Beyond the Horizon

by Peter Watt

  ‘I know,’ Matthew answered glumly; he suspected that Joanne’s father had forbidden her to communicate with him. Matthew was not the sort of man he would approve of – a Catholic of Irish descent, and from Australia to boot. That didn’t quite fit with the upper-class Protestant world of the Barringtons.

  ‘I spoke with Joanne when I attended a meeting with a British Foreign Office agent in Cairo,’ Saul continued. ‘I think she was as surprised to see me as I was to see her. She asked after you, whether you were still alive. I told her that as far as I knew then, you were still alive and flying our skies.’

  ‘When the war’s over,’ Matthew said quietly, ‘I’m going to see my children.’

  ‘You have to survive first,’ Saul sighed. ‘You can’t afford to let your heart rule your head until this is all over, my friend.’

  Matthew knew Saul was right. He couldn’t afford to be distracted while he was flying; a momentary slip of focus could get him killed. But that wouldn’t stop him thinking of ways to find Joanne when he wasn’t flying. He was due for leave soon and he’d take it in Egypt. With any luck, Joanne would still be there.

  ‘So what are you doing here, Saul?’ Matthew asked, changing the subject.

  ‘I’m going north with a small detachment of my men to carry out an independent recon of the Ottoman positions,’ Saul replied. ‘The desert wind told me you were here and I thought I would pay you a visit on the way.’

  ‘I’m glad you did, old friend. Now, how about a drink?’ Matthew was about to break into his precious stock of whisky when one of his ground crew put his head around the tent entrance.

  ‘Er, ah, sir,’ the lance corporal said, eyeing Saul nervously. ‘The boss is calling all pilots for a briefing on a mission you have to fly before sunset.’

  Matthew thanked the man and rose from his chair. ‘Looks like we’ll have to have that drink another time,’ he said, gripping Saul’s hand in his own. ‘It’s been so good to see you again, old cobber. Take care.’

  ‘You, too,’ Saul said. ‘My Arab friends have a saying I like – Inshallah, if it is God’s will. I pray that it’s His will to keep you safe.’

  Matthew nodded, then strode over to the operations briefing tent. He could see the other pilots making their way towards the briefing and he wondered if they were feeling the same dread as he was. It seemed even worse to know that if he died James and Olivia would never know their father. He had so much to live for and yet he knew the odds were not good that he would get out of this war alive.

  As his fighter plane rose into the shimmering afternoon sky Matthew looked over to his right. A younger, new pilot was flying on his right flank; off to his left was an experienced pilot who had been transferred from another squadron. He was glad to have two other aircraft under his command on this mission. They were all flying Nieuports and had been briefed to reconnoitre an area where Turkish troops were mustering. The area they were flying over was an endless sea of craggy hills and deep sandy ravines devoid of any sign of human habitation. It was not a good region to be shot down over and Matthew had to work to keep down the bile that wanted to rise into his throat.

  With any luck they would not encounter enemy aircraft and the patrol would prove to be uneventful. The experienced pilot had been tasked with taking photographs of anything of interest while Matthew and the new pilot were flying protection.

  Matthew tried not to think about Joanne, but his thoughts kept returning to her. What was she doing in Cairo? In whose care had she left James and Olivia? What did they look like? The rapid tap tap of something hitting his right wing snapped Matthew from his thoughts when he realised that his aircraft was being hit by bullets fired from behind. He jerked his head as far around as he could, only to be blinded by the fiery ball of the sun. He caught a fleeting glimpse of an Albatros fighter on his tail. Yanking on his controls Matthew flung his little fighter plane into a dive to get out of the gun sights of his enemy. As he did so he was horrified to see that the new pilot had taken a full blast of machine-gun bullets through the fuselage of his plane, which was already trailing smoke and going into a spin. Jesus, the pilot wasn’t much more than a kid.

