the assets it did manage to have on the ground had a similar profile to A-6.
She didn’t stand out. In many respects, she was unimpressive, being of average height and weight. She was neither ugly nor particularly attractive. She spoke Indonesian like a local. She also had a deep love of her adopted country, Australia, and an equally deep sadness for what she believed Indonesia had become. A-6 wrapped another ear in newsprint and handed it to the soldier, who rudely flicked a note at her.
A truck ground to a halt in front of her stall, blowing a cloud of road grit into her face. A couple of soldiersjumped down from the cabin. They were the Kopassus, the elite. She’d been wary of these men from the start. They were haughty, dangerous.
She knew one of them well. He put his face close to her so that she could smell his sour breath and demanded half a dozen cobs in that sneering way of his. She smiled helpfully, trying hard not to let her resentment or her fear show, and handed him the corn. He didn’t pay; he never did. He just turned and swaggered back to the truck.
She cast her mind back to their first meeting. It had been at night and she had heard screams coming from an alley. She went to investigate and came upon a young woman lying naked on the ground, a Kopassus soldier holding her face in the mud as he rammed into her. A-6 started yelling at the man to get off. Another soldier came out of the shadows and grabbed her arm. A knife was under her throat. She felt the sharp edge against her skin and smelled the oil on the blade. She looked down and saw that his pants were undone and his fly was open. He’d either had his turn, or was about to have it.
The soldier with the knife recognised her as the woman who sold corn in front of the barracks. He forced her against a wall, grabbed a handful of hair and hacked away at it with his knife, pulling out whole handfuls of it by the roots. He did it smiling through her pleadings and then her screams.
He said it was fortunate for the woman under his corporal that the ‘corn cob girl’, as he called her, had happened along. They didn’t have to kill her now, he said, waving the dagger at the woman on the ground, because each was a hostage for the other. A-6 suddenly realised that he was right. If she managed to find a sympatheticpoliceman prepared to investigate, someone who wasn’t afraid of the army – and that was unlikely, she reminded herself – then the soldier would kill the woman in the mud, thereby disposing of the evidence. And if the victim complained, then she, the corn cob girl, would be killed. More than likely, in either event they’d both end up dead. Ripping out her hair was merely underlining the assertion that he meant what he said. But her intervention had been stupid because she’d ceased to be anonymous. But what could she have done, she admonished herself, ignored what was going on?
A-6 remembered that particular soldier, the sergeant with smallpox scars covering his round face. Her hair grew back but her fear of him remained. She learned from other soldiers that his name was Marturak, Sergeant Marturak. She called him ‘Sergeant Melon’ after the large, evil-smelling durian that had similarly rough skin. Every morning Sergeant Melon took corn from her stall, often taunting and jeering at her about her plain, unattractive appearance.
Indonesia seemed full of men like Sergeant Melon, men who had achieved power and used it as an excuse to threaten and bully others. She was sure, however, that her father, a colonel in the Indonesian army, had not been like this pig. He had commanded an artillery regiment. A-6 often talked to her mother about him. He had been a highly decorated soldier who had fought the Japanese during the war, and the Dutch imperialists after it. He was not a politician or a warmonger, he just believed in Indonesia, strong and independent.
Then things started to go wrong. The Communists in the army were getting bolder. The
She didn’t stand out. In many respects, she was unimpressive, being of average height and weight. She was neither ugly nor particularly attractive. She spoke Indonesian like a local. She also had a deep love of her adopted country, Australia, and an equally deep sadness for what she believed Indonesia had become. A-6 wrapped another ear in newsprint and handed it to the soldier, who rudely flicked a note at her.
A truck ground to a halt in front of her stall, blowing a cloud of road grit into her face. A couple of soldiersjumped down from the cabin. They were the Kopassus, the elite. She’d been wary of these men from the start. They were haughty, dangerous.
She knew one of them well. He put his face close to her so that she could smell his sour breath and demanded half a dozen cobs in that sneering way of his. She smiled helpfully, trying hard not to let her resentment or her fear show, and handed him the corn. He didn’t pay; he never did. He just turned and swaggered back to the truck.
She cast her mind back to their first meeting. It had been at night and she had heard screams coming from an alley. She went to investigate and came upon a young woman lying naked on the ground, a Kopassus soldier holding her face in the mud as he rammed into her. A-6 started yelling at the man to get off. Another soldier came out of the shadows and grabbed her arm. A knife was under her throat. She felt the sharp edge against her skin and smelled the oil on the blade. She looked down and saw that his pants were undone and his fly was open. He’d either had his turn, or was about to have it.
The soldier with the knife recognised her as the woman who sold corn in front of the barracks. He forced her against a wall, grabbed a handful of hair and hacked away at it with his knife, pulling out whole handfuls of it by the roots. He did it smiling through her pleadings and then her screams.
He said it was fortunate for the woman under his corporal that the ‘corn cob girl’, as he called her, had happened along. They didn’t have to kill her now, he said, waving the dagger at the woman on the ground, because each was a hostage for the other. A-6 suddenly realised that he was right. If she managed to find a sympatheticpoliceman prepared to investigate, someone who wasn’t afraid of the army – and that was unlikely, she reminded herself – then the soldier would kill the woman in the mud, thereby disposing of the evidence. And if the victim complained, then she, the corn cob girl, would be killed. More than likely, in either event they’d both end up dead. Ripping out her hair was merely underlining the assertion that he meant what he said. But her intervention had been stupid because she’d ceased to be anonymous. But what could she have done, she admonished herself, ignored what was going on?
A-6 remembered that particular soldier, the sergeant with smallpox scars covering his round face. Her hair grew back but her fear of him remained. She learned from other soldiers that his name was Marturak, Sergeant Marturak. She called him ‘Sergeant Melon’ after the large, evil-smelling durian that had similarly rough skin. Every morning Sergeant Melon took corn from her stall, often taunting and jeering at her about her plain, unattractive appearance.
Indonesia seemed full of men like Sergeant Melon, men who had achieved power and used it as an excuse to threaten and bully others. She was sure, however, that her father, a colonel in the Indonesian army, had not been like this pig. He had commanded an artillery regiment. A-6 often talked to her mother about him. He had been a highly decorated soldier who had fought the Japanese during the war, and the Dutch imperialists after it. He was not a politician or a warmonger, he just believed in Indonesia, strong and independent.
Then things started to go wrong. The Communists in the army were getting bolder. The
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