretch my legs and roll a cigarette. As I strike a match, I see from under my eyebrows that my companion is leering at me.
But then it is pitch dark again. We do not say anything to each other for a long time until I break the silence myself. This gift I received at birth from the Almighty Creator. I still small, nearly six, you know. Then I start to do the violin. Now, I play in a bend, dans music and krontjong , you know. The Son in my Father. Tomorrow early I will see God. He comes up there, behind you. Nobody will know. You and me alone shall. I go to worship the Son. This is the only light that lets us live. If I die the everlasting light will stay shining over me when he comes above the horizon, you know.
Do you understand me when I talk softly? No one is allowed to hear me, do you understand? I feel that he is staring at me. I wonder if he can see me in the darkness. Now our conversation stops for a long while. We say nothing more. It is completely silent except that I can hear his breathing vaguely. My hearing is good and sharp and I am staring intensely in his direction.
I feel a bit uncomfortable, turn half-way around and silently pull my bayonet out of its sheath. I put this down next to me. With this movement I accidentally bump the telephone. His answer gives me some peace of mind. We are silent again. Out of boredom I roll a cigarette and try to have a conversation with him again, but his short answers dissuade me from further effort.
I get up and peer over the steel parapet. A large open field is stretched out before me like a blue-gray carpet. The night is heavy and the fields and forests are covered with a dense fog. In one place a weak light beam shines through the fog. Frans gets up and takes his place next to me. He too peers into that dense fog. Then suddenly he says:. We wait silently for the arrival of the sun and smoke one cigarette after the other.
The horizon becomes lighter. The fog slowly lifts. I do not dare to look at Frans. Maybe he will forget what he was planning to do. Then comes the first ray of sunlight. An orange-coloured beam of light tries to penetrate between two clouds. I surreptitiously walk back to study him better. His figure has become more pronounced.
The increasingly stronger golden morning light peeks through the curtain of the night, which now slowly dissolves and transforms the landscape into the most beautiful colours. The tree silhouettes get a golden edge that becomes sharper and clearer as the sun approaches the horizon. Frans stretches up his arms and mutters a prayer. He reverently bows his head, spreads his arms wide and sings a psalm. He makes up the words himself. He mumbles a mixture of Dutch and Malay.
His singing permeates far over the landscape. As the sun breaks through Schubert stretches out in full length, becomes more and more excited and waves wildly with his arms. He no longer sings, he screams and calls the Lord. Then he ends with a long prayer in Malay. At the same time, the phone starts ringing loudly. I grab the mouthpiece hurriedly and press the thing firmly against my ear and at the same time watch Schubert closely.
He still prays. Sergeant Major Aalbersen wants to know whether there is anything special to report. I am looking for help. Schubert has finished praying. Now he turns toward me. For the first time I see him face to face.
His wild hair, big, wild eyes, twitches on his face, his head half sunken in his shoulders. Did you see the Light, the Great Majesty? Did you see God also? He is glorious. Then I tell him that he should send someone quickly. I greatly desire my breakfast. Is this to your liking?
He nods and sits down but I stay put and wait anxiously for the arrival of the Major. Ten minutes later I see him arriving with another six men. He climbs up the steel ladder and when he sees Schubert he understands everything. Come along. On the way to our barracks I maintain a short distance behind the Major.
I whisper to him what I experienced, tapping my temple with my index finger. He understands. Since then I have not seen Schubert again. We hear of the enormous nighttime naval battle in the Sunda Straight on the other side of the island Madoera. Dutch warships with dimmed lights surprised the unsuspecting Japanese fleet that was anchored there and shot left, right and centre at every shadow.
A number of enemy ships were sunk or set on fire. This went so quickly that in the confusion, the Japanese started firing on their own ships. On the other side of Sunda Straight our fleet turned around to sail back to create even more confusion. On that occasion, Hr. Some had a chance to swim to the coast. Oil storage sites in Tarakan and Balikpapan in Borneo were set on fire by the Dutch in advance of the enemy setting foot on shore.
