by Peter Watt
‘David Macintosh,’ David replied as the assistant climbed into the ring and began removing David’s gloves. ‘I never got your name.’
‘Smartarse,’ Ikey replied. ‘But you put up a bloody good fight with my best boy so I’ll tell you. Ishmael Solomon. People around ’ere call me Ikey.’
David smiled and nodded his head. With a name like that the little man was definitely not Irish, he thought with a smile.
David waited around while Horry finished his training and found himself chatting with Ikey. David warmed to the little man and ended up unexpectedly talking about his time in Dachau.
‘You need a couple of stiff drinks,’ Ikey said, leading David to his office with his hand on his back. David sat down on an old chair while Ikey rummaged in a drawer of an old filing cabinet and retrieved a bottle of Scotch. He poured a generous measure into two small glasses and handed one to David.
‘L’chaim,’ he said, raising his glass.
‘To life,’ David replied. ‘That is about the limit of my Hebrew. I’m afraid my grandmother has given up on me and says that I’m no better than a goyim.’
‘So, you’re from Australia and found yourself in Dachau,’ Ikey said, searching about in the filing cabinet until he found a fresh cigar. ‘I hear stories about the way Hitler is treating the Jews in Germany. Next he will declare war on all Jews – and just kill us.’
‘I doubt that he would do that,’ David answered, his eyes watering from the strong liquor. At nineteen he was still underage for drinking but that had not stopped him in the past, and he felt much older than his years now. ‘To do that would bring the world down on Hitler.’
‘The French and our own government don’t have the guts to stand up to Hitler,’ Ikey spat. ‘You watch, my boy, they will give in to him. Fascism is going to take over the world, you’ll see, and we’ll just lie down and let Hitler have his way.’
The Jewish man’s speech had changed now they were away from the boxers. ‘I gather from the way you’re speaking that you’re really an educated man,’ David said quietly.
‘Very astute, my boy,’ Ikey said. ‘I was born in the shadow of the bells of St Paul’s and was an actor on the stage until the Depression,’ he said, lighting the cigar and puffing clouds of blue smoke in the room. ‘But life is only a big stage, and I had enough knowledge of the fight game to open this gym a couple of years ago. So I went back to my old accent to fit in with the crowd around here. I’ve always had the knack of being a good judge of winners – and I see one in you.’
‘Thanks for your faith in me,’ David said. ‘But I’m not sure where my life will go. I have a plan to return to Australia and enrol in Duntroon, our equivalent of your Sandhurst.’
Ikey stared at David for a moment before taking a seat at his desk and putting his feet up on it. ‘You ever think about signing up to fight in Spain?’ he asked, watching David’s reaction through the smoky haze he had created with his cigar.
‘I haven’t thought much about anything since I got out of Germany,’ David replied. ‘But I do know that the world is asleep and we have to stop fascism now before it takes over.’
‘Are you a communist?’ Ikey asked bluntly.
‘No, but that doesn’t stop me from hating fascism. I saw what went on in Dachau; if Hitler is prepared to do that to his own people, what is he capable of doing to the rest of the world?’
‘Horry is signing up with an international brigade. He sails off in a couple of days.’ Ikey said. ‘You could go with him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupidly brave.’
Startled at the sudden offer David found that he was almost holding his breath. Sitting in this dingy cramped office, staring at the worn soles of Ikey’s shoes, David knew that what he said next would change his life forever. His rage at his imprisonment in Dachau was eating away at him, and now he was being offered a chance to fight back.
‘Why not?’ he replied, raising his glass. ‘Where do I sign up?’
*
That evening David and Sean were seated in the dining room of the Savoy Hotel among the glittering jewellery of the wealthy matrons of the British upper-class and their immaculately dressed husbands. Sean was shocked to see the bruising to David’s face, and he could smell the alcohol on his breath, although David did not act drunk.
‘Did you get into a scrap?’ Sean asked.
‘Had a workout in a gym not far from here,’ David replied.
‘Did you win the bout?’ Sean persisted with a slight smile.
