To Ride the Wind (10 page)

‘I have a job to be done in America,’ George said. ‘It will pay very generously and I will be able to get you there as a crewman aboard one of my ships.’

‘What kind of job?’ the man asked, reaching in his pocket, extracting a cigarette and lighting it. When the match flared George noticed that the man had a long scar from the edge of his mouth to his ear. It looked like the result of a very sharp blade. Possibly a razor, George thought. He had read that many in the Sydney underworld carried such in lieu of a gun.

George swallowed nervously and glanced around to ensure that they were truly alone. ‘Are you prepared to kill someone? A woman?’

The man looked up at him through the mist of cigarette smoke. ‘It don’t matter to me,’ he grunted. ‘Just so long as the money is good.’

‘I can promise that,’ George said, opening the briefcase and retrieving the second newspaper. He passed it to the man who simply rolled it up and placed it in the pocket of his suit coat without attempting to see what was inside. George was impressed by the way Jack Firth could elicit such trust from a gangster. ‘You will find all your instructions with the first payment. Also a ticket. You are to report to the ship in a week’s time. If you have any questions I would rather you direct them through Inspector Firth.’

‘That bastard,’ the man spat. ‘I would rather rape that Jew Big Lenny’s sainted mother than work for Firth. But, as he is being generous with your money I will accept the deal.’

Presuming that Big Lenny was an underworld figure, George did not question the relationship the hired assassin had with the crooked policeman. He was not about to correct the thin criminal either on the matter of saints and Jewish religious beliefs.

‘If everything you have in your instructions pans out,’ the thin man said, ‘I will get your job done. I always wanted to see the US of A.’ Satisfied that their business was done, he quickly turned on his heel and walked into the darkness of the alley, leaving George alone with his briefcase.

George waited until the man was out of sight before stepping from the dingy lane into the lamplit street. An electrified tram rattled by, throwing sparks from its contacts with the wires. All going well, Fenella would be dead before the year was out. That would only leave Alex, George mused, praying that the army would grant his brother’s wish to serve overseas on active service.

5

I
n the pre-dawn, Captain Matthew Duffy of the Australian Flying Corp vomited. To ensure that he was not seen doing so, he had walked some distance from his tent at the airfield laid out in the arid lands of the Gaza. The bilious attack had not been brought on by any physical ailment but by the fear he was fighting. He knew he was not alone in this when in the company of his fellow aircrew, as death was a constant companion. Just the day before, he had narrowly escaped being shot down by a prowling German fighter plane. It was only because he had been able to outfly his predator and been able to bring the German aviator within range of the airfield’s anti-aircraft defences that he had survived the attack.

He had flown without his gunner, Sergeant Bruce Forsyth, who was recuperating from a badly smashed leg, the result of ground fire on a mission in the Romani region. The squadron commander had suggested that, in place of the forward gunner, Matthew could carry spare fuel drums so as to be able to fly further on his recon missions, then land, refuel and return to base with photographic intelligence of Turkish military formations. The idea had worked and the plan would be repeated with Matthew flying a solo mission towards Palestine.

The Ottoman Turks, along with their German and Austrian allies, were slowly retreating north to Jerusalem and Damascus with the Australian Light Horse relentlessly pursuing them as part of Allenby’s forces. This mission was in support of British ground forces and for a short time Matthew would have the protection of his brothers on the ground as he flew north in his fragile aircraft. The desert air still held a bitter chill but with the rising of the sun the day would become unbearably hot. Matthew wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and surrounded by three of the ground crew walked back to his aeroplane. They stood waiting for him to carry out his last-minute ground checks before pulling himself into the rear cockpit. Already the spare drums of fuel had been loaded. Matthew had requisitioned a Lee Enfield with five spare magazines of ammunition to be placed in the forward cockpit, as the twin Lewis guns had been stripped to allow a greater load of fuel. He wanted at least some protection when he was on the ground refuelling.

‘She’s ready to go, skipper,’ a corporal mechanic said. ‘Got you a thermos of tea and a packet of sandwiches in your cockpit.’

