War Clouds Gather

by Peter Watt

  *

  The SS officer and army intelligence officer standing in the anteroom to the commandant’s office were an impressive pair. Heinrich and Fritz had produced their hastily forged identification papers and the SA clerk appeared convinced.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he asked in a surly tone.

  Heinrich, dressed in the uniform of an SS major, glared at the clerk. ‘I do not tolerate lower ranks addressing me without the customary “sir”,’ he exploded and immediately the clerk jumped to his feet. ‘What is your name, clerk?’ Heinrich continued, prising a notebook from his top pocket. ‘It will be forwarded to Herr Himmler when I speak with him next week.’ From the man’s frightened expression Heinrich knew that his charade as an arrogant SS officer was working.

  ‘The officer with me is Major Conrad Neumann, and he is here to take into military custody a foreign prisoner, Herr David Macintosh, for further interrogation. Prisoner Macintosh has been identified by our intelligence as a very valuable asset, and I know that Herr Himmler will be very displeased if he is not made immediately available to us.’

  ‘I cannot release any prisoner without signed authority from Herr Himmler himself,’ the clerk stuttered.

  ‘If you look carefully at the papers I have produced you will clearly see Herr Himmler’s signature,’ Heinrich continued, pointing to the rubber-stamped forgery on the clerk’s desk.

  ‘I think that we should telephone Herr Himmler’s office and ask this man here to speak with him in person if he has any doubts. I have the director’s personal telephone number,’ Fritz said to Heinrich in a bored voice. The clerk’s eyes bulged and he went to a metal filing cabinet. In seconds he had a vanilla folder opened on his desk.

  ‘Herr Macintosh,’ the clerk said. ‘He is a foreigner and has been identified as a communist agitator.’

  ‘That is the man we urgently require for interrogation by our military intelligence department,’ Fritz said, flipping closed the folder as if the prisoner identified was of little interest; collecting him from the camp was just one more mundane task.

  ‘I will have the prisoner found and brought to you,’ the clerk said. ‘But I cannot release him to you until Major Hertzog personally clears the matter.’

  ‘Where is Major Hertzog?’ Heinrich asked.

  ‘He is refereeing a boxing match between one of his officers and a prisoner,’ the clerk replied and suddenly paled.

  ‘Is there something you should tell me?’ Heinrich asked, seeing the sudden change in the clerk’s expression.

  ‘The prisoner is Herr Macintosh,’ the clerk blurted, realising that by now the foreign communist would be dead at the hands of his opponent. ‘I think there will be a problem releasing the prisoner.’

  Heinrich and Fritz glanced at each other. Both had a good idea what that problem might be.

  *

  David had been able to protect his head with his gloves but he had taken a terrible battering in the midriff. The impact of the metal behind the leather was taking its toll, and he knew he would have to bring his defence down to protect his chest and stomach before the cracked ribs punctured his lungs and he drowned in his own blood. As he had nothing to lose David went on the offensive, swinging as many blows as he could against the big German’s head. They connected, and even in his weakened state, David’s blows still had a lot of power, causing his opponent to reel back in surprise. The referee immediately stepped in front of David to allow his man to recover from the unexpected retaliation.

  Frustrated, David stepped back but now there was a fire in his eyes: he chose to die standing on his feet.

  The SS fighter shook his head to clear it and stepped forward, hands raised. David did not hesitate, striking hard at the man’s now exposed midriff, causing the German to grunt in surprise. He had obviously been told that the prisoner would provide little more than a punching bag for him to practise on.

  David’s whole world had shrunk to this tiny patch of ground. He knew that the injuries sustained to his chest had weakened him considerably. He could hear a ringing in his ears, and saw a red haze before his eyes. He hardly felt the three blows to his head. His legs suddenly felt like jelly as he sunk onto the cold earth. So this was death, David thought as the inky blackness descended on him. He had given it his best and had gone down fighting to the last.

