War Clouds Gather

by Peter Watt

  ‘What did you do?’ Matthew asked with a bemused expression. ‘Piss in Herr Hitler’s soup?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Sean replied, and as he did so he could see a group of men running towards them from the terminal area under construction. This time they were carrying rifles and pistols. ‘I think we had better leave.’

  Matthew turned to see the men coming towards them. ‘Get in the plane now!’ he shouted, and all four men scrambled for the open door to the Ford.

  Matthew was last in and immediately raced for the cockpit and slammed himself down in his seat to hit the start controls. It was fortunate that his engines were still warm and they kicked over with a reassuring roar. But when Matthew glanced out the cockpit window he could see that the men were closing fast and raising their rifles to open fire.

  Matthew grabbed the controls and swung the nose around to taxi out onto the airstrip, but he had a sinking feeling that he would not make it before the men on foot were within range to shoot up his aircraft.

  Ben had thrown himself into the copilot’s seat. ‘We’re not going to make it,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘The bastards will be on us before we can get going.’

  Suddenly Matthew was aware that Diane’s Junkers was taxiing between his plane and the pursuers, causing them to scatter lest they be caught in the spinning blades of the aircraft. The distraction gave Matthew the time he needed to pick up speed and place himself on the runway, where he opened the throttle for the shortest takeoff in his career.

  ‘Hang on!’ he shouted over his shoulder and the aircraft shuddered with the strain of the takeoff. He could hear a German voice calling to him over his radio to immediately land and hand over the two unauthorised persons who had been spotted near his aircraft, but Matthew ignored it. Ben picked up the hand piece and yelled down an obscenity in English that caused a short silence from the control tower.

  Then they were in the air and Matthew glanced at his compass to correct his course for Prague. The southern suburbs of Berlin were lit up under the rising aircraft and Matthew thanked his lucky stars they were flying at night. That meant the German fighter aircraft he had noticed parked at the edge of the airfield would not be able to pursue them. He knew that his aircraft was now blacked out. When he was satisfied all was well with the aeroplane and he had enough fuel to get him across the German border and into Czechoslovakian airspace, Matthew finally let out a deep breath.

  He reached for a cigar in his pocket and lit it, breathing out the smoke and reflecting on Diane’s unexpected action. He had no doubt that if she hadn’t placed her Junkers between the German military men and his trimotor, they would either be dead by now or in the hands of the German authorities.

  ‘Remind me to get a very large bunch of flowers when we are in Prague,’ Matthew shouted into Ben’s ear. ‘And see if we have any tea left in the thermos, old chap.’

  Ben nodded his head and unstrapped himself from his seat to make his way into the cargo hold where he saw Sean and David sitting, ashen-faced, on the floor.

  ‘Flying is very safe,’ Ben said with the authority of a man who had spent only a few hours in the sky, and most of those in terror. ‘I am Ben Rosenblum,’ he introduced himself. ‘We are going to Prague.’

  Sean looked at Ben. ‘I don’t care where we’re going so long as it’s out of Germany,’ he said. ‘Just tell me when we’re over the border.’

  When David and Sean were alone in the fuselage of the aircraft they discussed how the SS had tracked them to the airport. Sean had an idea but did not wish to dwell on the thought that the SS were not as stupid as he thought. They must have finally connected him to David. The telegram had given the place and date for their escape and only the gambler’s luck they had depended on so much had got them off the ground as the SS closed in.

  7

  Within the week Matthew flew his trimotor back to Basra via Jerusalem. Sean and David had left him in Prague to make their way to London via Paris. The reunion had been marked by many hangovers as the two old warriors talked over family matters and the recent past.

  Matthew came to a stop outside the big hangar where Cyril waited, hands on hips, to inspect his aeroplane. Like all aeronautical engineers, Cyril felt the plane was really his by virtue of the fact he knew every valve, bolt and oil line.

  Diane’s aircraft was sitting at the edge of the airstrip. Matthew looked at the bouquet of colourful flowers on the copilot’s seat and realised that they had wilted somewhat from the flight.

