War Clouds Gather

by Peter Watt

  ‘Your telegram has been sent,’ he said with a heavy accent and put his hand out for the fee.

  Sean paid the man and left the post office. Outside, in the sunlit street, he saw a black car pull out from the kerb. Sean felt a cold shiver of fear. Heinrich and Fritz had been able to smuggle David into the doctor’s apartment building through the rear entrance in the early hours of the evening of his rescue; the building contained many flats and Sean had left it to draw away the Gestapo surveillance team. Sean guessed that the tail on him was to report who he met with and maybe the SS had not made his connection with David Macintosh. But it was only a matter of time before the Germans traced their paperwork and linked him with the Australian escapee and all Sean could hope was that the SS was a typical German bureaucracy. Every second was now beginning to matter.

  Sean knew that he could not lead them to the building where David was recuperating. Instead, he made his way to a beer hall and spent the day sitting alone sipping the fine beer that Germany produced. In the early evening he slipped out and made his way along the narrow streets of the city to the doctor’s house, carefully watching for anyone trailing him. He knew of a back way into the apartment building and in the dark tapped on the apartment door.

  ‘You have been gone for a long time,’ the doctor said.

  ‘I was being watched,’ Sean replied, grateful to be in the warm flat out of the chill of the Berlin night. ‘But I seem to have shaken off those watching me. I think they got bored waiting for me to come out of the beer hall.’

  Everything now depended on a message crossing Europe to the Middle East to Captain Matthew Duffy.

  When Sean carefully pulled back the curtains to observe the street below he could see the black car had returned. The Gestapo were not even bothering to hide themselves and were parked under a street light. Sean guessed that the only thing stopping them from knocking on Dr Vogel’s door was that they knew a foreign visitor was staying under his roof and did not want to cause any international protests just after the Games. At least one consolation was that they had not seemed to have made the connection with him and David or they would have already knocked down the doors to the flats in the building.

  The situation was no less perilous than when Sean was serving on the Western Front those years earlier and he was no less afraid.

  6

  Extra fuel had been loaded and Matthew sat in the cockpit with a chart on his lap, calculating the best route to Czechoslovakia. He would fly via Istanbul and, all going well, experience good weather and friendly customs personnel there. Ben Rosenblum was eager for Matthew to get the flight underway as he was nervous, so deep in the Arab territory of Iraq.

  ‘You got a telegram, Skipper,’ Cyril said, clambering into the cockpit in his greasy overalls.

  Matthew paused in his checklist and accepted the envelope from Cyril’s oil-stained hand. He opened the telegram to read the few words scribbled down in English.

  Urgent need to pick up package in Berlin.

  The message also provided a day and time for the pickup.

  It was signed by Sean Duffy.

  Cyril read the telegram over Matthew’s shoulder. ‘What does it mean?’ he asked.

  ‘It has to be something bloody important for Sean Duffy to contact me,’ Matthew said, puzzled by the lack of information in the message. Matthew could see that the date gave him two days to reach Berlin. He knew that he could be on time if he left in the next few hours but he had committed himself to the contract to pick up the munitions in Prague. Matthew made a quick calculation in his head just as Ben Rosenblum joined them in the cockpit.

  ‘When are we leaving?’ Ben asked.

  ‘There has been a slight adjustment to my flight plan,’ Matthew replied. ‘We will be detouring to Berlin before reaching Prague.’

  ‘That was not mentioned when you submitted your flight plan,’ Ben frowned.

  ‘We have to pick up a package of some kind at the Berlin airport,’ Matthew explained.

  ‘What kind of package?’ Ben asked.

  ‘I don’t really know, but as the message has come from a man I consider almost a brother – then it must be important,’ Matthew said.

  ‘You are being paid to fly to Prague and pick up our cargo,’ Ben reminded him, and then, although he realised that being Jewish in Germany was not a good thing, he added, ‘but if it does not interfere with the mission, I cannot see any problem.’

