At Halim air force base, the initial mood was apparently one of optimism among the plotters.
They had, they thought, wiped out the army’s top generals. Their troops held key installations. Sukarno himself was now among them, not particularly angry about the action they had taken, and certainly indicating no intention of arresting, restraining, or even reprimanding them.
Air force commander Dhani felt so sure things were going well that he issued an order of the day virtually throwing the air force’s support behind the September 30th Movement. Although it was not, in fact, broadcast until the afternoon, Dhani signed it early that morning.
The order made four points. First was that the September 30th Movement’s actions had been to safeguard the revolution and the President against “C.I.A. subversion.” In this connection, it said, “the body of the army has already been purged of those elements who are manipulated by foreign subversives and who endanger the Indonesian revolution.”
Second, the order warned that “foreign subversives and their henchmen will not remain idle and will very likely intensify their anti revolutionary movement.”
Third, the order pledged that the Indonesian Air Force would “always and continuously support and uphold any progressive revolutionary movement,” and conversely “combat any action which endangers the Indonesian revolution.”
Last, the order called on all air force men to “maintain vigilance against provocation and harassment and intensify preparedness against all eventualities, internal as well as external.”
But Sukarno himself, the wily old fox of Indonesian politics whose expert instincts had given him a remarkable record for political survival, was apparently far from certain which way things were going, particularly after he got the news that Nasution was at large.
Installed at the home of a senior air force officer, he chatted with the officer’s wife, took an unhurried breakfast, and began to confer with aides and advisers. Incredibly, at one stage later in the morning, he even retired for a nap.
To Halim he summoned the chiefs of the navy and the police force and the attorney general. Of the three deputy premiers only one, Johannes Lemeina, whose guard had been killed during the attack on Nasution’s house, was in town. He arrived later. (Chairul Saleh, another deputy premier, was in Peking with the big Indonesian delegation attending China’s national day celebrations. The celebrations, interestingly enough, were taking place on the same day the coup had been launched, October 1.) Meanwhile, the senior deputy premier and Sukarno’s right-hand man, Foreign Minister Subandrio, was away in north Sumatra on a speaking tour. From Halim went a cable telling him to come back, and the President’s Jet-Star went flying up there to fetch him, but cannily, Subandrio decided to sit things out for another day before returning.
Another key figure, Communist leader Aidit, was also at Halim, tucked discreetly away in the home of an air force sergeant. The circumstances of Aidit’s survival at the air base are not clear. Several people involved in the plot say he arrived about eleven o’clock the previous night and slept there.
Several times during the morning and early afternoon of October 1, General Supardjo conferred with Sukarno. He may have been seeking Sukarno’s blessing for the revolutionary council the September 30th Movement had promised to announce. If so, he was disappointed. Sukarno was too skillful a maneuverer to put his name to that document.
What he did was appoint a caretaker commander of the army, Major General Pranoto Reksosamudro, then third assistant to the minister of the army. Air force chief Dhani, at his trial later, recalled that when the President raised the matter with senior officers assembled at Halim, other generals’ names were mentioned, too—KOSTRAD commander Suharto, General Mursid, first deputy to the army commander, and Basuchi Rachmat, the East Java commander who had flown to the capital to report to Yani. Sukarno, according to Dhani, dismissed them all. Suharto, said the President, was “stubborn.” Mursid was “always fighting.” Basuchi Rachmat was “often sick.” Sukarno himself chose Pranoto and signed an order of the day that was issued early in the afternoon.
The order declared that he, Sukarno, was safe and well and continued “to hold the leadership of the state and the revolution.” It said that he had temporarily taken the leadership of the armed forces directly into his hands, and that General Pranoto had been “temporarily appointed to carry out the day-to-day tasks within the army.”