  Matthew cursed himself for allowing the flight he was leading to fall into an ambush. There was no time for regrets, though; the pursuing enemy fighter was even now coming back at him. Matthew levelled off and started climbing to five thousand feet. When he glanced around he could see that there only seemed to be two enemy aircraft attacking them and the experienced pilot had already engaged one of them in a snarling dogfight. Below, a black pillar of smoke rose from the side of one of the desert hills where the new pilot had crashed in a ball of fire.

  The pilot’s fate distracted Matthew for only a moment, but already the enemy pilot had manoeuvred into a position on his six o’clock rear and its twin machine-guns were blazing, tearing away at the wings of the fragile Nieuport. Matthew immediately noticed that his controls were sluggish and he knew it was over. The other man was bloody good, he thought bitterly, desperately seeking out a ravine flat and wide enough to bring down his near crippled aircraft.

  With great effort he was able to turn and bring his plane down low between two set of hills in a promising wide, flat ravine. The Albatros overshot him when he pulled away and then went into a tight turn to swoop down and finish him off. This was not the first time Matthew had been shot down and he prayed that the luck of the Irish was still with him. The sandy bottom of the ravine was coming up fast and he pulled back on the stick to lift the nose. Already the engine had cut out, and his aircraft touched the ravine, bumped and flipped over as the wheels bit into the soft earth.

  He felt the sharp jerk on his harness and his head snapped back as the aircraft tipped forward. The last time he had been shot down his adversary had spared him, but this pilot had no such sympathy for his defeated enemy. Instead, a long string of bullets ripped through the crippled aircraft. Matthew knew he had to get out quickly. He unbuckled his harness and snatched up the water bottle and packet of sandwiches his ground crew had given him before he took off.

  There was an ominous silence broken only by the drone of aircraft overhead and the crackle of flames. Fire! Matthew thought. His plane was on fire, he had to get out right now. He hauled himself out of the cockpit and over the side, and fell about ten feet to the sand below just as more bullets stitched his downed Nieuport. His adversary was ensuring that the aircraft was well and truly destroyed so he could count it as a certain kill. As Matthew lay winded on the ground he realised that he had been wounded; his arm as was bleeding profusely. He could barely catch his breath but he knew he had to move, to get away from his aircraft. He began crawling as fast as he could, and just then the crackling turned into a whoosh of flames.

  He crawled on, ignoring the pain in his arm and the constriction in his chest. When he was far enough away to be safe, he rolled over onto his back to see that there were only two aircraft left in the blue sky. Their rolling dogfight took them westwards and soon the sound of the aircraft faded and was also gone, leaving Matthew alone in the wilderness.

  He knew that he was a long way from help and probably in territory patrolled by the Turks; all he had with him was his revolver with six rounds, a crumpled packet of cheese and cucumber sandwiches and a battered metal water bottle. His bleeding was controllable and Matthew realised that the round must have ripped down his arm, opening the flesh. An inch or two to one side would have shattered his arm, so he gave thanks for small mercies, despite the fact his back ached and his neck felt stiff.

  As his downed aircraft continued to burn and send a black pillar of oily smoke into the cloudless sky Matthew took stock of his situation. He did not know whether his surviving pilot had made it back to the squadron’s airstrip to raise the alarm. His colleague’s plane had disappeared behind hills and what happened after that was in the hands of the desert gods.

  He realised that his photograph of Joanne would have been destroyed in the fire, and for some reason he regrette
d the loss of her image more than his being shot down.

  The sun was already setting low over the hills and the long shadows of night crept across the ravine. Matthew was grateful for his heavy fleece-lined leather jacket as the night would be bitterly cold.

  ‘Well, old boy,’ Matthew said aloud. ‘Time to walk home.’

  In his pocket he kept a prismatic compass and now he used it to locate the cardinal points of north and south. He knew that he must walk west to find the more fertile lands nearer the Jordan River, where Arab shepherds grazed their goats and ploughed the fields. He made a quick mental calculation from his last known coordinates and reckoned that he was about forty miles east of the ancient river. Between himself and possible salvation lay a long stretch of rugged hills and ravines. There was always the possibility of Turkish patrols and treacherous bandits who were known to kill and rob Allied servicemen.

