As the last shot rang out the air was heavy with the smell of gunfire. And death. The young bodies lay crumpled on the sand. Several had managed to climb the bamboo fence only to be shot as they reached the top, ending their lives almost as quickly as the others. Some of the teenage women had clung desperately to one another, engulfed by their fear and the knowledge of sure death.
The majority of the dead teenagers were of mixed extraction and had been specifically selected by the Cuban
Komandant
. Although his original intention had been to use them as an ongoing pool of entertainment for his men, he was just as satisfied that they had fulfilled this purpose as he witnessed the drunken guerrillas laughing like children, staggering up to the dead bodies still firing aimlessly at the broken remains. By keeping them occupied and distracted he knew that his men would not be so homesick. There was always the possibility they might revolt in this desolate place so far from their own homeland.
He understood his men's capacity for bloody violence. They had been killing black Africans for more than two years when they were ordered to this remote and desolate country.
No longer amused the group moved away leaving the murdered girls' bodies bunched together in a grotesque pantomime of horror, their faces wide eyed in death, reflecting their last moments of terror. When the soldiers finally left and they then felt safe, the villagers slowly approached the carnage, the occasional cry of anguished relatives being the only sound evident as one by one they identified their children. Carefully, lovingly, the small bodies were lifted and carried to an area near a copse of palms, where they were washed then covered with cloth before being placed in a common grave.
Even before news of the massacre had reached the international press there had been mumblings amongst the Timorese that the Cubans must leave their land. Umar doubted if even the entire FRETILIN army could muster sufficient courage to disband the Cuban guerrillas. They didn't seem to care whom they killed, just as long as they were killing someone, or something.
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Upon arrival in Kupang Umar was disappointed to learn that the group he'd sought had already departed, causing him to lose track of them for several days. He then discovered they had hired a jeep and headed in the direction of Atambua. He followed.
And then he lost them again. Information concerning their movements was scarce and unreliable but finally he managed to reestablish the general direction they'd taken from some of the village men who had carried equipment for the foreigners with cameras. The group had taken guides and crossed the border this time heading for the small town of Memo. There were no others who matched the general description of these men and their equipment.
Umar Suharjo followed their trail. It hadn't been all that difficult in the end. These foreigners were obviously not professional soldiers as they had left a trail impossible to miss. Villagers had eagerly pointed out the direction the foreign men had taken. Umar felt positive that these men had to be the journalists and cameramen he'd been tracking. After Memo he followed them towards the village of Balibo.
Umar was concerned. During the night he had heard the heavy exchange of fire. He was surprised that the foreigners were heading towards the battle scene.
â
Bodoh semua!
' he'd thought, believing that the men would have no understanding whatsoever of the dangers and risks they were exposing themselves to in the search for their news stories.
It had become hot and very humid again as Umar stopped to talk to an old farmer living alone in an isolated hut. He confirmed that the men he was following were not too far away as they had passed by less than half an hour before. The previous village headman had insisted that the group was only two or three hours ahead. He increased his pace while consciously preparing himself for an ambush. So far there had been nothing to restrict his movements as he'd not seen nor heard any evidence of any hostile elements for hours.
He arrived at the clearing leading into the village, the track well worn, the soil turning from dusty brown gradually into a typical sandy colour as it meandered through the coconut palms and thatched roofed houses. He could hear shouts and harsh commands in the distance.
Finally, there they were! He could see that they still carried their cameras and were dressed in a mixture of military jungle greens and civilian wear.
Umar knew this assignment left no room for error. There might be only one window of opportunity and his training demanded that he wait patiently for that perfect moment, using the element of surprise and cover.
To his bewilderment they appeared to have met up with or were being escorted by soldiers. Suddenly, he could no longer see any of them. He was becoming annoyed with the wait but reminded himself to be patient. He had to be sure. The timing had to be perfect. He understood that he had to get them all. There could be no witnesses.
Loud voices drifted in his direction as the group moved back into view.
Umar concentrated on the team members waving their hands and arms angrily as he observed their reluctance to continue, for some reason not apparent to him. He continued to watch and wait, expecting that at any time an opportunity could present itself. They were finally all together, and he guessed that they were about to make camp or at least rest.
He moved quickly. The canvas strap now held the weapon firmly as his left elbow confirmed its position, providing the necessary support as he moved it across slowly from right to left. They were somewhere within the village amongst the mud-walled huts. Umar followed the noises the group made as they argued loudly.
Squatting just a short distance from the small village compound he glimpsed several of the men moving around. Suddenly one raised his hands while calling out loudly as a second foreigner attempted to constrain yet another figure holding a rifle.
Yelling and shouting continued for some minutes and Umar was surprised that he understood some of the muffled voices, identifying them as Indonesian. Umar assumed that a dispute had broken out between these foreigners and one of the Indonesian soldiers.
He could now see the angry soldier standing directly in front of the tall, fair foreigner, a rifle pointed directly at the
bulé's
chest as he screamed abuse at the unarmed man. He could not hear all of the exchange, but from the yelling it was apparent that someone was uncontrollably angry. There were more shouts, this time accompanied by the sound of blows. And cries for help.
Suddenly they all disappeared from view. Umar could hear the men moving away as the abuse continued, intermingled with an array of foreign words he could not understand.
