War Clouds Gather

by Peter Watt

  ‘Bastards,’ Matthew muttered and looked up to see almost a hundred camel-mounted tribesmen spread across the horizon. ‘Bloody hell,’ he moaned in despair. Armed with little more than a rifle and revolver he had no chance against those numbers. Surrender was not an option and that left only one alternative. Matthew broke open the revolver to ensure it had all its chambers loaded and clicked it back ready for use. He raised the revolver to his head and placed his finger on the trigger. But it was as if a voice was speaking to him in his mind – Don’t do it. Take a few of the bastards with you.

  Matthew lowered his pistol and turned to pick up the rifle. He still had a few sticks of gelignite and had placed them around the cargo hold. All he had to do was connect the fuse wire to the detonator device and with one downward push the aircraft would be blown to pieces – along with himself. In doing so he would deprive the tribesmen of their prize. At least he would go down fighting.

  Matthew quickly connected the fuses, just as the tribesmen strung themselves out for a final sweeping attack on his position. Satisfied that he had made his preparations to blow up his beloved aircraft, Matthew took the plunger and wire out of the cargo hold and down to his shallow slit trench.

  The men were hollering as they galloped their camels towards his position, but Matthew calmly stood in his trench, firing his rifle as fast as he could into the mass of men. For some strange reason he found himself reciting the Lord’s Prayer, despite the fact that he was not a religious man.

  Above the crash of his own rifle and the distant, ululating cries of the attacking tribesmen, Matthew heard a drone that was unmistakable. Matthew recognised the sound of the Wapiti engine.

  Lowering his rifle Matthew stepped from under the belly of his downed aircraft to look up into the cloudy sky. The aircraft was overhead but above the low scudding clouds. The enemy were around five hundred yards out and Matthew knew that he had to signal his position on the ground. He had left a box of emergency flares in the cargo hold to help the aircraft burn when he blew it up. Dropping the rifle, Matthew scrambled back into the hold to rip out a couple of the tubular flares, dropped to the ground and fired one into the air above his head. Through the low cloud he could see the glow of the flare drifting to the ground. He fired another, and when he looked over his shoulder he realised that the enemy were a mere two hundred yards away, firing their rifles from the saddle. Bullets ripped past Matthew into the fuselage, punching holes in the thin metal skin of his aircraft.

  Then he saw the biplane drop below the clouds over the heads of the attacking tribesmen, who suddenly faltered in their assault. Already the distinctive sound of a machine gun had entered the sounds of battle, and men fell from their mounts. The tribesmen swirled around to scatter as the deadly threat entered the battle arena. For a moment the Wapiti, flying almost at ground level, disappeared and then reappeared further away. Matthew knew exactly what the pilot was doing and he cheered.

  The aircraft came down, its forward-firing Vickers tearing a stream of bullets into the confused tribesmen. Matthew saw the objects falling from under the wings. The bombs exploded on impact, spreading deadly shards of metal among the attackers. The first bomber was joined by a second, which went about strafing the tribesmen retreating desperately for the horizon.

  The plain was suddenly empty – except for the dead and dying scattered across it. One of the RAF planes circled overhead, dropping a note to Matthew’s position. Matthew retrieved the message wrapped around a .303 bullet. It read that his position had been noted and that an armoured column was not far away and coming to his rescue.

  Matthew waved to the pilot in gratitude. Then the two aircraft were gone, leaving him alone on the rock-covered plain. Within four hours a brace of armoured cars rumbled into his location. He had already prepared a brew of tea for his British saviours, who appeared stunned at the number of dead tribesmen around the downed aircraft.

  ‘Blimey!’ an English gunner said, dismounting from the turret of his armoured vehicle. ‘You had a real party here!’

  Matthew was conveyed back to Baghdad while an army crew kept vigil on his aircraft. A RAF aircraft kindly flew Matthew back to Basra where he was able to pick up Cyril and Ibrahim with their Leyland truck to drive north to fix the Ford trimotor.

