A new little story that has been on my mind......
1942 (Part 1 – Internment)
Tarakan, Borneo, Dutch East Indies … 12 January 1942
“Name please”
“Moore….Barbara…, Barbara Moore”
“Papers please”
“I…I don’t have any…they…they were taken from me”
He regards me curiously, looking up from the open ledger on the rickety table in front of him – his eyes oddly magnified by his coke-bottle-thick wire-rimmed glasses.
Citizenship?”
“U.S. – American,” I add helpfully.
“Age?”
“Born in 1910 … I am 31”
“Occupation?”
“Teacher … I give English lessons here. By the way, your English is really very good.”
“I studied in California … before the war.”
He writes in his ledger, picks up a round metal disc with a number embossed on it and threads a leather cord through a small hole bored through the top of the disc.
“What is that?” I ask, nervously adjusting my tattered flower print dress. The right sleeve is torn away at the shoulder and hangs uselessly around my wrist. All but two of the buttons down the front have been ripped off, and I hold the loose fabric together over my chest with my left hand. I have no underwear, only the dress. I am wearing leather shoes with moderately high heels.
“It’s your identity disc, Miss Moore,” he responds as he stands up, bows politely and offers it to me.
I take it in my hand, inspecting it closely.
“Wear it around your neck and don’t lose it. The punishment for not having one is severe.”
Letting go of the front of my dress, I brush my long brown hair aside, raise my arms and tie the leather cord behind my neck.
The two sides of my dress separate and his eyes are riveted momentarily on the swells of my partially exposed breasts.
“Where are we being taken?” I ask, hastily pulling the front of my dress together again.
“To an internment camp for western civilians being set up on the main island … about a dozen miles inland, I am told,” he answers.
I look across the strait to the mainland, but can see nothing but dense green foliage.
“How will we get there?”
“You will walk, I suspect. Good luck to you Miss Moore. Please join the others on the barge,” he directs, before turning to the woman behind me and beckoning her forward.
I walk up the gangplank and step onto the rusting hulk along with several dozen other women. We are all westerners and civilians, living and working here at the oil port of Tarakan, situated on an island just off the east coast of Borneo. I recognize most of them; many I know by name. We are a rather mixed lot … quite a number of the women are Dutch, but also a good many are British and Australian; there are a few Americans like myself, and at least one who is French.
Last night the town was attacked around midnight by a Japanese force that came storming ashore. I was awakened by the rattle of gunfire and the concussions of repeated explosions. The battle didn’t last very long. The heavily outnumbered Dutch garrison battalion fought bravely for a while, hurriedly carried out a series of planned demolitions, and then surrendered.
Almost immediately Japanese soldiers began moving through the town, rounding up western civilians. I was dragged from my home, and led along with others to a gathering point down by the docks. The men among us were marched off, to where I do not know.
We women were left behind and handled roughly by the soldiers … pushed around, shoved and knocked about. The front of my dress was ripped open, the right sleeve torn away. We were relieved at gunpoint of any jewelry or wrist watches, as well as our underwear. Arms pinned tightly behind my back, I gasped as the front of my bra was jerked upward until my breasts fell free … then pulled downward with such force that the straps gave way and it was gone. My panties lasted only a second, ripped away in two swift motions.
Nearly naked and trembling with terror, I tried to cover my breasts with one arm and the curly thatch of my bush with my other hand. Thinking we would surely all be raped, I fell to my knees and began to beg, but thankfully an officer intervened and put an end to it. We spent the rest of the night sitting on the pavement under guard.
At dawn they began processing us. Forming us into two lines leading up to a pair of desks manned by uniformed clerks with a ledger. I stood in line for nearly an hour before reaching the front.
Now, with everyone finally processed and aboard, our motorized barge pulls away from the dock and heads for the mainland across the strait. A second barge full of captured Dutch soldiers also pulls away and chugs across the choppy waters slightly ahead and off to one side of us.
I begin to relax a little, but then the horror begins. Japanese soldiers on the other barge suddenly start forcing their Dutch captives into the water, and then open up on the struggling figures with their guns. We watch transfixed as the slaughter goes on for several minutes, and the waters around the other barge turn red with blood and are littered with floating corpses.
An explanation for what is happening is passed to me by the woman behind. Those poor soldiers are being executed by their captors in retaliation for having blown up some of the oil installations.
I come quickly to the alarming realization that the polite American-educated clerk I just met was an aberration. These people are beasts and we are in serious trouble; this can only get worse. Rumors of Japanese atrocities in China swirl through my head. I feel sick, fall to my knees and vomit over the side rail of the barge.
