To Ride the Wind (12 page)

6

C
aptain Sean Duffy, MC, had passed his staff college course for company commanders in England. He was to be granted leave before rejoining his battalion in France and was looking forward to meeting with Colonel Patrick Duffy at Patrick’s exclusive club in London within a few hours. A knock on the door of his quarters in the officers’ mess while he was packing to leave was not unexpected as he had arranged to get a lift up to London with another Australian officer who had also completed the course.

‘Captain Duffy, sir,’ the officers’ mess steward said, poking his head around the corner. ‘You are wanted in the orderly room straightaway.’

Sean frowned. He had signed off his mess chits, accounted for his kit and received his course report. Why was he needed so urgently?

Sean left his packing, throwing his kit bag on the bed, and made his way to the college orderly room where he was greeted by a British corporal slaving away at a pile of forms on his desk. The corporal glanced up. ‘I will inform Major O’Shea that you are here, sir,’ he said, easing himself away from his desk and disappearing down the long hallway of the old mansion that had been built 300 years earlier but was now a military installation. He returned within a minute.

‘Major O’Shea is ready to see you, sir. He is in room 5,’ the corporal said, resuming his duties.

Sean walked smartly to the designated office, knocked and heard a muffled voice bid him enter. He opened the door, marched in and came to attention, throwing a salute to the officer seated behind a desk. The first thing Sean noticed was that the British officer had obviously lost his left arm below the shoulder and that, from the badges on his uniform, he had been a member of one of Britain’s elite Irish regiments. The major was a man in his late thirties, with thinning, sandy hair and cold blue eyes.

‘Captain Duffy, you may take a seat if you wish,’ the British officer said, glancing down at a file of papers before him on the highly polished desktop.

Sean took a chair directly in front of the desk.

‘Captain Duffy,’ the major said. ‘I am from the War Office, more specifically the section that investigates reports for recommendations for gallantry. I have a report before me from your former CO, Colonel Patrick Duffy. By chance any relation to you?’ he asked, looking Sean directly in the eyes.

‘A distant cousin, sir,’ Sean answered, mystified as to why this man would want to speak with him so urgently. ‘We had not met until I was posted to the colonel’s battalion in the Dardanelles.’

‘I believe that Colonel Duffy may have mentioned to you in Belgium that he was submitting a report recommending you for a medal for your bravery in silencing a German machine-gun crew at Fromelles,’ O’Shea continued, leaning slightly back in his chair.

‘He did, sir,’ Sean answered, sensing that something was wrong. The demeanour of the man interviewing him was like that of a police investigator clarifying evidence.

‘Well, according to your report,’ O’Shea said, fingering a thin folder, ‘you make no mention of your part in the incident. Why is that?’

Sean frowned. ‘Sir, I was hardly aware that I had killed the Germans. Corporal . . . Sergeant Kelly was with me and he informed me that at the time I was suffering concussion from a shell burst.’

‘Surely you would remember that singular act of putting the Hun gun out of action?’ O’Shea questioned, leaning forward. ‘It is an act worthy of recognition by way of the award of the Victoria Cross.’

‘Sir, I don’t remember,’ Sean replied. That terrible day when he had broken down was still a blur in his memory. ‘I think that someone else may have put the Huns out of a ction.’

Sean noticed a change in the almost hostile demeanour of the British officer interviewing him. O’Shea seemed to relax.

‘I am glad that you have recognised it may have been someone else, Captain Duffy,’ he sighed, leaning back. ‘Other wise, I may have had to recommend from my interview with you that you be court-martialled for conduct unbecoming an officer of his majesty’s forces. Claiming another man’s courage is a serious breach of an officer’s honour.’

‘Sir,’ Sean said, leaning towards the British officer. ‘I have admitted to being confused on the day.’

‘I lost my arm at Mons,’ the major said, ‘But worse, I lost my company to overwhelming Hun artillery.’

Between the two men an unspoken message passed and Sean realised that he had indeed made his point to a colleague who no doubt had also experienced the terror of leadership under fire; an officer must not be seen to lose his grip when so many others looked to him for courage. It was easier to act brave than feel it.