  *

  The Atlantic Ocean certainly appeared placid when looking from so far above in the belly of the giant airship, the Hindenburg. James Barrington Jnr was still impressed with his grandfather’s surprise gift to them for their return to the USA. It had come as a gesture from Adolf Hitler’s government in gratitude for the American banker’s contract to sign bonds in support of the Reich’s industry. The great floating airship that now carried out regular transatlantic flights from Germany to the USA was a prized example of the advanced technology of the new Germany under its Nazi leader.

  James could hear the gentle hum of the engines and slight vibration under his feet as he stood gazing down on the grey ocean below. If he was not looking through the slanted viewing windows, he could have believed he was on the luxury promenade deck of a fine ocean liner; such were the comforts and decor. He was on A deck above B deck – where the crew’s living quarters, kitchens and workshops were located. Dining rooms serving only the best food were located either side of the cabin-like accommodation for the guests while the great airship also had a reading room and lounge, displaying a wall-sized mural of an atlas of the world indicating the great explorers’ ship routes. Red carpet, red chairs and cream walls adorned the dining rooms. A baby grand piano constructed of duralumin and covered in leather was also introduced for the guest’s entertainment. All furniture was made from aluminium tubing to save weight for the hydrogen-filled envelope that lifted the airship into the sky.

  ‘The captain has calculated that it will take us only two and a half hours to reach the American coast,’ the young man who joined James said. ‘Less than half the time of a fast steamer on the same route.’

  James turned away from his observations of the ocean below to greet the young Englishman in his early twenties. They had met the day before at breakfast and introduced themselves. A bond between the men formed when they realised that the Englishman, Henry Cabot, had relatives in New Hampshire where James came from who James knew socially.

  ‘So, we should be mooring at Lakehurst before dinner tomorrow,’ James replied. ‘The adventure will be over.’

  Henry leaned to gaze down on the water beside James. ‘I hope to return to my flying club when I return to England,’ he said. ‘This is the first time I have been in the sky without the joystick between my knees, and I must admit, this is far more relaxing.’

  ‘My father . . .’ James said and suddenly stopped himself.

  ‘Your father what, old man?’ Henry asked, glancing sideways at James.

  ‘I was just going to say that my father is an Australian who flew with the army during the war. I heard that he got medals for bravery.’

  ‘I suppose he was with the AFC before it became the Royal Australian Air Force,’ Henry answered. ‘Is your father still around and flying?’

  For a moment James remained silent, struggling with his feelings about the man who had given him life, but had not been a part of his growth to manhood.

  ‘As far as I know he has a flying outfit in Iraq,’ James grudgingly said. ‘But he has never been a real part of my life.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Henry replied with a note of sympathy. ‘If your father was decorated in the war he must be an exceptional chap. Have you ever considered taking up the art and science of aviation?’

  ‘Not really,’ James answered with a slight shrug. ‘My grandfather has me destined for the banking industry after I finish college.’

  ‘This is just a small taste of how exciting flying can be,’ Henry said with a warm smile. ‘I am working towards getting a commission with the Royal Air Force to fly fighters. A little more modern than those your father must
have flown in the war. Supermarine are working on a new fighter aircraft they have just named the Spitfire. I saw one before travelling to Germany and I must say she looks like a little beauty. I doubt that you Yanks could match her at the moment.’

  James ignored the slight against his country’s aviation technology, and wished that he had not mentioned his father at all because the Englishman only seemed to admire the man who had deserted him as a child. Resentment welled up in James’s chest at the almost forgotten figure in his life. Was his father one of those men the English referred to as cads – someone with no feelings for others? Why had he not attempted to join his grandfather when James was growing up with his sister, who he knew resented the almost mythical figure of Captain Matthew Duffy? So many complex questions with equally difficult answers.

  ‘I say old chap,’ Henry said, stepping back from the viewing window. ‘Have you seen your delightful sister by any chance?’

  James grinned. ‘I think that she said she was retiring to take piano lessons from that suave German entertainer with the greased-back hair and pencil moustache. Looks a bit like Rudolph Valentino.’