  Matthew exited the aircraft with the large wad of American dollars that had been paid to him when he delivered his cargo to an improvised airstrip outside Jerusalem. The men waiting had said very little as they’d unloaded the crates of weapons and ammunition. Ben had left with the taciturn men who had the demeanour of tough and dedicated disciples.

  ‘G’day Cyril,’ Matthew greeted. ‘Much happen since I left?’

  ‘You have a visitor,’ Cyril answered, grim-faced. ‘And it is not Miss Hatfield.’

  No sooner had the Canadian engineer opened his mouth than Matthew saw a British uniformed officer walking towards them with a small swagger stick tucked under his arm. The approaching army officer had tanned legs below the bottom of his khaki shorts and a tanned face, suggesting that he was not a recent arrival to Basra. Matthew guessed the man was in his late twenties. When he came closer Matthew could see that he had a handsome face and a small moustache.

  ‘Captain Duffy, I presume,’ he said without offering his hand. ‘I have been waiting your arrival. I am Major Guy Wilkes, army intelligence.’

  Matthew removed his leather flying helmet and breathed in the desert air. Although it was a clear day, the temperature was dropping and he kept his gloves on.

  ‘What is army intelligence doing on my airstrip?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘If we could speak in private, old chap,’ Major Wilkes said.

  ‘We can go to my office,’ Matthew replied and stepped off with the British officer beside him, leaving Cyril to watch on suspiciously.

  ‘I heard that you had a spot of trouble at Tempelhof,’ the major smiled with just a touch of sarcasm. ‘It appears that the German authorities are protesting to His Majesty that a British-registered aircraft made an unlawful takeoff from their territory last week. It seems you did not get the required clearances.’

  ‘I am not sure what you are referring to,’ Matthew answered calmly. ‘I was at Tempelhof, but nothing untoward happened when I left.’

  They reached the entrance to the huge hangar and Matthew saw his Iraqi servant, Ibrahim hovering nearby. He called to him in Arabic to prepare tea and ushered the British officer into his cluttered office. Matthew gestured to the battered leather chair and took a seat behind his desk.

  ‘Well,’ Wilkes said, placing his swagger stick across his knees, ‘I am not here to question you about your flight into Germany, and I am sure that I can make that problem go away if you are prepared to once again fly the flag for the Empire. I have read your very impressive war record, flying with the AFC, and I also know about your work for our intelligence service during the war. I believe that you were awarded an MBE along with your MC.’

  Matthew eyed off the younger man. ‘I am a civilian, Major,’ he replied. ‘And I deny any incident in Germany.’

  ‘I said that I was not here to talk to you about Tempelhof,’ the intelligence officer said, leaning forward in his chair. ‘I am here about the weapons you picked up in Prague from the Brno factory.’

  Matthew began to feel uneasy. Ibrahim arrived bearing a tray and pot of tea and both men ceased speaking while he poured the tea into two cups. When he departed, Major Wilkes sipped from his cup, while Matthew left his alone.

  ‘I thought that the British government was sympathetic to the Haganah,’ Matthew said, realising that there was no sense in lying.

  ‘The trouble is you do not know much about Ben Rosenblum,’ Major Wilkes said. ‘Did he tell you that he belonged to Orde Wingate’s boys?’
r />   ‘Yes,’ Matthew said, picking up his tea. His throat was suddenly dry. ‘You must also know that his father was a staunch supporter of the British during the war.’

  ‘Saul Rosenblum and his son no longer see eye to eye,’ Wilkes replied. ‘Ben is now with the Irgun.’

  ‘Irgun?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘A radical splinter group whose members believe that simply defending themselves from Arab attack is not enough. Their tactics are rather brutal against a lot of innocent Arab inhabitants of Palestine, and they appear to consider us as enemies too. Those arms went to them.’

  Matthew realised that he had been conned by his best friend’s son and he was angry.

  ‘Had I known I would not have accepted the contract,’ Matthew said.