  Matthew nodded his gratitude. ‘We fly out within the hour,’ he said with a smile. ‘Fair skies and good weather ahead . . . I hope.’

  Ben left the cockpit to retrieve his duffel bag for the flight, leaving Cyril and Matthew alone in the cabin.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Cyril cautioned. ‘If you want my opinion it has the smell of trouble about it.’

  ‘Thought the same thing, old chap,’ Matthew agreed. ‘But family is family – even distant family – and one must recognise that.’

  ‘Take care,’ Cyril said, placing his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘I’m getting too old to find another boss. At least the old girl is in peak condition and she should get you to Prague and back without any worries.’

  ‘Thanks, Cyril,’ Matthew said, appreciating that there was at least one person in the world who cared for him – at least for his Ford trimotor aeroplane anyway.

  *

  With rest, David had regained enough of his strength to leave the bed and walk around. The chicken soup seemed to have worked – along with as many dumplings as the doctor’s wife, Eva, could spoon into David.,

  Sean and David sat at a table, playing chess. Sean was losing.

  ‘There’s something on your mind, Uncle Sean,’ David said, when Sean made an obvious blunder.

  Sean frowned. ‘I sent the telegram knowing that there was little chance Matthew could have answered as I could not afford to reveal any address that might lead the Gestapo to the doctor’s door. But I do not know if Matthew actually got it and will be at the airport at the designated time.’

  ‘Life is a gamble,’ David said. ‘All we can do is bet on the fact that Matthew will be at the rendezvous, and hope the stakes aren’t too high if he’s not.’

  Sean glanced at David and was reminded how much he looked like his father, Alexander Macintosh, who had been killed on the Western Front. He was the spitting image around the face, but differed from his father in size. David was taller, broader, and more like the Duffy men.

  ‘Were you ever told why you were arrested?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Nothing, not even how long I was going to be held. The only thing they said was that an informant put me in as some kind of communist agitator,’ David replied, fingering a chess piece. ‘For the life of me I can’t think of anyone who would inform on me.’

  ‘I think I may have a prime suspect,’ Sean said. ‘Your uncle was in Germany around the time you were picked up and has good cause to see mischief come to you – even to the point of your death.’

  ‘Are you talking about Sir George?’ David asked with a frown. ‘My grandmother told me that he is the devil himself.’

  ‘He is the most evil bastard I have ever known,’ said Sean, ‘and as a criminal lawyer I have seen a few. It has never been proven but your uncle may have been instrumental in conspiring to have his own sister murdered, and he was linked to the death of a Sydney prostitute many years ago.’

  ‘I’ve never met him,’ David said, pushing his chess piece across the board and picking up Sean’s knight.

  ‘You did when you were a toddler,’ Sean countered. ‘Your uncle made a rare visit to Glen View but departed in a hurry, for reasons never explained. Thank God he did, as I suspect he may have, even then, been planning to kill you. When you turn twenty-one you will have a third share in the family enterprises and that will make you a very rich young man. Sir George will do anything to make sure that you do not take your place in the Macintosh financial affairs.’

  ‘I don’t care much for the business world,’ David said. ‘I w
as hoping I might get a place at Duntroon, to train as an army officer – just like my father and grandfather. From what I have seen and heard I think we will be at war very soon. We have to stand up to the fascists and fight.’

  ‘If you had seen what we saw back in the Great War you would reconsider your enthusiasm for war,’ Sean cautioned. ‘No sane man would want to go through what my generation did in the trenches. I think you should consider a future other than soldiering, or you might end up like me – no legs and no wife.’

  Suddenly they heard the thumping sound of hurried footsteps coming up the stairs. The door burst open and Eva entered.

  ‘The Gestapo are searching all the houses on the street,’ she cried, her eyes wide. ‘I do not know if they are searching for you, but you must leave immediately.’

  David snatched a warm coat and Sean his walking stick. Although Sean had not understood everything Eva had said in German he could certainly read her terrified expression.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Sean asked David.

  David told him.