  Matthew began to trek west, climbing the crumbling face of a steep hill only to reach the top and find another, more narrow ravine ahead of him. The sun was now on the horizon and Matthew decided to make camp where he had a good view of the region around him. He had no material for a fire, so, using his bowie knife, he dug out a shallow ditch, big enough to allow him a relatively comfortable bed for the night.

  As darkness enveloped the arid land, Matthew could hear the yip of a jackal in the distance. The cold was bitter and he barely slept. At some time in the night he rose to urinate and saw a distinct glow just beyond the next line of ridges. Maybe a camp of Bedouins, he thought; he would head in that direction when the sun rose.

  In the morning Matthew‘s back and neck were still stiff and sore but the bleeding on his arm had congealed. He removed the wax paper from the two sandwiches and took his time eating one of the soggy cheese and cucumber sandwiches before carefully rewrapping the second. He drank two small mouthfuls of water, then removed his flying jacket, placed it over his head as shelter from the sun and began walking.

  By midmorning Matthew had reached the top of the next ridge and he paused to get his breath, swig a mouthful of water and gaze down into the flat, wide ravine below.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed. There was an Albatros fighter plane down there. Matthew suspected it was the one that had shot down his own aircraft which, in turn, must have been shot down by the other pilot on Matthew’s mission. It must have been the burning plane he’d seen last night, not a Bedouin camp. Matthew scanned the area around the burnt-out German aircraft but could see no signs of the pilot. Satisfied, he made his way down the steep ravine to the wrecked aircraft and walked cautiously towards it.

  ‘Do not move, Englisher, or I will shoot you,’ said a voice from Matthew’s left. He froze, then slowly turned to see a German pilot propped up against a rock, obviously badly wounded. Matthew stared at the man; both his hands were empty. Matthew had to admire his bravado. He could see that both the man’s legs were badly smashed and his face was covered in blood. Matthew crouched down beside him and realised that he was barely in his twenties.

  ‘You speak English?’ he asked and the German grimaced. ‘Ja. A little,’ he gasped.

  ‘I speak a little German,’ Matthew replied in that language, surprising the wounded German flyer. German had always been spoken in Matthew’s family, they had family in Germany. ‘Can I offer you some water?’ The German pilot nodded once, his face twisted in pain.

  Matthew took out his water canteen and poured a capful into the German’s mouth.

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ the pilot said. ‘I am Oberleutnant Christian Lang.’

  ‘Captain Matthew Duffy, Australian Flying Corps,’ Matthew said. ‘Who shot you down?’

  ‘Your comrade. There was only two of us left in the air when I was hit,’ Lang answered. ‘Who shot you down?’

  ‘You did.’

  Lang stared into Matthew’s face with a look of sympathy. ‘It is the way of war that enemies must kill each other. I know that my injuries will kill me and I hope that you will deliver the coup de grâce to release me from this terrible pain.’

  ‘I suppose, considering I have the only weapon between us, you are officially my prisoner and therefore, under the terms of the Geneva Convention, I cannot execute you unless you attempt to escape.’

  Lang tried to laugh at the ridiculous notion of him attempting to escape but he coughed and bent over in pain. It was then that Matthew noticed something else. He gently opened Lang’s leather jacket to see his entrails protruding from a tear to his lower abdomen.

  ‘God almighty,’ Matthew groaned, carefully securing the front of the jacket to retain the bulging mound.

  ‘I know, my friend,’ Lang said through gritted teeth. ‘It would be merciful for you shoot me now.’

  ‘We might get found by one of our flights,’ Matthew said. ‘Either yours or mine.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’ Lang said. ‘I think that we have both been posted as missing in action. The front moves on, and if you remain here with me, nothing but our bones will be found.’

  Matthew sat back. Lang was right. He did not have enough water to keep them both alive, and remaining with the badly wounded man could cost him his own life. ‘How about I stick around until tomorrow morning?’ Matthew compromised. ‘See if any of our brothers in arms come looking for us.’

  ‘You are a fool, Captain Duffy,’ Lang said. ‘But I thank you. I do not wish to die alone in this godforsaken place.’

