To Ride the Wind (30 page)

‘In defence of the War Office, sir, it was a bit of an impromptu show and if I may ask, sir, how did the War Office know of the mission?’

The aristocratic-looking Australian pilot commander stared at his subordinate officer. ‘How the devil would I know, Captain Duffy?’ he replied sarcastically. ‘I am just a mere colonel.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Matthew answered dutifully. But he experienced a surge of hope. Joanne had not cleared the mission with London before he had been involved, and for London to know of it being carried out they would have had to have heard from their agent after she had left for Jerusalem with Saul’s son. It was not much, but at least it was a small hope that she was alive.

‘As you can deduce, Captain Duffy, you are returned to flying duties, active as from now and no longer confined to the lines,’ the CO said. ‘I don’t know all that occurred on your mission as you have rightly kept mum, but I suspect the bloody British will probably give you a gong from the way they praised your cooperation. In the meantime, I would like to say that I am pleased to have one of my best and most experienced pilots back on full duty.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Matthew answered with real feeling of gratitude.

‘There is nothing else for now so join your brother officers in the mess and ensure that you are fit to fly tomorrow,’ the CO said, resuming his chair behind his wooden table piled with paperwork. ‘We are going to be busy supporting the Light Horse in their advance so pass the word on that all my pilots are to be at an O group oh four hundred sharp.’

‘I will, sir,’ Matthew said, snapping a salute and turning on his heel.

He marched out of the HQ tent into the night of sleeting, cold rain that had crossed the airfield. At least now the chains had been taken off he felt that he was in a position to being one step closer to Joanne – wherever she was. He remembered an expression Saul used. It was almost two thousand years old:
next year, Jerusalem
. Matthew prayed that he would soon reach the city of three faiths.

Major Alexander Macintosh had stared out the window of his carriage at the bleak, snow-covered fields on his railway journey to a small French village behind the Allied lines. From there he was taken by a motor truck to divisional headquarters to meet his father. It had been well over two years since he had last shaken Patrick’s hand, when he embarked for Egypt, and then onto the shores of Gallipoli. At the time Alex had bridled at not being posted with his father on active service, but now all that was in the past.

The truck delivered him to an old chateau that had seen better days. Uniformed soldiers in clean dress stood guard and passes were carefully checked before entry was allowed into the building where tactics were being planned for troops miles away in the snowy fields of France and Flanders. He knew the soldiers hated the bitter cold for more than itself; artillery shells were designed to explode upon impact with the frozen earth. In the mud many were buried before exploding, mitigating the effectiveness of shrapnel to spread and tear men apart. But in winter the soldiers cowering in trenches experienced the full effects of a shell releasing its lethal shrapnel balls or fragmented casing.

At a clearing station nearby rows of wounded men were lying outside the makeshift surgery. Alex noticed a medical orderly dumping severed arms and legs into a pile awaiting burial. He shuddered. It was his first sight of what lay ahead in a war where technology had developed to make the most of killing or maiming.

‘You can wait here, sir,’ an immaculately dressed NCO told Alex. Soldiers and officers moved smartly about inside the once grand house as well as outside in the gardens now going to ruin from lack of attention. ‘Brigadier Duffy is currently in a meeting with the divvie commander.’

Alex took a seat in the foyer but was forced to stand many times, saluting the high-ranking officers passing him by with important expressions on their cleanly shaved faces, although they hardly gave the Australian major a second glance. After a half-hour wait Alex was overjoyed to see his father stroll into the foyer, alongside a colonel whose somewhat less-than-looked-after uniform denoted him as a field commander. Alex stood up, saluted and waited. His father’s expression bespoke his love and pride.

‘Colonel, if you will excuse me for a moment,’ Patrick said, not taking his eyes from Alex. ‘My son has just arrived.’

The colonel nodded and walked away. Patrick so badly wanted to crush his son to him but he was well aware that military protocol did not condone such behaviour between a brigadier and major. Instead, he extended his hand and gripped Alex’s with as much force as he could.

‘It is good to see you,’ he said, barely able to keep the tears from his eyes. ‘How is Giselle and my grandson?’