  ‘I tend to believe you, Captain Duffy,’ Wilkes said in a voice that was genuine in its sincerity. ‘You made a mistake but have the opportunity to redeem yourself.’

  Matthew could feel the wad of American dollars in his jacket; he might not agree with the Irgun but he was not about to give up the fee covering his costs and commission. ‘How can I make up for my mistake?’ he asked.

  ‘A former employee of yours has recently flown in a party of German archaeologists,’ the major said. ‘We know that the delightful Miss Hatfield has a contract with the German government, and I have been informed that you are in partnership with her in this contract. We need someone close to Miss Hatfield to observe the Huns’ movements in the country. We feel that with your impressive background serving the Empire you are the man to keep us up to date on what the Germans are doing. We would also like to know a little more about how Miss Hatfield obtained the contract with Hitler’s government.’

  ‘I suppose archaeologists simply dig holes in the ground looking for bits of pottery that they can get excited about,’ Matthew said with a touch of sarcasm. ‘My priority is to keep my rather small airline afloat, Major.’ Matthew was about to rise from behind his desk but the British officer’s proposal stopped him.

  ‘What if I had the funds to put you on a retainer? Would that help?’

  ‘How much?’ Matthew countered.

  Guy Wilkes reached into the top pocket of his jacket to remove a piece of paper, which Matthew instantly recognised as a bank cheque. He passed it to Matthew, who glanced at the figure.

  ‘For how long?’ Matthew asked, impressed.

  ‘You would be contracted for at least the time that the Germans are running around the desert digging up bits of pottery,’ the major said. ‘In addition, the usual work you do for our oil companies continues without interruption.’

  It was a generous offer and Matthew knew that he had little choice if he wanted to keep the company operating. ‘You have a deal,’ he said, standing and extending his hand to seal the agreement between himself and British army intelligence.

  The British officer rose and accepted the gesture.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I feel that we will achieve a lot working together, old chap.’

  ‘Do you suspect Miss Hatfield of being a Nazi sympathiser?’ Matthew asked as the major prepared to return to army HQ in Basra.

  ‘There are many Nazi sympathisers in both the USA and England,’ Guy Wilkes replied. ‘I hope that you find she is not one of them.’

  Matthew thought about how Diane had placed her aircraft between his own and the pursuing German soldiers days earlier, risking her life. ‘I doubt that Diane is a Nazi,’ Matthew said.

  ‘We will rely on you to ascertain her political sympathies,’ the major shrugged. ‘I will be in contact. We can meet each week at this café in Basra,’ he said, handing Matthew a small piece of paper. ‘In the meantime I think that you should get acquainted with Miss Hatfield’s archaeologists.’

  Matthew watched the British officer leave and thought about retrieving the flowers from his aircraft. A dash of water might still revive them.

  *

  Sean felt that the Savoy in London was worth the cost for a week’s accommodation, considering all that he and David had been through in Germany. The plush and famous hotel was also close to the law offices where Sean needed to conduct his legal business on behalf of his Australian clients. He left David to enjoy the historic sites of the city on the Thames River.

  At the end of the day they met in the dining room. Both men had used a substantial amount of money from Sean’s London bank to outfit themselves in new clothes. Sean had built up a sound legal practice over the years, and without a wife and children to spend it on, had saved much of his substantial income. Now he could afford to spoil David in the hope that it might distract the young man from the horrors of his imprisonment in Dachau.

  ‘I found a good gym not far from here,’ David said, fork embedded in a piece of roast lamb in the Savoy’s very posh dining room. ‘I might get a chance to have a workout in the ring with one of the Pom heavyweights.’

  ‘Do you think you have recovered enough to get back in the ring?’ Sean asked, picking up his glass of good French red.

  ‘I have to do something,’ David replied, gazing off across the room to where he could see a very pretty young lady sitting with what he presumed were her parents. ‘I can’t sightsee all day, it’ll drive me mad. I need to get back in training.’

  ‘If you think you’re up to it, you have my blessing to have your head knocked in by some Pom heavyweight,’ Sean shrugged. Sean had booked them both on a ship back to Australia in just over a week’s time. His legal dealings were going well with his learned English friends, and now it was only a matter of waiting for the slow wheels of the civil legal machine to grind over.

