Gema: A Trooper's Tale

By Peter Jackson

in 1965 the british special forces (the sas) were active in sarawak and kalimantan....what used to be borneo. 23 years previously gema had been born into a community deep in the borneo jungle totally detached from civilization as we know it. as a teenager she was sent to a catholic community to learn a different way. she learned several languages and learned to read and write but her sense of tribal honor,history, culture and responsibility ran strong in her veins. sergeant major George mudd, a veteran sas trooper with experience in malaya and borneo inserted into the jungle with his troop to investigate a massacre. 20 years later gema is married and living in england with her beautiful daughter. the sas troopers are nearly all retired and taken up new lives. george mudd owns a successful security business specializing in oil field security in the north sea and brunei. the past comes back to life and people begin to die in mysterious circumstances as cultures clash.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Jackson
• Release date: Feb 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465778956

Peter Jackson

A retired single handed sailor with a love of dogs, rugby, golf and family not necessarily in that order. I get more curious as I get older and read books voraciously. I try and make my creations believable with an eye to "description" particularly of those places I've visited personally which is most of the "locales" in my books. I write because I love to write not as a means to pay the bills, although it would be nice as every "author" will tell you. For most, the marketing is far more difficult than the writing. The Irish Whiskey "Writer's Tears" is surely aimed at the marketing, effort not the tale itself. There perhaps is the operative word.....my books are a tale, a yarn. Hopefully something to get lost in. The good guys wear white hats, the bad....black but quite often good is not good and bad is not bad. All will become clear.........even to me as I never know how it's all going to end until the end.....that's the fun of it!

Book preview

PART 1

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Chapter 1

Mahakam River, Borneo. 1965

Wening turned on her thin, rattan, sleeping mat. It was still dark, the night sounds coming through the open shutters. She could see the faint outline of her husband’s chest rising and falling to the rhythm of sleep; hear the gentle snoring of Bapi and Ibu her parents, next door, through the thin, woven wall.

She lay there, unable to get back to sleep, contemplating the day’s work ahead and thinking of how much the family missed the contribution that would have been made by her children if they were still in the Longhouse.

Her husband, Suparman Alatus, hardly let a day go by without bringing up the decision to send their daughter, Gema, north to live with the whites of the long black dresses. These men who had tried to convince them that there was only one God and it was their God. Everyone knew that the God Semangat lived in everything and everyone. Everyone knows that we inherit the souls of our forebears. Who are they to tell us different? but that was eight wet seasons ago. Now, Gema, would be twenty three summers old….a woman.

Was she married, had she been tattooed as was required? Her fingers had been done, the Song Irang, when she was ten. Her forearms should have been done by now but she had left for another life. Suparman had seen her just three years ago on a trip upriver to trade for the iron but here, in the land of the Orang Ulu, there was no news, no travelers……. no more raiders even.

Not since the time the Japanese had come up the river to Long Alat in their strange clothing, with their language that no one could understand, with their weapons…. but that was over twenty years ago. I know, in my heart, that Gema is well and happy, she thought, I’m her mother, the spirits would tell me if all were not well, but what of Susilo?

She sat up, naked, her body tattoos glowing blue in the moonlight. Where are you Susilo, why did you leave?

Her firstborn, Susilo, just two years older than Gema, had always been a problem. He much preferred sitting at his Grandfather’s feet listening to tales of the old days before the Japanese came, tales of the warring between the tribes of the Orang Ulu, tales of the taking of heads and the spirits that came with them to the benefit and protection of the rumah panjai…the Longhouse. He was far more interested in hunting the muntjak, the deer that barks like a dog and their main source of meat, than working in the padi fields alongside everyone else.

Three years ago, in the middle of the dry season, the family sitting in the traditional circle on the tempuan outside their entrance, he had simply said…I’m leaving the village. The following morning he was gone. He was seen heading in the direction of the night star and that was the last they knew or ever heard of him.

She missed her children…….particularly Gema…….who should have been a man…….a warrior of the Kayan. Did she favor Gema over him, is that why he left? It was never spoken of. Gema had always strived to be the best at what she undertook. She was never afraid of work or the commitment, Susilo, on the other hand, always looked for the shortcut......the easy way. She had watched them play fight as was traditional. Gema always seemed to let her brother win even though he was older, bigger and stronger.

She stood up, stretched and stepped into her chawat, the short skirt made of bark, slipped on the old, stained tee shirt her husband had picked up for her on one of his trading trips and walked over to the window. It was still dark, still quite a while before the sun came up over the tree canopy to the east. She could barely make out the shape of the Longhouse against the background of the jungle, a seeming wall of vegetation, home to her people, her clan…….. the Kayan.

The Longhouse was of an average size, housing twenty families in all, with the communal ruai, the common veranda, running the length of the building. Below her, almost twenty feet down, was the soah, the open area in front of the Longhouse, used for larger gatherings and on festival days.