The appointment by Sukarno of a caretaker army commander at this particular time was later made much of by Sukarno’s critics. The bodies of the murdered generals were not found until Monday, and how, runs the argument, could Sukarno have been so sure, so early, of General Yani’s fate? The criticism is a little naive. For Sukarno was at the very air base where the generals had been murdered not a few hours before. He was among, and being briefed by, the officers who had ordered the generals killed. He can have been under no illusions at that time of the generals’ fate.
Now it was time for the September 30th Movement to unveil its revolutionary council. All over the city, people hunched by their radios to hear the proclamation. At Halim, an aide hurried in to Sukarno with a transistor radio. At KOSTRAD headquarters there was an excited buzz as officers detailed to monitor the radio signaled the beginning of the announcement.
It came at 2 P.M. It was issued in the name of the Command of the September 30th Movement (Commandant Untung, Deputy Commandant Supardjo). The decree said a purge had been carried out against a Council of Generals, which had planned a coup on the eve of Armed Forces Day, October 5. A number of generals had “been arrested.”
The September 30th Movement, the decree went on, was entirely confined within the army, but it had been “assisted by armed units not belonging to the army.”
To facilitate the “follow-up” of the purge, the movement was setting up an Indonesian Revolution Council whose members would “consist of civilian and military individuals who unreservedly support the September 30th Movement.”
For the time being, pending general elections, the council would “constitute the source of all authority” in Indonesia. The cabinet “automatically assumes a decommissioned status,” said the decree. “Until the formation of a new council of ministers,” former ministers were duty bound to carry out routine tasks, but were “prohibited from taking actions which may have broad consequences.”
As instruments of the Indonesian Revolution Council there would be established provincial revolution councils (with a maximum membership of 25), district revolution councils (with a maximum membership of 15), subdistrict revolution councils (with a maximum membership of 10), and village revolution councils (with a maximum membership of 7). All these would be composed of “civilian and military personnel who unreservedly support the September 30th Movement.”
The radio announcement went on to say that Untung and Supardjo would together form the presidium of the Revolution Council, and their written approval would be necessary for the composition of the various provincial revolution councils. The provincial councils would then approve the district revolution councils, and so on down the line.
Then came a list of 45 names of people appointed to the central Revolution Council.
It was in a number of respects a strange list. Headed by Untung and Supardjo, it included a number of central figures in the plot—Heru, Sujono, Latief, and Colonel Suherman, who was busy organizing revolt in Central Java. It included air force chief Dhani, but also the heads of the navy and the police force. Of the three deputy premiers, it included Subandrio and Lemeina, but not Chairul Saleh. It included Tjugito, the Communist Party central committee member who almost certainly was “Sjam,” one of the principal plotters, and Sukatno, the Pemuda Rakjat leader charged with assembling his thugs at Lubang Buaja. But it also included Generals Umar and Basuchi Rachmat, who even now were at KOSTRAD helping Suharto put down the coup.
It made no mention whatsoever of Sukarno.
After all this came an odd additional little announcement. It declared that as the commandant of the September 30th Movement was an officer with the rank of lieutenant colonel, all ranks above that were “herewith declared invalid.” Henceforward lieutenant colonel would be the “highest rank in the armed forces” of Indonesia. However, all enlisted men and NCOs who supported the September 30th Movement would be “promoted one grade above those they occupied before September 30, 1965.”
And all enlisted men and NCOs who “took a direct part in the purge against the members of the Council of Generals” would be promoted two grades above those they occupied before September 30.
They would not enjoy their elevated ranks—or, in the case of senior officers, their demotions—for long. At KOSTRAD headquarters, Suharto was now moving confidently against the coup forces. He listened to the announcement of the Revolution Council and noted the declaration that the cabinet was “demissionary,” as he put it later. He noted, too, that there was no mention of Sukarno. “On our analysis of their announcements,” he explained later, “we now understood the objective of the September 30th Movement as being none other than a coup. We could now separate who was friend and foe. The foe was first of all battalions 454 and 530, and the first Tjakrabirawa battalion, who were all involved at that point.
