War Clouds Gather

by Peter Watt

  ‘Right, boss,’ Donald replied with a grin, replacing his wide-brimmed hat and striding across to the stockyards where the men were branding cattle. They greeted Donald with indifference – except for one of the stockmen – a tall, lean man tanned by long hours under the sun.

  ‘Had a good holiday, Mr Macintosh?’ Mitch asked with a sneer. ‘While the rest of us took on all the work?’

  Donald felt the sting of the rebuke and felt the eyes of half-a-dozen other men burn through him. He climbed through the wooden rails of the yard and walked towards the tall stockman who was holding a red-hot branding iron over a beast that had been brought down on its side in preparation. Donald could feel a knot of fear in his stomach. He was backed into a corner – he knew that the other men watching would be considering his reaction to the slur. Donald walked over to Mitch and stopped a few feet away.

  ‘I didn’t realise that I was carrying you,’ Donald said with all the calmness he could muster. ‘Thanks for telling me.’

  Mitch straightened his back and stared, nose to nose with Donald. ‘If you weren’t the boss’s son you wouldn’t even be here,’ Mitch said with a slow smile. ‘This is no place for sissy city boys like you.’

  ‘Maybe you should put down the branding iron and find out just how sissy I am,’ Donald said, issuing his challenge in front of the men sitting on the rails and standing around the downed beast. He wondered at his own confidence; perhaps it had something to do with Jessica. She was a country girl and such acts of bravado were expected from men working close to the land.

  Mitch dropped the branding iron and lashed out with a right hook. Donald was taken unawares and the blow rattled his head. He stumbled, falling back to raise his hands in a defensive posture. He had never learned how to box but had seen enough fights to know the basic moves. Mitch stepped in and threw three more punches, each one striking Donald’s head with stinging force. Donald was aware that a cheer had gone up from the men watching; one voice was even yelling, ‘Have a go, sissy boy.’

  The expression hurt as much as the blows from Mitch, and the young man suddenly felt a cold rage rush through his body. He could see Mitch grimly smiling as he took another pace towards him, an expression of victory in his eyes.

  Donald was a half-head shorter but had a well-developed body inherited from both his Scots and Irish ancestors. He snapped a punch directly into Mitch’s face and was aware there was a sudden silence in the stockyard as Mitch staggered back, blood gushing from his broken nose. Donald took two paces forward, balanced himself and delivered another two blows into the face of his opponent. Suddenly the cheering commenced again with his name being shouted by the spectators who only seconds earlier had jeered him.

  But Mitch was a seasoned fighter. He recovered from seriously underestimating his opponent and spat a glob of blood onto the hot earth. The stockman rallied and waded back into Donald with a series of lightning-fast blows that hammered the sense from Donald, causing him to see a shower of red stars and sink to his knees, blood running from his split lips.

  Donald realised that he had no answer to the stockman’s years of experience brawling in country pubs, and expected to be pulverised by feet and fists. He wanted to gain his feet but the other man’s fists had knocked all sense from him and Donald knew he was beaten.

  A hand reached down and he was hefted to his feet. ‘Yer fight pretty good for a sissy boy,’ Mitch said, wiping his broken nose with the back of his hand and wincing. ‘No one else has been able to bust my nose before. I suppose yer goin’ to tell the boss I gave you a hidin’ so he will sack me.’

  Donald was regaining his senses, trying to focus on the other man’s face. He could not see any animosity and was confused. His father had always taught him that you make sure your opponent was ground into the earth in business affairs – and in life. No mercy should ever be shown to the defeated.

  ‘You hit bloody hard,’ Donald said weakly, and thrust out his hand to the stockman. ‘I concede you won, and hope you might teach me a thing or two while I’m here.’

  A look of surprise fell across Mitch’s battered face. ‘Yer not goin’ to tell the boss about what happened here?’

  ‘No,’ Donald said. ‘You and I fought a fair fight and you won,’ he replied. ‘It’s all over.’