  After breakfast the following morning, David changed into casual clothing and made his way to the gym he had identified. He stepped inside the building and the familiar pungent smell of sweat, tobacco and unguents for sore muscles assailed him, bringing back memories of the Sydney gym he trained in under the management of Harry Griffiths, a close friend of Sean’s. Harry had trained David himself and he was a good teacher.

  ‘What you want?’ asked a smallish middle-aged man who had long lost his hair.

  ‘I’m in from Sydney, Australia,’ David answered. ‘I wouldn’t mind some time in the ring.’

  ‘You a colonial fighter?’ the little man asked, retrieving the stub of a cigar and lighting it.

  ‘I’ve been with Harry Griffiths’ gym for over four years,’ David replied.

  ‘Never ’eard of ’im,’ the little man said. ‘But young Horace over there needs a punchin’ bag. You look like a ’eavyweight. You got any kit?’

  ‘No,’ David replied, looking across the room to a well-built man around his own age and weight, sparring with a boxing bag. The room had around a dozen other young men in different stages of training, and the air echoed with grunts, slaps on leather and orders roared at individuals to keep up their hands, shuffle their feet or use their shoulder with the punch. It was all so familiar to David.

  ‘Get yourself ready over there,’ the little man said, handing David a set of gloves. ‘Horry,’ he roared. ‘You got yerself a match. Three three-minute rounds. I’ll ref.’

  Horry slapped his gloves together as his eyes met David’s.

  Sitting down on a small wooden stool inside the boxing ring, David put out his hands to be strapped by an old assistant. ‘You met the boss,’ he said through teeth yellowed by years of smoking. ‘You must have impressed Ikey to be able to get in the ring with his best boy. You ever fight before?’

  ‘Yeah,’ David answered, flexing his knuckles when the strapping was applied. ‘Last fight was back in Dachau for the heavyweight championship.’

  ‘That near Glasgow or something?’ the assistant asked without sounding as if he was interested in the answer, and David did not bother explaining.

  David had stripped down to his singlet, and a leather head protection was handed to him. He was barefooted but no one seemed to mind when he and Horace stepped into the centre of the ring. A few of the fighters in training stopped their activitie
s to watch the fight.

  ‘Clean fight,’ Ikey said, still puffing on his cigar. ‘Horry, this is your opponent – all the way from the colony of Australia. Don’t know ’is name but ’e reckons ’e can fight.’

  David touched gloves with his opponent and the two men returned to their corners. The assistant clanged the bell, and the two young men began circling each other with hands up in defensive positions. For David it felt so good to be back on the surface of canvas, surrounded by ropes and not barbed wire.

  ‘Have a go, Aussie,’ someone yelled and David once again experienced the euphoria of being in the ring, pitted one on one against an opponent. Three rounds went quickly. David landed many good punches but his English opponent was in the prime of his fighting career, and David knew that he was receiving more than he delivered. It was a good clean fight and when the bell clanged for the finish of the third round, David collapsed on the little wooden stool thrust into his corner by the assistant. As this was not an official fight there was no need for the proclamation of a winner, but David hefted himself from the stool, walked over to his equally battered opponent, and held his hand up as a gesture to Horry being the winner on points. The gesture took the other man by surprise.

  ‘Thanks, Aussie,’ he said with a warm smile. ‘You can fight. Hope we don’t go too many rounds when you’re in top form.’

  ‘Name’s David Macintosh,’ David said and Horace extended both his hands in the boxer’s gesture, which David accepted.

  ‘Horace Howard,’ Horace said. ‘You can call me Horry. Fancy a drink after I finish up here?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ David replied as the other boxers drifted back to their activities. ‘My shout, to acknowledge your win on points.’

  ‘Hey! Colonial, ’ow long you goin’ to be ’angin’ around?’ Ikey said, interrupting the conversation. ‘Could do with another fighter. Wot’s yer name?’