‘I am satisfied that you have not deliberately set out to hoodwink the War Office,’ O’Shea said. ‘You see, we have another report in your file from a company commander in the battalion on your flank in the attack. He says that his men witnessed an NCO killing the gun crew that had them pinned down. As the only NCO at the time was with you, it must have been Corporal Kelly, mentioned in our report. I strongly suspect that he has not reported his role in the act of valour in order to cover you, Captain Duffy. I consider that your CO, Colonel Duffy, may have been just a bit eager in getting gongs shared out in his battalion, and acted somewhat in haste with his report on your part in the attack.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sean answered, his face reddening with shame for what he knew he had to be covered for. ‘What is going to happen now?’

‘I will be passing the report to the appropriate people and recommending that Corporal Kelly be recommended for his act of extreme bravery. I suspect that he will be awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal. In other circumstances, ones that had not been muddied by contradictory reports, the soldier may have received the VC had you been more in charge of the day. However, I am sure he will be pleased to receive any kind of award, but you will not be returned to your battalion as a company commander, Captain Duffy, Instead, you will fill the position of company 2IC. Let us say that you will do your penance for a time, until you prove you are fully in control of your duty to your men.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sean replied glumly. He had so desperately wanted command of his own company and now it had been snatched from him because of what the army had deduced was a temporary lack of leadership under fire. The command of the company would have led rapidly to recognition in the post with the rank of major. Now, he would remain a captain and Sean knew well how the army would have a cloud over his head. Had Sergeant Jack Kelly blurted to everyone of his lapse in the trenches? If so, then his role as a leader was over in the eyes of the men who had trusted him.

‘If there is nothing else you want to add to our conversation, Captain Duffy, you are free to take your leave in London,’ O’Shea finished.

Sean rose to his feet, snapped off a formal salute and left the room. The trembling he experienced in the trenches had returned. But this time it was not from fear but out of shame for what lay ahead of him in his old battalion.

Whereas Captain Sean Duffy, MC, was sitting in Patrick’s exclusive gentleman’s club in London while a cold, sleeting rain fell outside, on the other side of the world a policeman wearing a suit sat in a simple wooden office belonging to the commandant of the Holdsworthy internment camp for enemy aliens. Inspector Jack Firth, an officer in the government’s counterespionage department, reflected on what a miserable place the camp was: bloody cold in winter and stinking hot in summer. He wished he were back in his office in Sydney where he could duck around to his corner pub for a decent lunch and a cold ale well away from this small town of tents and corrugated iron–roofed huts housing those enemy civilians who had been arrested and put behind the tall wire fences on the outskirts of Sydney.

His duties had forced him to travel to the camp to audit the movements of people visiting those interned. The government suspected that in the camp were German nationals still working for their Fatherland, despite being held as prisoners. It was only natural that they would; patriotism was not the domain of British citizens alone. However, Inspector Jack Firth felt that his visit to the camp was not a complete waste of his time. One name in particular had cropped up in the military logs of visitors. That of Frau Karolina Schumann, who had been meeting with Pastor Karl von Fellmann.

Before the war, Jack had been a detective sergeant investigating serious crime on the streets of Sydney. He had gained a reputation among the toughest and most dangerous street thugs as a man to be feared and respected. Jack had loved his image. He had been a king of the streets but after the war had broken out, even with the promotion, he had found himself stuck away in an office overseeing tedious files on suspected spies. And because most Australians were concerned every person of German heritage was a potential spy, Jack’s job of sorting wheat from chaff was far from easy.

Jack knew that Karolina Schumann was the mother-in-law of one Captain Alexander Macintosh. He and his brother George were the brothers of Fenella Macintosh, his chief suspect in an unsolved case two years old that had captured the interest of the public. A well-known Australian film actor, Guy Wilkes, had been shot to death in what the former homicide investigator strongly suspected was a crime of passion. Fenella Macintosh had conveniently fled to America on a ship out of Sydney only hours after the event. He had almost caught up with her in Hawaii via the cable but she again fled the long arm of the law. From what he had come to learn since, the famous American actress of supposed Welsh origins, Fiona Owens, was in fact Fenella Macintosh. Because of his current posting he had been actively discouraged from pursuing his suspect in the Wilkes case. His superiors had explained that Colonel Duffy and the Macintosh family were too important to the war effort for the matter to be followed up in these troubled times. The murder of a drug-using actor of dubious moral standards was not of great concern when thousands of young Australians were being killed and wounded every month on the battlefields.