“After the announcement of a Revolution Council led by Untung, the air force leadership issued a statement [Dhani’s order of the day] that the air forcefully supported the movement and the Revolution Council. Various indications I had already received, first the difficulty I had in coordinating the air force, second the fact that the top leadership had been ‘taken to safety’ before the affair broke out, and third, the statement of support—well, even a fool would have been able to tell that the air force must be classed with the foe that we had now to face.”
But Suharto’s main concern was to avoid bloodshed. He was successfully talking the 530th Battalion into giving up its positions around the presidential palace and turning itself in to KOSTRAD. He was still trying to do the same with the 454th Battalion, which held the radio station and the telecommunications building. Now he gave them an ultimatum: evacuate their positions by 8 P.M., or he would blast them out with his own guns and troops.
Explaining his tactics later, he said, “I gave top priority to avoiding bloodshed. I could have seized the radio station early in the morning. But this would have resulted in shooting, and at that time I still did not know the real background to the September 30th Movement. Once the announcement of the Revolution Council and its composition had been made, their real activities were unmasked, convincing us that we no longer need hesitate to take action against the September 30th Movement.”
In fact, the rebel troops around Merdeka Square were in no mood to fight. The 530th Battalion, purged of its disloyal elements, allied itself to Suharto’s cause. By 6 P.M. Suharto had his troops in offensive position. He had summoned up, from their base about fifteen miles outside Djakarta, the RPKAD para-commandos led by then Colonel Sarwo Edhy. Together with a battalion of Siliwangi division troops already in the capital for Armed Forces Day, they were assigned to assault the radio station and telecommunications building and dislodge the rebels. But the attack was not necessary, for the rebels quietly pulled out and withdrew by truck in the direction of Halim.
Shortly after 8 P.M., Suharto was in control of the whole area and the key installations around Merdeka Square. Soon after that, the radio station broadcast an announcement that it had been liberated from counterrevolutionary control by the armed forces, which had been constantly loyal to President Sukarno. Then came an official army notice, explaining that the September 30th Movement was counterrevolutionary, that it had kidnapped a number of high army officers, and that it had illegally occupied the radio station and telecommunications building.
The announcement went on to say that both Sukarno and Nasution were safe, and that Suharto had temporarily taken over leadership of the army. The “general situation,” said the announcement, “is again under control, and security measures are being actively carried out. The general public is urged to remain calm and continue their respective tasks as usual.”
So far, so good. But despite Suharto’s confident reassurance that the “general situation” was “again under control,” there was still the dangerous problem of Halim air base to deal with.
Suharto knew that Halim was the command post of the September 30th Movement. But as he said later, he also believed that “not everyone there was involved in the affair.” He knew that Sukarno was at Halim, but he was not sure whether the President was “secure” or “secured.” He also knew that Sukarno had asked for various high army officers to go to Halim, but Suharto forbade them to do so on grounds he “did not want to lose any more generals.”
Now some of the rebel soldiers had withdrawn to Halim. And Suharto had been given grounds for deepened suspicion of the air force by another ironic incident in the near-comic saga of events around Merdeka Square that day.
After the 530th Paratroop Battalion had placed itself under his command, he sent it off to secure the National Front building, the old vice-presidential residence, near the telecommunications building. Now arrived truckloads of Pemuda Rakjat trainees from Halim, unaware that the rebel army units previously in the area had themselves evacuated to Halim. The Pemuda Rakjat troops confidently called out the password “Ampera.” But instead of the counterword “Takari,” they got pointed weapons and were taken swiftly under arrest. Under interrogation they admitted that the air force had issued weapons to about 3,000 of them and that these armed members of the Communist youth group were at large in the city.
To Suharto this news was highly disturbing. “There seemed good reason to believe,” he explained later, “that the early morning of October 2 would witness even more violent events, possibly a general attack, or an attempt to take back the area around the palace. As a soldier, I knew one should always anticipate the enemy. I decided we must take control of Halim that very night.”
