The smell of gunpowder still hung over Batavia when the most decisive decision since the beginning of the uprising was finally carried out. The fighters began clearing the debris around Koningsplein, including fragments of human organs left behind by the earlier artillery bombardment.
After Governor-General Andries Cornelis Dirk de Graeff officially declared his surrender, Heinrich Neumark wasted no time. His face remained cold; military discipline suppressed the euphoria that had begun to rise among the fighters. To him, the victory was not yet complete—this was merely one phase of a long war.
"Carry out the disarmament," Heinrich ordered firmly to the company commanders. "No rough treatment. Arrest, record, secure."
The fighters moved like a perfectly oiled machine. Old Männlicher M1895 rifles, pistols, and heavy KNIL weapons were collected, magazines removed, ammunition confiscated. The remaining colonial soldiers lined up with blank expressions—some angry, some relieved, most defeated before they could even comprehend that history had shifted.
Heinrich then turned to Ayub, who stood near a field communications vehicle newly installed by their combat engineers.
"Contact the rear lines. Report: the Governor-General, along with his family and key political figures, has been captured alive. Request direct instructions from the Supreme Commander."
Ayub gave a brief salute and immediately cranked the communications generator. The mechanical clatter of the telegraph once again became the pulse of the revolution. From Batavia, reports moved swiftly, passing through relay posts and underground cables until they finally reached Headquarters in Kadu Agung, Tangerang Regency.
Meanwhile, Heinrich organized the transfer of the prisoners. Governor Andries, his wife Caroline, his daughter Maria, and several high-ranking colonial officials were loaded into military trucks covered with thick tarpaulins. There were no shouts, no cheers—only the roar of engines and the tense breathing of those who knew their world had collapsed.
"Destination: Buitenzorg," Heinrich said briefly to Günther. "Level-one security."
The escort was assigned to Günther, a European officer known for his discipline and few words. Günther nodded, checked his troops, and climbed into the lead truck. The convoy slowly left Batavia, a city that had just fallen, yet still held embers of war in every corner.
In Buitenzorg, they would be placed under house arrest. Alive, yet confined—a symbol that colonial power was now under their control.
---
Headquarters of the Independence Fighters, Kadu Agung, Tangerang Regency
Southeast of Kadu Agung lay a vast military complex, formerly a KNIL training facility. Ivory-white colonial buildings stood in neat rows, with tall windows and red-tiled roofs. Now, colonial emblems had been taken down, replaced by red-and-white flags fluttering on every corner.
Every five minutes, armed patrols passed along the perimeter. Boots struck the ground in the same rhythm, rifles slung neatly. They were no longer colonial soldiers; they were freedom fighters, clearly marked by red-and-white armbands wrapped around their right arms.
Inside the main building of the complex, a large conference room had been converted into a military command center. A long oval table dominated the room. Spread across it were large maps of the archipelago, weighed down by red and blue wooden markers.
Red: the enemy.
Blue: them.
Dozens of people sat in the room—KNIL officers who had defected, revolutionary civilian leaders, and European sympathizers. Their faces were calm, yet the tension was unmistakable. Everyone knew that if this plan failed, there would be no way back.
At the head seat sat a native man with brown skin. His posture was upright, his gaze sharp yet controlled. His face was handsome and resolute, a blend of charisma and composure, with a prominent nose and a strong jawline. His hair was cut short in a military style.
On the shoulders and collar of his military tunic once rested the insignia of a KNIL Colonel. Now, that rank had been replaced with the rank of Marshal.
Everyone in the room referred to him by a single title: "Supreme Commander," or simply, "Commander."
His name was Soemarmo Soerjokoesoemo.
Few knew that this man was more than just a colonial officer who had defected. Behind his identity lay a secret he had never revealed, not even to his own family. He was a reincarnator—a soul from the modern world reborn decades into the past.
Forty years.
For forty years he had endured, learned, adapted, and built power, using memories of the future as his deadliest weapon. He had once served the Imperial German Army as a Technical Sergeant in the Combat Engineers. On the Western Front, he had seen the world burn at Verdun and the Somme.
One of his most decisive contributions came when he converted field artillery into improvised anti-tank weapons. By modifying firing angles and ammunition, he managed to slow the advance of Allied Mark IV tanks. Thanks to his efforts, Germany held out longer—yet history seemed to mock him, as Germany still lost in 1918.
After the war, the Weimar Republic began restructuring its military and purging its ranks. Soemarmo, a non-German captain with two Imperial Balkenkreuz medals, became the target of jealousy among German officers. He was dismissed without honor.
He then returned to the Dutch East Indies with his small family, along with five hundred German veterans and their families. Seeing his potential, the colonial government offered him the position of colonel and commander of a native battalion.
Soemarmo accepted—not out of loyalty, but patience, and opportunity.
And now, that patience had borne fruit.
His dark brown eyes stared at the map of Indonesia. Blue markers had advanced across most of Java, Kalimantan, Sulawesi, half of the Lesser Sundas, and Sumatra. But in Eastern Indonesia—Maluku, East Nusa Tenggara, and Papua—the blue markers had retreated sharply.
A communications operator moved back and forth, delivering reports. Pointer sticks passed from hand to hand, shifting markers, recording advances and failures.
