The Path of Duty: The Life and Times of Bill Beyts

self-rule.

Chapter 1

Operation Baldhead II

On the 16th March 1943, the Dutch submarine 24, commanded by Lieutenant-Commander W.J. de Vries DSC, RNLN, sailed from Colombo. On board was the Operation Baldhead II party. The party consisted of Bill Gates and five British other ranks. The object of the operation was to relieve an operational party that had been active, for two months, in the Japanese Occupied Andaman Islands.

It is necessary to set the scene. March 1943 was something of a desperate month. Although the year itself would subsequently prove a turning point in the war – there were few signs as yet. It is true that barely a month before General Eisenhower had taken command of the Allied armies in North Africa. At the same time, only the previous day, the Russians – then our allies – had been forced to withdraw at Kharkov. It was scarcely, then, a time of hope. It was in addition a bare year since the Japanese invasion of most of the British and Dutch possessions in the Far East. In January 1943, for the first time since then, Special Operations Executive had begun to infiltrate operational ‘parties’ into the Japanese occupied territories.

At this time special operations were not at all popular: probably least of all with crews of submarines operating out of Ceylon. There were good reasons for this. First of all the operations were considered strictly one-way transactions – operational personnel's survival was at best problematic or and at worst unlikely. Consequently, submarine crews were frankly opposed to being involved in the proceedings; it hardly seemed too charitable. Ceylon was, of course, the nearest submarine base to the far Eastern operational theatre but there were few submarines available, so that, in any case, special operations – virtually untried and unproven, had a low priority.

What submarines there were in Ceylon were few and in the main Dutch. Most submarine patrols from Ceylon were carried out by the trio 0 21, 0 23 and 0 24. 0 24 had been completed on 18th March 1940; her contractors had been the Rotterdam Dry Dock Company. When the German blitzkrieg invaded the Netherlands she had been sailed to Portsmouth to serve the allies. She was, however, designed for work in the Far East. In England she was judged unsuitable for close action controls on the Channel. Nor did the British authorities approve of the early snorkel tube with which she was fitted: they had it summarily removed.

Later, destined for service in the Mediterranean, she had been on a passage to Gibraltar when diverted to join the ‘Iron Ring’ patrols, aimed at preventing Scharnhorst and Gneisenau returning to sentry in Brest. She had not tarried long in the Channel or in ‘the staits’, as the Mediterranean was then popularly called, she had found time to sink two Italian merchantmen before arriving in Ceylon in time to be operational by August 1942. De Vries, her captain, was a keen and devoted warrior and probably felt that amphibious secret operations interfered with his proper work of sinking Axis shipping.

Special-operations personnel in the Far East could not expect the same chances of survival, even of those operating in the European theatres. Few Englishmen can hope to pass as Orientals. The Baldhead II party was destined to relive and earlier Baldhead I party. Bill Beyts, Colonel Beyts that was, was in overall control of the Special Operations set up throughout South East Asia command. It was characteristic of him that he hadn't sought to delegate the relief of the original Baldhead party, but had chosen to go in person.

He was well aware, of course, of the dangers he faced. The Japanese Kempetai were known to be every bit as ruthless as their German counterparts, the Gestapo. Any Englishman, with blue eyes, as Beyts had, could not hope to conceal his nationality from a Japanese captor: and Beyts knew well that the only blue eyes Orientals were the Pathan, whom he had known in India. In any case the Japanese were known to be merciless with English submarine crews – many crews, indeed, believed it would be best to go down with the boat than survive to be captured. Any army personnel on board the submarine were bound to be treated with suspicion and singled out for particular brutality and then execution. Beyts had already rationalised the risks involved: his reason for choosing to go in person was quite simple – you could hardly ask others to do things he had not shown that he was prepared to do himself.

He had in fact, drafted the operational orders for Baldhead I, or more properly Operation Baldhead/Bumkum as it was called. Operation Baldhead Bumkum is described in detail in Operations Most Secret, by Ian Trenowden; it is not proposed to repeat more than is essential of that account. Baldhead/Bumkum was commanded by a very brave man Major Denis McCarthy. The party had sailed for the Andaman Islands – some 800 miles distant from Ceylon – on 14th January 1943. McCarthy's five-man party had since then been active and most successful but by now it was known that McCarthy was sick.

The Andaman Islands had been an Indian penal settlement since 1858. McCarthy, having served there for five years before the war, as Commandant of the Military Police Battalion and District Superintendent of Police, was an obvious choice to lead the first operational party to be sent there. He had also been a willing volunteer. But Bill had felt the same sort reluctance as the Dutch submarine crews about sending even a willing volunteer on his way.

It took the Baldhead II party six days to reach their operating area. The days spent in passage were boring for the operational personnel. The first three days were spent travelling on the surface. The ‘other rank’ members of the ‘party’ were not allowed up the conning tower. Bill, however, was and availed himself of this opportunity of fresh air whenever possible. It was not unpleasant to lounge up there in a swimming costume, with nothing to do – but think about the forthcoming operation. Bill was given strict orders that he was to make himself scarce should an aircraft be spotted or in the event of the diving klaxon being sounded. The captain and officers of the watch were extremely friendly but he felt reluctant to distract them with conversation when on the bridge.