At this moment the Japanese are moving in the direction of Singapore. But both were caught and sunk in a salvo of torpedoes. It is about this time that I am designated to stand guard at the coast of Madoera Straight. I remember that day well. It was Thursday, February 26, in the afternoon that I was on my way to the tambaks together with Jan Huisman.
It had rained all night and at this moment it is still pouring from the sky, as it can only rain in the tropics. Heavily clad in an oil skin and wind breaker, we walk along the winding paths that end in an open gap between tall shrubs on the edge of the forest. So far, the rain does not bother us much. But now, as we are on the point of leaving the forest, we miss the natural rain cover of the jungle and descend along the dense thicket in which a heavy machine gun is hidden.
Five metres further away are the tambaks, in the middle of a terrible downpour. With difficulty we follow the narrow path over a narrow dyke between two tambaks, that leads us to the pillboxes. Once we arrive at our destination, we relieve the two men and take their place.
Inside we close the steel door. We dispose of our oil skins and windbreakers and lay down our clothes, wet as they are, on a couch at the back of the outer door. Our new abode is small and round but spacious enough for two more people. In front of us two small machine guns poke out through long narrow slots. We take charge of the weapons, sit behind them, and try to look through the small elongated gaps. We practice a little bit by moving the machine guns back and forth to see how far we can go if the enemy ever tries to attack us.
We feel relatively safe inside except that hundreds of mosquitoes begin to sense our presence. I am the commander of this post and report by telephone simply by lifting the handset. Everything is therefore in order. But pay attention now. Count the ships as far as you can see and report what you can observe and what you have seen. I will let you know this as soon as possible. I will count the ships. We still have a few hours according to my watch. We pull our oil skins and windbreakers back on, open the heavy door and get out in the pouring rain, first to flee the mosquitoes and secondly to get some fresh air.
A curtain of rain hampers our vision. In front of us flows the sea of the Madoera Strait but there is nothing to be seen of the island itself. The gray mass of rushing rain water obscures our vision. It is about ten minutes past six when we see the foremost cruiser gliding silently through the curtain of water.
First the bow and slowly the entire ship. Then four more cruisers followed by nine destroyers. We counted them all. Fourteen ships altogether. Like a gigantic water snake, this little fleet passes silently to encounter the enemy.
There will only be a few of those guys left. They know it. Our navy is heroic. And what amazes me is how they have the courage to deal with the knowledge that this will be a lost battle. This means going to your death like it or not. At sea you cannot dig in and seek cover. You cannot retreat and take a different position elsewhere. For hour after hour the target is your steel fortress where you are buried and fire back. It is you or the enemy. And the enemy is great in number. The marines are only a handful.
We must admire the courage of these guys. But we will do our best. We go back into the pillbox and I hastily phone the Major. He agrees with me that it takes great courage to take on a naval battle against an enemy ten times stronger. Then he pauses for a while, thanks me for the information and puts the mouthpiece on the hook. A few days later the radio tells the latest news.
We have undertaken a huge sea battle. All our ships have sunk, but the Japanese have had to pay for their victory. We were all deeply impressed by this titanic battle. This will be the end of everything. A matter of a few days and then ……? What will happen to us? Frits Kramer has already given up hope. Wim Roozenboom and Simon Bronkhorst also think that way. Tommie Sanders believes that our Navy has set the right example. We will have to fight to the last man.
Disagreements arise until Gert Verstraten intervenes and says:. We are too few in number but we will fight. Everyone will do the best he can, until it is our turn to die, just like those Marines. This depends on our superior. What is he going to do? What will the native militia do? I am sure they will desert. There are more people who want to do this.
But we will stand together. We must stand together, you and you and you and me. Brittanje Britain, Britannia. Brussels Brussels. Bulgaar Bulgarian. Bybel Bible. Calvinis Calvinist. Carthaags Carthaginian. Chinees n. Christelik Christian ly , Christianlike. Christen Christian. Christin Christian woman. Christus Christ. Coliseum Coliseum, Colosseum. Deen Dane. Desember December. Diets Middle Dutch; Pan-Dutch. Dinsdag Tuesday. Donau Danube. Donderdag Thursday.