Matthew thanked his mechanic and climbed into the cockpit. The chief mechanic swung on the wooden propeller until the engine was turned over and spluttered into life. It opened up with a steady roar. The plane vibrated and the chocks were whipped away from the undercarriage. The little biplane bumped its way along the hard earth until Matthew could see the airsock. It lay limply against its post. He glanced over to see his mechanic indicating the little wind for direction and turned the nose into the gentle breeze now rising with the sun.

Matthew opened the throttle and the aircraft picked up speed to eventually drift into the air. Climbing and turning, he pointed the aircraft north, using his compass to indicate the flight path. He was hardly in the air when he began scanning the pale blue sky. He knew the Germans were out there and waiting to finish the job they had started the day before. Matthew had a premonition that this was his last mission, but curiously only wondered what it might feel like to die.

For the first thirty minutes of his flight low over the rugged land of seemingly endless craggy hillocks and jagged ravines he was alone. In his mission orders Matthew was to attempt to locate any rearguard positions laid down by the enemy that might cause problems to General Allenby’s advancing army, and photograph and mark such positions on the map squashed on his lap. He passed over one or two nomadic camel trains but did not sustain any ground fire. They were the people of the Bible who had lived their lives oblivious to any Western influence in their lands and would probably do so for another century, Matthew mused, waving down to them.

Around the fortieth minute of his flight Matthew saw the movement. It was a column of around fifty camel-mounted Turkish troops winding their way along the high ground between ravines. He wished that his New Zealand gunner was manning the forward cockpit with his Lewis guns as the Turkish patrol had been caught unawares when Matthew swooped over them, scattering the patrol in different directions. The camels looked so slow and awkward as they were spurred on by their riders but Matthew knew how his Australian mounted infantry cobbers respected these animals for their endurance in this harsh, waterless land.

Leaving them behind, Matthew attempted to lay out his map and mark the position he had observed the camel patrol. He could make a note of what it was and knew it would not be necessary to take a photo. That was usually withheld for fixed fortifications so that those back at base could interpret strong points and wire layouts. So occupied was he in attempting to unfold the map and pencil in the position, he was hardly aware of the extra shudder of his aircraft. But a wire snapping beside him on the wing caught his attention. He was under attack – not from the ground but from the air. Desperately, he swivelled his head. Over his shoulder was the distinctive shape of a German aircraft. Not any aircraft, he realised, but the same one that had attempted to shoot him down the day before. Matthew had instantly recognised the Fokker’s colours and it was obvious to him that he was in the German fighter pilot’s patrol area. Tiny wisps of smoke had torn away from the barrels of the enemy machine guns and Matthew felt the bullets tear through the canvas and wooden frame of his plane. Turning his head, Matthew realised that he was skimming just above the ground. His only choice was to pull up, although he knew that was what the German pilot expected him to do. Already he could see him raising the nose of his Fokker for the coup de grace.

If he was going to get out of this alive Matthew knew he had only one option. Instead of pulling up he aimed his already badly shot-up aircraft at a stretch of flat ground, praying he could land and get away from the stricken biplane before a bullet exploded the extra tanks of fuel. Fire was the most feared cause of death for pilots, and as the B ritish g overnment had not provided parachutes, pilots couldn’t opt to bail out. Many pilots also ensured that they carried a sidearm to end their own lives rather than go down in flames, burning slowly to death. Matthew carried his own revolver for that principal reason.

The ground came up quickly and the flimsy undercarriage hit the earth hard, the aircraft rolling along the ground until a wheel hit a small boulder, toppling the biplane over on its back. Matthew, strapped into his seat, found himself upside down, straining against his harness. He realised that the drums had spilled out and broken on the hard, rocky surface. Already, he could see the vapour fumes fanning out and knew he might be only seconds from being engulfed in flames. Desperately he unleashed himself and fell heavily to the ground. Overhead, he could hear the drone of the German aircraft and knew that it would probably strafe his downed plane to ensure that it was destroyed. But the German had not as yet done so and Matthew was a little puzzled by his adversary’s hesitation.

Satisfied that he had no broken bones and that he was still able to use his limbs, Matthew scrambled from beneath the biplane to a good distance away to look up at the German aircraft. It was so low when it swooped over him that Matthew could clearly see the leather helmet and goggles of his adversary looking down at him. The pilot waved and waggled his wings. Matthew now understood why he had not immediately been strafed. His enemy was honouring a rare code of chivalry among pilots, giving him a chance to get free – if he was still alive. Gratefully, Matthew returned the wave and the German aircraft climbed away to the north, leaving Matthew alone beside his now useless aeroplane.

