January 12, 1929
Batavia, Dutch East Indies
That morning began like so many others that had repeated themselves for decades in this city. Sparrows chirped in the trembesi trees lined neatly along the streets. Horse-drawn carriages passed slowly, their wooden wheels creaking over cobblestones still damp with dew. Street vendors arranged their goods, while colonial office clerks hurried along in their white suits, as if the world had never changed.
Yet that calm was only a thin veil covering embers that had long been burning.
Within hours, Batavia turned into hell.
Artillery explosions shook the air. The thunder came from all corners of the city—Meester Cornelis, Weltevreden, and even the outskirts of the old town. Each blast struck like a slap of reality, announcing that war had arrived. The first targets were KNIL outposts that had long stood arrogantly as symbols of colonial power.
Bursts of machine-gun fire followed, ricocheting off stone building walls. Streets once filled with civilians now lay empty, replaced by the smoke of gunpowder and screams. From narrow alleys and behind windows emerged the freedom fighters. They moved swiftly, trained, and organized. Many wore KNIL uniforms, helmets, even identical boots. The only difference was the red-and-white armband on their right arms—a simple strip of cloth that now meant life or death.
Cries of “Merdeka!” mixed with shouted commands in Dutch, Malay, and various European accents. This was no spontaneous uprising. This was a war long in preparation, and today Batavia was its main stage.
At Koningsplein, the heart of the city, the battle reached its peak. The vast field usually used for parades and celebrations turned into a killing ground. Bullets whistled low, striking statues, trees, and human bodies. KNIL troops attempted to form defensive lines, sheltering behind sandbags and light armored vehicles.
“Attack! From the seven o’clock direction!” shouted a Dutch lieutenant, his face flushed with anger and fear. He swung his arm, ordering the Ambonese KNIL troops under his command to concentrate their fire. The soldiers obeyed, their rifles barking, but their targets were often nothing more than fast-moving shadows behind rubble.
On the other side of the field, behind a wall shattered by the initial barrage, a dark-brown-haired man with sharp deep-blue eyes knelt, steadying his breath. His face was hard, carved by experiences of war far from this land. He was Heinrich Neumark.
A Major among the freedom fighters, Heinrich was not a native. A Germanic accent still clung to his speech, though the Malay he used was nearly flawless. He was one of hundreds of foreign sympathizers who had come to this land years earlier—former soldiers and political fugitives who chose to take up arms alongside the people of the Indies.
Beside him, a native man of medium build with vigilant eyes reloaded his rifle magazine. His name was Handoko, a captain and Heinrich’s loyal adjutant. Sweat streamed down his temples, mixing with dust and soot.
“Commander, they’re trying to encircle us from the east!” Handoko said briefly.
Heinrich nodded, his eyes scanning the battlefield. His men were scattered, taking cover behind ruins, pinned down by relentless KNIL fire. He knew they needed something to break the enemy’s defenses—something bigger.
“Ayub! Muchlis!” Heinrich shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Request artillery fire support!”
The two men immediately crawled toward a safer position. Strapped to their backs were portable communication devices—heavy and cumbersome, yet the lifeline between the front line and the rear. Ayub, his hands slightly trembling but trained, opened the communication panel. Muchlis began furiously cranking the generator pedal, sweat pouring down his face.
“Yes, Captain!” Ayub replied.
The hum of the machine filled the small pocket of air among the ruins. Ayub tapped in coded signals, his fingers moving swiftly. Once the connection was established, he spoke briefly and clearly, calling out coordinates based on maps they had studied countless times. Carefully, he shifted the target point several dozen meters away from their own position—a small decision that could save lives.
..
Meanwhile, far south of Batavia, in an area that would later be known as Kuningan, dense trees concealed something just as deadly. Amid thick forest and red soil stood a field artillery post belonging to the freedom fighters. Dozens of 150 mm cannons were lined up neatly, their barrels raised toward the sky like beasts awaiting command.
Every few minutes, the earth trembled from artillery fire. White smoke billowed, then vanished among the foliage.
The communication machine rang sharply. A young operator immediately picked it up, listening intently to Ayub’s voice on the other end. He jotted down the coordinates quickly, double-checking for errors, then ran toward the command tent.
There stood Fritz Rohr, the field artillery commander. The middle-aged man wore a modified KNIL uniform, with a red-and-white armband on his right arm. The rank of Colonel adorned his collar, and his officer’s cap sat tilted. His face was stern, etched with lines of age and experience.
The operator saluted and handed over the coordinates. Fritz scanned them briefly and nodded calmly. There was no doubt in his eyes.
“Prepare the batteries. Target according to these coordinates.” He turned to face each artillery battery commander and issued his firm order.
“Coordinates: minus 6.1755923 south latitude, 106.8270602 east longitude!” Fritz announced the coordinates previously determined by Ayub.
“Yes!!” each commander shouted, immediately instructing their teams to calculate firing angles using the coordinates.
The calculators went to work, measuring distance, computing elevation and firing angles. Numbers were shouted rapidly, written down, then translated into mechanical movements of wheels and levers. Each gun commander ordered HE shells to be loaded.
The artillery crews moved in tense silence. Massive shells were inserted, breeches closed, mechanisms locked. An aide to Fritz—a mixed native-European man named Victor Ruitenbach—stepped forward and saluted.
He wore a KNIL uniform with the rank of Major, his officer’s cap tilted.
“Artillery ready to fire, Colonel!”
Fritz gazed northward, as if he could see Koningsplein from afar.
“Fire!” he said curtly.
Victor turned and shouted loudly. The gun operators pulled the lanyards, and then—
Boom Boom Boom
The sky over Batavia seemed to roar. Salvo after salvo was unleashed, creating waves of sound that rolled through the air.
...
Back at Koningsplein, Heinrich felt a subtle vibration beneath his feet. He looked up, then heard a sound he knew all too well—the roar of artillery shells tearing through the sky.
Whistle whistle
“Take cover!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
The fighters pressed themselves to the ground, taking shelter behind whatever they could find. Other company commanders around the field did the same, yelling similar orders.
The KNIL troops were not so fortunate. Panic spread faster than commands. Some tried to run, others kept firing wildly, unaware of what was about to strike them.
Boom Boom Boom
Screams shattering rumbling
The devastating explosions struck. The ground was ripped apart, forming massive craters. Buildings collapsed, trees were torn from their roots. Human bodies were hurled into the air, destroyed before they could touch the ground. Screams turned into silence in an instant, replaced by the roar of fire and dust.
Heinrich slowly lifted his head. Before him, the KNIL defensive line had been shattered. Thick smoke covered the field, and behind it echoed the remaining cries.
He glanced at the red-and-white armband on his arm, then at Handoko, still alive, his eyes burning with determination.
“This is only the beginning,” he said softly.
Batavia did not fall that day. But for the first time, the city felt that the old power could be shaken. And amid the ruins of Koningsplein, history began to write a new chapter in blood and fire.