“When I come back from India, I’ll come and collect you and Todi again,” he said briefly as he left his wife and child in Salatiga to return to Yogyakarta. It had become his habit that whenever he travelled abroad, he would always leave his family in the care of his parents in Salatiga. He did not know that this time he would not have the chance to fulfil his promise. Dutch fighter planes would thwart his plans. Adisutjipto and his party were killed, just as their destination, Maguwo Air Base, was right before their eyes. 

Ever since he was a child, Tjip had indeed been brave enough to live dangerously, constantly skirting the edge of danger. As a boarder at the Ambarawa Brothers’ boarding school, he once challenged a school bully. His opponent was much larger, more muscular in build, and was in a much higher year group. But none of this mattered to Tjip. He was an honest man who would never resort to ganging up on someone. So, one fine day, the two of them set off together for another village to test their strength, one-on-one. 

It was all done in secret, because if the headteacher had got wind of their plans, there was a strong chance both of them would have been expelled. Whatever the outcome, they returned as close friends. Needless to say, from then on, his standing at school soared. 

Tjip attended primary school at the Bruderan School in Muntilan. After graduating from MULO in Ambarawa, he confided in his father that he wanted to learn to fly. 

“Fly?” replied his father. “Don’t, Tjip. Enrol at AMS first; once you’ve graduated, I’ll think about it again.”

He subsequently enrolled at AMS B (Science Stream – Ed.) in Semarang, but it was in the language subjects that he truly excelled. Three years later, he remained steadfast in his resolve. However, at that time, it was not easy for non-white people or those not of noble descent to gain entry to a flight school. Moreover, his father, as a school inspector, was well aware of the trials and tribulations of a pilot’s life. He would have preferred Tjip to become a doctor. As the eldest of four younger brothers, it was only right that he should set a good example. At that time, there really was no other option. 

He subsequently enrolled as a student at the Geneeskundige Hoge School in Batavia (now the Faculty of Medicine at the University of Indonesia in Jakarta). At that time, the assistant professor of physiology at the university was Dr Abdulrachman Saleh, who would later perish alongside Tjip in the same aeroplane. 

Tjip did attend lectures diligently, but his heart remained fixed on the skies. Moreover, he was very keen on playing chess, sometimes even for several nights in a row. Whenever he sat his exams, there was always a subject in which he failed. If it wasn’t biology, it would be some other subject. Eventually, he could no longer resist the call of his heart. 

Tjip secretly sat the entrance exam for the Luchtvaart Opleidjugschool (aviation school) in Kalijati. His father was immediately confronted with the reality. “I’ve passed the entrance exam for the aviation school and have left the Faculty of Medicine,” said Tjip when he returned to Salatiga. 

Upon completing his training, he was awarded the rank of Vaandrig II KV Vlieger (Second Lieutenant, Short-Term Pilot Trainee) and began to get to know Suryadarma, one of his instructors. As a result of racial discrimination, out of ten Indonesian students, only five managed to pass up to the KMB level (Klein Militair Brevet or First-Level Pilot’s Certificate). Subsequently, only two managed to reach the final level: the late Sambodjo Hurip, who was killed in action against the Japanese (a famous Indonesian tennis player in the pre-war era), and Adisutjipto. 

When the Second World War broke out, Tjip was stationed in Java with the Reconnaissance Squadron. He was flying a KNIL aircraft over Tuban when the Japanese troops landed. His colleagues fled to Australia, but he refused to go. During the Japanese occupation, he remained in Salatiga with his parents. At first, he was unemployed. Fortunately, he enjoyed reading, particularly philosophy, war literature and chess, and happened to have a large collection of books. So, he never felt lonely. It was only a year before the war ended that Tjip began working for a Japanese bus company in Salatiga, as a clerk. 