TO BE CONTINUED
1942 (Part 1 – Internment)
Tarakan, Borneo, Dutch East Indies … 12 January 1942
“Name please”
“Moore….Barbara…, Barbara Moore”
“Papers please”
“I…I don’t have any…they…they were taken from me”
He regards me curiously, looking up from the open ledger on the rickety table in front of him – his eyes oddly magnified by his coke-bottle-thick wire-rimmed glasses.
Citizenship?”
“U.S. – American,” I add helpfully.
“Age?”
“Born in 1910 … I am 31”
“Occupation?”
“Teacher … I give English lessons here. By the way, your English is really very good.”
“I studied in California … before the war.”
He writes in his ledger, picks up a round metal disc with a number embossed on it and threads a leather cord through a small hole bored through the top of the disc.
“What is that?” I ask, nervously adjusting my tattered flower print dress. The right sleeve is torn away at the shoulder and hangs uselessly around my wrist. All but two of the buttons down the front have been ripped off, and I hold the loose fabric together over my chest with my left hand. I have no underwear, only the dress. I am wearing leather shoes with moderately high heels.
“It’s your identity disc, Miss Moore,” he responds as he stands up, bows politely and offers it to me.
I take it in my hand, inspecting it closely.
“Wear it around your neck and don’t lose it. The punishment for not having one is severe.”
Letting go of the front of my dress, I brush my long brown hair aside, raise my arms and tie the leather cord behind my neck.
The two sides of my dress separate and his eyes are riveted momentarily on the swells of my partially exposed breasts.
“Where are we being taken?” I ask, hastily pulling the front of my dress together again.
“To an internment camp for western civilians being set up on the main island … about a dozen miles inland, I am told,” he answers.
I look across the strait to the mainland, but can see nothing but dense green foliage.
“How will we get there?”
“You will walk, I suspect. Good luck to you Miss Moore. Please join the others on the barge,” he directs, before turning to the woman behind me and beckoning her forward.
I walk up the gangplank and step onto the rusting hulk along with several dozen other women. We are all westerners and civilians, living and working here at the oil port of Tarakan, situated on an island just off the east coast of Borneo. I recognize most of them; many I know by name. We are a rather mixed lot … quite a number of the women are Dutch, but also a good many are British and Australian; there are a few Americans like myself, and at least one who is French.
Last night the town was attacked around midnight by a Japanese force that came storming ashore. I was awakened by the rattle of gunfire and the concussions of repeated explosions. The battle didn’t last very long. The heavily outnumbered Dutch garrison battalion fought bravely for a while, hurriedly carried out a series of planned demolitions, and then surrendered.
Almost immediately Japanese soldiers began moving through the town, rounding up western civilians. I was dragged from my home, and led along with others to a gathering point down by the docks. The men among us were marched off, to where I do not know.
We women were left behind and handled roughly by the soldiers … pushed around, shoved and knocked about. The front of my dress was ripped open, the right sleeve torn away. We were relieved at gunpoint of any jewelry or wrist watches, as well as our underwear. Arms pinned tightly behind my back, I gasped as the front of my bra was jerked upward until my breasts fell free … then pulled downward with such force that the straps gave way and it was gone. My panties lasted only a second, ripped away in two swift motions.
Nearly naked and trembling with terror, I tried to cover my breasts with one arm and the curly thatch of my bush with my other hand. Thinking we would surely all be raped, I fell to my knees and began to beg, but thankfully an officer intervened and put an end to it. We spent the rest of the night sitting on the pavement under guard.
At dawn they began processing us. Forming us into two lines leading up to a pair of desks manned by uniformed clerks with a ledger. I stood in line for nearly an hour before reaching the front.
Now, with everyone finally processed and aboard, our motorized barge pulls away from the dock and heads for the mainland across the strait. A second barge full of captured Dutch soldiers also pulls away and chugs across the choppy waters slightly ahead and off to one side of us.
I begin to relax a little, but then the horror begins. Japanese soldiers on the other barge suddenly start forcing their Dutch captives into the water, and then open up on the struggling figures with their guns. We watch transfixed as the slaughter goes on for several minutes, and the waters around the other barge turn red with blood and are littered with floating corpses.
An explanation for what is happening is passed to me by the woman behind. Those poor soldiers are being executed by their captors in retaliation for having blown up some of the oil installations.
I come quickly to the alarming realization that the polite American-educated clerk I just met was an aberration. These people are beasts and we are in serious trouble; this can only get worse. Rumors of Japanese atrocities in China swirl through my head. I feel sick, fall to my knees and vomit over the side rail of the barge.
TO BE CONTINUED
