To Ride the Wind (23 page)

‘Maybe so. But I must find out for myself. I know it will be a strain on Giselle but I have to do my duty as a soldier.’

John stepped forward and offered his hand. ‘Well, old chap, I tried. The jolly best of luck to you.’

Alex accepted his firm grip. ‘Thank you, sir. Are you able to stay for dinner?’

‘I’m afraid not. Gladys has her friends coming over this evening for bridge – although I must say, your cook is much better than the one we employ.’

Both men laughed, allowing some relief from the tension. Alex would see the colonel out and then deal with the dreaded task of facing Giselle.

A week later, a troop ship docked in Sydney Harbour to offload stretchers of wounded men from the front. Sean Duffy refused to be carried down the gangway. On the voyage back to Australia he had fought the agonising pain of his recently healed stumps and forced himself to use the wooden legs he had been fitted with. At first, attempting to walk the decks of the troop transport, once a luxury liner, he had used two walking sticks. But on account of his stubborn character he had eventually been able to hobble using a walking cane. The onboard medical staff had praised him for his dogged insistence and learning to walk again in such a short time. He had refused morphine for his pain whenever he could. The memories of how it had ruined the life of the woman he loved were still painfully fresh.

When the ship docked in Sydney there were no crowds of people waiting on the wharf to welcome home these war heroes – just a few relatives and military staff with ambulances to convey most of the passengers to hospitals. Sean limped his way down the gangway, guided by a nurse wearing a starched uniform with the distinctive emblem of a red cross.

‘Thank you, sister,’ Sean said when he eventually reached the wharf, bathed in a lather of sweat. He had shared his ward with men with no faces, or with weeping wounds that would eventually turn septic in an age that did not as yet have effective antibiotics. There were others whose minds had been lost along with their body parts. In comparison, Sean felt grateful and did not feel any self-pity for the extent of his own wounds.

‘You will continue to have nightmares,’ the sister explained gently. She was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, whose eyes reflected what she had experienced nursing the wounded of this terrible war. Many nights she had sat in the semi-dark of the ward, holding the hands of dying men as they called out for their mothers or cursed God for not doing anything to help them. In Sean’s case she had admired the major who only allowed his troubled soul to escape in his sleep when he tossed and turned, screaming orders to phantom soldiers.

‘Your care has gone a long way towards healing me,’ Sean said gallantly, allowing her to release her grip on his elbow. ‘From here on, it’s up to me.’

‘Take care, Major Duffy,’ she said, turning to walk up the gangplank to fetch the next patient. ‘I know that you will learn to live with your disability.’

Then she was gone, leaving Sean alone, leaning on his walking stick. With difficulty, he made his way along the wharf, sweat streaming although it was a mild autumn day. He would take a taxi to his old office in the city and catch up with his staff. Later, he would pursue all the matters the army had for his discharge.

The loneliness of the returning soldier assailed him. ‘Major Duffy, sir,’ a voice deep with a Scottish brogue called to him.

Surprised, Sean turned to see a solidly built man in his mid-fifties wearing a good suit striding towards him in the manner that marked him as a former British soldier.

‘I am he,’ Sean replied.

The stranger thrust out his hand. ‘My name’s Angus MacDonald, sir,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘You dinna think the colonel would not have someone here to meet you when you returned. I work for the colonel.’

Angus MacDonald. Sean had a vague recollection that this was the former Scottish soldier who had campaigned with Patrick Duffy in Africa during the colonial wars, although he had never met him in person.

‘Major Macintosh was unable to meet you in person as he is preparing to go over there himself. And Mrs Macintosh is ill from a bad cold so she organised for her friend, Mrs Louise Macintosh, wife of the colonel’s eldest son, to come with me to fetch you back to Major Macintosh’s house.’

As he spoke, Sean was aware of a woman walking up to join them. Sean was simultaneously struck by her beauty and puzzled by the sadness behind her expressive eyes.

She held out a gloved hand. ‘You must be Major Duffy,’ she said with a wan smile that had Sean wondering if it was in response to his disability. ‘I offer Major and Mrs Macintosh’s apologies for not being able to be here in person to welcome you home. However, it is my pleasure to meet the man about whom Colonel Duffy has written so many glowing letters.’

