War Clouds Gather

by Peter Watt

  Never before had Matthew faced such a decision and suddenly his mind flashed back to a hilltop so many years earlier when he had held the life of his beloved Joanne in his hands. He had delivered a lethal dose of morphine to alleviate her terrible pain from a gunshot that left no hope of salvation. Now he was forced to deliver death to the woman he secretly desired.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ Matthew asked and realised how inane his question was.

  ‘You taught me a long time ago to always ensure the condition of your aircraft,’ Diane replied, standing with her torch shining in Matthew’s face.

  From the corner of his eye Matthew saw that Tyrone stood with his pistol levelled at Diane.

  ‘I’m sorry that you chose to follow my instructions this time,’ he said sadly, still struggling with the next step. He should kill her – he’d confirmed her complicity in the Nazi plot to arm rebellious tribesmen.

  ‘I know what your cargo is,’ Matthew said. ‘Why, Diane?’

  ‘Not everything in life is etched in black and white, Matthew,’ she replied quietly. ‘I suspect that within a very short time what you have done will be discovered, and neither you nor Tyrone will get out of here alive.’ Her words held enough threat for Matthew to take a firm grip on the handle of his knife. He had no other choice than to kill her. He could not risk the loud sound of a gunshot from Tyrone.

  ‘Nor is the situation as it appears,’ Diane continued, switching off her torch and leaving the three standing beneath a canvas of brilliant starlight. ‘I wish I could explain but all I can do is give you and Tyrone a chance to get out of here alive,’ she said.

  ‘You tried to kill me with the sabotage of my plane,’ Matthew countered. ‘Why would you try and help us now?’

  ‘I was not aware of what had been done to your kite,’ Diane replied sadly. ‘I believe that Albrecht was behind the sabotage.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’ Matthew scoffed. ‘I know you’re a member of the American Nazi Party and that you and Albrecht are lovers.’

  ‘Why would my relationship with Albrecht concern you?’ Diane asked. ‘You’ve never shown any romantic interest in me.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a bother,’ Tyrone said quietly, ‘but the longer we stay out here, the greater the risk of being found out.’

  Matthew knew his copilot was right. ‘You said that you would give us a chance to live,’ he said. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You should take off now,’ Diane answered. ‘I know it’s risky without airstrip lights, but you’re one of the best flyers I know. I will tell the team that I suggested you leave before the weather turned bad. As for the dead man at your feet . . . his absence will not be missed for some hours.’

  ‘You would do that?’ Matthew questioned, his mind reeling.

  ‘I stopped the Germans at Tempelhof, didn’t I?’ she countered. ‘Go now and take the body with you,’ she continued urgently. ‘You do not have much time and I will need to get back to the tent to explain to Albrecht why you are leaving so early. By the time the absence of the guard is discovered you should be back at Basra having morning tea.’

  Matthew turned to Tyrone, who was already dragging the body of the Iraqi back to their aircraft. He turned to follow his copilot, confused at what had just transpired.

  The body was pulled aboard and both men took their seats in the cockpit. After a quick check Matthew fired the engines and they coughed into life. Already Diane was gone from view and when the engines were warm enough to take off Matthew could see the lights in the main tent go on. No doubt Diane was explaining their unannounced departure to Albrecht.

  Even in the dark Matthew was able to find the strip, and with his engines at almost full power he took off. Within a minute the undercarriage was free of the earth and they were climbing into the sky, plotting a course back to Basra.

  Matthew went over and over every word they had exchanged on the airstrip. What was not black and white? She was a confirmed member of the Nazi Party. She had smuggled arms to the German team for distribution to the rebels. That was certainly black and white.

  Matthew made his way further back into the cargo hold to the body of the man he had killed, and for the first time had a clear view of him. He could see that he was a young man, probably in his early twenties. His beard was clotted with blood and his eyes the opaque colour of death. He felt great sadness for this stranger who had not been his enemy but a threat to his mission. Matthew felt that he’d had no choice but to kill him; he was back to the old days of kill or be killed.

