While the Moon Burns

by Peter Watt

  ‘I’m Elliot,’ he said with a firm grip. ‘My father has told me you’re from Australia, and served in Syria during the war as an officer with infantry.’

  ‘Your father told me that you served as an officer with the British in the Italian campaign. I heard it was pretty tough going in the mountains,’ David said.

  ‘I’m Richelle,’ the young woman said, stepping forward and gripping David’s hand. She was dark and pretty. David could see a strength of spirit behind the eyes.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ David said.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Elliot asked bluntly. ‘This is a troubled city and not conducive to a visitor seeking a relaxed holiday.’

  ‘My mother was Jewish, and I was half-heartedly raised in her religion,’ David explained. ‘I just feel a need to find the roots of my mother’s faith.’

  Elliot stared at David for a moment. ‘I’m afraid you’ll not find much religion in this house,’ he said. ‘Our concern is just staying alive in a sea of Arab and English hatred.’

  ‘I read about the concentration camps,’ David said. ‘I was for a short while an unwilling guest of Dachau back in 1936, before leaving and travelling to Spain to fight Franco’s mob.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ Elliot asked.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ David replied.

  ‘You’ll be welcome at my sister’s kibbutz,’ Elliot said. ‘We’re transporting a group of refugees there this afternoon, and you can travel with them.’

  ‘That sounds like a bonzer idea,’ David said.

  ‘Bonzer?’ Elliot queried.

  ‘Aussie slang, for something great or good,’ David answered.

  David ate with the family and thanked his hosts. He was guided out of the shop and down an ancient, narrow street to an old bus waiting a couple of blocks away. It was filled with dishevelled men, women and children. He could see from their dress and features that they came from different parts of Europe. All David carried was his old army kitbag with a few essential items.

  ‘Who are they?’ David asked Richelle.

  ‘They are our people who have travelled by ship from a port in France, seeking a new homeland free of European persecution. Today, we’ll take them to my kibbutz and give them that new home.’

  Elliot was the last aboard, and sat next to David. Richelle stood in the aisle behind the driver. The other passengers remained silent, and only some whispering could be heard.

  ‘I presume you know how to use this,’ Elliot said, withdrawing a German Mauser rifle from under the seat.

  David took hold of the bolt-action rifle. ‘I spent some time at the other end of the Mauser,’ he grinned. ‘But basically they operate much like our Lee Enfields.’

  ‘You’re now a part of our protection party,’ Elliot said, and withdrew a British Sten gun. The small submachine gun was only useful at close range and when David glanced at Richelle he noticed she had a revolver tucked into the belt of her trousers.

  ‘Is it that bad?’ David asked, checking that the weapon was ready for use.

  ‘We have to travel on a road through Arab territory to get to the kibbutz,’ Elliot said. ‘The British are not very helpful at protecting us, and if they do stop the bus we have to hide the weapons.’

  ‘Great,’ David said. ‘Now the Poms are the enemy also.’

  ‘The Haganah, our national army, do not attack the British but the Irgun and Lehi groups do,’ Elliot explained. ‘The British conduct operations to find them.’

  David had a brief lesson in who’s who. ‘Are you a member of the Haganah?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Elliot replied as the bus ground its way along a road bordered by a bare hill. Cold sleet whipped about the bus as it slowly wound around the hills outside the ancient city.

  David peered out the side window at the hills overlooking the road and shuddered. They were sitting ducks should the enemy decide to ambush them. They had seen no other traffic, nor any sign of British patrols. He gripped the rifle’s stock tightly as he experienced the fear he knew well as a soldier. Behind him the passengers huddled silently, as if feeling the same trepidation.

  ‘I . . .’ David was about to speak when a bullet shattered the window beside the driver’s head.

  Elliot yelled something in Hebrew to the passengers, a few of whom had begun screaming in terror. They seemed to understand and began lying down where they could. The bus continued and the cold air whipped at David.