After the first three days the nearness to land, Japanese sea-lanes and controlling aircraft meant that 0 24 must be submerged by day and might only proceed on the surface after nightfall. The days seemed long and unending. The first breath of air, after the conning tower hatch was opened, made one's stomach feel queasy. Oxygen starvation had the effect of making one feel exhausted when one climbed the long conning tower ladder. Pulling one's body up by the rungs was noticeably harder than it had been in the days of surfaced passage. Bill did think of the dangers involved, of course, it would have been foolish not to do so. But he did not brood upon them. The knowledge that he might have to persuade the party – or some of them, at any rate – to remain behind did not please him. Frankly, it would have been easier, if it was he who was to be landed; but his orders were categoric. On completion of the operation he must return to Ceylon. There were many times when he found the role of being a staff officer uncongenial; it was not as Ian Hay had put it –‘one long loaf’.

The rendezvous for the submarine pickup had been arranged for 21st of March 1943. Doing sums Bill worked out that this meant that the original party had been 56 days in the field. As a recognition signal the Baldhead II party were to place two canvas squares on the landing beach. The submarine, sighting the signal, would raise the periscope high in the air and the shore party would know that the canvas squares could be taken down.

In the event it did not happen as simply as that. 0 24, whilst manoeuvering offshore, grazed a coral reef - the impact tore loose her asdic dome. The noise and juddering impacted did little to inspire confidence in the Baldhead II party. The impact also caused the vessel to surface involuntarily. All this happened at precisely the moment when the party onshore had just spotted the submarine and awaited her signal. The moment the periscope was spotted in clear water, down came the squares. It was with some consternation that McCarthy and his party observed the whole conning tower and most of the hull erupt to the surface in a flurry of foam. Undaunted McCarthy and Halvildar Bakla paddled out in a folboat and were taken aboard. Beyts had brought with him Captain Rappaport RAMC, in case the ailing McCarthy needed urgent attention. By now the medical officer was himself suffering badly from malaria and Rappaport's first action was to give him an intravenous injection.

Bill Beyts broached the suggestion that the party should stay in the Andamans until the south-west monsoon was over. Captain Rappaport ruled this out of the question. The party was by no means fit enough for this. The whole Baldhead II party, therefore and all their unexpended equipment were taken on board. As it seemed likely that McCarthy's wireless set had been ‘on net’ long enough to be D/Fed (picked up by Direction Finding Equipment) by the Japanese it was necessary that all traces of their camp be destroyed on the morrow. The submarine proceeded offshore and McCarthy's party was made comfortable and fed. Next day they landed to demolish their huts and buried explosives, ammunition and food cases. It was necessary to clear away all traces of conspicuous excavated soil. De Vries proceeded to an alternative site, seven miles up the coast from Constance Bay, on the west coast of South Andaman Island. Fortunately, before landing, a careful periscope reconnaissance was made and this revealed that the beach was quite unsuitable for a landing. Happily, another site was found, five miles further south, and a successful landing was made here on 24th March. Beyts and the five British other ranks ferried all of 6,000 pounds of stores ashore. It took time and it was well to reflect that here was all that was necessary to keep an operational party going for six months. As the ground was hard and stony it was impossible to bury the stores; instead they were piled and covered by tarpaulins; a three-foot high protective wall or sangar was constructed to keep out wild pig; and kerosene poured on the ground to keep out insects. The sole entrance to the dump's sangar was camouflaged and booby-trapped with live hand grenades, to keep out marauding Jarawas – as the aborigines of the Andamans are called.

The following day Bates ruled against the proposed landing of a further 2,500 pounds of stores at another site. With her asdic dome gone 0 24’ operating capacity was severely curtailed. It did not seem prudent to prolong her presence in enemy waters with the twenty-one evacuated personnel, she had embarked, on board. In any case, Denis McCarthy was seriously ill, he was suffering from vitamin deficiency and anaemia. De Vries nobly gave up his own bunk for McCarthy on the return journey; even so it seemed foolish to delay in getting him back to Ceylon. McCarthy had, in fact, lost three stone in weight and his blood count had fallen to one-and-quarter million. Whilst this many sound high five million is normal for a man.

Now that the important part of the mission was over, the return passage assumed something of the festive air of a holiday. Bill was happy to renew sunbathing sessions on the conning tower. One day, on examining the sun-bleached hairs on the backs of his hands, he was appalled to notice that something was missing. He’d lost his signet ring with a family crest. Hell! It could have been gone for days. Why hadn't he checked before? He'd searched the submarine thoroughly. If only there weren’t so many dark corners, packed with pipes, valves and machinery. An awful thought struck him: could he possibly have lost it onshore in the Andamans? The Japs would be bound to rumble that it belonged to a European. No he was sure he had it since the landing on 24th March. Therefore, it must be somewhere in the submarine. There was no need to tell de Vries and start a sudden panic. He'd just quietly and methodically search on his own.