How lucky I am to be the wife of the Tuai Ramah, she thought. The village chieftain traditionally had larger quarters than the rest of the villagers with additional rooms for close family. It would be too crowded if Bapi and Ibu had to live in the same room with us. If Susilo were here he would be either married or living in the bachelor huts and surely Gema would be already married and I would be a grandmother.

She sighed and turned away shaking her head listening to Suparman grunting in his sleep. How can he just sleep like that? She looked at him from the window, as though there is nothing to be concerned about. She gazed at him fondly, middle aged now but still strong and proud. We need meat, at least that will get him out of here for a while with my father. She knelt by the fireside and, blowing on the embers, started the fire to cook the morning meal the smoke rising up through the hole in the roof. The animals below their bilik, the chickens and pigs, started to rouse themselves and she could hear her father moving about in the room next door. The noise woke her husband.

It’s still early, she said, stay there for a while. You’ll be gone soon on the hunt so you might as well enjoy it while you can. He lay back on his mat looking up into the gloom of the rafters through the faint haze of smoke from the morning fire.

The shrunken heads, wrapped in their ritual woven leaves, hanging there looked down on him. They were his father- in- law’s pride, his contribution to the peace of the bilik. He remembered his own father telling him of the tradition and how the soul inhabited the head and how the taking of the head in battle brought that soul into their home and combined with the other spirits to bring peace and prosperity to the family.

He remembered his own father, strong in battle before the longskirts came, adept with the traditional weapons of the Orang Ulu, his father killed by the Japanese for no reason, together with his mother and sister. He remembered the stories, the history of his people, passed down from generation to generation as was the custom, the concept of clan and family, the importance of protecting both, the responsibility for the maintenance of their tradition.

He desperately hoped that he had passed everything down to both his children and that it was sufficient for them to live honorable lives in the tradition of the Kayan. Wening thinks I never worry about Gema and Susilo. How can I discuss this with her? I am a man, I am Tuai, I cannot show this weakness. They are my children, the children of warriors. They will have learned enough at my feet.

The sun came up, seeming to rise out of the very jungle, the heat lying on the village like a blanket, the humidity already almost one hundred percent a background to the early morning chatter of the macaque monkeys as they woke to another day. Down the slope from the rumah panjai the coffee colored river slid by, sinister in its silence and high even in the middle of the dry season, its surface broken only by the odd whirlpool and floating, rotting logs, the far bank crowded by the jungle chaos of central Borneo.

Slowly the village came to life, smoke curling from the breakfast fires, children’s laughter coming from the individual biliks, young men feeding the livestock under the Longhouse.

Tomorrow your father and I will hunt, said Suparman as they sat cross legged on the rattan mat, eating their morning meal from the communal bowls, today we will prepare. He was a short man but muscular, heavy earrings distending his ear lobes, his body covered in traditional tattoos and his teeth blackened and sharpened as was the style of the Orang Ulu……people of the upper river.

I do not know how many days we will be. Your father is getting old now and slower. Wening looked at her father cross legged on the rattan. He was in his sixties, by now extremely old by Dayak standards, his face a mass of wrinkles around his now toothless mouth. He stood now in his chawat.

I am Kayan as were all my forebears. I have fought my enemies as did my father before me, he said looking up at the heads hanging in the rafters, if I cannot keep up you may leave me, he said proudly. Wening stood up and climbed down the notched log to the soah below.

Do not spend all day arguing you two, she called up, you have things to do today before leaving tomorrow. She looked at the ladder and the veranda twenty feet up. My husband is right about my father. I have seen the difficulty he now has climbing up to our bilik, the difficulty he has chewing his food, the looks of pain from wounds sustained years ago…the old way. He is too proud……..but he will hunt tomorrow.

She looked back at the Longhouse that had been her home all her life remembering the times spent with her children Gema and Susilo. The pain of their first tattoos, their first lessons in Silat, the form of martial arts taught to the Kayan, rolling in the dust in the beginning as it was just a game, a game that got to be a daily regimen of offense and defense, discipline and patience as they got older. Each being taught that they were equally responsible for the defense of their community. Each drilled in the old ways……their heritage instilled in them……….Gema always leading the way…..a girl! She looked down the well beaten path to the rice padi by the river. The harvest will be on us soon. Ibu will want to talk about the gawai…….the festival, she thought.

The day passed …..a normal day…..the hot sun marching across the sky as it did every day. Suparman and Bapi spent the time preparing their weapons and discussing the coming hunt for the muntjak.

When we return we must look for the Kawi tree, said Suparman, our family canoe, our pirahu, will not last much longer. We should carve another before the rains. I will look for a tree as close to the water as possible. With your experience, Bapi, you should supervise the carving.