  Guarded by a couple of British armoured vehicles, Cyril was able to make temporary repairs on the fuel system as well as the radio. None of the bullets that had passed through the fuselage had done any serious damage and were patched. After a couple of days of clearing an airstrip, the Ford engines coughed into action, taking the aircraft down the improvised strip and into the air to Basra.

  When Matthew brought his aeroplane in to land he could see Diane’s German Junkers sitting at the edge of the strip. When he eventually climbed out of the aircraft he saw Diane walking quickly towards him.

  ‘Oh, Matthew, I was worried sick,’ she said. ‘Thank God you’re safe,’ she said, throwing her arms around him and holding him as if she would never let him go.

  Matthew wished he could believe her feigned concern as he extracted himself from the hug.

  ‘I have asked Cyril to arrange for you and your friends to rent a place in Basra,’ Matthew said in a cold voice. ‘I am sure that you will find it comfortable. We can meet at my office when we need to discuss the mutual contract we have with the Germans.’

  Diane stared at Matthew, confusion written plainly on her face.

  ‘Have I done something to offend you?’ she asked in a hurt voice.

  Matthew turned his back on her and walked away to the hangar.

  *

  Later that day Matthew received a visit from Major Wilkes, who was dressed in civilian clothes.

  ‘Glad to have you back in one piece, old chap,’ Guy said, taking a chair in the office. ‘Also pleased to see that your aeroplane seems to be back in working order.’

  ‘Thanks for the help from the RAF – no doubt the result of your intervention,’ Matthew said. ‘I truly thought that I was going west this time,’ he added, using an old expression from his war days.

  ‘Was the damage to your crate an accident?’ Guy asked carefully.

  ‘No,’ Matthew replied. ‘It was sabotage. Cyril found water in the fuel and my radio had been tampered with. Someone wanted to make sure that if I survived a crash landing I wouldn’t be able to call for help.’

  ‘Our intelligence reports about the tribesmen that attacked you link them to a sheikh who is known to be anti-British,’ Guy said. ‘Apparently some of his men are working on the Germans’ site, and I suspect they informed him that the plane would crash. I don’t know why the Germans would want to do away with you.’

  ‘It might have to do with something I was not supposed to see,’ Matthew said. ‘A wooden box full of gold at the site.’

  ‘Gold?’ The major leaned forward in his chair. ‘It must have been a substantial amount.’

  ‘A lot of gold,’ Matthew replied. ‘Enough to make someone very rich.’

  ‘Your observation corroborates our suspicions that the Germans will use the gold to pay the sheikh to carry out anti-British activities. Maybe even pay for arms to rebel against us out here,’ Guy said with a frown. ‘We fear attacks on the oil lines and drilling sites. Disrupting our fuel supplies could cause an economic disaster in Britain.’

  ‘Why don’t you just go and arrest the German archaeologists for spying?’ Matthew asked.

  Guy leaned back in his chair. ‘Not that easy. The damned government at home do not wish to upset Hitler and his cronies. To accuse the Germans of espionage, subversion and sabotage would cause an uproar that Whitehall does not want. No, it is up to me to counter their efforts in more subtle ways, and that is why I still need your help.’

  ‘I doubt that I will be of much help now,’ Matthew shrugged. ‘I have made it plain to Miss Hatfield that her concern for my welfare was not welcome.’

  ‘Ah, Miss Hatfield,’ Guy said. ‘I have finally received information on her activities in the U
SA. It seems that she was a registered member of the Yankee version of the Nazi Party. The Nazis have increasing support in the USA, with its large population of German immigrants. I suspect that her membership of the Yank Nazi Party would have helped secure her current contract. We will be depending on you to keep an eye on her and report back to me on the Germans’ activities.’

  The information about Diane being a member of the Nazi Party caused Matthew a great deal of distress. He had flown against the Germans in the Great War, and her act of joining a party of fanatics felt like a personal betrayal.

  ‘I doubt that I will be able to convince Diane that I am still chummy with her after the reception she received from me,’ Matthew said. ‘I made it clear that I did not wish to see her again except on business matters.’