  Mitch shook Donald’s hand and a cheer went up from the watching stockmen. Some even slapped Donald on the back and said, ‘Good fight.’

  Both men went over to the water trough and washed the blood from their battered faces. In the act of challenging Mitch it seemed Donald had won the respect of the tough men he worked alongside.

  That evening Donald dined with Hector in the homestead.

  ‘Fall off your horse again?’ Hector said across the table, and Donald sensed the humour in the statement.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Fell into a wooden rail.’

  ‘Down in the stockyard, I heard,’ Hector said. ‘The boys tell me it had a name, the stock rail – Mitch.’

  ‘I started it,’ Donald said defensively. ‘Not his fault.’

  Hector took a sip of the soup in front of him. ‘You did well, so I have been led to believe. I think you did the right thing. In this part of the country, a man is judged by his toughness and fair dealings – especially in a fight. We are not like your city friends out here. We don’t put the boot in.’

  ‘Luckily for me,’ Donald snorted as the hot soup stung his split lips. ‘I realised out there today that I still have a lot to learn.’

  ‘I have to say, Mr Macintosh . . .’

  ‘I don’t deserve the title of Mr,’ Donald cut in. ‘I think hearing Donald from you would sound more appropriate, Mr MacManus.’

  ‘A fine Scottish name it is too,’ Hector said. ‘I was going to say that you are not the man I first met when you arrived. If you are not careful, you might even to come to love this harsh country with its tough but simple life.’

  ‘You might be right, Mr MacManus,’ Donald said. ‘But eventually my father will want me back in Sydney to assume the role of co-owner of our companies. I do what my father wishes.’

  Hector shrugged. ‘You’ll be doing that with your cousin, David Macintosh, who is also a fine young man.’

  ‘My father has a different opinion,’ Donald said. ‘From what I have been told, Cousin David has been under the wing of that damned Sydney lawyer, Sean Duffy.’

  ‘It’s a pity you’ve never met David,’ Hector said, wiping his mouth with a linen serviette. ‘I think you might like him.’

  Donald did not reply, and the two men continued the meal in silence. Already the moon was rising over the brigalow scrub, and the curlews combined with the dingos to sing their mournful songs of the night.

  Part Two

  1937

  Life and Death

  18

  Major Guy Wilkes of army intelligence fumed at the reply he had received from London. Despite the overwhelming evidence of the German archaeological team’s subversive role in the Middle East, he had been cautioned not to take any overt action. Suspicion of British involvement in any unfortunate fate that might befall the German scientists had to be avoided at all costs. London did not want an international incident with Berlin.

  The major paced his office in Basra and wanted to shoot the lot of them – except Miss Diane Hatfield, of course, who was obviously working for American intelligence. But why she should be doing that was a mystery. Her first loyalty should have been to the British government.

  The coded message Wilkes had received said that there was to be no overt action carried out, and he smiled grimly. It did not mention anything about covert operations.

  Guy Wilkes slumped into his chair behind his desk. He had an ace up his sleeve and that ace was Captain Matthew Duffy. All that was needed was an unfortunate accident to occur to the Germans – with no links to himself and the British government. Guy Wilkes thought that he had such a plan. Aeroplane accidents were not uncommon and, after all, hadn’t the Germans attempted to kill C
aptain Duffy in such a way?

  *

  It had been just after the New Year that Diane flew in to Basra for resupplies.

  Matthew saw her land and left his hangar to greet her. The weather was still cold and she was rugged up in leather flying jacket and leather pants.

  ‘Hello, Diane,’ he said. ‘I think that you and I need to talk.’

  Diane frowned, but followed him to the office where she sat down in the old leather chair. Matthew called for a pot of tea and remained silent until the tea had been delivered and Ibrahim had left them alone.

  Matthew poured the tea and handed a cup to Diane.

  ‘I know about your role with American intelligence,’ he said quietly and Diane looked sharply at him.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she retorted.

