War Clouds Gather

by Peter Watt

  ‘We will come with you to the police station,’ one of the SA men said to the arresting officers. ‘We will need to give a statement concerning the unprovoked attack on our comrade. Heil Hitler.’

  The Australian looked over at the Bavarian proprietor who was wringing his hands. The man must have contacted the police, worried there would be a full-on brawl in his restaurant. His pretty daughter gave the Australian a look of frank admiration and he winked at her, causing her to break into a shy smile.

  *

  On the pavement outside the café James turned to Donald. ‘That was one helluva guy,’ he said. ‘Bad luck for him that those brownshirts are going to the police station with him. I think we should find out where they’re taking him, and try to help.’

  ‘The Germans are civilised people and with a reliable legal system,’ Donald replied. ‘Besides, I doubt that they would dare cause any harm to a visitor. Not good for tourism if they did.’

  ‘I’m going to inform Father,’ Sarah said. ‘He will be able to help the young man.’

  ‘I don’t think that is necessary,’ Donald said. ‘He looks like he can handle himself.’

  ‘Does it shame you that you were unable to defend us?’ Sarah countered quietly. ‘Is that why you do not wish to mention the incident to Father?’

  His sister’s words stung with truth. Donald’s face reddened. He had never felt as helpless as he had in the café garden, facing brute violence beyond the reaches of all his family’s wealth and influence. He had been terrified, but fear was not something his father would tolerate. ‘I think that the matter is over and we should put it behind us,’ he answered feebly and saw the look of disgust on Sarah’s face. They walked in silence back to the hotel.

  *

  The young Australian experienced fear as he felt the first blow jar his head. His hands were tied behind his back and the rickety chair he was pinioned to almost collapsed. The blow hurt; it had come from the big SA man he had felled in the café garden.

  Behind the SA thug stood the two arresting officers, and they both looked nervous and frightened.

  ‘We rule here, Englisher,’ the SA thug said, stepping back to deliver another punch. Blood dripped from the Australian’s split lip onto his white shirt. ‘You need to learn respect for our Führer.’

  The helpless prisoner’s obscene reply brought another smashing blow to his head, making him wish he had kept silent. He was afraid now that this man might beat him half to death before the police officers stopped him.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ an authoritative voice called into the room. The Australian lifted his head to see a German Luftwaffe officer standing in the doorway. Through swelling eyes he could see the pilot wings on his chest. Behind the German pilot a familiar figure leaned on a cane, a cigar clamped between his teeth.

  ‘Young David Macintosh,’ Sean Duffy said in an almost tired voice. ‘I wonder why I ever let you come to Germany with me.’

  David spat out a mouthful of blood and grinned at the Sydney solicitor. ‘Ah, Uncle Sean, it is good to see you,’ he said. ‘Who’s the flyboy?’

  ‘I am Hauptmann Fritz Lang,’ the German officer replied in English. David knew that he was the equivalent rank of an air force flight lieutenant in Australia. ‘Herr Duffy has called on me to free you from custody.’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ David asked. He glanced over at the SA man who had been beating him, who stood aside with a surly and resentful look on his face.

  ‘Captain Lang,’ Sean replied, using the English army equivalent of the German aviator’s rank, ‘has friends in many places and was quick to inform me of your predicament. You have him to thank for the fact that I was able to muster the legal resources to free you so quickly.’

  ‘I didn’t start this one,’ David said as one of the German police officers stepped forward and untied his hands from behind his back. ‘I was just minding my own business.’

  Sean raised his eyebrows, then took the cigar from his mouth and rolled it between his fingers. ‘Captain Lang, could you please thank the police for their hospitality towards Mr Macintosh, and let them know that we will not be reporting this incident to any higher authority.’

  As Fritz translated, an expression of gratitude appeared on the officers’ faces. They were men used to enforcing the law, but many police officers resented the growing power the SA had over them. Only the even more feared SS now kept the SA’s power in check.