One day, Tjip returned home bearing some happy news. Even his own family had not expected it. “I’m getting married,” he said. His fiancée was Rahaju, the daughter of Mr Soerojo, who was also from Salatiga and, as it turned out, was actually a relative. The wedding took place shortly afterwards. The birth of his son was almost like a birthday present for Tjip. His son was born on 3 July 1945, whilst the Second World War was at its height, whereas Tjip himself was born on 4 July 1916. The boy was named F.X. Adisusanto, with the nickname Todi. 

Tjip was indeed a quiet man, but firm, honest, bescheiden (unassuming) and always friendly. Perhaps that was why he often caught the attention of those around him. At a time when Indonesia was mobilising all its resources and forces to secure independence, a young man from Yogyakarta named Tarsono Rujito arrived as an envoy from Suryadarma. Tjip was invited to help sort out aviation matters in Yogyakarta. Without hesitation, Tjip set off immediately. 

Together with his friends, former students of the Kalijati Aviation School, he began repairing scrap aircraft that had once belonged to the Japanese. There were no spare parts; importing them was impossible due to the Dutch blockade. So they made do with what they had. Calico was used as a substitute for linen, and cow’s nose solution as a substitute for acetone. 

Nevertheless, on 10 October 1945, Tjip succeeded in flying one of the aircraft from the Cibeureum airfield near Tasikmalaya to Maguwo. A remarkable achievement at the time. Especially as, during the Second World War, he had never flown an aeroplane and Japanese engines were completely unfamiliar to him. After that, he also managed to fly several aircraft left behind by the Japanese at Maguwo. These were Tjureng-type aircraft, still biplanes, manufactured in 1933, and later known as the ‘Merah Putih’ (Red and White) aircraft because they were marked as belonging to the Republic of Indonesia. 

This legacy proved invaluable as training aircraft at the flight school led by Adisutjipto himself, which opened in December 1945. Before long, the school was producing its first cohort of pilots. 

Anyone wishing to become a pilot at that time had to be prepared to brush with death. Every time they took to the skies, their lives were on the line. The aircraft might take off, but whether it would land safely was always a major question. The risks were indeed quite serious. Some of our pilots crashed because their engines malfunctioned mid-flight. 

On one occasion, an Allied pilot came to Solo to collect former prisoners of war and IPWI internees as part of the APWI programme and wanted to try out the aeroplane. “Of course, please do,” said the official in charge. 

He took off straight away. Upon landing, several journalists were waiting below. The pilot’s face was deathly pale. “It takes a lot of courage to fly such a machine.” That statement needs no further comment. 

Tjip had found himself in critical situations on several occasions. One such incident occurred during a cross-country flight to Sumatra and back. Suryadarma was also on board that aircraft. They were flying between Serang (Gorda) and Tasikmalaya when, suddenly, whilst flying over the mountains of South Banten, the engine began to sputter. They attempted to return to Gorda. The sound of the engine grew increasingly erratic. Suryadarma looked down, searching for a place to make an emergency landing. Tjip was advised that it might be better for them to land first, before the engine seized up or the aircraft exploded. 

It seemed the aeroplane would not hold out; it was getting closer and closer to the ground. Yet Tjip remained calm. He continued flying right up to the very edge of the Gorda airfield. The aeroplane was eventually saved. Although it was now a wreck, its contribution to the struggle for independence was priceless. 

But Tjip’s luck did not last forever. On one occasion, he was part of a formation of six Tjureng aeroplanes heading for Banten and South Sumatra. The return journey took them via the southern part of West Java. The aeroplane he was piloting was playing up. He was forced to make an emergency landing. It was dusk. His aircraft struck a coconut tree lying across the runway, causing it to flip over. The passenger safety harnesses snapped, and his colleague, Tarsono Rujito, was killed. 

The risks faced by Indonesian pilots at that time were immense, not only because their equipment was poor. The enemy lurked everywhere. The Indonesian Air Force’s (AURI) armament was very limited at the time, whilst the Dutch possessed radar and several fighter aircraft. There is a classic saying: ‘If you are not strong, you must be clever.’ Thus, the AURI employed certain tricks to outwit the enemy. 