  ‘Well, old chap,’ Guy said, rising to his feet, ‘I’m going to have to trust to your colonial charm to convince her that your coolness towards her was caused by a bump on the head,’ he said with half a smile. ‘It’s vital that you remain in a position to monitor what goes on in the Germans’ camp.’

  ‘After they tried to kill me?’ Matthew exclaimed. ‘Support for the Empire stretches only so far.’

  ‘One must remember that you are also accepting the King’s shilling to work for us,’ Guy said. ‘Cheerio for now.’

  The British intelligence major departed the office, leaving Matthew pondering his position. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  Later that evening he plucked up the courage to visit Diane in her new accommodation. He had brought a bottle of his best French wine and was ushered into the high-walled apartment by the servant who attended the flat.

  Diane met Matthew in her small but comfortable living room. She was dressed in a long colourful cotton skirt. Matthew could see the hurt and anger in her face.

  ‘I have come to apologise for my rudeness today at the airstrip,’ he said, holding out the bottle to her.

  ‘I don’t know if I wish to speak to you outside business matters,’ Diane replied. ‘I was worried sick when I heard that you had gone down.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Matthew said, placing the bottle on a low table in the centre of the room. ‘My nerves were a bit jangled from the experience and I was not myself. I value our friendship and I know I can be a bit clumsy when it comes to dealing with women. My life has been lived almost entirely among men.’ Matthew could see that his plea for understanding seemed to be working as Diane’s expression softened just a little.

  ‘I was hurt more than you know,’ Diane replied, taking a step towards the table and touching the top of the wine bottle. ‘You have been such an important part of my life. You took me in after the war and made my dream of learning to fly come true. You know I had to move on when the company was facing financial disaster, even before the crash came in ’29. I did not want to hear that you couldn’t afford to keep me on as one of your pilots – so I took the position in the USA to avoid hearing those words from you.’

  ‘I didn’t know that was why you left,’ Matthew said. ‘I do know that I owe my life to you for what you did at Tempelhof. You did not tell me how the Germans reacted to your intervention.’

  ‘Oh, they were as mad as hell,’ Diane chuckled. ‘But I apologised, explaining that I was a mere woman and was not aware that I had taxied between them and your plane. They accepted my explanation.’

  As they would, Matthew thought. If you have contacts in Hitler’s government. Matthew knew that he was once again falling under her spell, but he reminded himself that she must have been involved in the sabotage of his aircraft – what other explanation was there? He was obligated to the British government to keep close to Diane and the German scientists; he was not obligated to fall in love with her, and he would do his best to resist her charms.

  ‘I don’t think we should waste such a good bottle of wine,’ Diane said. ‘Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?’

  ‘Sure,’ Matthew replied, lost in her smile. ‘What time?’

  ‘Say, eight for eight-thirty,’ Diane replied. ‘You will have to excuse me for now, I have a lot of paperwork to attend to.’

  Matthew left Diane’s residence with his own confused thoughts. He accepted that he was not an authority on the ways of women but what he thought he read in her acceptance of his apology was genuine. He reminded himself that she was sleeping with the leader of the German expedition who may have been instrumental in plotting to kill him. It was like being in a spider web waiting for the black widow to come to him with death.

  11

  David could feel the soft curves of Natasha’s body pressed against his own bare flesh and he marvelled at the feelings he had for the Russian woman who he learned was five years older than him. He had gone as far as declaring his love for her two weeks after they had first slept together, but she had frowned and cautioned him that she must put her love for the revolution ahead of her personal feelings.

  Already the spare rooms were filling with recruits waiting to travel south to the French border with Spain in the Pyrenees, where they would be armed and deployed to fighting units. Horace had been a little cool towards David during their time together exploring the French capital. While sitting on the edge of a stone-covered bank on the River Seine one afternoon David had asked Horace why. Horace had burst out that David’s ill-concealed affair with the Russian woman was the reason they had not yet been transferred to the border with the other recruits.

