by Peter Watt
‘Now you can see that she is safe and well,’ Arthur said gently. ‘She may not be able to be with us for Christmas, but she is now with the world, wherever this film is seen.’
Patrick settled back and for the time the film ran admired his daughter’s skill at acting. When the lights came on, he rose and shook Arthur’s hand. ‘Old friend, it is my shout at the pub,’ he said as they mingled with the crowd pushing their way to the exits. On a personal level 1914 was ending on a good note for him, Patrick thought. But what did 1915 offer for all those he held dear?
Across the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, Randolph Gates strode along an avenue of shady trees. It had been many years since he had last passed through the town of Los Angeles and many of the houses around him still bore the architectural features of their Spanish heritage. The weather was pleasant and the skies clear blue – a marked difference to his home state of Texas which he knew a few days before Christmas would have a white sheet of snow across the prairies and in the hills. But the hills and canyons surrounding the town he now found himself in were covered in orange groves and tough, stunted brush.
He found himself joining a happy throng of people walking under the ornate archway of a thriving film studio and into a world of people dressed in everything from cowboy outfits to pirate costumes as they strolled between the spacious buildings outfitted to make movies. It was an open day for movie fans to meet their favourite stars and Randolph was just one more tourist visiting this world of make-believe.
A uniformed elderly man, probably a retired policeman, Randolph thought, stood with his hands on his hips looking bored at the passing throng of visitors.
‘Hey, buddy,’ Randolph addressed the security man. ‘Where do I find Miss Fiona Owens?’
‘You mean the Scottish dame,’ the security guard replied. Randolph thought it was amusing that his American countryman did not know that Owens was in fact a well-known Welsh name and not Scottish at all.
‘Yeah, the Scottish actress,’ he said.
‘Just go down this road and you will see a building marked with an eight,’ he replied. ‘She should be in there doing a shoot.’
Randolph thanked the man and continued his walk along the road, passing a group of men dressed in the uniforms of the Confederate Army and leaning on old-style rifles. He found the building, a tall, huge structure where a couple of security guards were allowing a line of visitors to enter. Randolph joined the queue and was ushered inside into a world he was already familiar with from his time working with Arthur Thorncroft – cameras, sets and big lights on stands. Even the set of three walls constructed for filming looked as familiar as those Arthur would have done up for an indoor scene. The only thing about this set, Randolph noticed, was how elaborate and large it was compared to those which he was familiar with in Sydney.
At one corner of the cavernous building he could see a tight circle of men and women around someone he could not at first see. Then he caught a glimpse of who had attracted the crowd and felt his heart skip a beat. It was Fenella and she appeared radiant, signing autographs and chatting with her adoring fans. She wore a long, floor-length dress fashionable during the period of the Civil War and was in conversation with a young lady whose face beamed with delight at having Fenella’s attention. Fenella’s happy laughter drifted to him across the space of a mere twenty paces.
For a moment Randolph hesitated. She looked so much at home among her adoring public and he knew from reading the local paper that she was one of the studio’s biggest stars. He had completed his mission for her father to find his daughter but now experienced some doubt as to how Fenella might view his sudden appearance once again in her life. It was obvious that she was on top of the world and being treated as some kind of American royalty on account of her popularity as a film star. What could she ever see in an old cowboy whose life had been spent wandering the world through dangerous places no sane man would consider going?
Randolph commenced to turn to walk away when a smiling Fenella glanced across the heads of her fans to meet his eye. Randolph suddenly felt both trapped and exhilarated when their eyes locked on each other. He could not move his feet. He could see Fenella mouthing his name and then she burst into tears, stunning those around her. She pushed her way through the crowd and ran to him, flinging her arms around his neck.
‘Oh, my darling, I knew you would come for me,’ she sobbed, clinging to him like a person drowning. ‘I knew no matter where I tried to hide you would find me. I don’t know when I last felt this happy.’
Randolph realised that his whole body was as rigid as stone as she held him and he relaxed. ‘I would have been here earlier but I kind of got caught up,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her. ‘But I got here.’
The only thing that puzzled Randolph was the same thing that had puzzled men throughout time. If she was so happy why was she crying?
EPILOGUE
Mesopotamia
July 1915
Lieutenant Matthew Duffy had his French-designed Caudron aloft and the fragile little biplane was at maximum speed of sixty-eight mph, soaring above the Mesopotamian desert at a height of 7000 feet, although it was capable of reaching a ceiling of around 14,000 feet. He had been tasked with reconnoitring the Turkish positions on the Euphrates River and was acutely aware of how alone he was flying into enemy-controlled territory. As a temporary member of the Australian Half Flight squadron he knew how vulnerable he was to engine failure or ground fire. But he did carry multiple machine guns attached under the wings and was itching to find a target of opportunity to swoop on and strafe.