David glanced at Sean. ‘No, but I held my own.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I thought I might as well tell you now that I won’t be returning to Sydney with you, Uncle Sean.’
Sean raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Dare I ask what you intend to do in London if you are determined to stay? The Savoy has just about used up my travel budget.’
‘I won’t be staying in London,’ David said. ‘I’ve signed up to go to Spain to fight Franco’s fascist rebels.’
At David’s announcement Sean felt his blood run cold. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said angrily. ‘You don’t know what war is like. It is constant terror broken by interludes of misery. You could end up dead, or worse, like me, with no legs. Do you want that at your age?’
David felt the sting of the rebuke. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Sean, but this is something I have to do. I’m not a communist, but I have experienced what fascism does to a man. Someone has to take a stand and stop the bastards now, before they grow stronger and start a war.’
‘David, you are about to inherit a fortune,’ Sean pleaded, realising that anger would not sway the young man. He saw in David the same foolishness that had caused him to volunteer at a similar age to fight a bloody war far from home. ‘You have responsibilities to your grandmother.’
David leaned back in his chair and Sean could see that nothing he said was going to change the young man’s mind.
‘I leave on the train at six tomorrow morning for a ferry to France,’ David said. ‘I know that you do not agree with me signing on, but I hope you will understand that this is the most important thing I will ever do in my life.’
‘Having a wife and family is the most important thing you will ever do,’ Sean countered. ‘War means nothing. It changes nothing. How many young men died in the war that was supposed to end all wars, and here we are again, less than twenty years later, facing the very same prospect. However, if you are determined to go, nothing I say will stop you. At the least you must promise to write to me every opportunity you have. Swear to me that you will, and that you will not do anything stupid.’
Sean’s words touched David and he realised again how much this former soldier meant to him. David reached across the table and Sean accepted the handshake.
‘I promise that I will write, Uncle Sean,’ he said.
Over the meal Sean found himself chatting with David about his days as an officer in the Australian army, fighting on the Western Front. He realised that he was attempting to drum into David everything he could think of to keep him alive.
They both rose early next morning and Sean accompanied David to the railway station. There, in the chill of the morning fog, they shook hands. Leaning out of a carriage window, a young man called to David, and the Australian picked up his bag and boarded the train.
The train worked up steam and Sean found himself staring as the last carriage disappeared from the station. This place had once seen so many young men depart for war across the English Channel, never to return.
It was then that the tears flowed down Sean’s cheeks as he wondered if he would ever see David again. War had a way of destroying the best of a generation.
8
Diane returned to Matthew’s bungalow with three guests.
‘I did not think you would mind if our clients stayed over for a couple of days before I fly them out to their dig,’ Diane said in such a way that Matthew knew he would have to agree to crowding the little space he had.
‘Not at all,’ he lied
politely, and the three German archaeologists dressed in khaki slacks and jackets were introduced to him.
‘Dr Lamar Kramer, who is the head of the team,’ Diane said, and Matthew accepted the hand of a shortish, slightly plump, balding man around his mid-forties whose grip was soft and weak.
‘How do you do?’ he said in heavily accented English.
‘Dr Derik Albrecht,’ Diane said and the second man also shook hands. He was tall and lean with a handsome face and a head of short cropped blond hair. His blue eyes were piercing and his handshake strong. Matthew guessed he was in his early forties.
‘So, you are the man we have hired to assist Miss Hatfield,’ Albrecht said in a cold tone. ‘I expect that you are capable enough.’
Matthew took an immediate dislike to him for his arrogance and turned to the third member of the team.
‘Miss Erika Wolfe,’ Diane introduced, and Matthew had to admit that she was a very attractive woman in her late thirties. In many ways she reminded Matthew of Joanne Barrington with her titian hair and emerald green eyes. She had a smile that was almost seductive and her hand in his felt warm.
‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain Duffy,’ Erika said in educated German. ‘Our wonderful pilot has told us much about your adventurous life.’