  ‘This way,’ Eva said, gesturing to the open door. ‘Down the back stairs to the alley.’

  Both men found themselves in a narrow alley that was open at both ends. They could hear loud voices coming from the street.

  ‘I’m not sure if the Gestapo are looking for me,’ David said, straining to hear what the uniformed men were saying. ‘But we cannot stay here and put the doctor and Eva in danger.’

  ‘I agree,’ Sean said and the two men made their way to the far end of the alley. When they emerged onto a nearby residential street they could see three black cars parked in front of a house and a man being roughly manhandled towards one of the cars by a couple of black-uniformed men, while a woman was slumped at the top of her stairs sobbing her protests.

  ‘Not us they are looking for,’ David whispered. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘We walk towards the Gestapo as if we do not have a care in the world,’ said Sean softly. ‘That way we show we have nothing to hide.’

  David shot Sean a concerned look. They stepped out and proceeded towards the cars. A couple of the Gestapo turned their attention to the older man walking with a cane, and the younger man sporting faded bruises on his face, but David bid them good afternoon with the calmness of a man with ice in his veins. The greeting seemed to work as the Gestapo returned their attention to their hapless prisoner.

  When Sean and David were around the corner walking towards a crowded thoroughfare, David stumbled slightly. Sean could see sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill of the late afternoon. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked in concern.

  ‘I don’t know how I did it,’ David said hoarsely. ‘When I saw those uniforms I had a recollection of those same uniforms beating a man to death on the parade ground. I thought I might go to pieces, and start running.’

  ‘But you didn’t,’ Sean said. ‘You have your father’s courage.’

  The two men joined the pedestrians on the wide tree-lined street. They caught a tram and, with little else other than the clothes they wore, made their way to Berlin’s main airport. All they could do was hope against hope that the telegram had reached its destination.

  *

  Ben Rosenblum had regained the colour he had lost when Matthew had lifted off from an airfield at Istanbul hours earlier. Matthew had invited the young man to take the copilot’s seat for the flight and Ben had reluctantly admitted that he was afraid of flying. His journey to Basra had been on a small coastal steamer and this was the first time in his life he had actually flown. Despite Matthew’s reassurance that flying was safe, they had hit bad weather before reaching the Turkish capital, and Matthew had been forced to fly around billowing thunderhead clouds flashing with lightning.

  Ben had been sick while Matthew fought with the controls of his aircraft. But Matthew was an excellent pilot and had brought them through for a smooth landing at the Istanbul airstrip. In the Great War he had flown against German and Turkish pilots and the irony of landing on the old enemy’s turf was not lost on the former fighter pilot.

  Now Matthew was flying in the fading light of evening into the heavily built-up suburbs of southern Berlin. He was heading towards the Tempelhof area where the Germans were still constructing a huge air terminal for international travel. When Ben looked out the forward window all he could see was myriad lights in the growing dark and he thought it would be impossible to land an aircraft in such confusion. Matthew strained to make out the airfield landing lights and found them. With practised ease he set down the Ford with just a couple of rough bumps then taxied towards a vacant area under floodlights.

  Government workers scurried around in the dark and Matthew prepared his paperwork, ready to identify himself if the officials questioned his purpose for the landing. Matthew glanced to his right where another similar aircraft sat on the tarmac. Even in the dim light he could see the serial number of the Junkers trimotor.

  ‘I will be damned,’ he swore. ‘That’s Diane’s kite.’

  Ben glanced at him but Matthew shook his head. ‘Just a friend,’ he responded to the questioning look on Ben’s face. ‘Someone who used to fly for me a few years back.’

  The fluttering propellers came to a stop and both men unstrapped themselves from their seats to stretch their legs. Matthew led the way into the cargo hold of his aircraft and opened the door to drop to the ground below. He pulled up the collar of the worn leather flying jacket he had retained from his days with the Australian Flying Corp in the skies of Palestine, and was immediately greeted by four German officials wearing the uniforms of customs men.