  Matthew knew that Lang’s life was measured in hours rather than days. His skin was pale and damp with sweat, and his eyes had a feverish look. Even if they were rescued very soon, there was no chance of Lang recovering from such massive injuries.

  The sun was fierce now and Matthew went about constructing a makeshift overhang with his jacket to protect the wounded man against the sun. Neither man spoke as the day passed; doing so was too painful for the wounded German. Eventually the sun set and Matthew took a swig of his water before pouring the remainder into the wounded man’s mouth.

  Lang took Matthew’s hand. ‘You have used your precious water on a man you should have killed,’ he gasped. ‘You are a good man.’

  ‘We’ll get more,’ Matthew said, although he didn’t believe it. ‘Just close your eyes and get some sleep.’

  Lang closed his eyes and when the sun was gone from the sky he slipped into a delirium, groaning and calling out for his mother. Matthew had wrapped the heavy leather jacket around Lang’s body but he still shivered uncontrollably. Above, the night sky was a blaze of stars. Lang continued to cry out, but eventually his cries faded then stopped altogether, and Matthew was left alone beside the body of the man who had shot him down.

  When the sun rose the next day Matthew laid out the body of the German flyer, crossing his arms across his chest. There was no sense in burying him as that would use up all Matthew’s strength; he had to continue trekking west today. He went through the flyer’s clothing and found a photograph of a pretty young blonde-haired woman nursing a serious-faced little boy on her lap. Matthew was lucky to find a map and fob watch in Lang’s jacket and also papers identifying him. Should he survive, Matthew was determined to have the few personal possessions forwarded through the Red Cross to the mother Lang had cried out for in his final hours. He could at least give her consolation that he had not died alone.

  The Australian flyer ate the last sandwich, now little more than smelly mush, and left the body of the German pilot not far from his downed aircraft. Then he gathered up his few possessions and walked on.

  By late morning the sun was a searing ball of flame and even the hardy desert reptiles sought shade from it. Matthew trudged on, glad to have a bullet in his revolver to finish himself off if things became hopeless. Dying of thirst was a terrible, agonising death and by evening of that day he was seriously considering using the revolver to end his suffering.

  5

  Joanne Barrington’s father’s vast banking fortune could buy just about anything, and it had secured her one of the best suites in the luxu
rious Cairo Shepheard’s Hotel, where she had access to the magnificent Ezbekiyya Gardens and the Royal Opera House, both within a short walk. Cairo had been called Paris on the Nile and its landscape was dominated by elegant minaret spires, noisy street stalls, and tiny shops selling replicas of ancient Egyptian artefacts. Camels, donkeys and automobiles jostled side by side along the streets and narrow lanes.

  Joanne was dressed in a long white cotton dress nipped at the waist. She wore a broad but elegant hat to ward off the sun, and as she entered the spacious marbled foyer of the hotel she undid the ribbons and took it off. It had been a long day of poring over maps of the crumbling Ottoman Empire in the company of other archaeologists, British military officers and tropical-suited men from the British Foreign Office.

  The request for her services as a consultant on the drawing-up of postwar borders had come directly from the American president’s office. Woodrow Wilson was concerned that the French and British intended to colonise the lands taken from the Ottomans in order to dominate the rich oilfields producing much of the world’s crude. Not that the USA had much to fear for lack of oil, as discoveries in places like Texas had ensured that the rapidly expanding industrial base of the country had an adequate supply of the black gold. But it was rumoured that the ancient lands of Mesopotamia had even more reserves, to fuel a world requiring the precious energy source for the new oil-driven era. American intelligence concerning the British and French intentions appeared to indicate that those two countries wanted to corner the market, and the USA was not going to be left out of any such scheme.

  Joanne’s reputation as an archaeologist specialising in Mesopotamian history and culture had earned her a place on the team exploring where borders would be drawn so that the British and French could share the wealth of the conquered. Her inclusion on the team had caused some raised eyebrows among the British. A selected handful knew her dark reputation as a double agent for both Mr Churchill and Mr Wilson.