In the air he had the chance to reflect on life and death although he tried not to think of the latter. The last he had heard from his cousin Major Alex Macintosh was that he was frustrated by the delays in his attempts to be posted with a battalion overseas to fight the enemy. He had been held back and transferred to a training battalion, and was soon to become a parent. Giselle had been released from internment – thanks to Patrick’s considerable influence. Alex had written that his father’s battalion had suffered heavily against the Ottoman Turks on the beaches of a place called Gallipoli, but that the colonel was in relatively good health and making a name for himself in that campaign as a very competent commander with prospects of being promoted to a brigade in the future. Alex also mentioned that his father had written to say that a young former solicitor by the name of Sean Duffy had been sent to his battalion as a reinforcement platoon commander with the commissioned rank of Second Lieutenant and in an action on the Peninsula had been awarded a Military Cross for his bravery. Patrick had personally recommended him for the bravery award. He had written to Alex that he had done so with great pleasure for all that Second Lieutenant Duffy had done to help Nellie.
Also was the good news that Fenella was in touch with her family by letter, and that she had met up with Randolph Gates who had been able to gain employment as what they called a stunt man in Hollywood with the same film company that employed her.
Matthew received a regular flow of letters from his mother, Kate Tracy, whenever mail could be delivered to the miserable, swampy, fever-ridden country of the ancient land Matthew flew over on his missions. He had been informed that very soon he would be transferred for a posting in England and that this would be one of his last missions in the skies over the ancient land of Mesopotamia. When transferred to England he would have a better chance of replying to his mother’s loving letters.
A wall of dust rose up ahead of Matthew’s aircraft and he realised that he must break off his flight north in the face of the sudden and deadly storm. His fragile aircraft could not take on the ferocious desert winds and he peeled away to circle around an edge of the wall of swirling sand, if he could find one. He was successful. The desert storm was only a small one and Matthew checked the dials on the dashboard in front of him. His fuel supply was sufficient for him to complete his mission and return home to the airfield where he could have a good cup of tea brewed up for him by h
is Arab servant.
It was then that Matthew, looking down at the ground, saw the faint outline of what he guessed to be an ancient village or town, long gone from the historical record. Warping the wings, he swung around to fly over what the dust storm had briefly uncovered and marvelled at what he was viewing. The young aviator guessed that had he been on the ground he might have walked over the ruins without seeing them but from his vantage point in the sky he had the eyes of an eagle searching for its prey.
Fascinated by his discovery, Matthew used precious fuel to circle the outlines of what must have been a substantial fortified town. He was prompted to think about the stories of ancient civilisations where chariots and iron weapons changed the course of history in these very same lands. It was then and there that Matthew recognised his destiny as revealed by Wallarie. All he had to do for now was stay alive and outlive the war that the world was embroiled in to return and explore the ancient past. Lieutenant Matthew Duffy, Australian Flying Corps, turned his little biplane back on course and looked down to see the mighty artery of the ancient civilisations flowing sluggishly below under a fierce mid-summer sun of searing heat.
Glen View Lutheran Mission Station
Central Queensland
1934
The sun was a red ball hovering on the western horizon. The young man squatted in the dust under the bumbil tree, hardly aware that his legs were cramping from the long time he had been listening to the old Aboriginal warrior spin his story.
Wallarie had fallen silent and was sucking on a tobacco pipe that contained little else than grey ash. ‘You got more baccy?’ he asked, breaking the silence.
The young man rose to stretch his legs. ‘I will fetch some from my grandmother,’ he replied eagerly, in the way that youths sometimes do when they recognise they are in the presence of one who knows more than they.
Wallarie grinned. ‘She is still here,’ he chuckled. ‘She and I are old friends.’
The boy returned with a generous supply of tobacco plugs and handed them to him. Wallarie immediately refilled his battered pipe and, reaching for a box of matches, lit it, puffing with an expression of contentment.
‘You got no place to go?’ he asked, staring with blind eyes at the boy. ‘Me think you want to go to the cave.’
The boy shuffled his feet but did not reply.
‘Mebbe one day you go to the cave and see the ancestor spirits,’ Wallarie sighed. ‘Mebbe you go alone, because ol’ Wallarie be with the ancestor spirits up in the sky.’
Again, the boy did not reply. Death was not something he truly understood in his privileged world and this man he had heard so much about was almost immortal to the boy’s thinking. It was impossible for the old Aboriginal to die. Had he not outlived all in the boy’s own family with the exception of Kate Tracy?
‘So, you want me to tell you more of the story,’ Wallarie said, resting his back against the rough bark of the tree behind him, and feeling the comforting last rays of the sun against his face.
‘Family stories take a long time,’ he said. ‘There are many stories – like the branches of the bumbil tree – and you are the new twig that will grow your own branches one day. But I will continue my story of the two families the ancestor spirits cursed. One day you will understand but for now I must sleep. When you come back in the morning time I will tell you more.’