Although Diane did not speak much German, Matthew thought he caught a glimpse of jealousy flash in her eyes, but he dismissed the notion. Diane had never shown any romantic interest in him in all the times they had been together.
‘Welcome to Iraq,’ Matthew said in German. ‘While you are in Basra you have the run of my house, which I am sure will provide a few more comforts than you will have on your dig.’
The three expressed their gratitude and Matthew indicated that dinner would be served within the hour. In the meantime he had a bottle of Scotch fetched by his servant, Ibrahim.
The evening passed pleasantly enough and Matthew found himself switching from English to German as he answered questions and asked a few of his own. He could not help but notice the attention Dr Derik Albrecht paid to Diane but was flattered by the interest Erika seemed to take in him.
‘You are from Australia, yes?’ she asked in English, holding her tumbler of Scotch and soda in her hands.
‘Yes,’ Matthew replied. ‘I’m from the state of Queensland.’
‘Ah, that is the place of savage natives and kangaroos,’ Erika replied. ‘I have read much about Australia and would love to visit in the future.’
‘I hope to retire there one day,’ Matthew said, but in a distracted way as he watched Diane and Derik laughing together. He noticed the German archaeologist place his hand on Diane’s knee, and she did not attempt to brush it away. ‘But that will not be for some time.’
‘That is good,’ Erika said with a warm smile. ‘I will enjoy your company on our expedition.’
Matthew returned his attention to Erika and could see in her eyes a dreamy look that reminded him of a satisfied cat.
‘I will be sharing the flying with Miss Hatfield,’ he said. ‘We may not have much opportunity to see each other. I also have another pilot, Tyrone McKee, who will stand in for me when I am not available.’
‘That is sad,’ Erika said, pouting, and Matthew was acutely aware that she was showing more than a casual interest in him. He had spent so long flying and keeping his business together that there had been no time to think about any romantic interludes. The pain of losing Joanne was still with him even though more than fifteen years had passed since he had held her in his arms and watched her die. Only the reappearance of Diane in his life had caused him to think of sharing his life with another woman.
Before midnight the guests said they would turn in as Diane had scheduled an early morning flight out. Ibrahim showed each guest to their room. Matthew slept on the floor of his living room as he had given up his bed to Diane.
It was a little after midnight when Matthew awoke. An unusual noise came from his bedroom: the low moan and whispers of a man and woman. Matthew recognised Diane’s voice speaking softly, and that of Albrecht. There was no mistaking what was occurring in his bed, and Matthew felt an intense pang of jealousy. But Diane was a grown woman and her decisions were her own; besides, he was far too old for her. When Matthew finally fell asleep again his dreams were riddled with images of fighting over the plains of Palestine, of burning aircraft and men’s shattered bodies as his bullets cut them to pieces. His whimpering went unheard.
*
‘So they belong to the Nazi Ahnenebe organisation,’ said Major Guy Wilkes. He was wearing civilian clothing and sipping a potent thick Arabic coffee in a small Basra café. ‘Albrecht, Kramer and Wolfe.’
‘That’s what I was told during the evening,’ Matthew replied, weary from not sleeping well the night before. ‘A few hours ago Diane took off in the Junkers to fly them upcountry to their dig. What do you know about this Ahnenebe organisation?’ he asked.
‘It is part of Himmler’s mad obsession with proving that the Aryan race has its roots in ancient cultures,’ Guy replied. ‘The organisation is staffed by second-rate scientists and attached to Himmler’s SS. Its full title is German Ancestry – Research Society for Ancient Intellectual History. Our intelligence sources have identified that Herr Himmler, who is the current chief of all police in Germany, is not averse to using the pseudo-science for propaganda purposes, trying to prove that the Germans are the descendants of the lost city of Atlantis, and that they have been locked in an historic fight with the evil Semites. It is all bloody tommy-rot, but no one is game to tell Himmler that. Mostly the organisation has concentrated on northern Europe for its archaeology. That is why we have suspicions about this team your Miss Hatfield has flown into Iraq.’
‘Why would the Huns be interested in this part of the world?’ Matthew asked.