  ‘Drop me off here!’ he yelled at Elliot. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Elliot tried to grab David but he was quick, and forced his way through the door to fall onto the cold, wet road with the Mauser. The bus continued slowly up the gradient and David was on his feet, running up the slope of the hill bordering the road. Elliot and Richelle watched him from the bus as David scrambled up the steep slope, rifle in hand. Eventually the bus disappeared around a corner, and all David could hear was the wind in his face. He had gained the high ground and found a vantage point from where he could see the bus reappear on the road below him. He also saw what he had expected: two men behind a small stone wall manning a Lewis machine gun. They were dressed in traditional Arab clothing, and oblivious to David’s presence a hundred yards away.

  David carefully settled himself and took careful aim at the man with the machine gun. He hoped the German rifle fired true, and allowed for the wind as he took aim. He fired, and saw the machine gunner topple to his side. His companion looked about in panic and made a run for it, leaving the weapon behind. David did not bother to try and stop him. He scrambled down the slope to recover the British-made weapon and three spare drums of ammunition. The bus had been only seconds from being riddled with bullets, had he not stopped the ambush.

  David made his way down the slope to the road with his booty. The bus stopped about two hundred yards away. He waved, and saw Elliot running towards him.

  ‘You’re a damned fool!’ he said breathlessly to David. ‘But a bloody brave fool.’

  ‘Thought this might come in handy for your army,’ David said, nonchalantly handing the heavy captured weapon to Elliot.

  ‘You’d better get back in the bus,’ Elliot said, accepting the valuable gift. ‘If the Arabs don’t kill you, the winter here will.’

  David followed the young Jewish soldier back into the bus. He noticed the passengers staring at him through the windows with expressions of gratitude and awe.

  Within a couple of hours they reached the Jewish settlement. David noted it was armed, with young men and women manning sandbagged positions as they drove in.

  The passengers disembarked and were guided to a building for food.

  Elliot spoke in Hebrew to an older man, accompanied by another very pretty young lady who had titian hair and green eyes. She had a Lee Enfield slung on her shoulder, and David was impressed by her beauty. He smiled at her, but she did not return his friendly gesture. She seemed more interested in what Elliot was saying, and turned to speak with Richelle. Both women were staring at him in a way that made him feel just a little uncomfortable. Then they both smiled at him.

  ‘So, you’re a hero,’ the titian-haired girl said, disconcerting David. ‘Elliot has just explained to my father how you stopped an ambush on the road here.’

  ‘Your English is very good,’ David said.

  ‘It should be,’ the girl replied. ‘My grandfather was from your country. He came here at the turn of the century from the Boer War, and planted all the gum trees around our kibbutz. He served with Allenby’s British army during the Great War, and always insisted that the family learn to speak English.’

  ‘Is your grandfather still alive?’ David asked. The girl shook her head. ‘I should introduce myself,’ David continued. ‘I’m David Macintosh.’

  ‘I’m Rachel Rosenblum,’ the girl answered, holding out her hand, greasy with gun oil. ‘My grandfathe
r Saul Rosenblum came from the colony of Queensland. Do you know it?’

  David grinned. ‘Queensland is now a state in the commonwealth of Australia.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know that,’ Rachel blushed. ‘We are very busy learning to work this land and defend ourselves. Geography is not my best subject.’

  ‘I see that you’ve met my daughter,’ the man speaking with Elliot said and held out his hand. ‘I am Ben Rosenblum, and I would like to express my gratitude for what you did today. Elliot said that you’ve accepted an invitation to stay with us while you’re here. Do you speak any languages other than English?’

  ‘I speak German,’ David replied in that language. ‘My family always insisted we learn that language. It came in handy when I was serving in North Africa against Rommel’s mob.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Ben said. ‘We have many Jewish German refugees. Some speak Yiddish, which I doubt you do.’