AUTHOR NOTES
There is a popular perception that at the outbreak of World War I Australians were divorced from the battlefields of distant Europe. This is far from the truth. Australia and New Zealand were well and truly within the military planning of Germany in the event of hostilities between themselves and the British Empire. It should be remembered that before the outbreak of the Great War Germany controlled a considerable number of islands as well as the northern section of Papua New Guinea as a part of their Pacific Empire. The Imperial German Navy had a sizeable naval force operating out of Southern China and within striking distance of Australasian waters.
I was fortunate in my research to find a fascinating analysis of the military situation relating to our part of the world in Jurgen Tampke’s Ruthless Warfare: German military planning and surveillance in the Australian–New Zealand region before the Great War (Southern Highlands Publishers, Canberra, 1998). Translated documents set out the plan to launch attacks against the eastern seaboard ports of Australia and locations in New Zealand including the capture of the ports of Gladstone in Queensland and Westport in New Zealand for their coal supplies in order to fuel the German naval warships.
It is not my intention to provide a detailed explanation of those plans in these notes as any reader interested in the subject has access to further sources through their local libraries. Needless to say, however, the German operational plans against Australia and New Zealand were disrupted by a combination of factors. One was that Japan aligned itself with the Allies and its impressive navy was able to threaten the Imperial German Navy in the Pacific. As well, there were strikes by Australian and New Zealand forces against German territory in the region, capturing or destroying the vital radio stations needed by the German warships to coordinate their operations against the British Empire in the Pacific region.
Many months before the Gallipoli landings, Australia suffered its first battle casualties in the Great War as a result of fighting in the jungles of the Pacific islands. The sacrifice of these men has been mostly forgotten but they were killed and wounded directly in the defence of Australia and not simply for British interests. Their graves can be found in Rabaul alongside those of the heroic men who would die in New Britain a quarter of a century later resisting the Japanese. This fact makes that war cemetery rather unique.
I must emphasise that my story of the operation around Rabaul is a work of fiction. In a twist of fate the great author Wilbur Smith’s latest book, Assegai (Pan Macmillan, Sydney, 2009), is set in the same period of time, but on the other side of the Indian Ocean in Africa. Readers may be interested to know that Britain originally planned to send our newly raised AIF to Africa to assist the pro-British government of General Botha suppress the Boer rebellion. But at the last minute the AIF was re-routed to Egypt prior to the Dardanelles campaign of 1915. As Botha was able to crush the pro-German Boers and invade German territory, his region of the world did not require our assistance.
This story will continue in the next release of the family saga where the Macintoshes and Duffys face four years of campaigning in the European trenches of the Western Front and in the deserts of the Palestinian campaign.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A very special thanks for the significant support in producing this book must go to my publisher, Cate Paterson, editor Catherine Day, all at the Pan Macmillan company in both Sydney and Melbourne, and also all the reps on the road. And to my publicist, Jane Novak – a special thanks for being you.
I would also like to thank my agent, Geoffrey Radford of Anthony Williams Agency, for his ongoing support and advice. Thanks, mate.
There are other people in my life who have an indirect and yet important role in assisting in producing a book. My thanks go to the following: Kevin and Maureen Jones and all the Jones clan, Mick and Andrea Prowse, John and Isabel Millington, Pete and Kay Lowe, and Ty and Kerry McKee from Maclean.
Thanks also are extended to Debrah Novak of WoMEDIA for her wonderful assistance with last year’s launch in Maclean, and also to Dr Louis and Christine Trichard from Yamba for their friendship.
I would also like to thank Graham Mackie who entered my portrait in this year’s Archibald Prize at the Art Gallery of NSW. Alas, so as not to frighten people, the portrait was not exhibited, but thanks to Graham anyway for considering me a personality worthy of his artistic endeavour.
After ten books I would like to mention the support of a wonderful free paper, The Outback City Express, published by Ken and Barbara Hay in Queensland. Over the years it has provided publicity for many Pan Macmillan authors within its colourful pages and on the front cover.
Continuing thanks also go to Irvin Rockman CBE, Rod and Brett Hardy for keeping the visual media project alive in difficult times, and Fran McGuire from the Maclean Library for her assistance in my research. Also to Herlinde Kroth from Geelong for her ongoing advice concerning German matters.
On a sadder note I would like to mention three very special Australians who have passed from us this year. Peter John Dawson, whom I had the honour of serving with in the NSW Police many years ago and who may have saved my life in an ambush set up on a country road one night. Smokey – as he was known to his friends – will be missed by his family and many who knew him.
I have close connections to two writers’ organisations. They are The Bush Curlews from Charters Towers and STARS from the Gold Coast. Respectively, the two principle founders of these organisations were Rosa Christian and Nerida Marshall. Sadly, both ladies lost their mothers this year and as I knew Rosa’s and Nerida’s mothers as readers of mine I would like to honour their memory by mentioning them here. Doris Thelma Christian and Irene Lorraine Maile – you will always be in our memories and hearts.