Duitser German. Egiptenaar Egyptian. Egipties Egyptian. Elsasser Alsatian. Engels n. English; Anglican Church. Engelsman Englishman. Eskimo Eskimo Esquimau. Europeaan European. Europees European. Fascis Fascist. Februarie February. Fenicies n. Filistyn Philistine. Fin Finn, Fin lander. Fingo Fingo. Frankryk France. Fransman Frenchman. Gamsgeslag Native s. Geloftedag Day of the Covenant. Germaan Teuton. God god, idol. Goddelik divine, godlike, sublime. Golfstroom Gulf-stream. Goot Goth. Goties n.
Griek Greek. Griekwa Griqua. Hebreeus n. Heiland Saviour. Helleens n. Hemelvaart Ascension. Hercules Hercules. Here vide Heer. Hindoe Hindu Hindoo. Hollander Hollander, Dutchman. Hollands n. Hongaar Hungarian. Hongaars Hungarian. Hugenoot Huguenot. Iberies Iberian. Ier Irishman; pl. Iers n. Indiaan Red Indian. Indies Indian. Indonesies Indonesian. Iraans Iranian. Islam Islam. Israeliet Israelite. Italiaan Italian. Jan tuisbly met - se kar ry, stay at home. Januarie month of January. Japannees Japanese.
Japanner Japanese, Jap. Javaan Javanesc. Jobsgeduld Job's patience. Jobstyding Job's news, message of ill-luck. Julie month of July. Junie month of June. Kaapprovinsie Cape Province. Kaapstad Cape Town. Kaatjie chatterbox; kaatjie van die baan, cock of the walk. Kanadees Canadian. Kapenaar Capetonian; inhabitant of Cape Province. Karoo Kar r oo. Kaspies die -e See, the Caspian Sea. Roman Catholic. Kaukasies Caucasian.
Kelties Celtic, Gaelic. Kersaand Christmas-Eve. Kersboom Christmas-tree. Kersdag Christmas -Day. Kersfees Christmas. Kersmis Christmas. Kersvakansie Christmas-holidays. Klaas Vaak Willie Winkie, sandman. Klein Duimpie Tom Thumb. Korana Korana. Koreaans n. Korean Corean. Kosak Cossack. Kreool Creole. Kretenser Cretan.
Kretie die - en Pletie, ragtag and hobtail. Laplander Lapp, Laplander. Latyn Latin. Let Lett. Letlands Latvian, Lettish. Letties Lettish, Latvian. Litauer Lithuanian. Londenaar Londoner. Luthers Lutheran. Maandag Monday. Maart n. Macedonies Macedonian.
Magjaar Magyar. Maleier Malay. Maleis Malay. Marokkaans Moroccan. Marokko Morocco. Marseille Marseilles. Marxisme mas mast; pole gymnastics. Masbieker Mozambiquer. Mei May. Mekka Mecca. Messias Messiah. Metodis Methodist. Midde-Afrika Central Africa. Middellandse - See, Mediteranean Sea. Milaan Milan. Mohammedaan Mohammedan.
Mongool Mongol, Mongolian. Moskou Moscow. Nagmaal Holy Communion. Namakwa Namaqua. Napels Napels. Napo1itaans Neapolitan. Nasarener Nazarene. Nasaret Nazareth. Neger negro. Nieu-Guinea New Guinea. Nieu-Seeland New Zealand. Noag Noah. Noor Norwegian. Noord-Amerika North America.
Noordpool North Pole. Noordsee North Sea, German ocean. Noorman Northman, Norseman. Noors Norse, Norwegian. Nuwejaar New Year. Nuwejaarsdag New Year's day.
Soldaat van Oranje is de meest succesvolle musical die ooit in Nederland op de planken is gebracht. Voor het zevenjarige jubileum van de musical Soldaat van Oranje treden zeven ''generaties'' Erikken samen op tijdens het Soldaat van Oranje - Rogier van Otterloo Soundtrack boeijen Slotapplaus bij de ste Soldaat van Oranje.