All flights were carried out at night or in the early hours of the morning, without ever using radio communication. The times at which aircraft were due to land or take off were kept strictly secret. Passengers were only informed about an hour beforehand via a courier, so that they would know when to be ready. Passengers who happened to be absent were simply left behind. The slightest oversight could prove fatal. One of the aircraft piloted by Freeberg was lost, partly because its radio operator transmitted a signal that was intercepted by the enemy. 

Landings were also always carried out at night, even though the airfield was pitch black. The only person who knew the aircraft’s arrival time was Suryadarma, as the commander-in-chief of the air force. As soon as the sound of the aircraft was heard, he would immediately go out in a jeep, rushing to meet it at the end of the runway. Others were assigned to another vehicle to guard the start of the runway. 

The headlights of these two vehicles were the pilot’s only guide. Sometimes, it was even just Suryadarma himself waiting at the end of the runway. Understandably, motorised vehicles were rarely in working order at the time. Landings were carried out directly; circling was not permitted, in order to save fuel. 

The only radio contact with foreign countries was handled by the AURI. In addition to their communications duties, they also had to conduct diplomatic negotiations with foreign nations, and this could only be achieved by daring to break through the Dutch blockade. In this context, Tjip travelled to India and the Philippines, specifically to seek out instructors for his flight school and to recruit foreign pilots. 

Tjip also flew to India to meet Jawaharlal Nehru and Mohammed Ali Jinnah. These two leaders, who would later become adversaries, subsequently put him in touch with a local tycoon named Patnaik – a popular businessman known as Dakota. Acting as a courier was extremely difficult and dangerous. In carrying out these duties, his relationship with President Sukarno was, of course, very close. 

Tjip once flew Bung Sjahrir to Jakarta for negotiations, and later to India with Haji Agus Salim and a number of other figures. However, on 9 April 1946, Tjip was appointed Deputy Chief of Staff II of the Indonesian Republic Air Force with the rank of Air Commodore (Colonel). His Chief of Staff was Suryadarma. In addition to this post, Tjip was also given the special task of training prospective pilots. 

Towards the end of July 1947, for the umpteenth time, he succeeded in breaking through the Dutch military blockade. This time he was accompanied by Dr Abdulrahman Saleh. Their destination was India. According to the plan, Tjip and his crew were not to return home as they still had to remain in Australia to carry out a special mission. However, on 28 July, it was announced via the press and Malayan radio that the following day a VT-CL aircraft carrying medical supplies would land in Yogyakarta. The report also mentioned that an agreement had already been reached between the Dutch and British governments to ensure the safety of this humanitarian airlift. 

Suryadarma heard the news from a doctor at the Indonesian Red Cross. The doctor said that a plane from Singapore carrying medicines would arrive at a certain time that day. He was taken aback. How could that be? He had not been informed at all. “As long as the Dutch don’t take advantage of this opportunity,” he thought. It turned out his hunch was correct. The Red Cross doctor didn’t know either who would be on board the plane. 

At around the agreed time, Suryadarma set off by car for Maguwo, about 10 km east of Yogyakarta. He had not yet reached the runway when, suddenly, he saw an aeroplane approaching. “The pilot certainly isn’t Mas Tjip,” he thought with a sigh of relief. “If it were him, he’d definitely keep descending.”

Suddenly, two Dutch Mustang fighter planes appeared from the north. The unarmed Dakota was immediately attacked, hit and quickly lost altitude. The Dakota’s pilot appeared to be forced to make an emergency landing. Suryadarma immediately sped his vehicle southwards, towards where the aircraft was likely to land. As it turned out, the ill-fated aircraft crashed into a tree, broke in two and burst into flames. The entire fuselage was scattered to pieces, except for the tail section, which remained relatively intact as it was propped up by the embankment at the edge of a rice field. 