  ‘Your identity papers,’ one of them demanded with his hand out, and Matthew passed his passport and cargo manifest. With a hand torch, the official scrutinised the papers and passport, while one of the officials peeled off to intercept Ben who did not understand German, but followed Matthew’s example, producing his papers.

  ‘You are a Jew, ja?’ the official said in guttural English when he saw that Ben was from Palestine. Ben replied in Arabic, a language he was fluent in. The confused official glanced at his superior who was interviewing Matthew.

  ‘My passenger is an Arab,’ Matthew said in German, turning away from the man perusing his documents. ‘He is a personal friend of al-Husseini, leading the rebellion against the British and Jews in his country.’

  The German interviewing Ben broke into a smile, satisfied with his bona fides.

  The check on their status completed, the German customs men left them alone and Matthew walked over to Ben. ‘You could have warned me,’ he said mildly. ‘I was not aware you were travelling with Arab papers.’

  ‘In this part of the world it does not pay to be a Jew,’ Ben smiled. ‘We are taking in thousands of Jewish refugees from Germany and they have told some bad stories of their treatment here. I always make sure that I have a double identity when I am away from home.’

  ‘Matthew,’ a familiar female voice called and the Australian turned to see Diane striding towards him, wearing her flying suit. ‘What in Hades are you doing here?’

  ‘Nice to see you, too,’ Matthew answered when she reached him. ‘We’re just passing through on a contract to Prague. My passenger is Ben Rosenblum.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Rosenblum,’ Diane said, extending her hand.

  ‘Ben does not understand English,’ Matthew quickly added. ‘He is a Palestinian Arab.’ Matthew could see the look of annoyance on Ben’s face as he realised that Matthew had cut him off from any conversation with the very pretty lady.

  ‘But I know that you speak Arabic,’ Diane said. ‘What is he doing flying with you?’

  Matthew was not about to answer that question and changed the subject. ‘When do you head back to Basra?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re ready to fly out tonight. Our archaeologists and cargo arrive very soon. I hope to make Istanbul before morning and refuel there before returning to Basra. How long will you be gone?’

  ‘I’m not sure
,’ Matthew answered. ‘But I should be back before the weekend.’

  ‘Well, safe flying and cheerio for now,’ Diane said, turning on her heel to walk back to her aircraft.

  Matthew watched her walk away, admiring the curves of her body.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Ben asked, rubbing his hands to ward off the night chill.

  ‘We wait,’ Matthew replied, wondering why he was doing so. What was this vital cargo he was to pick up?

  While they waited Matthew carried out routine checks of his aircraft with the aid of a flashlight. He was checking the undercarriage when Ben hissed at him.

  ‘Someone is coming towards us across the airstrip,’ he warned.

  Matthew strained his eyes into the dark but could see nothing. It was obvious that the Jewish fighter had good night vision as within a minute Matthew could see two figures emerging from the darkness. A tall and broad-shouldered young man was assisting the man Matthew recognised as Sean Duffy. When they reached the aircraft Sean thrust out his hand to Matthew, gripping it with as firm a grip as possible.

  ‘Bloody hell, old boy, it has been a long time since we last met,’ Matthew said, then turned his attention to the young man with Sean. ‘Who is your friend?’

  ‘David Macintosh, sir,’ David replied, also extending his hand. ‘It is good to finally meet you. I have heard many stories about your flying career in Palestine during the war. When we saw your aircraft land Uncle Sean said that it had to be you by the smooth way you set down. But really we just took a gamble this had to be your aeroplane,’ David continued, gesturing to the Ford. ‘We have had to gamble a lot lately.’

  ‘David,’ Matthew said. ‘You must be the son of Alexander and Giselle. What in hell are you doing in Germany?’

  ‘I don’t wish to sound alarmist,’ Sean cut in, ‘but we have to get out of this country right now. We have had some bother with the local authorities who would like to see David dead. I was able to ascertain late this afternoon from a telephone call I made that the SS have somehow tracked us to the Tempelhof area.’