  David thought about his friend’s outburst, and that night in bed asked Natasha why they had not been sent to Spain when the others who had come to the house had transited through within days.

  ‘You wish to leave me so soon?’ she countered, rolling over to gaze into the young man’s face in the dim candlelight.

  ‘You have said many times that you cannot love me,’ he replied. ‘So why delay our deployment?’

  For a moment Natasha simply stared at him and then turned away without answering. David gently turned her back to him and could see that her eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘What have I said?’ he asked, stroking her face with his fingers.

  ‘I could not tell you my true feelings even if I wished to do so,’ she said, gripping his fingers in her own. ‘My masters in Moscow do not know what love is,’ she said. ‘Love is a bourgeois concept to weaken men and women.’

  ‘But I love you and I think that you should leave Paris and go with me to London where I can organise for us to travel home to Australia,’ David said. ‘What I feel for you is more important than fighting the fascists in Spain.’

  ‘Do not say that, David,’ she said, placing her fingers on his lips. ‘The revolution is bigger than you and I. Just accept that in this place and time we share our bodies while we can. That is the way of war. For now just share this moment with me.’

  David was confused by her words, which did not seem to match her actions. She was a passionate woman, but it seemed much of her passion was devoted to her country and its crusade to bring down fascism. But that night they loved each other and David tried not to think that in the morning Natasha would once again recruit men for the civil war across the border.

  The next week David went with Horace to watch a local soccer game and when they returned they were met by a Russian man who looked like the pictures David had seen of Lenin.

  ‘You are the two English recruits,’ he said in greeting. ‘In the morning you will be driven to the border.’

  ‘Where is Natasha?’ David asked.

  ‘Comrade Natasha is no longer with us,’ the Lenin lookalike replied. ‘She has been recalled to Moscow.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ David said angrily. ‘She would have told me she was going.’

  The Russian agent glared at David. ‘It is not your place to question orders,’ he said. ‘Comrade Natasha is to be re-educated for her reported corruption in France. She has been deemed to allow her personal feelings to come before her duty to the Motherland. You should know, as you should
have been sent south weeks ago, with the others who have already departed.’

  A cold chill ran through David as he realised that someone must have reported his affair with Natasha, and now she was being punished for it. He also knew that asking where she had been sent was a waste of time. The Russian turned his back on the two men and went inside.

  The next day Horace and David boarded a van and were sent out of Paris. As they travelled the memories of Natasha swirled in David’s mind. She had never said she loved him but he knew she did. He buried his head between his knees as the van bumped along country roads. He did not want his English pal to see him cry for the loss of his first love. David was beginning to see that there wasn’t much difference between fascism and communism in the way individual interests were of no concern to the state. Despite his growing reluctance to travel south to fight in a Spanish civil war, he felt committed. Beside him was a man he had promised to look out for and Horry now became the only true reason to fight in the terrible civil war across the border.

  *

  Shouts of ‘Vivan los rusos!’ came from the crowds of men, women and children cheering on the marching column of foreign volunteers in the Spanish capital of Madrid. They responded by raising their fists in salute. David experienced an unexpected burst of pride. His doubts seemed to fade away when he saw the joyful faces of the people welcoming them.

  ‘We’re not bloody Russians,’ Horace Howard growled as they made their way along the Gran Via with their motley group of men from Germany, France and other nations.

  ‘You understand a bit of Spanish?’ David asked Horace.

  ‘Enough to know that the wogs think we’re Russian infantry sent by Comrade Stalin,’ Horace replied.

  Their journey to Madrid via the Basque country on the border between France and Spain had been guided by French communist sympathisers. The Basques had provided rudimentary training with the Mauser rifles David and Horrie now carried, but it had been cut short when Franco had moved to take Madrid from the government. Men and munitions were needed urgently to counter the assault by Franco’s well-trained and well-equipped Moroccan troops. Facing them were civilians with little knowledge of warfare – and even less in the way of reliable small arms. Already the city had come under attack from German bombers of the Condor Legion, as well as Italian and German tanks aiding the fascist cause.