In the previous episode, the missionary’s quiet routine was suddenly broken when he came across an armed man at the crossroads outside the mission. At first he thought it was just some drunken fool, but it quickly became clear that something far more serious was unfolding. As silence fell over the town and fear crept into every corner, he and the others realised they were caught in the middle of the Brunei Rebellion, trapped inside the mission while the world outside turned tense, strange, and dangerous.
Just to anticipate a little. When the Rebellion was over, and we tried to return to business as usual, we found that our organist’s absence was going to damage the choir’s performance for the Midnight Mass. Such was our desire to put the fear caused by the Rebellion behind us, that this was now regarded as the greatest single obstacle to our well-being.
I buzzed around, trying furiously to get something in place. In those days, organists were not plentiful. By this time the Army had become the great provider of goods and services to the frightened civilian population. I plucked up courage one afternoon to go to see them. I tackled the soldiers first; they were engaged in a thorough-going football match, fouls and all. I might as well have asked did they know any good astronauts. I got hold of some officers supporting the bar at the Shell Recreation Club. They belonged to the Queen’s Own Highlanders, an amalgam of the Camerons and Seaforths. Massive, muscular Highland chiefs, they were addressing each other as though they were calling out to the ghillies across the glens. This meant that they were oblivious to anyone who did not speak like them.
In time, I penetrated the clamour. “I am looking for a church organist. Do any of your people play?” I explained the mishap to our man. I was considerably cheered when after consulting among themselves they told me that there was one in the battalion. Could I approach him to help out for Christmas? “The trouble is, Padre, he is C of E; he will not be familiar with your Christmas carols”. I explained that we Catholics sang the usual Christmas carols and brushed aside such a trivial objection. Having got so far, I was pole-axed when one of them said quite airily, “Of course he is not here; he is in Singapore”. Just like that. My disappointment did not last. The Army intervened by imposing martial law over Christmas. There was no organist, no choir and no Midnight Mass.
This account is running ahead of the main story but I feel I have to follow it up. Like many other expatriate Shell employees, Mr Martinez decided that Brunei was no longer a safe place to be and left. My contact with him had been really very slight; he was a very reserved person; he came for practices, played at mass up in the organ loft and otherwise was unnoticed. His wife and family were in Singapore. In later years when we reminisced about these times, his name might surface and no more. 30 years later in Perth, I was attending a birthday party of one of our Seria people, who was terminally ill. We had all gone out of loyalty but with sad hearts. I noticed this man sitting all by himself, yet somehow vaguely familiar. My memory was working overtime. Eventually I had to give up and whispered to the lady of the house. She said, “Do you not remember George Martinez?”. I could not believe it was he. I went over to chat with him about those days but found that he was quite deaf and this meant a very restricted conversation. He was still playing and even giving some tuition.
We in the mission were entirely cut off, apart from the occasional phone call. The two riflemen across the road maintained their vigilance. I used to slip into church after dark and from there I had a view of the crossroads. Nothing moved. One night 1 looked out and through the heavy rain I saw this tall figure coming down past the church. He was unusually tall; he seemed to be wearing a tam o’ shanter, he was carrying a stick, or a gun, or a sword. His shoulders were slumped forward against the rain. It could have been a disconsolate Jacobite leaving Culloden. I do not know who he was. But his silhouette fitted the atmosphere of gloom, misery and despair. I felt a shiver up my spine.
That we were not catching up on events became clear when Radio Australia told us that the British Army had landed, had secured the oil field installations and surprise! surprise! all the Europeans were safe! The three of us looked glumly across the table at one another. Our sentries had obviously not been told.
Nevertheless I decided to test it. I found our house confinement intolerable. If outside was deadly, inside was equally so. I thought I might look in at the convent and see how the sisters were surviving. I could have gone through the secondary jungle that separated the two school compounds, but then that could be dangerous. Anyone found walking there would be under suspicion. I thought I will go openly along the road. Once I got free of the house and on to the road, my first thought was, Oh why am I doing this stupid thing? Why did I not stay inside? Now for the first time I was really frightened. With heart beating rapidly I made my deliberate progress to the convent. I rang the doorbell. No reply. Now I leaned on it. Then from upstairs came a voice. “Who are you? What do you want”? I identified myself. After a minute or so, the door was pulled open by Mother John Bosco and I was hauled inside. The sisters were glad to see me and I was glad to see them and to be inside the shelter of the convent. We babbled away, contributing little pieces of news.
They had been worse of than we were; all kinds of people had been hanging around and patrolling. From their speech, they were not local Malays; they were in fact Indonesians from far away in the interior. It had all been a nasty shock for the sisters. The superior, Mother John Bosco, had been interned by the Japanese and like Leo, she too must have had her thoughts of another imprisonment. Her experience however was suficient to comfort the other sisters and enable them to keep everything in perspective. After saying mass for them, I decided it would be a good idea to get back to my own place and not to give Leo any further cause for anxiety. He had not been too happy about my leaving the house. The sisters from upstairs were to give me an all-clear before I could leave. To my consternation, they reported that several men with guns were moving around on the road outside. I needed no persuasion to stay put and then spent the night there. The I sisters have always remembered me for this but for me I think too of their kindness and fellowship. They gave more than I gave to them. Next morning after mass and breakfast, I decided that come what may I should make a move to my own place. We peeped from various windows. There was no sign of anyone. I bid goodbye to the sisters and set of. The road ahead looked clear. I had passed the little hedge which ended the compound when a man stepped out. He had been there unseen by the sisters. And now I had got what my foolhardiness deserved. He ordered me to walk ahead and in the direction of the police station, where by now we knew all the prisoners were being held. Of all the stupid things! to be a prisoner! What good was I now to anyone!