  When David was on his feet he rubbed his wrists and turned to the SA man who had delivered his savage beating. ‘You and I might just meet one dark night down an alley, and if that happens only I will be walking out of it,’ he said in German.

  The SA man glared back at David. ‘I will be waiting, Englisher,’ he replied.

  ‘Calling me an Englishman is enough to get you killed,’ David countered, and followed Sean and Hauptmann Lang out of the dank interrogation room.

  *

  The three men stepped out onto the footpath. Darkness was already falling. The multitude of red, white and black flags lay against their flag poles. Fritz excused himself and left, shaking hands with both Sean and David first.

  ‘Uncle Sean,’ David said painfully through his split lips. ‘How in hell did you get hold of a German officer?’

  Sean limped beside David and they slowly made their way down the street. ‘It’s a long story that has its roots back in Palestine with your father’s cousin, Captain Matthew Duffy, during the war. After the war, Matthew asked me to track down the family of a German fighter pilot he had sat with as he died. I was able to use this visit to track down the pilot’s widow, and son, and to pass on a letter Matthew had written to them. The pilot’s son is, of course, Fritz.’

  ‘What happened all those years ago?’ David asked. His own father had been killed in action on the Western Front, which was where Sean had lost both his legs, and his mother had died in the terrible flu epidemic of 1919. David had been raised in New Guinea by his maternal grandmother, Karolina Schumann, on a family copra plantation, but had been schooled in Australia and looked after by the family solicitor, Sean Duffy, who had no wife or children of his own. Sean had become like a father to David.

  ‘It seems that when Matthew was shot down he stumbled on a Hun pilot who had also been shot down, but was dying from his wounds. Matthew stayed with him, and in the pilot’s dying moments promised to contact his family for him. I have kept that promise for Matthew. Hence, we have at least one good friend in this country, although I do not know Fritz’s attitude to Jews.’

  David flinched. His mother was Jewish, which meant he was technically Jewish too. His grandmother had not raised him strictly in accordance with the Jewish faith. But David had been circumcised and he had, out of curiosity, read the Torah. He knew that it did not pay to advertise this aspect of his life in Hitler’s Germany, despite the fact that he had barely stepped inside a synagogue. He was a young man who preferred the pleasures of life to thinking about the restrictions of religion.

  The two men walked side by side into the dark, unaware that the simple incident in the café would change the course of both of their lives forever.

  2

  As Captain Matthew Duffy brought the Ford trimotor to land on the airfield at Basra, he thanked the heavens that the summer heat was losing its intensity with the advent of autumn. When the doors to his three-engined, metal-skinned American cargo aircraft were opened he would not be assailed by the oven-like heat he’d endured for what seemed like months.

  Beside him in the cockpit sat his copilot, a New Zealander in his twenties, Tyrone McKee. Whenever Matthew looked at the much younger man he was reminded of how many years had passed in his own life. He had reached half a century but had retained his youthful looks. He still had a thick crop of hair greying at the edges and he remained physically fit. He was not handsome but had a strong, masculine face. Matthew had run away when he was underage to fight against the Boers in Africa as an infantryman with the New South Wales regiment.
He had flown as an army pilot in the Great War in the skies over Palestine. After the war and the loss of the woman he loved, Matthew had remained in the Middle East to form a flying company carrying cargo and passengers for the ever-expanding British oil industry.

  ‘Cut the engines,’ Matthew said to his copilot, and the rugged aeroplane trundled to a stop outside a huge hangar. ‘Time for a cuppa.’

  The two men left the cockpit to climb out through the side door and were met by Matthew’s chief engineer, Cyril Blacksmith. Cyril was in his forties and balding, but had the tough look of a street fighter. The Canadian was the only original member left of the airline company Matthew had founded in 1919. Over the years, the others had drifted away to jobs where the heat and flies were less of a problem. The Great Depression had hit the company hard, forcing Matthew to sell off all his aircraft except the Ford.