  He pulled the body to the doorway and with great caution opened the door and slid the body from the aircraft as the wind howled past with its mournful song. The body fell towards the earth and Matthew said a quiet prayer, unsure whether he was praying for the Iraqi or himself.

  *

  In Basra it was breakfast time in the officers’ mess and Major Guy Wilkes sat down with his cup of tea in a comfortable chair in the anteroom to peruse a week-old copy of the Times. He glanced up from the pages when he noticed his orderly-room clerk hovering at the door to the mess with an anxious expression.

  ‘What is it, Corporal Starthorne?’ he asked.

  The corporal remained in the doorway, not daring to enter the holy place of officers. ‘There is a decoded message that has been signalled to us, sir,’ he said. ‘I think you should see it now.’

  With a sigh, Wilkes placed his fine china cup on a small table and followed his clerk to the signals building. He entered and went to the room that encoded and decoded top secret messages from London. The signaller on duty had his headphones on and was intent on scribbling down messages on military forms.

  The corporal clerk went to a clipboard and retrieved a lengthy decoded signal, passing it to the intelligence major. Wilkes signed the message as a record that he had received it, and commenced reading. It was from Military Intelligence Department Six in London and had been relayed after an intercept on the American communications station in Britain. Although the view that gentlemen did not read other gentlemen’s mail was often echoed in the intelligence world, they still did. Being an ally did not exclude listening in to each other’s top secret messages.

  ‘Damn!’ Guy muttered, passing the form back to his clerk. ‘Ensure this message is destroyed ASAP. Do we know where Captain Duffy is right now?’

  ‘The last report was that Captain Duffy was on his way to the German camp,’ he answered. ‘That is all I know at this stage.’

  ‘Get my car ready, Corporal Starthorne,’ Guy Wilkes said. ‘You and I are going to drive out to Captain Duffy’s hangar and pray that he has returned in one piece. I also want you to make an appointment with our foreign affairs chap in Baghdad as soon as possible. You can inform him that we require an urgent meeting.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the clerk replied. He delegated the appointment for the foreign affairs representative to another clerk on the way out of the office and rushed to get the car ready.

  *

  Matthew’s Basra airstrip was in view and the weather had held to a clear, crisp day as the aircraft came in to land smoothly. Even from the air Matthew had spotted Major Wilkes’s staff car waiting by the hangar, no doubt there to take his report on what he had found.

  Tyrone taxied the Ford to the hangar where they were met by Cyril, who stood shivering with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Hope you’ve been looking after my kite,’ he said by way of greeting and waved over his shoulder to Major Wilkes. ‘The major says he wants to have a wee word with you.’

  Matthew thanked Cyril and asked Tyrone to chase up Ibrahim to prepare breakfast and tea. When Matthew approached Guy he could see the strained expression on the British officer’s face.

  The major extended his gloved hand. ‘Hope all went well, old chap,’ he said, shaking Matthew’s hand firmly. ‘I have received a spot of intelligence this morning that has changed everything around here. But first, did you make it to the Hun camp?’

  Matt
hew briefed him on all that had occurred up until his confrontation with Diane. For reasons unknown and he himself did not quite understand he did not inform the British officer of that strange meeting, but he did tell him that he had been forced to kill a sentry.

  ‘Did you speak with Miss Hatfield while you were at the camp?’ Guy asked with a trace of a frown on his face.

  ‘Only during the evening meal,’ Matthew lied. ‘Why, is there any significance in that?’

  ‘I could do with a good hot cup of tea,’ Guy replied. ‘My morning brew was rudely interrupted today.’

  ‘Tea is being prepared even as we speak,’ Matthew answered, leading Guy towards his office in the big hangar. ‘I sense that there is a connection between you missing your cup of tea and Miss Hatfield.’

  ‘There is, old chap,’ Guy answered. ‘And I think you will need a strong brew, too, when I tell you why.’

  15

  It hurt when Donald Macintosh hit the earth of the dusty yard. The horse continued to pigroot, and the men leaning on the wooden railings of the circular enclosure sneered at Donald’s discomfort. The stockmen knew he was the son of the property’s owner and harboured the working man’s dislike of those in the boss class.