‘I must say, this is all so unexpected,’ Sean said, reluctantly releasing Louise’s hand from his own. ‘I was planning to nip down to my office and then to the old local for a counter meal and beer.’

‘Well, I am sure that Giselle will be up and about to organise a feast fit for a returning hero,’ Louise said, attempting to sound gay.

‘A car is just outside the terminal, sir,’ Angus said. ‘I have already organised to have your kit picked up.’

‘Thank you, Sarn’t Major,’ Sean said, causing the tough Scot to look at him with an expression of surprise. ‘Oh, the colonel told me all about you when we were at Gallipoli. You know that he holds you in the highest esteem.’

Just a little off balance, Angus mumbled a thanks. ‘Do you need a hand, sir?’ he asked to cover his temporary embarrassment.

‘No thanks.’ Sean leaned on his stick and forced himself to take steps towards the end of the wharf. ‘Got to get as much practice as I can.’ But he did allow Louise to slip her arm under his for balance.

‘In my own time I visit the hospitals for our wounded men,’ she said quietly. ‘I am used to assisting soldiers who are usually too proud to ask.’

Sean was touched by the gesture. So, this was the wife of George Macintosh. Bloody shame such a gentle soul – and physical beauty – should be mixed up with him.

‘No explanation needed,’ he said through gritted teeth, pleased to see the exit a few feet away. The occasional soldier threw him a salute but he was unable to return the courtesy other than to nod. After the longest 200 yards he had traversed in a long time they reached the vehicle, a shiny luxury import. Angus helped Sean into the back seat and Louise sat down beside him as Angus closed the door to take his place behind the wheel.

‘I believe that you have a law practice in the city,’ Louise said, breaking the silence between them as Angus steered onto a street where automobiles vied for a place among the horse-drawn wagons and rattling electric trams.

‘I am a junior partner in my family’s practice,’ Sean replied.

‘I have been told that you were of wonderful assistance to Fenella before the war. It is interesting that we did not meet then.’

I wish we had, Sean thought. ‘The Duffys and the Macintoshes come from a different social strata,’ he said. ‘We did not have much chance to mix socially.’

‘Well, Major Duffy, I know that you are held in high esteem by the Macintosh family,’ Louise said kindly. ‘I hope that we will have more opportunities to meet again.’

‘Does that high esteem also extend to your husband, Mrs Macintosh?’ Sean asked.

Louise turned to face him. ‘I am sure that it does,’ she answered – somewhat defensively, Sean thought. ‘However, as far as I know you have not met George.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ Sean replied, regretting his pointed question. The wife did not bear the sins of the husband. ‘But I am sure that we will meet before much longer, as I have been appointed by Colonel Duffy to oversee his legal matters.’

Louise registered some surprise at Sean’s words but turned away, hiding any further expression.

‘Do you experience much pain with your legs, Major Duffy?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘Please call me Sean. My military past is behind me now, and hearing my name less formally delivered would assist in my recovery.’

Louise smiled. She sensed that this man beside her had a cheeky sense of humour. One could not help but like him. ‘I don’t know what to say to you about your . . . wounds,’ she said carefully. ‘I doubt that you are a man to allow your . . . disability to stop you forging a successful life.’

‘I am fortunate that my life is working as a solicitor,’ Sean said, turning to gaze out the window at his first real sights of home. How strange it was, he thought. Men were killing and dying even as he sat here, and to see the way people went about their routines on the busy streets of Sydney one would not even know there was a war on. ‘I was lucky compared to many that I met in the English hospitals.’

‘I am sorry, Sean, it is just that I don’t know what to say. I am afraid that, other than visiting soldiers recuperating from their wounds, I have no comprehension of what you must have been through. Please forgive me my awkwardness.’

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Sean said. ‘What we experienced can really only be shared with those who were with us. But so much for that subject. You have not told me anything about yourself.’

Louise was surprised but pleased at Sean’s interest. Falteringly at first, she began to speak about her life, her son, Donald, and her friends. But as Sean was quick to notice, she did not once mention her husband.