  Matthew slumped into a chair behind his desk. ‘There’s no point in denying that you are working for the American FBI,’ he persisted. ‘I cannot tell you how I know, but a lot of things are making sense now. I don’t believe you were involved in the sabotage of my kite, and now I understand why you saved us at Tempelhof.’

  Diane placed her cup carefully on a small side table beside her chair and appeared deep in thought.

  ‘If anyone else had asked me of my involvement with the Americans I would have denied it,’ Diane said, gazing around the office. ‘But it has been hard to hide the truth from someone I care about as much as I do you,’ she continued. ‘As you may know I was hired in the States to fly a well-known gangster around the country but he got into a spot of bother with Mr Hoover’s G men. Because of my association I was threatened by the FBI with imprisonment. They accused me of complicity in his operations despite the fact all I did was fly him around the country. But when they found out that the man I was working for was a friend of Benito Mussolini, they made a deal with me. I had to join the American Nazi Party and report to the FBI on their activities. My membership led me to Berlin where I was given my current contract. I was trapped and had no other choice but to go along with the Americans. I’m glad that you know because I felt as if I was betraying you more than anyone else. So now you know.’

  Matthew softened at Diane’s confession. ‘Is that why you slept with Albrecht?’

  Diane looked away before answering. ‘Only partly,’ she said quietly. ‘You have always acted the gentleman, completely unaware of the crush I had on you when you were teaching me to fly in those years after the war. You don’t know how much I yearned to have your arms around me.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he managed to say.

  ‘You men are so ignorant of what we women are saying to you,’ she said sadly. ‘If sleeping with Albrecht made you jealous, I’m glad. But I didn’t sleep with him for that reason. It was a mistake. But my life is always on the line around the Germans and you had never indicated how you felt about me.’

  ‘Diane, I’m a man over fifty with no real fortune left – and two estranged children. I have so little to offer any woman – let alone one as young and beautiful as you,’ Matthew said with a sigh. ‘If I lose the only aircraft I own I will lose my sole source of income. What have I got to offer a woman?’

  Diane rose from the chair and went around to Matthew, sitting down in his lap and placing her arms around him. ‘I’m thirty-six years old and have spent my life doing things many women would envy,’ she said. ‘But even I dream of the love of a man I want to spend the rest of my life with, and maybe even have children with before it is too late. I have always hoped that man would be you, Captain Duffy.’

  Matthew found that he was having trouble taking everything in. Diane’s declaration of love had come at the same time as her confession to working as a double agent. The moment was overwhelming and the tough Australian flyer was at a loss for words.

  Just then Cyril appeared in the doorway and raised his bushy eyebrows at the sight of his boss with his former employee sitting on his lap.

  ‘Ahem,’ Cyril said, clearing his throat. ‘Major Wilkes is here to see you, Skipper.’

  ‘Hello, Cyril,’ Diane said, slipping from Matthew’s lap. Behind the engineer Guy Wilkes appeared wearing a suit of civilian clothing. Clearly he did not want to attract too much attention.

  ‘Miss Hatfield,’ Guy said with a wide grin. ‘I see that you and Captain Duffy have made yourselves comfortable. I hope that I am not intruding.’

  Matthew glared at the British officer whose timing could have not been worse. ‘What is it, Major?’ he asked, and Guy put on a hurt expression.

  ‘I thought that we were on a first-name basis, Matthew,’ he said. ‘I was just passing by, and thought that I might drop in for a cup of tea and a chat with my favourite colonial flyer.’

  ‘Diane has told me about her service with the Yanks,’ Matthew said and watched the amused expression on Guy’s face disappear.

  ‘Then I think Miss Hatfield should join us in a conversation regarding the contract she has with the Nazis.’

  Diane looked to Matthew, who nodded his head for her to stay. She sat down across from both men.

  ‘Miss Hatfield,’ Guy said. ‘I know that you are actually working for Mr Hoover and the FBI, but I am going to stick out my neck and appeal to your patriotism towards your own country. I had not included you in my planning but it seems that circumstances have changed. I confess that I have little experience working with double agents, but I also sense that Matthew would vouch for your reliability.’