  ‘Good flight, Skipper?’ Cyril asked as he quickly surveyed the outer skin of the aeroplane for any sign of damage. Later, he would go over the engines to ensure they were in top condition.

  ‘Yeah,’ Matthew replied. ‘Young Ty did most of the flying this time. We delivered the parts to the oil people on time.’

  The three men walked towards the hangar and Matthew noticed another trimotor aircraft parked on the airstrip. It was a German Junkers and Matthew felt a pang of envy for the newer, stronger German version of his own aircraft. ‘Whose plane?’ he asked Cyril.

  ‘You got a visitor,’ Cyril growled. ‘She’s someone we used to know.’

  Matthew’s eyebrows raised in surprise. The pilot of the Junkers was a woman, and the only woman Matthew knew with flying credentials was the one he had trained many years before. Diane Hatfield had answered his advertisement in an English newspaper to join his company in Iraq. He had been struck by her determination and her youthful beauty when he interviewed her, and she had convinced him to teach her to fly. Diane had proved a born flyer and it had not been long before she earned her commercial pilot’s licence. Almost immediately she had left to fly in America on a lucrative contract.

  ‘Diane?’ he asked, although he knew it had to be her and wondered why she should suddenly appear after all the years since she had left the service of his company.

  Cyril grunted an affirmative as the three men reached the hangar where Matthew had his office. They had hardly entered the cavernous structure when a woman wearing riding jodhpurs and a clean white silk shirt appeared with an uncertain smile on her face. Immediately, Matthew was struck afresh by the woman’s beauty, despite the years that had passed since he’d last seen her.

  ‘Hello, Matthew.’ Matthew accepted Diane’s extended hand and felt its smooth warmth. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘It has been a long time. Are you still flying for the Yanks you left us for?’

  Diane flinched. ‘I am sorry for leaving you stranded,’ she replied with seemingly genuine remorse. ‘I know my departure must have lost you work.’

  Matthew was still angry but could see she was attempting to reconcile. It made him suspicious. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked. ‘You’re a long way from your luxurious stopovers in Hollywood.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve been keeping tabs on me,’ Diane flared.

  ‘Your name occasionally crops up in the papers in connection to your boss, who I gather is a well-known criminal of Sicilian heritage,’ Matthew retorted. ‘I’m surprised to see you turn up in this godforsaken part of the world.’

  ‘I quit my job flying for the Sicilian,’ Diane said.

  ‘Just like old times,’ Cyril said, bringing two big mugs of hot tea over to them.

  ‘Thanks, Cyril,’ Matthew said and ushered Diane into his office. He placed the mug on his untidy desk, mostly cluttered with angry demands from creditors.

  Diane glanced around the office. ‘Nothing much has changed,’ she commented, taking a sip from the mug. ‘And Cyril even remembers how I like my tea – strong and sweet.’

  Matthew stared at the young woman; he could see a weariness etched in her face. ‘What happened?’ he asked quietly and saw a fleeting expression of pain.

  ‘I have flown here from Germany to make you a business proposal,’ Diane said, deflecting Matthew’s question. ‘I have a contract with the German government to fly out a team of their scientists – archaeologists. It seems their boss, Himmler, has a fascination for ancient artefacts. I told them I had the contacts in this part of the world to pull off the deal.’

  ‘You meant me,’ Matthew said with a slight frown.

  ‘I know it’s presumptuous but I was desperate for a job and the Germans gave me that beautiful aeroplane to fly. You would have done the same if you’d been in my shoes.’

  ‘What do you need from me?’ Matthew asked, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. He wasn’t agreeing but this deal might help his own company get out of financial trouble.

  ‘I need the use of your facilities,’ Diane said. ‘I need the services of Cyril and your pilot, McKee, whom Cyril told me is an excellent flyer.’

  ‘What do I get in return?’ Matthew countered.

  ‘The Germans are generous in their budget,’ Diane glanced down at the scattered bills. ‘I could clear all your debts and promise ten per cent on top for all services your company provides.’