Captain Matthew Duffy had mixed feelings about his new aircraft. It was a Martinsyde single-seat biplane designed for scouting and bombing missions. Although it had a longer range than previous aircraft he had flown, it was less manoeuvrable, hence its nickname ‘elephant’. But in the desert skies over Palestine it rode the wind at a speed of 55 mph although it could reach 96 mph if pushed. On this lone mission to scout ahead in support of the ever-advancing forces under General Allenby, Matthew was aware he was flying into territory still under air superiority of the Turks with their German air support and, as usual, the AFC aircraft were no match for the nimble, fast-flying fighter aircraft of the enemy.

Matthew’s armament consisted on this mission of a swivel .303 Lewis gun mounted above his head on the top wing and a Lewis machine gun fixed aft to deter enemy on his tail. He was also carrying 260 pounds of bombs in case he located a target of opportunity. His route took him back into the area he had been shot down in almost six months earlier and he knew that nearby was the Jewish settlement he had been taken to. Flying low over the ancient, rugged landscape, he startled some Arab boys tending flocks of goats and the occasional wandering caravan of camel traders. He missed having the second set of eyes that his former New Zealand gunner, Sergeant Bruce Forsyth, had provided in a forward cockpit and was acutely aware that he was alone in the sky with little hope of help should he bump into one of the prowling German fighters.

All Matthew prayed for now was that he survive the war – something that had become even more important since meeting the American girl who had helped save his life. Joanne was always in his dreams; he would fantasise that they were on a Queensland tropical island surrounded by lush, green forest with babbling streams of cool, clear water to swim in. But his reality now was the roar of the engine, oil spattering his face and goggles, and the rush of a hot wind by his plane.

He was two hours into his mission and had seen nothing worth reporting and was making a last check of the map strapped to his leg to mark his route. He was grateful that the mission had been uneventful because with any luck he would be back at the officers’ mess tent before sunset, sharing a drink with his fellow flyers.

Pulling on the stick he slowly swung the nose of his Martinsyde around and began to level off for the return flight. He craned his neck to observe the ground below and blinked in shock. Dipping to one side for a better view he sought out what had caught his eye and prepared to turn back on his original path. As he had been flying at around 500 feet everything had rushed past his vision but this time he had a clear view of the ground below. There it was! He could not mistake the lines of the Packard Tourer that he had driven months earlier and the face looking up at him was Joanne’s. She waved and Matthew waved back, waggling his wings before beginning to search for ground suitable to land on. Fortunately, a clearing that was a wide part of the track loomed up.

With expert ease, Matthew settled his aeroplane and rolled to a stop. He did not even consider that he had landed in enemy territory and his only protection was the revolver in his canvas side holster, but scrambled out of the cockpit, even as the Beardmore 6 cylinder engine growled to an idle.

The Packard came to a stop a few yards from where he stood and he could see Joanne standing in the open cabin gaping at the airman blocking her way.

‘Matthew!’ she screamed, leaping from the car to run towards him with her arms wide. Despite her slightness, she almost knocked him over. Suddenly he was aware that she was kissing him passionately on the lips. He returned the kiss and they stood embracing on the dusty track. Matthew wanted the moment to last forever. Finally, they broke apart slightly.

‘Matthew Duffy,’ Joanne said, half-laughing, half-crying. ‘I missed you so much after I went to Cairo. I could not get you out of my thoughts.’

‘That was mutual, I can assure you,’ Matthew responded. ‘I truly think that we were destined to meet in this place at this time . . . Anyway, what the hell are you doing in the middle of nowhere once again? And don’t give me that archaeology story.’

Joanne gently pushed herself away from Matthew and her expression became more serious. ‘Matthew, my big brave airman, you should not ask too many questions but, as you have, I am on my way to meet someone – a mutual friend.’

As if on cue, a troop of heavily armed horsemen appeared on the crest of a low ridge a hundred yards away. When he scanned the faces Matthew saw his old friend Saul Rosenblum waving his rifle over his head in his direction by way of greeting.

When the troop reached the aircraft Saul dismounted, walked over to Matthew and hugged him. He then turned to Joanne and held out his hand to her. She accepted the gesture, even as Matthew’s arm was protectively about her waist.