  James’s observation brought a frown to the Englishman whose looks were not unappealing. ‘Damned Huns,’ he growled. ‘Don’t they know they lost the war?’

  Henry walked away to leave James to continue gazing out the window. For a moment he saw his reflection in the glass pane and saw an angry expression staring back at him. Did he look anything like his father? James wondered. Was he anything like his father, was the next question in his mind. He knew that his sister had virtually dismissed Captain Matthew Duffy as someone who was dead – like their mother. But James was now at an age where learning who he was seemed to be linked to knowing his estranged father. The anger was taking root and eating at him with an overpowering desire to meet with Captain Matthew Duffy and make him pay for his selfishness. Dark clouds skittered below the airship, covering the sea below. Rain was washing against the floating luxury liner and James finally turned away to make his way to the sumptuous dining room to join his grandfather who had raised him to represent the good name and standing of the Barrington family. At least James had a sound idea where he was going in life. All he really wanted to know was who he was.

  *

  Heinrich and Fritz reached the makeshift boxing ring too late. Already a couple of prisoners were dragging David’s body from the parade ground to a truck assigned to remove bodies for disposal. The other inmates had been silently dispersed back to their arduous regime of drill and work.

  Heinrich and Fritz saw an SS major standing in the centre of the ring congratulating a heavily built young man who sported a swollen left eye.

  ‘Major Hertzog,’ Heinrich said in a loud voice a few paces away. ‘I was assigned to have prisoner David Macintosh taken to military HQ for interrogation. We believe the knowledge he has is vital to national interests.’

  Major Hertzog turned to Heinrich and stared at him.

  ‘Do you have the papers for such a request?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘I have written authority from our intelligence department,’ Fritz answered, stepping forward with the falsified documents.

  ‘You are unfortunately a little late,’ Hertzog said with a sneer, glancing at the papers. ‘The scum you came for just lost a boxing match against one of my officers. You can make a note in your report for your senior officers that the man died of an accident. And as for you, Major,’ Hertzog continued, ‘I confess that I have never had the opportunity to meet you before. As a matter of fact, your face is new to me.’

  Heinrich felt a cold chill of fear: the man they were dealing with was suspicious of him. Everything was falling apart and they were too late to save David. All they had to show for their attempt to rescue him was his body, lying face down on the cold earth, waiting to be hoisted aboard a truck for removal to an unmarked grave.

  ‘We will take the body off your hands, Major,’ Fritz said, diverting the SS major’s gaze from Heinrich. ‘At least we can produce his corpse as evidence of the unfortunate accident.’

  Hertzog turned his attention to Fritz. ‘You can take him but you will sign for his release. In the meantime, I have work to do.’ With that, the SS major strode away.

  ‘At least we will be able to get the boy’s body back to his family,’ Heinrich said bitterly. ‘If only we had been a little earlier, maybe he would still be alive.’

  ‘Nothing we could have done,’ Fritz consoled, walking over to David and rolling him on his back. ‘You may as well fetch the car and we will load him ourselves.’

  Fritz rolled David’s body over and gasped.

  ‘What is it?’ Heinrich asked.

  ‘I think he is still alive,’ Fritz said, crouching down to put his ear against David’s chest. ‘His heart still beats!’ he exclaimed. ‘The man is still alive.’

  Heinrich cast around to see if they were being watched, and was pleased to see that in this part of the camp they were virtually alone. Heinrich gripped David’s wrist, seeking a pulse and found a very weak beat.

  ‘He is – but just barely,’ Heinrich confirmed. ‘We must get him out of here and seek medical aid as quickly as possible. I suspect he may be just a heartbeat from death.’

  *

  There were voices speaking softly in German all around him and he was warm. David drifted into a world of pleasant sounds, smells and colours. When he slowly opened his eyes the first face he saw was that of Sean Duffy staring down at him with a worried expression, his eyes now filling with tears of happiness.