  ‘If I don’t agree?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘I have nowhere else to go. I’m begging you,’ Diane replied quietly, a tear welling in the corner of her eye.

  ‘Fifteen per cent on top and we have a deal,’ he said, extending his hand.

  ‘Fifteen per cent it is,’ Diane agreed, taking his hand.

  ‘You can start our mutual enterprise by letting me take your kite up for a spin,’ Matthew said, standing up. ‘I’ve been wanting to upgrade the old Ford to one of those German machines.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you still have that lovely little house in Basra – the one with the pretty garden?’

  ‘Couldn’t afford anything else,’ Matthew answered. ‘You’re welcome to stay there.’

  ‘Thank you, Matthew,’ Diane said, stepping forward and kissing him on the cheek. ‘You are one of the last, true gentlemen.’

  ‘Cyril,’ he called loudly down the hangar. ‘Get Miss Hatfield’s gear from her kite and throw it in the car.’

  Cyril glared down the hangar at the young English-woman and his boss standing side by side in front of the office. ‘Goddamned women,’ he muttered as he went off to obey.

  *

  The lighting in the grand dining room of the Berlin Hotel was subdued. The tables were filled with Germany’s aristocracy, as well as a smattering of high-ranking SS officers and their partners. A string quartet played in the background while the diners enjoyed the very expensive meals placed in front of them.

  James Barrington Snr sat at one table with his grandchildren. They were accompanied by George Macintosh and his son and daughter. ‘I hope that your talk with Herr Schacht proved fruitful,’ George said across the table as he raised a spoon of truffle soup to his lips.

  ‘I should thank you for the introduction,’ James Barrington Snr replied before sipping the tasty soup. ‘You appear to have good relations with our hosts.’

  George did not reply. During the Great War he had invested in German industries making chemicals for their weapons. Such a revelation could have brought him a charge of treason, but he had managed to stay one step ahead of suspicion. At least now he could be more open. Herr Hitler had much support from influential people, ranging from the English royals to the brash industrial moguls of the United States who admired the former Austrian army corporal for mobilising a nation out of the crippling world economic depression.

  ‘Did you get the opportunity to view one of the televisions broadcasting the Games?’ George said, changing the subject. ‘A great achievement.’

  ‘The Brits are working on a better system,’ James Snr countered. ‘I think it is an industry with potential. It could be worth investing in.’

  �
��I agree,’ George said, noticing then that the four young people remained silent at the table. ‘Has the cat got your tongues?’ he asked, looking at his son, Donald.

  ‘Something horrible happened today,’ Sarah blurted and received a withering look from her brother.

  ‘What?’ George asked, using the tip of his linen napkin to wipe soup from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Nothing, Father,’ Donald answered, attempting to kick his sister’s foot under the table.

  ‘I doubt that it was nothing. I can see that your sister is upset.’

  ‘We were having coffee in a splendid café not far from here,’ Sarah said, undeterred by her brother’s attempt to silence her. ‘Some horrible men wearing brown uniforms spilled beer all over Olivia, and they might have assaulted us, except a wonderful young man from Australia stepped in and gave one of the bullies a thrashing and then they were too frightened to touch us.’

  ‘Did he give his name?’ asked James Barrington Snr.

  ‘No,’ Sarah answered. ‘But he spoke German, and I heard him tell the ruffian that he was a boxer. The police came and took him away for no reason.’

  ‘I think we should find him and thank him,’ James Barrington Jnr said. ‘Make sure he hasn’t been arrested for helping us.’

  ‘You said that the hooligans pestering you today wore a brown uniform?’ George questioned. ‘At least they did not have black uniforms or it may have been a lot more serious. The brownshirts have lost most of their influence since the death of their leader, Ernst Rohm. Had they worn black then it might have been the SS, and they are a damned dangerous bunch. I will make inquiries with a few friends to track down your gallant white knight.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ Sarah said with the brightest of smiles.

  They finished their meals and the young people withdrew to a comfortable lounge, away from the boring business talk of their elders.