Tap… tap…
The sound of high heels approached. A female communications operator, bearing the distinctive beauty of the archipelago, stopped beside Soemarmo and handed him a slip of paper.
Yes, within Soemarmo's ranks, women were not forbidden from joining the military. Most of these "Srikandi" were recruited for rear-line roles, from nurses to logistics accountants.
Soemarmo took the paper and began reading. A faint smile appeared on his lips.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Return to your post."
He added brief instructions for the prisoners in Bogor to be guarded tightly. He himself would follow soon.
When the woman left, Soemarmo stood. All eyes turned toward him.
"Gentlemen!" his baritone voice echoed. "We have received good news. Batavia has fallen. Governor-General Andries is now a prisoner and is being transported to Buitenzorg."
The room erupted.
Cheers, applause, shouts of "Merdeka!" thundered through the hall. The capture of the Governor-General was the greatest symbolic blow to Dutch colonialism.
But Soemarmo raised his hand. Silence fell once more.
"However," his words poured cold water over them all, "the war is not over. Greater Bandung is still under colonial control. Lieutenant General Hermanus Loenardus La Lau remains there."
He pointed to the map of Bandung, encircled by red markers surrounded by blue.
"And more dangerously," he continued, placing a ship marker in the middle of the Madura Strait, "their navy has not yet been neutralized. Tanjung Priok has fallen, but Tanjung Perak is still in KNIL hands."
A heavy silence enveloped the room.
Yes, although it was called a navy, the only truly effective warship owned by the Dutch East Indies was a single light cruiser. The rest were little more than easy targets for the fighters' artillery.
(A/N: Historically, the only Dutch East Indies naval vessel of note at the time was HNLMS Java, launched in 1926.)
"The problem is," groaned a native officer, "we don't have a navy."
Indeed, this was the fighters' greatest weakness. They had no real navy—at best, only small boats fitted with light weapons or 75mm cannons.
Soemarmo nodded. "Correct. That is our weakness."
He then picked up a small marker—a World War-era aircraft.
"But the Great War taught one thing," he said softly. "No power is absolute."
"This is risky, Your Excellency," objected a German man in a KNIL uniform with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. His name was Paul Gildemeister.
He thought Soemarmo was slightly mad—for suggesting that aircraft armed only with light machine guns could defeat steel-armored warships.
As if reading Paul's thoughts, Soemarmo raised his index finger and shook it. "I'm not talking about attacking with machine guns."
He smiled faintly. "We will use bombs."
"…" The room fell silent. Many seated around the oval table stared at him in disbelief.
"Bombs to penetrate the ship's deck," he continued, "and detonate their ammunition magazines."
It was a tactic of the future, modeled after Japanese strategy at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii—knowledge that only he possessed. And warships of this era were not yet fully prepared for aerial attacks.
Perhaps nations like the United States, Great Britain, or France would have anticipated such a threat. They were great powers, after all.
But the Netherlands? They were a minor power among giants. Their warships were clearly not well equipped.
"We'll need special aircraft," said Bernard van Speijk, a man of mixed Dutch–native descent.
He was one of many Indo-European sympathizers who chose to fight against the Dutch themselves. Bernard had endured severe trauma in his childhood—his mother was merely a servant on a Dutch plantation, taken as a concubine by his biological father.
His father, a businessman and owner of a tea plantation in Buitenzorg, had a lawful Dutch wife. That family—especially the legitimate wife—was cruel to Bernard's mother, and Bernard himself was often beaten by his half-siblings.
He had also watched his mother die from extreme exhaustion, while his father showed no sympathy at all, despite her being his mistress. This was what drove Bernard to join the struggle—he believed it was time for native suffering to end.
"And that has already been prepared," Soemarmo replied. "Anthony Fokker has sent transport aircraft and funds."
He explained the existence of these Fokker aircraft, which were actually leftover assets of the German Empire that had never been delivered. Anthony Fokker sympathized with the oppressed natives of the Dutch East Indies; therefore, he sent the remaining aircraft production along with several logistics planes to Soemarmo, and funded the war by providing two million guilders.
(A/N: Two million guilders were equivalent to USD 800,000 in 1929. USD 800,000 in 1929 is equivalent to approximately USD 15.1 million in 2025.)
Eyes widened across the room.
"If that's the case," Bernard finally said, "then we can do it."
Soemarmo nodded. "This operation will be named Operation Garudayudha Samudrakala."
He turned to the operator. "Contact Lieutenant General Friedrich in East Java. Execute immediately."
---
Sidoarjo
To the north, near the city of Sidoarjo, lay an airfield hastily and crudely constructed. This airfield served as the Command Center of the Independence Army in East Java—at least before three-quarters of Surabaya had been secured and the command relocated there.
The makeshift airfield stretched wide. Several transport planes and Fokker biplanes were parked in rows. From the weapons depot, a trailer was pulled out, carrying a five-meter-long torpedo with a six-hundred-millimeter caliber.
Central command orders had arrived.
Technicians worked swiftly. Fuses were set. Detonation timers adjusted. The torpedoes were mounted beneath the aircraft fuselages, release hooks set for manual drop.
The skies over East Java appeared calm.
But in the distance, KNIL warships lay anchored, unsuspecting.
And for the first time in the history of the archipelago, naval warfare was about to begin—from the air.