  ‘Welcome back, old boy,’ Sean said, gripping David’s hand in his own. ‘Thought you were going to just lie there and sleep away the rest of your life. You got yourself into a spot of bother.’

  David tried to orientate himself in this new world, struggling against the clean sheets and warm eiderdown, but was gently pushed back by Sean. ‘You have lost a lot of weight and we were worried that you might not recover from your beating. Miraculously you only have broken ribs and Dr Vogel has done a grand job healing you.’

  ‘Uncle Sean,’ David croaked. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You are safe,’ Sean said, and added, ‘for the moment. As soon as you are well enough to travel we will have to get out of Germany. I am afraid the mission to rescue you didn’t quite go to plan. The authorities have learned that your rescuers were imposters; luckily they already slipped back into their real roles and have not been identified. The SS are not certain of your fate and I suspect they will presume that you are alive until proved otherwise. It was an oversight by the Dachau people not to confirm your death at the camp. We are in Dr Vogel’s house in Berlin. He has risked his freedom to help us. It seems that Herr Hitler is not as popular as the western press has crowed. From what I have observed there is a small but dedicated resistance movement in this country, hoping to oust Hitler and his henchmen. One of your rescuers contacted the good doctor.’

  ‘Was I at Dachau?’ David asked, confused. ‘Or was that really a bad dream?’

  ‘You were in Dachau,’ Sean confirmed. ‘But we got you out when the guards wrote you off as dead. Had it not been for the prompt actions of your rescuers you would have surely died. But you are now out and our next challenge will be to leave Germany before we are tracked down by the Gestapo.’

  A bald, middle-aged man wearing spectacles entered the room.

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Macintosh?’ he asked, leaning over David and removing a stethoscope from his medical bag. ‘I am Dr Vogel.’

  David thanked him for his care and the doctor grunted his acceptance of his patient’s gratitude. After the examination he stood up and turned to Sean.

  ‘He is young and his body is recovering well,’ he said in English. ‘He will need a few more days of good food and rest before he is well enough to be moved. In the meantime I must attend my practice, but you are welcome to remain here.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Doctor,’ Sean said, shaking the man’s hand. ‘We will leave as soon
as David is well enough to travel.’

  ‘You will need to make arrangements to smuggle the young man out of the country,’ the doctor said. ‘All train stations and airports will be watched by the Gestapo.’

  ‘I have given the problem a great deal of thought,’ Sean reassured. ‘I think I may have a solution to getting David out.’

  ‘Good,’ Dr Vogel said. ‘My wife will bring chicken soup. She is Jewish and believes that chicken soup can cure any illness known to man. It is because of her that I take this risk.’

  The doctor left, leaving Sean alone with David, who slipped back into sleep before the soup could be delivered by the doctor’s wife.

  Sean sat and watched David sleep. Sean was not a religious man but he offered up a prayer of thanks to God for the boy’s safety.

  He had decided that he would get David out of Germany not by land or by sea, but by plane. They would fly over the German borders. All Sean had to do was contact Matthew Duffy. From the occasional letters they exchanged, Sean knew Matthew was flying out of Basra. In the meantime Sean needed to get David back on his feet. The terrible experiences in the concentration camp had left their indelible mark on the young man’s body and, Sean suspected, in his mind.

  Sean left the apartment building and walked to the nearest post office. He limped along a tree-lined street where people went about their day as if Hitler’s dictatorship had no bearing on their lives. After all, he had provided them with a better way of life and so they ignored the injustices being committed against individual freedom so long as there was food on the table and a job to go to.

  Sean reached the post office and was greeted by a jolly man with a red nose. He spoke a little English and Sean spoke a little German, so between them they were able to work out which form Sean needed to fill out in order to send a telegram.

  Sean made his way to a desk to carefully compose his words to Matthew. That he was a foreigner would invite immediate interest and Sean realised that he would have to use some kind of code to the Australian flyer. Sean wrote down his words and took the form back to the counter where the postmaster took it away for transmission. Sean waited nervously for some time before the postmaster returned with a fixed smile.