‘In my opinion they have two good reasons,’ Guy replied. ‘One is that the oil fields here are of great strategic interest in time of war, and the second is that they are attempting to foster Arab interest in co-operating with the German government. They have, after all, a common enemy – the Jews. I suspect that the Germans would like to see another uprising against us here, like the one in Jerusalem being promoted by their Grand Mufti, Amin al-Husseini. But I am sure that you will be able to report back on our so-called archaeologists and we will have means of keeping tabs on them. After all, I believe that Miss Joanne Barrington, herself an American archaeologist in this part of the world, worked closely with you against the Ottomans during the Palestine campaign.’
At the mention of Joanne’s name Matthew experienced a pang of sadness and guilt. He had always blamed himself for her death, despite the fact that his friend, Saul Rosenblum, had reassured him that it was the fault of the war. ‘Miss Barrington was an exceptional woman,’ Matthew said quietly. ‘And a top-notch archaeologist.’
‘Sorry, old chap,’ Guy said. ‘I did not mean to open old wounds.’
Matthew gulped down his coffee. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said. ‘I have a cargo to fly out to one of the oil fields this afternoon.’
Matthew rose from the table and stepped out onto the dusty street clogged with donkeys pulling carts and lined with stalls selling fly-covered foodstuffs. For some strange reason Matthew had trouble getting the image of Diane out of his mind. He shook his head as he made his way past the street hawkers squatting behind their stalls. What hope did he have now of expressing his desire for her when his competitor was younger and better looking?
*
Matthew returned to his airstrip to see that Diane’s aircraft was already gone. Cyril was working at the bench in the hangar.
‘Where is Tyrone?’ Matthew asked.
‘Got a phone call that he’s suffering a bout of malaria,’ Cyril replied.
‘He’s a bloody Kiwi. More like a hangover,’ Matthew growled. ‘Never mind. I’ll take this one to the oilmen by myself.’
‘I’ll never understand what it is between you Aussies and Kiwis,’ Cyril said, shak
ing his head. ‘The cargo is loaded and the forecast is for good weather. Do you want me to take the second seat?’
‘No, I’ll be okay,’ Matthew replied. ‘Just get her ready. I’ll fly out as soon as you give the okay.’
Cyril finished his final examination of the Ford and signalled the thumbs-up. Matthew kicked over the three motors, and when he was ready, taxied out to the strip to take off. The plane rose into the clear skies and, after reaching his elevation and levelling off, Matthew set his course north. The flying went without much incident and after an hour he settled back to eat the sandwiches Cyril had packed for him. He was reaching for the thermos of tea when he felt his aircraft being buffeted by an unseen wind. When he peered through the cockpit window his blood ran cold. A massive cloud of sand was billowing off on the horizon, stretching as far as the eye could see. Matthew swore to himself – it looked like a sharqi – a dry dusty wind that plagued Iraqi, and thought desperately of the nearest airfield as there was no way to fly around the sandstorm. He scrabbled for the map by his side and glanced down to see a new airstrip pencilled in. It was the one used by the German archaeologists for air resupply and the only one close enough to get the plane down and secured before the sandstorm rolled in. Matthew reset his course and pointed the nose of the Ford towards the newly constructed airstrip. He brought his aircraft down on the improvised landing ground and taxied until he was a short distance from Diane’s aircraft. He could see her supervising a crew of Iraqi labourers as they tied the plane down with ropes secured to the ground with steel pickets.
Diane hurried over to Matthew.
‘I will get my men to help tie down the Ford,’ she shouted as the wind began to pick up dust and whip it around them.
With her aircraft secured, the Iraqis did the same for Matthew’s Ford. Satisfied they had done all they could, Diane ushered Matthew to an ancient stone enclosure that had been resurrected from under the desert sands by previous archaeologists. They were fortunate that the ancient enclosure had several spacious underground rooms where all the stores and tents were now dumped. Matthew was greeted by the three archaeologists whose expressions of apprehension bespoke their limited experience in this part of the world.