A day or so later, on the surface, with the hatch open and fresh air blowing healthily through the boat he was passing a Dutch officer in the vessel’s narrow passageway. Bill glimpsed a flash of gold on the man's little finger, he stopped and peered closely. It was: it must be. Yes, there was the crest – no doubt about it. In his delight he spoke aloud:

‘I say, I see you've found my ring!’

‘Your ring?’ The Dutchman seemed surprised

‘Yes, I must have lost it two or three days ago. Where did you pick it up?’

‘I think you are in error,’ the Dutchman spoke slowly, with gravity and dignity.’

‘But dash it all, that's my ring: I recognise the crest. I know it well.’

‘My friend I to know it well – I've worn it many years. It's my family crest.’ The Dutchman smiled indulgently. It was curious, this strange Englishman was really talking as though it was his ring. One thing, of course, would clinch it. He must not lose his patience: a joke was a joke but there were limits. He spoke gently and with infinite patience: ‘If my friend this is your ring you must be a Dutchman and your name must be de Jonghe. But I think you are English and your name is Bill – not Willem as we'd say in Dutch.’

Bill smiled, he knew when he was beaten, but what a find!

‘My dear chap, I do apologise. I'm not trying to steal your ring. I did lose mine and they were identical. I am Dutch, I suppose, at least my family were – up until the 19th century, when they decided to become British. And, of course they did number de Jonghes among them. Let me explain.

Bill warmed to his task: it was true he had lost a valued and irreplaceable possession; maybe an heirloom. But did that matter? He had found a kinsman, and to think he'd never suspected it. How strange that it had taken a world war and clandestine operations to engineer such a confrontation.

The blonde Dutchman eyed this strange smallish Englishman carefully. They could hardly be more different: the Englishman smaller, darker with ready smile and flashing blue eyes. He no longer seemed intent on appropriating his property, merely on recounting his life story.

‘Now listen, my friend de Jonghe. To set the scene we must go back in history approximately four centuries...’

Chapter 2

The Dutch Colonial Empire, and Hans Beyts, late 16th Century Burhger of Amsterdam

The Beyts and the de Jonghe families had indeed been closely linked in the 16th century – they had shared a family crest with the motto:

Fais ce que dois advienne que pourra

Or as we might say

Do what’s right come what may

Both families were then indisputably Dutch: but that is to anticipate.

Four centuries ago, in the Low Countries, Dutch Protestants were languishing under the oppression of bigoted Spanish despots. That was before the Dutch, a tiny state with a mere two million – had won the independence from the mighty Spanish Empire. It did not come about easily: it was bought at the price of bitter struggle in a protracted and bloodthirsty war.

On the abdication of Charles V, King of Spain, the Holy Roman Empire, of which the Netherlands formed part, in 1556, passed to Philip II of Spain. A regime of Spanish political and religious tyranny culminated in the infamous rule of the Duke of Alba. In 1568 the Dutch revolted. At that time the Netherlands comprised a motley collection of both Flemish and French-speaking states and towns; a loose federation of 17 provinces, that had been ruled over by a Spanish Habsburg king. The Spanish Empire had extended from the Friesian Islands to the Philippines. The Netherlanders were disunited by religion but imbued with intense provincial loyalties. The bulk of the population were still Roman Catholic but isolated, minority groups of Protestant factions were scattered throughout the whole country; probably with a greater concentration in the ten southern provinces than in the seven northern ones. Protestant groupings included Lutherans, Anabaptists and Calvinists – all were commonly regarded as heretics by the adherents of Rome. The revolt did not go well at first: Alba readily defeated the makeshift forces of William of Orange, on 21st July 1568. The first armed resistance to Spanish rule and religious persecution had failed, and there seemed little chance that – without the aid of France or England, and neither appeared to be forthcoming – the disorganized rebel forces might again challenge the Spaniards.

In 80 years conditions were to change radically: by now the seven United Provinces formed the Free Netherlands, but the ten southern provinces all remained loyal to, or had been retaken by the Spanish crown and the Roman Church. Nor had the United provinces merely secured their independence, they were now the possessors of a maritime and commercial empire – greater than that of the Portuguese and rivaling that of the Spaniards. This was a merchant empire that extended from Indonesia to the Caribbean. No longer subject to a Habsburg king, the Free Netherlands was self-governing by a burgher-oligarchy. Its wealthy and influential first citizen was now the Prince of Orange – grandson of the defeated William of 1568 – and married to an English royal princess.

Calvinism, by now, had become the official faith and the only accepted one; although it had completely disappeared in the Southern Netherlands, which was still obedient to the Spaniards.

How then had these changes come about? How in a single generation, had the Netherlands transformed itself into a leading and colonial power? First by the prowess of her Navy, unknown in 1568 and now commonly accounted the best in the Atlantic world. Secondly, by the development of an efficient and well disciplined army; a far cry from the irregular levies routed by the Duke of Alba. Thirdly, Amsterdam had replaced Antwerp as the commercial capital of Europe. A transformation that was little