But Jack Firth was not a man who took well to being told anything. His love was the world of real crime – murder, rape and robbery – not the shadowy world of suspected spies. He would bring someone to justice on the Wilkes murder, despite the war, and now he was seeing interesting coincidences in his work. That Karolina Schumann should be tagged as a person of interest for her many visits to the internment camp was intriguing to the police inspector because of her links to the Macintosh family.

With a deep sigh, he flipped open the pile of reports compiled on the inmates by the prison staff. His first was that of the Lutheran missionary, Pastor Karl von Fellmann. Jack read through the details of the man who had been born in Germany but lived in Queensland for the past sixteen years. He had been married but his wife died on the mission station they had set up to cater to the spiritual and pastoral needs of the Aboriginals of central Queensland. The mission was located on a property called Glen View, belonging to the Macintosh family. According to the commandant’s comments the pastor had proved a model prisoner tending to the spiritual needs of the sizeable Lutheran population of the camp. Informants had noted that he did not appear to have any political leanings towards the Fatherland but tended to identify himself as neutral in the conflict, stating that his ministry put him beyond the evil work of men in war. His constant visitor was a former inmate, Frau Karolina Schumann, and some of the informants had suggested that there may be a romantic interest on the pastor’s side. Jack Firth was interested to see that the Lutheran missionary was the twin brother of a well-known, high-ranking German officer who had visited Australia just before the outbreak of hostilities.

The policeman continued to read the file, swatting at the clouds of flies attempting to settle on his sweatstained face. The pastor had a keen interest in playing chess and his main chess companion was one Herr Maynard Bosch . . .

Jack sat up. Maynard Bosch! He and his department had placed the former German consul on the top of their list of principal spymasters. Before the war Bosch had been in contact with Mr George Macintosh and because of that link Jack had been able to blackmail the wealthy captain of industry when he had been transferred from his criminal investigation duties to counterintelligence. At least the transfer had come with a promotion. Coincidence, Firth thought. There was no such thing as a coincidence in the world of crime – only circumstantial evidence. But Jack also knew that all mail coming into the camp and going out was closely scrutinised and so far the people in the intelligence world had not been able to find anything that looked like a code in any of Bosch’s letters.

Jack eased his large bulk from behind the table and stood up to stretch his limbs. He was still stiff and sore from the very rough and tough game of rugby he had played on the previous weekend; his reputation as a policeman made him a target in the forwards to those less than sympathetic to the law. He walked over to a window with a view of the camp grounds. Men, women and children went about their day of limited routine under a hot summer sun. Tiny shops and places of trade had established themselves among the residents of the camp.

Surely Bosch was not stupid enough to send coded letters, Jack mused. He would have a courier and most likely that was the German woman. All he had to do was intercept her after a visit and have her searched. If they were able to find any incriminating documents on her she would face the death penalty. After all, it was good enough for the Huns to execute the British nurse Edith Cavell in Belgium, so why not tit for tat?

‘Do you wish to interview any of our inmates?’ an army sergeant asked, poking his head around the door.

Jack rubbed his face with a big, meaty hand. ‘Not at this stage, sergeant,’ he replied. Jack was not about to tip off anyone in the camp about his copper’s suspicion that the German spymaster, Maynard Bosch, was still well and truly active and that he had help in the form of Frau Karolina Schumann. As for the Lutheran pastor, he was not so sure. If his suspicions proved to be right then he would be holding high stakes in a dangerous game of blackmail. After all, Karolina Schumann was related to the Macintosh family through the marriage of her daughter to Alexander Macintosh and a scandal of that magnitude could cause the house of Macintosh to come crumbling down. George Macintosh was a man who would be most likely seeking a future knighthood for his services to industry and the Crown would not look kindly on any future recommendation of a man linked to subversive members of the family.