Thank you for your confidence, said Bapi grinning toothlessly at his son in law.

In the distance, into the sun, they could see the flash of the parang blades as villagers attacked the edge of the jungle, a daily battle. If left, the jungle would quickly overrun the clearing and the rice padis leaving only the ironwood stilts of the Longhouse as witness to the clan’s passing. We will take rice for four days, said Suparman, we will leave at first light."

So there passed another day to the rhythm of tranquil village life, to the rhythm of the seasons, the rhythm of the ages.

The sun rose in the sky, baking the sweating land beneath it and quickly settled behind the canopy of the jungle as it did yesterday and would do tomorrow. As night settled on the village so did the night sounds of the jungle interspersed with the happy chatter of the villagers and the laughter of the children all gathered on the raui for the traditional telling and sharing of stories.

The following morning, at that time of day when the world seems to hold its breath, that time between night and day, the sun imminent over the trees to the east……… they came........ six small boats, ten to a boat, quietly from the south against the current, guided by one who knew the way. Six small boats pulling up on the mud to the side of the rice padi. Ten men left to guard the boats, fifty, in line abreast, advancing through the green, knee high rice, advancing on the Longhouse not yet awake to the new day........to the threat......to danger.

Suparman was already awake as was Bapi, moving about the bilik, collecting the cold rice, prepared the previous day for the hunt, trying not to waken Wening. Bapi paused, one foot in the air, holding one finger to his lips. It was quiet but more so than usual this morning. What was missing? The night sounds! Even the animals below the house were quiet. The very jungle seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. Settling to the floor he crawled across to the door and out onto the raui. Looking over the rail he saw them advancing through the rice.

Raiders, he whispered to Suparman, warn the others.

The visitors continued their quiet orderly advance. No traditional dress, no traditional weapons. Green jungle fatigues and boots, well armed, disciplined soldiers.

The sun suddenly burst upon the new day but up behind the menacing line. Up sun….they knew what they were doing. They had almost disappeared in the glare.

The first RPG hit the Longhouse before Suparman could warn anyone, the grenade exploding in a shower of lethal ironwood setting the roof ablaze. Automatic fire raked the building, the thin, woven walls offering no protection. The attackers had divided, ten to the south, ten to the north in a pincer movement cutting off any escape, the remaining thirty coming on at the double. Bapi, bow in hand, slithered down the notched log ladder.

The bullet took him square in the chest as he reached the bottom. His final thought being, we’re short of meat and I won’t be hunting today, then the darkness.

The next few RPG rounds walked down the length of the Longhouse killing most of the clan before any sort of defense could be organized. Wening and Ibu died looking at Bapi crumpled on the red earth made redder by the blood from the huge exit wound in his back. As the remaining families fled the burning building they were cut down by the automatic fire. Some tried to make it to the river but were targeted by the one who seemed to know. Within fifteen minutes it was all over, the visitors splitting up and ensuring that no one was left alive…….no witness. The injured were dispatched with the parang. Their orders were no one was to be spared, no man, no woman no child. Suparman was one of the last. He died, a warrior of the Kayan, charging twentieth century weapons with bow and parang.

They left as quietly as they arrived leaving the bodies where they had fallen, the sun heating the soa in front of the burning Longhouse, the smoke rising high into the windless sky……. a funeral pyre.....the stink of burning flesh filling the air.

The boats ran easily downstream to join the mighty Mahakam flowing south into Kalimantan.

The jungle looked on, came back to life and began its work of recovering what had always been its own.

~ ~ ~

Chapter 2

Kuching, Sarawak several days later.

It had been a long, relatively quiet night, Trooper Jennings looked at the clock on the wall for the twentieth time.

That bloody Irishman is late again, he thought, the night duty watch is bad enough without having to wait for him..... bastard! Jennings was attached to HQ ‘A’ Squadron 22 SAS. Regimental HQ had been moved to Labuan, far to the east, an island off the coast of Brunei but a small detachment had been left in Kuching in support of the four Troops that operated in Western Sarawak and Kalimantan Barat to the south. He knew why he had been detached of course, his Malay was excellent and he had an aptitude for Troop logistics. Still he would have preferred the white beaches and breezes of Labuan.

It was 0815 hours and already hot. The fan, slowly turning in the ceiling, did nothing but move hot air from one end of the room to the other, why in hell are we in a block building? he thought, the bloody walls are still hot from yesterday.

Morning Corp, said O’Hara striding into the office.

Don’t call me Corp you moron, what time of the morning do you call this? said Jennings standing up.

Sorry Corp got held up. O’Hara was always happy probably his most irritating trait, ex Irish Guards but a reliable trooper, loved to fight. Jennings stood up, stretching his back, thinking about breakfast and a shower, not that the water ever got cold.