Musicalsites TV musicalnieuws. Soldaat van Oranje Musical - 6. Wolk In De Verte Musicalsongs6. Nummer 8 op de originele cd. Ik bezit geen enkel recht van dit lied. Als je Rehearsal footage showing projection, large panel screens and audience revolve of the musical drama based on Eric Zedenpreek uit de Musical Soldaat van Oranje.
Van het originele Castalbum. Alle rechten gaan naar de personen die dit Afgelopen zaterdag 30 oktober vierden we ons 11 jarig jubileum! Kijk hier het sfeerverslag van deze bijzondere dag terug. Ieder jaar wordt Bevrijdingsdag feestelijk afgesloten met het 5 mei-concert op de Amstel in Amsterdam.
Op 5 mei vieren we dat we Soldaat van oranje - als wij niets doen - jaar koninkrijk slotfeest betere versie susanne ter braak. Weergaven Lezen Bewerken Brontekst bewerken Geschiedenis. Gebruikersportaal Snelcursus Hulp en contact Doneren. Links naar deze pagina Gerelateerde wijzigingen Bestand uploaden Speciale pagina's Permanente koppeling Paginagegevens Deze pagina citeren Wikidata-item.
Wikimedia Commons. English Frysk Koppelingen bewerken. TheaterHangaar op vliegveld Valkenburg bij Leiden. Soldaat van Oranje. Vliegkamp Valkenburg. Fred Boot Robin de Levita. Matteo van der Grijn. Matteo van der Grijn , Jord Knotter alternate. Stefan Rokebrand , Dorian Bindels. Dorian Bindels , Niels Gooijer. Dorian Bindels , Jonathan Demoor. Dorian Bindels , Thomas Cammaert.
Valentijn Benard , Jonathan Demoor alternate. Theo Martijn Wever , Alex van Bergen. Alex van Bergen , Alexander Schuitema. Debbie Korper , Wivineke van Groningen. Sylvia Poorta Barbara Pouwels. Nico de Vries , Bart de Vries. Bart de Vries , Edwin de Vries alternate. Bart de Vries , Nico de Vries alternate. Nico de Vries , Maarten Wansink. Raymond Paardekooper , Paul R. Kooij , Nico de Vries. Peter Tuinman Raymond Paardekooper. Reinier Bulder , Peter Bolhuis. Raymond Paardekooper , Genio de Groot.
Margreet Boersbroek. Melissa Drost. Melissa Drost , Margreet Boersbroek. Jennifer van Brenk. Sandra Jonkman. Cathalijne de Sonnaville. Dominique De Bont. Boy Ooteman. Thijs Steenkamp , Boy Ooteman. Thijs Steenkamp. Thijs Steenkamp , Xander van Vledder. Zjon Smaal. Sjoerd Oomen.
Dennis Willekens. Marcel Harteveld. Ludo van der Winkel. Jim Leijen. Loes Haverkort , Marlijn Weerdenburg. Linde van den Heuvel. Loes Haverkort , Bente van den Brand. Linde van den Heuvel , Melissa Drost. Eva van der Post. Willemien Dijkstra. Anne Lamsvelt. Christine de Boer , Anne Lamsvelt. Christine de Boer , Karolien Torensma. Karolien Torensma , Anne Lamsvelt. Sophie Schut.
Mirtele Snabilie. Lotta Sophie Bakker. Margo Verhoeven. Marle Martens. Lisse Knaappen. Julia Lammerts. Reinier Demeijer. Robbert van den Bergh , Oren Schrijver. Robbert van den Bergh. Kevin Schoonderbeek. Ayal Oost. Thomas Cammaert , Ayal Oost. Roel Dirven. Lars Mak. Thijs Miedema. Reinier Schimmel. Rutger Bulsing. Rutger Bulsing , Jorrit Ruijs.
Roel Dirven , Jorrit Ruijs.
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