‘They are well, Father,’ Alex answered quietly. ‘It is good to see you.’

‘We do not have much time as I have to return to the brigade,’ Patrick said, reluctantly releasing his grip on his son’s hand. ‘I have organised a posting for you to one of the companies in the best battalion I have. It seems that a vacancy has arisen with one of the company commanders being sent home, a Major Hartford. Apparently a victim of shell shock, I have been informed.’

Alex was startled by the news that he was stepping into the boots of a man who had commanded nearly a hundred men but had succumbed to breakdown under fire. He thought only soldiers suffered shell shock – an officer had a duty to set an example – and realised that he had a lot to learn about combat. ‘Thank you, Father,’ he replied. ‘You do not know how much the posting means to me.’

‘Be careful what you wish for, Alex,’ Patrick cautioned as they walked towards the main entrance. ‘I know that you are a fine officer but you have to experience what those poor, bloody men are suffering out there before you know just how much you can take before you lose your mind.’

It was a sobering sermon and Alex knew his father was concerned for him. ‘I am sure that the brigade commander is a damned good soldier and will see to it that we stay safe,’ Alex replied with a mischievous smile.

‘Your old man will be looking forward to hanging the sword over the mantelpiece after we go home,’ Patrick sighed. ‘This is definitely my last campaign.’

‘Well, you have me and, in time, little David to carry on the family tradition,’ Alex said when they stepped outside where a car and driver awaited Patrick.

‘I pray that this war will be the last we ever have,’ Patrick said, taking the salute from the driver holding the door open on the former French taxi. ‘You can ride with me back to Brigade HQ before continuing to your new home in the battalion.’

Alex stepped into the back seat beside his father. It was strange. All his father talked about was the grandson he had yet to hold in his arms. He did not mention George or his other grandson at all; it was as if they did not exist. Never before had Alex felt as close to his father, even when they lapsed into silence. They drove along a road clogged with horse-drawn wagons, artillery pieces and files of men with rifles shouldered, trudging in lines towards what Alex ascertained was not thunder but the sound of the big guns booming out across battlefields. So this was it, he thought. Real war.

‘We have arrived,’ Patrick said, breaking the silence.

Alex alighted from the car to a strange odour on the chill evening air. It was a mix of cordite and blood.

The man kept to the shadows as he trailed his target. It was a busy Saturday night in the city and the war was a long way from the bright lights of the swank hotels catering to the needs of wealthy patrons. Louise Macintosh was easy to keep in sight as she was unaware that she was being tracked.

George had first attempted to dismiss the idea that his wife was having an affair. He had his women whenever he desired and now she had provided him with his heir. But his male ego began to speak to him and it was time to discover who she was meeting.

The private investigator made his way across the street busy with automobiles and horse-drawn wagons until he reached the footpath where Louise stood as if waiting to meet someone. The investigator leaned against the front of a sandstone building with his hands in his pockets, appearing to be just another larrikin on a night out. Before long a man using a walking stick and striding stiffly made his way to Louise. The investigator could not help but let out a soft whistle. He did not need to attempt to identify the mystery man as he already knew him from appearing to give evidence in the courts of law. He was the solicitor Sean Duffy, and the last the private investigator knew of him was that he had been wounded overseas and decorated for his courage.

The private investigator made his way back to his office to write his report on what had to be one of the easiest cases he had ever taken on. As he sauntered away he glanced over his shoulder to see the pair disappear into the hotel. No doubt the food was good there, he thought, and so were the beds.

The following day he delivered his report to George at his office.

‘Do you want me to follow up with pictures of them together in what one might term a delicate situation, Mr Macintosh?’ He could see that his client had paled at the mention of Sean Duffy’s name.

‘No . . . no need, at this time,’ George replied. ‘Just the identification of my wife’s lover is all I require.’

‘Well, if that is all I will only bill you for two days’ work.’

George Macintosh appeared to be in a state of shock, the investigator thought. But it was an expression he had long come to recognise from cuckolded husbands when they were told the identity of their wife’s lover. He left the office wondering what the esteemed businessman would do. From what he had heard on the streets from the shady people he mixed with, it appeared you did not cross Mr Macintosh, who had friends in many places – including the police. But that was not his concern. For now he had no reason to doubt that George Macintosh would pay the bill when it was tendered for his services.