He was plagued by another fear, that the air force might launch an air attack on the capital, and specifically on his forces. KOSTRAD headquarters were in fact evacuated that night, for fear of such an attack, and temporary headquarters were established at the Senajan sports stadium on the outskirts of the city. Suharto and his staff moved back to their normal headquarters the next day, after Halim had been taken.
But for the moment Suharto was busy planning his assault on Halim. Again, his concern was to avoid bloodshed if possible. To spearhead the attack he selected the RPKAD para-commandos, ordering them to infiltrate under cover of darkness. Also ready was a company of tanks. “If we had trained all of them on Halim,” he later explained, “we could have destroyed it completely. But the airplanes and buildings were our—Indonesia’s—property. I did not want everything, especially the air force [aircraft] to be completely destroyed.” Thus his orders were to avoid shooting, wherever his troops could do so.
Before the attack could begin, however, there was one problem Suharto had to resolve—Sukarno’s presence at Halim. About 8 P.M., Suharto talked to one of the President’s aides, and told him that he must somehow get the President clear of Halim before the attack began.
The problem was soon to be solved, for the early optimism at Halim had deteriorated steadily throughout the day. The hodgepodge composition of the Revolution Council may be an indication that even by early afternoon, when the council was announced, the organizers of the coup were trying to cover their tracks by including people who could not possibly have been involved in the September 30th Movement. By evening, the plotters were in a state of desperate gloom and making plans to flee.
Supardjo, his troops in retreat and disarray, made an anguished last-minute suggestion that he attack KOSTRAD headquarters, but he was outvoted. The game was up.
Sukarno himself was now as anxious as Suharto that he should leave Halim before Suharto’s troops attacked. But he was apparently uncertain where he should go. His Japanese wife, Dewi, hurried into Halim by car, and the President talked with her for a while. Dhani and others urged him to fly to Madiun, in East Java, scene of the 1948 Communist uprising. Dhani was himself planning to go there. Although the coup had failed in Djakarta, some of the plotters had the vain hope that they could regroup in Central Java. If they could get Sukarno to go with them, it might give their movement an aura of legitimacy.
Sukarno apparently seriously considered the idea, but was talked out of it, mainly by Deputy Premier Lemeina. Lemeina insisted that the President should disentangle himself from the coup organizers and head for the weekend palace at Bogor, 40 miles south of Djakarta, by car. This Sukarno did.
Supardjo, meanwhile, was pleading for a plane for Aidit, the Communist Party leader. Dhani ordered one up, and Aidit flew off to Jogjakarta, in Central Java, landing there about 2 A.M. the next day, October 2. The troops who had taken part in the coup were ordered to withdraw to Central Java. Some were evacuated by air force planes; others set off by road.
By midnight the central figures in the coup had fled Halim. Air force chief Dhani himself took to a Hercules aircraft and flew around for six hours before landing at Madiun. While he was in the air, he talked to various air force bases throughout the country, briefing them on the situation. Also, he radioed Suharto, warning him not to assault Halim because the air force would fight back. But Halim was already within Suharto’s grasp.
Throughout the night the para-commandos had been quietly surrounding the air base and infiltrating its perimeter. With radar they monitored outgoing aircraft, trying to assess whether they were going for reinforcements. On an incoming plane they opened fire. This was the Jet-Star that had been sent up to north Sumatra to bring back Deputy Premier Subandrio. Subandrio had balked and stayed, and thus was not on the aircraft. The deputy air force commander, Sri Muljono Herlambang, who had been with the Subandrio party, was aboard; the plane was not hit and landed safely.
At dawn the paratroopers rushed the air base. Resistance was negligible. There was some shooting, but this was at an angry water buffalo, disturbed by the red berets of the para-commandos, which charged them and had to be killed. By 6:10 in the morning of October 2, Suharto had taken Halim without a casualty to his men. Though much mopping up remained to be done, in the capital at any rate the coup had been smashed little more than twenty-four hours after it was launched.