  ‘No,’ David said. ‘I don’t even speak Hebrew.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll learn if you stay long enough. But for the moment we can do with a man with as much military experience as you. You can help train the young men and women who speak German and English.’

  ‘I could do that,’ David said. ‘Anything to help.’

  ‘Good,’ Ben said, turning to see Richelle walking back from the bus with the captured Lewis gun. ‘Maybe you know something about this weapon.’

  David was escorted to the communal food hall, and given a hot meal. Rachel sat with him and asked many questions about Australia. David explained many parts of his country had a lot in common with the arid lands of the Middle East.

  Within a couple of days David had his platoon of German- and English-speaking refugees, young men and women, and was feeling very much at home training them to be soldiers. His trainees liked their instructor, whose sense of humour made them laugh – something long absent from their years of avoiding capture by the dreaded German units and their allies tasked with executing them. Rachel would find a way of joining him for meals, as did Richelle. David realised they were vying for his attention. As flattering as it was, he was also aware the two girls had grown up together, and were best friends. The painful memories of losing Allison were not gone, and David was not ready to get involved with another woman.

  One morning David was having a cup of coffee outside a room where children were painting pictures under Rachel’s tutorship. He wandered inside and picked up a brush, dipped it in paint and outlined a tree in vibrant colours.

  ‘You have a natural talent,’ Rachel said, studying his painting. ‘Do you paint?’

  ‘Not normally,’ David said, surprised by his work. ‘When I was at school I loved to draw, but I was also in the first fifteen of the rugby team and the boxing team. Painting was something the creative kids who didn’t play footy did.’

  ‘You should practise, David,’ Rachel said, handing him another brush. ‘I can see that your reputation as a fierce warrior has impressed my little ones here.’

  David glanced around at the children, who he guessed to be under ten, watching him with awe. He was humbled by their admiration.

  ‘Their parents have told them how you single-handedly killed a dozen of the enemy on the road here,’ Rachel said.

  David laughed, ‘I’ve heard the expression Chinese whispers. I guess it’s true how stories get exaggerated.’

  ‘Will you remain with us?’ Rachel asked.

  David remained silent for a moment, looking around the room at the children who came from the four corners of Europe to seek safety in their own land. ‘I only intended to visit Palestine for a couple of months, and then return home,’ he said.

  ‘You should remain to see spring come to the land,’ Rachel said. ‘God shakes off the grey of winter, and shrugs off the cold to give us wildflowers and warmth. The orchards become a mass of flowers on the trees, and the promise of life comes to the land.’

  ‘You should have been a writer,’ David grinned. ‘You know how to put words together.’

  ‘Well, stay and see if I’m right,’ Rachel challenged, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I think Richelle would like that. She has a crush on you.’

  David handed the brush back to Rachel. ‘I’d better go and round up my would-be soldiers,’ he said. ‘It’s time to learn how to shoot, run, hide and crawl.’

  David left Rachel in her art class, and stepped into the chill of the Holy Land winter.

  But he did get to see the spring of 1946 come to Palestine.

  *

  James Duffy stood in the workshop that smelled of oil, petrol and sweat. Around him were bits and pieces of Harley motorbikes fresh out of wooden crates and still painted in their military green.

  ‘Well, captain, what do you think?’ a young man asked, wiping his grease-covered hands on a dirty rag. ‘This is where the loan went.’

  James ran his hand over one of the modified military motorbikes painted black. It was ready to be put out the front of the shop for sale.

  ‘How many have you sold so far?’ he asked.

  The young man was in his mid-twenties, and had crewed a Sherman tank under General Patton’s fast-moving army in France and Belgium. His two business partners had served as paratroopers with the air force.

  ‘Er, ah, none so far,’ the former tanker replied. ‘The winter hasn’t been a good time for motorbikes. But we expect business to pick up in spring.’

  ‘Well, you’ve just sold your first bike,’ James said. ‘This one,’ he said, continuing to stroke the metal horse.