Jakarta Radio is going on about some massacre over the border, talking about atrocities, claiming we’re responsible, better pass it on to the Captain when he comes in. Might want to recommend we bring in the interpreter too, she might be able to pick up on nuances that I missed, said Jennings.

"Morning Paddy, what are you still doing here Jennings, tea on yet, anything happen during the night we need to know about? Captain Mason stood in the doorway, an averagely tall career soldier, developing a bit of a paunch which he felt obliged to suck in. Fair haired, a chin that receded more than he liked and a moustache he’d been trying to grow for weeks.

Just leaving sir, said Jennings, kettle’s on and Trooper O’Hara can bring you up to speed.

What’s he on about Paddy? said the Captain walking over to his office.

Apparently sir Radio Jakarta is having a rant about an attack on a Kayan village over the border south of Kapit. They’re claiming mass murder and that they have proof it was our blokes, said O’Hara.

Hmmm…….’A’ team has been in that general area for quite a while now, said Mason, trouble is we’ve no communication with them. Probably won’t get to talk to them for another week or so when they slog out so no help there. Keep an ear out and make sure Jennings is kept up to speed. If Jakarta starts making a real noise about it we might want to kick it upstairs, said Mason as though talking to himself, bastards would like nothing better than to make us look bad just now.

Jennings suggested we might bring Gema in….see if she’s heard anything, said Paddy trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible, she could listen to the recording see if he missed anything, might also be a good idea to get a hold of that army newspaper the Indos are printing just now, damn thing seems to be everywhere.

At the mention of Gema’s name Dickie’s mind went back to the day she applied at Regimental HQ for a job as interpreter only a few days after he took command of the troop and just before Regimental HQ was transferred to Labuan far to the east. Lt Colonel Gurney, officer commanding ‘A’ squadron, had suggested he talk to her as they would be leaving an operational intelligence team in Kuching and a multi lingual interpreter might prove to be invaluable. The fact that she was also Kayan might also prove to be a tremendous asset in the team’s attempts to win the hearts and minds of the local population over the border in Borneo.

He remembered her coming into his office. A slim, petite woman dressed in a long black skirt and white blouse buttoned to the neck, more in the Thai style than the traditional bright colors of the Dayak. Her hair was long and jet black, hanging below her waist. As she walked to his desk it swung heavily and shone in the lamplight. Her skin was much lighter than he expected and her features more Eurasian than the Mongol, more typical of her tribe.

Please sit down Miss Suparmanputri. She smiled as she sat down, carefully smoothing her skirt.

Thank you Captain but you might prefer to call me Gema it’s so much less of a mouthful. Her English was excellent, spoken with a lilting sound that made it sound all the more attractive.

She’d told him of her early years spent in the Longhouse, living the traditional life of the Orang Ulu, of her parents and grandparents. She told him of the coming of the missionaries and how her parents had sent her north to learn a new life. She now spoke her native language Butak plus English, Dutch, Malay and a smattering of Mandarin. She could read and write English, Malay and Dutch. Butak had no written language that she knew of. She seemed to have an inner strength. She did not boast of her accomplishments just stated them as fact. She sat there impassively, calmly, only her eyes giving away her excitement

She was twenty three……. she was the most beautiful woman the young captain had ever seen.

He had dinner with her a couple of times. He tried to convince himself he did this to learn more of her culture as he would have teams operating in the vicinity of her old home. In this he was quite correct but the truth was he enjoyed her company and she was a refreshing change to the male dominated regiment……..something soft in a very hard world.

What an enigma she was. She straddled, with ease, two opposing ways of life. The first the one of the twentieth century with the noise, the technology, all the amenities taken for granted the other a quantum step back in time, not just a century or two but back an entire age. Her grandfather, Bapi, still alive and living with her parents, had been a head-hunter before the Japanese occupation. Lord God………. they still had heads hanging in the rafters of their home.

Her father and Bapi still hunted the old way in the Borneo jungle. They had almost no contact with the outside world. She could only remember one contact in the first fifteen years of her life that being when the missionaries came up the river, how she had hidden inside the tree line. She recounted how her father, in the evenings after the communal meal, told the stories of how the raiders came, their interest being the taking of slaves……..and heads.

She remembered her father and grandfather talking of the warrior’s honor, of family, the jungle and the respect they had for the animals that inhabit it. Yet here she was, sitting in a restaurant in Kuching, white linen on the table, self assured, self sufficient having dinner with him, Welbeck College, Sandhurst Academy …….an officer and a gentleman, an enigma indeed!

He thought of the problems if he got involved with her, a serving officer and an indigenous native woman, socially unacceptable at best probably ‘behavior unbecoming’ at worst.

Captain……Captain, O’Hara’s brogue brought him back to the present with a jolt. Would you be wanting me to give herself a call and ask her to come in? Mason