The desert took on its lonely silence, broken only by the steady tick-tick of the cooling metal of the engine. Matthew could see his thermos and rifle lying among the ruptured fuel drums and knew both items may be vital to his survival so far from his own lines in enemy territory. He pushed himself up from the earth to take a step towards recovering them when a sudden whoosh exploded under the aircraft and blew him off his feet. He felt the searing heat from the explosion of the fuel drums as he was blown back to lay crumpled on the hot, hard earth. The explosion was quickly replaced with a loud crackle as the fuselage went up in flames. Black, oily smoke rose into the dry, still air, proclaiming the location of his downed aeroplane for miles around.

Matthew rose once again and brushed himself down. When he took in the terrain around him he could see that he was on a treeless plain of sand and rocks with a rise on the horizon about half a mile away. While he was surveying this rise his feeling he had not cheated death returned. In the shimmering haze of the desert air he could see a line of Turkish camel riders forming up and guessed that they were the patrol he had flown over some ten minutes earlier. Their figures danced in the haze as if they were made of water. Matthew saw a tiny spout of earth erupt about ten feet from where he stood and the crack of the rifle rolled to him a second later. The line of enemy suddenly came down off the rise in a trot as more spouts of hard earth appeared. Matthew was in the open with nowhere to run for cover. And it was obvious that the Turks were not going to take him prisoner.

Matthew drew his revolver from the canvas pouch. So, he had not cheated death on this mission and would be killed in some godforsaken piece of earth where it was unlikely that his body would ever be recovered. As Matthew stood before his burning aircraft, the revolver in his hand, he had a fleeting regret that his beloved mother would not have any grandchildren to carry on her proud heritage. But just as strange, Matthew found that his thoughts were on an old Aboriginal warrior. It was as if Wallarie was actually standing beside him, spear in hand, and facing down the rapidly approaching Turkish mounted soldiers who by now were firing from their saddles in defiance of Wallarie’s warrior traditions.

‘Wallarie, help me,’ Matthew said softly, not expecting an answer but trying to rouse the last vestige of courage to die fighting impossible odds. He raised the pistol to shoulder height and waited until either a bullet took him down or they were foolish enough to get close to him, providing him a target for his shorter-ranged weapon.

Now he could hear the thundering hoof beats of the charging camels and the Turkish war cry of ‘Allah akbar!’ Matthew was surprised at the eerie calm he experienced as death came closer. He would die in the Biblical lands of Abraham and Moses but with the spirit of the old Aboriginal warrior beside him.

The enemy were now only 300 yards out. Matthew decided to take his first shot into the rank of Turkish soldiers but did not see any camel or enemy soldier fall. He considered keeping the last round in his revolver for his own death, having heard the stories from others of how in the hands of Turkish soldiers torture normally preceded execution.

Matthew fired his second shot. He would only fire five times at the enemy before turning the gun on himself. For a second Matthew stood stunned. Was it Aboriginal magic or had he not just knocked down at least a half-dozen camels and troops with a single shot?

But then he was acutely aware of the chatter of a deadly Maxim gun from his left, beyond the burning aeroplane. The fusillade tore through the line of assaulting enemy, spilling riders from killed or badly wounded camels. The deadly mayhem continued as the machine gun raked the confused Turkish soldiers. Their attack suddenly broke up as they reeled in their mounts to assess the unexpected threat from their flank.

Matthew also scanned the ground. Beyond his wrecked aircraft he could see a crew of three men manning a Maxim gun mounted on a tripod. Its nose poked from just above a tiny rise in the land. From this vantage point for firing down the line of Turkish troops, the heavy machine-gun bullets could not miss their targets. Matthew could see a band of horsemen dressed in the flowing loose garments he had seen the Arabs wear. They were manoeuvring to form a line to assault the now milling survivors of the machine gun. As he watched in awe Matthew saw the line of horse riders charge the broken line of Turkish soldiers. They were firing from the saddle as they came, killing even more enemy. Matthew did not understand the words his saviours yelled as they attacked. It was a language he had not heard before.