  Donald had now been a resident of Glen View for two weeks. In the last three days he had attempted to master the art of riding a horse, something he had never done before. Old Hector MacManus, leaning on a walking stick, shook his head in despair. Today Hector had allowed one of the half-broken horses to be saddled, hoping that his protégé might have learned enough to handle the frisky mount. Up until this moment Donald had thought he’d learned plenty about horse riding, but lying winded on his back on the ground, he admitted to himself that he had a lot to learn if he was going to gain the respect of the men watching.

  Although Donald still yearned to return to the bright lights of Sydney he knew that he would just have to make the best of a bad situation. He listened carefully to the old Scot as he attempted to teach him how a cattle station worked. Donald had found himself in a world of men who spent their whole lives working the tough and often dangerous plains as stockmen and who respected a man for his character rather than his income. They were no-nonsense workers who believed in giving all a fair go, as long as they pulled their weight. In the end, Donald knew he would just have to accept their scorn.

  He rose to his feet, dusting down his trousers, and went in search of his wide-brimmed hat. It lay at the edge of the yard. When he walked over to retrieve it he looked up and came to a sudden halt. Standing behind the rails was a young woman whose dark beauty immediately caught his attention. She was watching him with the trace of an amused smile.

  ‘Hello,’ she greeted when Donald was only a few paces away. ‘You seem to have trouble sitting on a horse.’

  Donald could see that the young woman watching him had an inherent intelligence in her liquid black eyes, observing his every movement. She had a golden sheen to her skin and appeared to be just a few years younger than he. Where she had come from baffled him.

  ‘Oh, I was okay yesterday,’ Donald replied with a self-effacing smile. ‘I actually got to stay in the saddle for at least an hour.’

  ‘You will need to learn to remain in the saddle for a lot longer if you wish to ride with the Glen View mob,’ the young woman said.

  ‘Let me introduce myself,’ Donald said, dusting off his hat and holding it in his hands. ‘I’—’

  ‘You’re Donald Macintosh,’ the girl interjected. ‘I already know that from Mr MacManus. I am Miss Jessica Duffy, but you may call me Jessica, Mr Macintosh.’

  ‘In that case you can call me Donald,’ he replied, warming to the young lady on the other side of the fence. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Jessica Duffy, and dare I ask what such a beauteous sight in this desolate land is doing laughing at the dilemma of a novice?’

  Jessica laughed softly and stepped back from the fence. ‘My father and I are guests of Mr MacManus,’ she said. ‘Every chance my father gets he stops over here. Sometimes I’m free to travel with him, and I am pleased to say that this time I had the opportunity to see the son of Sir George Macintosh fall on his arse.’

  Donald smiled at her use of a word one would most definitely not hear from the lips of a Sydney lady. It was obvious from the cultured tone of her voice, however, that she had been well schooled. She was wearing jodhpurs and a clean silk shirt – the way she was dressed spelled money.

  Satisfied that the owner’s son had learned a lesson in horsemanship, the stockmen drifted away from the horse-breaking yard, leaving Jessica and Donald alone.

  ‘Mr MacManus has prepared morning tea at the homestead and I was sent down to invite you to meet my father,’ Jessica said, turning on her heel and obviously expecting Donald to follow. He could not help but notice the way her round backside filled her tight pants.

  They reached the verandah of the homestead, stepping through the open gauze door to enter the spacious dining room beyond the kitchen. Donald saw a tall, broad-shouldered man standing talking to the old Scots station manager. When the stranger turned to greet his daughter, Donald was slightly taken aback by his dangerous demeanour. There was something behind the eyes that spoke of a wild animal ready to kill.

  ‘Daddy, this is Mr Donald Macintosh,’ Jessica said with a genuine note of love in her voice. ‘Donald, this is my father Tom.’

  Tom held out his hand to Donald, who was almost too frightened to accept the gesture. Donald did not know why he was so frightened of a man he had never met before – even though he had heard Tom’s name in company circles as both a distant relative and the man who wanted to purchase Glen View Station.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Duffy,’ Donald said, feeling the iron strength in the other man’s grip.