It sounded as if someone was in severe pain. He decided to take advantage of the distraction, running quickly along the outside of the perimeter trees ahead of where he thought the voices were leading, his machine pistol ready to execute them all with one quick but deadly burst, should the opportunity arise.
He had to complete the task before these men were taken into custody. If necessary, he would also kill the soldiers, Umar decided, but was more than reluctant to engage the Indonesians alone.
If only he'd brought the grenades!
Puffing from the sudden exertion he hesitated, and was about to break into the clearing when suddenly there was gunfire from behind the adjacent hut. He froze, throwing himself to the ground. Umar waited. There were shots.
He counted. Two, three, four! Someone had fired four shots. He lay very still and listened. The shooting had ceased. A few minutes passed and, through the trees, he could see the man quite clearly, dressed in an assortment of military combat gear, re-holstering his pistol as he strutted back towards a small group of men. Probably an officer, Umar judged. Having heard the gunfire the other soldiers had suddenly appeared, their rifles carried at the ready to protect the man with the revolver. There were at least fifty, maybe more, he counted quickly, pleased he had wisely decided not to fire upon them. Then he heard more shouts from the foreigners.
The situation had become unclear and very dangerous. He knew he would have to postpone his move until the soldiers had moved away. It was obvious that there was some serious problem between the newsmen and this group he suspected were Indonesian soldiers. He thought it was idiotic for them not to be wearing their own distinguishing shoulder flashes and berets as it was just as likely that one of their own would shoot them by mistake if, in fact, they were Indonesian regulars. They certainly carried themselves and behaved like the soldiers he knew!
He was concerned that there was now very little noise coming from the men he'd followed. Umar decided that he had to get even closer to investigate. There were only a few more days left in which to complete this mission. He could wait a little longer if he missed this opportunity, which now seemed likely, as they appeared to have been locked inside one of the village huts. He guessed that they would be well guarded. That would make it very difficult as he surely wished to be able to escape after he'd completed the task.
Another twenty minutes elapsed and he could no longer hear their voices. He suppressed the urge to crawl closer. The foreigners did not reappear and this confused Umar Suharjo. Could they have slipped away? He was concerned that if they hadn't been detained then perhaps the journalists may have been ordered out of the village and left, parting company with the soldiers proceeding through the other side of the village while he had waited for them to emerge.
“
Sialan!
” he muttered.
Moving quickly, he retreated fifty metres then circled around behind the huts where they had disappeared from his view. As he approached slowly to the right of the shabby dwellings he could see one of the camera cases.
Clutching his weapon while edging towards the huts. Umar noted the sudden absence of soldiers and, taking advantage of the lack of security, he moved quietly around the second hut and prepared to fire as they came into view. His finger had all but squeezed the trigger when he stopped and gaped in astonishment. He could not believe his eyes. There were bodies strewn across the dirt leading into the shelter. The bodies of foreigners! There were three slumped outside in the small yard and the partly obscured body of another in the doorway. He counted. He shook his head in disbelief. That stupid Indonesian officer had executed them himself!
Completely bewildered and for the first time in many years, Umar Suharjo panicked. He just could not believe what had happened. And then he suddenly felt a cold chill pass down his spine. Did Seda send out a backup assassination team? Or did the young Indonesian officer just take matters into his own hands?
“
Sialan
,” he growled to himself again, cursing nobody in particular. Suddenly, he wasn't sure what to do. If the General had, in fact, sent out a second team then obviously his own days and usefulness had come to an end. He was suddenly shaken by the thought.
On the other hand, had the execution been carried out by the young officer on his own volition then he could claim responsibility and the General would still be pleased as the result was the same. In fact, better.
Umar considered this possibility and decided against it, coming to the conclusion that he should advise the General that the journalists were dead and leave it at that. Best not to lie to Seda. Not now. Not ever. Not if one wished to remain alive and healthy! He looked inside the hut quickly to check the remaining bodies, still counting. Three, four...
And then he discovered another, and potentially more serious problem. There were still two missing. Quickly searching the other huts he found nothing. Now he was very concerned. There was obviously a large number of Indonesian soldiers around the village area and he'd lost sight of the remaining foreigners. Umar scouted the perimeter of the area until he identified a number of men moving away to the west. There were, from what he could make out through the undergrowth, far more soldiers than he had originally thought. It was very confusing.
And then he saw them. They were flanked on either side by well armed escorts. The two men he'd been searching for, their hands tied behind their backs, moved forward with the column of soldiers. Umar cursed silently again, confounded by the new complication. He had no choice but to follow them.
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The column moved quickly, heading away from the hills. The vegetation changed. Coconut trees along the path indicated that they were heading towards the sea. The soldiers weren't wasting any time, he observed, as the line marched away quickly with the two prisoners positioned towards the centre of their captors' file. They moved well, obviously attempting to meet a deadline or some predetermined rendezvous down towards the ocean as Umar could now sense that they were not too far from the coastline.
Occasionally one of the two prisoners would fall only to be pulled up roughly onto his feet, forcing him back into the long line of men. They pushed on, maintaining their pace for several hours. He could see that the foreigners were exhausted, obviously not equipped for such strenuous physical exertion. After some time they rested briefly before continuing.
Umar was surprised at the pace these soldiers set. He cursed when they didn't slow as he desperately needed rest. His body ached as old wounds sent signals to his tired muscles that he was no longer the young soldier who could easily cope with the demands of a forced march such as this. He wanted to rest but knew that it was not possible. He had to follow.