  The motorbike entrepreneur looked at James to see if he was pulling his leg. ‘Hot dog!’ he said. ‘I’ll even throw in a set of saddlebags.’

  James produced a wad of dollars from his pocket, peeling off the notes while the young former soldier filled in the paperwork for the transaction. Once the cash was handed over, James sat astride the bike and turned on the ignition. The engine purred over, and James looked satisfied.

  ‘You didn’t even take it for a test ride,’ the seller said, handing the paperwork to James.

  ‘I didn’t have to.’ James grinned. ‘If I give out a loan from my grandfather’s bank, I know whoever I do so to will prove to be successful and trustworthy.’

  The former tankman thrust out his hand to James. ‘Captain, we will not let you down. We got these cheap through army surplus, and will sell high. We have a feeling there’ll be a lot of men who served who will want the freedom only a Harley can give them. A bit like a horse in the old west.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ James replied, gripping the young man’s hand. ‘I have big plans for the first bike you sold.’

  James left the shop, riding his newly acquired Harley. He pulled into the spacious driveway of his grandfather’s mansion, and parked the big motorbike out the front. The old valet cast the two-wheeled metal horse a look of suspicion.

  James went to his bedroom and packed a few things in the saddlebags he’d been given as part of the deal. Then he went to a wardrobe to recover his father’s old flying jacket, which he had had professionally restored.

  He went downstairs with the saddlebags over his shoulder to meet his grandfather, who was sitting in a chair in the manicured garden. Spring was in full bloom in New Hampshire, albeit still with a chill left over from winter.

  ‘Sir, I’m about to ride out,’ James said.

  Barrington looked at his grandson. He had on a leather flying jacket with a woollen collar, a T-shirt under the jacket, and his long flying boots. He was also wearing his aviator sunglasses and an old marine officer’s cap with its distinct insignia.

  ‘Where will you go?’ Barrington asked, looking up at his grandson.

  ‘I don’t exactly know,’ James replied. ‘Guess I’ll just hit the road and see if I can find America. I’ve heard there are many other combat veterans doing the same. Maybe catch up with old fri
ends. I promise to be back before the fall.’

  Barrington rose from his chair stiffly, and did something James never expected. He embraced him and said, ‘God bless you, son. Just be careful, and come home when you’re ready.’

  James returned the warm embrace, stepping back to look at the old man. For a moment James felt a surge of guilt for leaving him behind. ‘I’ll drop you a postcard or two,’ he said and turned to walk away, lest his tough and stoic grandfather saw the tears in his eyes.

  James Duffy went in search of America, and the words of the Doris Day song rang in his ears over the roar of the motorbike engine.

  TWENTY-SIX

  By the time spring came to Palestine in 1946, David Macintosh had discovered his hidden talent for painting. Rachel remarked it must have been in his blood.

  There were times when his hands would shake and his body tremble when he heard a loud noise akin to a rifle shot. His nights were still filled with the nightmares of war. Painting helped him feel more at peace.

  Spring also meant the weather had improved enough for more armed skirmishes with a local Arab population determined to throw out the Jewish newcomers. David stepped up security at the kibbutz and trained his squad to venture out on night patrols into the nearby hills, seeking out armed intruders and setting ambushes.

  His aggressive night operations forced the enemy to pull back after a couple of successful interceptions, and David’s reputation as a leader grew. When he was not conducting training and operations he would wander through the groves of gum trees. Rachel had told him about her grandfather, Ben Rosenblum, who was from a cattle station in Queensland. He had fought in the Boer War and deserted the army, fleeing to Palestine where he helped settlers recover their once useless land by growing trees. Now there were orchards of fruit and olive trees, making the people both self-sufficient and prosperous. At first they had generally had good relations with their Arab neighbours, but that changed when the Palestine Arabs were forced to heed the calls of their leaders to expel all Jews. Now they were at war, with only the British army providing a fragile stability between the two sides.