*

The first battle of Bullecourt had been a terrible blunder and everyone knew it. The tanks had failed in supporting the infantry, the artillery did not provide the covering fire so badly needed, and the infantry were bled dry on the bleak battlefield. When he returned to his lines Lieutenant Jack Kelly realised that he was one of the few officers not to be killed or wounded. He was met by a replacement for Major Hartford who had been rumoured to have fled back to safety, shaking and rambling incoherently about God punishing him for his transgressions with choir boys. At the time Jack had been leading the remainder of the company to occupy and eventually withdraw from the trenches they had captured. In the meantime the battalion CO quickly bundled Hartford off and had already accepted his replacement from the reinforcements arriving from England.

Major Alexander Macintosh would now command the company and he made a point of gathering all surviving officers together at a copse of trees behind the lines. Jack sat back on the cold, wet fir needles.

‘Gentlemen,’ Alex started, standing, as his three acting platoon commanders remained sitting in a rough semicircle. ‘I appreciate that we have taken a terrible toll over the last few days and I suspect that things aren’t going to get any better. I am new to the battalion but have a policy of allowing my commanders to organise their platoons as they see fit. Mr Kelly,’ Alex said, turning to Jack, ‘I am appointing you company 2IC and you will nominate your replacement until we are able to get reinforcements to fill out our complement of officers and NCOs.’

Jack nodded; he had a man in mind who could take command until a replacement arrived.

‘If there are no questions you are dismissed to return to your platoons. We will meet back here for a briefing at nineteen hundred hours.’

The three platoon commanders rose to their feet, none saluting lest there be a German sniper in the area. Jack returned to the remnants of his platoon resting amid another copse of trees where they had erected improvised shelters from ground sheets. Tom Duffy sat alone, cross-legged, cleaning his rifle with great care while his comrades sipped tea or simply rested with their heads on their tin helmets.

‘Duffy,’ Jack said, causing Tom to glance up. ‘How would you like to be a marksman?’

Tom slipped the well-oiled bolt back into the rifle. ‘You mean work alone?’ he replied. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘Good,’ Jack said. ‘I am being pushed up to company HQ as 2IC so I will make sure you are looked after.’

‘Thanks, boss,’ Tom said and returned to cleaning his rifle.

Jack gazed around at the survivors and wondered if they could take another battle. They were all volunteers and might not have been so keen to fight for King and country if they had known when they enlisted what they did now on the front.

Tom lay out in no-man’s-land among the dead of both sides. He had been given his orders and passed through the sentry point in the deep of the night to slither forward until he could find a spread of dead soldiers. He would lie very still whenever a star shell burst in the night sky, temporarily illuminating the ground between the lines. Settling himself among the stiff corpses, he set himself up with a fully charged clip and waited for the dawn. At this time of day men were at their least aware, shaking off the little sleep they got. Tom knew instinctively that camouflaging himself was the trick to surviving, rather than simply being the crack shot that he had proved himself to be. He was aware that there was a marksman on the Western Front by the name of Billy Sing who was already celebrated in the English press as ‘the assassin’. But to the enemy, the Australian sniper was known as the murderer. Tom accepted that he would never match Billy Sing’s incredible record of hundreds of men shot dead since Gallipoli, but in his new assignment with his company he would make it very uncomfortable for the enemy.

The sun rose over a bleak, flat land of snow-covered mounds that were once living men. The snow had also settled on Tom’s back, making his night miserable. He gently squeezed his cold-stiffened hands to regain circulation. Satisfied that he was prepared, he quietly slipped the safety catch and scanned the line of German trenches a hundred yards away. Very slowly, he set his rear sight to 100 yards and then patiently watched the trench line. For an hour he saw nothing. Then a head appeared. The man was holding binoculars, staring out at no-man’s-land. He had to be an officer, Tom thought, when he noticed he was wearing a cap rather than a tin helmet. Tom’s target was cautious, keeping as low as possible while carrying out his observation. Tom dared not breathe as the man’s gaze passed over the pile of bodies he lay among.