  ‘A pleasure, Mr Macintosh,’ Tom said, balancing his cup of tea in one hand. ‘No doubt you have heard my name mentioned before.’

  Donald felt decidedly uncomfortable at the comment. Tom Duffy was looking him directly in the eye.

  ‘My father has mentioned that you have shown an interest in purchasing Glen View,’ Donald replied after clearing his throat.

  ‘Tea, Donald?’ Jessica asked. Her familiarity brought a disapproving glance from her father, which did not deter her at all. ‘I found Donald making an examination of the soil,’ she continued. ‘I think he may have been thinking about ways to improve the pastures.’

  ‘You mean you found Mr Macintosh face down in the round yard,’ Hector exploded with a laugh. ‘My fault, I allowed the lads to saddle a half-broken mount so we could see how young Mr Macintosh was going. In actual fact he is doing very well in his horse handling. I might let him off mucking out the stables today.’

  Donald could see a slight smile on the stern face of Tom Duffy, and suddenly his apprehension melted in the warmth that came into those same dark eyes.

  ‘I appreciate your generosity, Mr MacManus,’ Donald said graciously, knowing full well that Hector would not have ordered the son of his boss to do such a menial task as mucking out stables. ‘It is certainly far more pleasant being in such august company as Mr Duffy, whom I remember was decorated for great bravery in the war.’

  Tom looked with surprise at the young man. ‘I am flattered that you have any knowledge of my war experiences,’ he said.

  ‘My father has a very comprehensive dossier on you, Mr Duffy. If I remember correctly, you were awarded a Distinguished Conduct Medal along with a Military Medal, and at one stage it is rumoured you were actually recommended for the Victoria Cross. I also know that you had a fearsome reputation as a sniper on the Western Front.’

  ‘You’re well informed,’ Tom said. ‘Do you also know that we are distantly related, and that Aboriginal blood runs in my veins and those of my daughter?’

  The obvious challenge caught Donald off guard. He had heard both those pieces of information. He realised Tom was watching him carefully for a reaction.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he replied. ‘But the colour o
f a man’s skin does not measure his worth.’

  The sudden chill in the warm air seemed to dissipate at this answer and Donald glanced at Jessica to see her reaction. She appeared unfazed, and bent to pick up a scone, eating it with great delicacy.

  Donald was fascinated by her. She was both a lady and someone who could express vulgar words in the yards. Donald had known a lot of young ladies in Sydney and he found himself comparing her with them. He decided she would definitely be able to hold her own in any society – despite her heritage. He admitted to himself that he had been raised by his father to believe that black people were incapable of joining civilised society. But in this room, in the presence of the impressive Tom Duffy and his beautiful daughter, Sir George’s views did not seem to hold much weight.

  ‘Are you staying over for a while, Mr Duffy?’ Donald asked.

  ‘Mr Duffy usually spends a week when he visits Glen View,’ Hector answered. ‘Although your father may not approve, I consider Mr Duffy a friend. He worked for me just after the war, and knows these lands as well as any man, and Miss Duffy is probably one of the most accomplished horse riders I know.’

  ‘I can assure you, Mr MacManus, that I am not about to inform my father of Mr Duffy’s visits,’ Donald said. ‘I would like the honour of riding with Miss Duffy tomorrow. I am sure that she can prevent me from pursuing a career as an agronomist. And, Mr Duffy, I am fully aware of your reputation with a rifle.’

  All in the room broke into a soft laugh at this.

  ‘It is up to my daughter, Mr Macintosh,’ Tom said, glancing at Jessica whose face had broken into a broad smile. ‘Looks like she will accept your offer. Just be back before last light.’

  That night at dinner, Donald shared the table with Hector and his guests. The conversation centred around running a cattle station: cattle prices, diseases and pastures. Donald sat opposite Jessica and every now and then he would catch her eye and she would smile at him openly. Donald had to admit that he was smitten by this unusual young lady.