  ‘If you mean am I loyal to my country and king,’ Diane answered, ‘then you can depend on me. My work for the Americans is under duress but I do believe in their anti-fascist stance. I don’t think it matters whether I work for the Americans or my own country – fascism is a threat to the free world. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Firstly, you cannot tell the Americans you are now prepared to work for His Majesty,’ Guy said, leaning forward and fixing Diane with his eyes.

  ‘Does that make me a triple agent?’ Diane asked with a short laugh.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Guy replied. ‘But now you are working for the right people.’

  ‘I don’t think Diane should be working for anyone –

  except herself,’ Matthew protested. ‘You know how dangerous espionage can be.’

  ‘Thank you, Matthew,’ Diane said. ‘But I have come this far and feel my contribution has been of some good in the war against the Nazis. When I return to Berlin I am to be received by Herr Himmler himself, so I have been told. That is a considerable step towards learning the inner workings of the government in Germany.’

  ‘Himmler,’ Guy uttered, impressed by how far the FBI-recruited agent had progressed. ‘I can see why the Yanks value your role for them.’

  ‘I would rather see Diane extracted from her current spying activities. It just takes one small slip and she could end up in some shallow, unmarked grave.’

  Diane reached over and touched Matthew on the arm. ‘I’m reassured by your concern but I can handle myself.’

  Matthew was not convinced. He’d had similar reassurances almost twenty years earlier from Joanne, and she had not lived to see the end of the war. This time he would not take the chance of losing Diane.

  ‘What can you tell me about your current contract with the German government?’ Guy asked.

  ‘About as much as I presume you have already deduced,’ Diane replied. ‘Their primary mission is to supply the rebels up north with funding and arms to attack British interests in this part of the world.’

  Guy nodded. ‘How successful have they been?’

  ‘I think Matthew has been able to tell you that they have distributed the gold they had and the arms I brought in from Germany,’ she answered. ‘I can tell you at least which of the sheikhs has received the guns and money. Herr Albrecht is a favourite of Himmler and is his prime agent in this part of the world, so he is trusted to run his own operation in Iraq.’

  ‘I can pass on that intelligence to our air force and army units. They can strike against the sh
eikhs before they operate against us. Your information will be invaluable,’ Guy replied.

  ‘I can also tell you that I am to fly the team to Palestine for an archaeological dig there,’ Diane continued. ‘We are scheduled to fly out next week, but from what I have been able to learn they are planning to make contact with the Arab leaders fighting the Jews.’

  ‘That certainly makes a difference to what I had planned,’ Guy said, leaning back in his chair. ‘I had hoped to sabotage your aeroplane and bring it down.’

  Diane looked with horror at the British officer. ‘Were you planning to kill me?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Guy said, shifting in his chair. ‘I was hoping to have Matthew replace you as pilot and have him parachute from the aircraft before it crashed.’

  Shocked, Diane stood up and glared at Guy. ‘Of all the hare-brained plans,’ she snorted. ‘There is no way that could have worked.’

  ‘Under the circumstances it was the best I could think of,’ Guy replied sheepishly. ‘I am under orders that anything I do must not reflect in any way on the British government.’

  ‘If they are going to Palestine,’ Matthew said, ‘then I can be of help there. I have a grudge to settle against the bastards who tried to kill me.’ Both Guy and Diane looked at Matthew curiously. ‘I have friends in that part of the world who have no love for the Nazis. Just leave it with me and there will be no repercussions to the British government. But I will need to fly to Palestine – and that costs money.’

  ‘I am sure that I can divert funds to pay your costs,’ Guy said. ‘One way or the other, while those three are operating in this part of the world, British interests are threatened.’

  ‘I am afraid I have to arrange supplies and be back at the camp before sunset,’ Diane said. ‘I only wish that you and I could talk some more,’ she continued, looking directly at Matthew with a mischievous glint in her eye.