It turned out that Tjip was on board the aircraft. All crew and passengers were killed. The sole survivor was Abdulgani, a passenger and member of the Barisan Tani from the Comal area. The pilot was British, the radio operator was Indonesian, and the engineer was Indian. Among the passengers who died were the pilot’s wife, Tjip, Dr Abdulrachman Saleh and Zainal Arifin, Indonesia’s deputy trade representative. The aircraft belonged to Patnaik, a major businessman in India. 

The reaction of the people of Yogyakarta was quite different. As evening approached, Yogyakarta was placed on air raid alert. Sirens wailed as an aeroplane circled overhead. As the aircraft did not land immediately but instead climbed again, the public assumed it must be an enemy aircraft intent on causing trouble. 

When they saw two other aircraft intercepting the suspicious aircraft, the residents cheered. They assumed the two aircraft were AURI planes pursuing an enemy aircraft. How shocked they were to see the plane burning in the middle of a rice field. 

The atmosphere of grief amongst the Indonesian people in general, and within the AURI in particular, is hard to imagine. They had lost their heroes, the nation’s finest sons, the backbone of the air force. All of this was caused by an air strike against a civilian aircraft on the direct orders of General Spoor, commander-in-chief of the Dutch army. 

Conversely, Tjip placed too much trust in the promises already made by the Dutch. The Dutch’s primary aim in carrying out this barbaric act was to instil fear in foreign pilots, so that they would not attempt to assist the Indonesian struggle. Furthermore, this attack was also intended to kill the pilot of Indonesia’s sole transport aircraft, so that he could no longer carry out aerial incursions or undertake other special missions. 

However, the Dutch had forgotten the saying, “One falls, ten rise”. The city of Yogyakarta was immediately plunged into mourning. The coffins were laid out in rows at the Tugu Hotel. On the day of the funeral, the streets in front of the hotel and along Malioboro Street were packed with people. The ceremony was conducted according to four different religions. Tjip was a devout Roman Catholic. Several of the other victims were Muslim. The British pilot and his wife were members of the Church of England, whilst the body of the Indian engineer, a Hindu, was to be cremated. 

Mrs Adisutjipto and her family heard the sad news on the radio. At that time, they were still in Salatiga. Due to the first Dutch military aggression, communications between Salatiga and Yogyakarta had been cut off. The radio news report stated that they would be collected at Ngeblak. But how were they to reach that village?

Of the Tjip family, only his youngest brother – who happened to be a student at the Aviation School and lived in Yogyakarta – was able to accompany his elder brother to his final resting place at the Kuncen cemetery in Yogyakarta. 

At the site of the tragedy, the village of Ngoto, south-east of Yogyakarta, a memorial has now been erected. The 29th of April is henceforth observed as the AURI Day of Mourning. In recognition of his services, Tjip was posthumously promoted to the rank of Rear Admiral of the Air Force. On 6 February 1961, Mrs Adisutjipto received the Bintang Mahaputra award on behalf of her husband from President Soekarno. 

Decades have passed since that heinous incident took place. There is no reason for the Indonesian Air Force (AURI) to forget the services of one of its founders. Following the death of Agustinus Adisutjipto, Mrs Tjip remained in Yogyakarta with her parents. However, on 9 April 1961, on Air Force Day, the Indonesian Air Force (AURI) invited Mrs Tjip to settle in Yogyakarta. AURI had presented a house as a token of appreciation to their ‘Father of Aviation’. On the 7th anniversary of the Republic of Indonesia on 17 August 1952, the name of Maguwo Air Base was changed to Agustinus Adisutjipto Air Base, immortalising Pak Tjip’s struggle to establish and defend the independence of the Republic of Indonesia. 

Quoted from: 

‘Portraits of Notable Figures’, notes by Jakob Oetama in Intisari.