War Clouds Gather

by Peter Watt

  ‘As you know from our time in the battalion I am the descendant of the same family line – but with Aboriginal blood,’ Tom said quietly. ‘Life is a strange thing when a man is judged by his race and not his humanity.’

  ‘At this stage I feel that your continuing offers will be a waste of time and money,’ Sean said. ‘George Macintosh rules alone, but that will change in a couple of years when his son and the son of Alexander Macintosh come of age and take their places on the board as part owners. I am sure that Alexander’s son, David, will be sympathetic to an offer to sell Glen View. It has always been the one part of their empire that seems to have been cursed, and that may also influence George’s son. Of course, once George dies, matters will be easily resolved, but the bastard seems to lead a charmed life.’

  ‘I know,’ Tom said quietly. ‘Wallarie has told me of the curse.’

  ‘Wallarie!’ Sean exclaimed. ‘The old bugger can’t still be alive!’

  ‘Not in the whitefella sense,’ Tom said. ‘But his spirit is well and truly hanging around Glen View – along with the rest of his clan – and no one will be at peace until I’m able to take the land back for them.’

  Sean stared at Tom but could not read anything but seriousness in his statement. He reminded himself that Tom had the ancient blood of the original inhabitants of the vast continent. ‘Tom, I know that you’re a very wealthy man with other cattle properties in Queensland and other enterprises,’ Sean said with a frown. ‘Why waste your time and energy pursuing the purchase of this one property?’

  ‘Because that’s what Wallarie always wanted,’ Tom answered. ‘He wanted our blood to have continuance with the land he was born to. It’s where I should die, and my daughter’s children walk.’

  Sean was taken aback by Tom’s answer. Sean lived in a world where the bottom line of life was measured in pounds, shillings and pence. The man sitting opposite him did not appear to hold the same values. ‘Well, until I hear from David, I cannot influence him on any future decision about Glen View,’ Sean sighed. ‘The stupid young man is somewhere in Spain fighting for the Republican cause against Franco’s fascists.’

  ‘How old is he?’ Tom asked.

  ‘He would be twenty by now,’ Sean replied. ‘If he is still alive. God knows why he didn’t listen to me in London and return home. His grandmother is sick with worry – he’s the only flesh and blood she has left.’

  ‘I have a daughter, Jessica,’ Tom said, ‘and she is of an age where she thinks she knows what’s best for her and I’m only an old, silly man who knows nothing.’

  ‘That sounds like David,’ Sean sighed and realised that he was in a conversation between two concerned fathers, albeit that Sean was not really David’s father by blood. There was not a day that went by without Sean looking to the mail to see if David had written from Spain. But no letters arrived, and Sean found that his nights returned the terrible old dreams of the trenches. He often cursed himself for not working harder to keep David from volunteering with the International Brigades.

  ‘We still have a lot to catch up on,’ Sean continued, changing the subject. ‘And I think that you and I should retire for the day to meet an old cobber of mine, Harry Griffiths. He was with another battalion that served alongside our own in 1916.’

  The two men left to go to a place where old soldiers could continue talking about times past – the local pub.

  *

  The defenders of the house had exhausted their meagre supply of rifle rounds, and all they had to show for the expenditure were the bodies of the black Nationalist troops outside the building and the spent cartridges at their feet.

  Night was falling and the battle for the street had been sporadic. David knew that he had accounted for many of the dead and he now sat back against the rear wall, staring with blank eyes at a wooden crucifix on the wall. Should a night attack be launched, then they would have to fight with rifle butts, knives and fists. Although he had been engaged in the fighting for a mere few hours, it felt like a lifetime.

  Horace joined him and he noticed his friend’s uncontrollable shaking. The two men sat side by side with their backs to the wall, rifles between their knees.

  ‘Do you think we’ll live to see tomorrow?’ Horace asked, attempting to light a cigarette.

  ‘I don’t know,’ David replied quietly. ‘I always thought that it would be someone other than me getting killed, but now I see it is all some kind of lottery. You don’t know when your number will come up.’

  ‘If I don’t make it, old pal,’ Horace said, ‘there is something I have to get off my chest. I think it might have been me talking about you and Natasha sleeping together that got her sent back to Moscow.’

  David did not look at his anguished English friend but at the smashed window opposite them. ‘I don’t think you should trouble yourself with that,’ he answered in a tired voice. ‘It is the bloody system that you put so much stock in. As far as I have learned, Comrade Stalin is not much better than Herr Hitler. Your revolution is not going to make the world a better place, and it was your communist system that decided Natasha had to be recalled, not you.’

  Horace stared down at his feet, tears welling in his eyes. ‘I just wanted to get that off my conscience,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to die carrying that to my grave.’

  David reached out and placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘We are both going to get out of this alive, and return to London where you can buy me an ale at that pub around the corner from the gym. That is, after I belt your head in.’

  Horace attempted to laugh in his relief but broke into a sob. David’s hand remained on Horace’s shoulder and he wished that he, too, could express his true feelings, but he was aware the German sergeant was watching them. David was not going to break down in front of him.

  ‘It will be okay,’ David soothed. ‘We will get out of this hellhole and be eating breakfast behind the lines before the sun comes up.’

  David’s soothing words had an impact and Horace stopped sobbing, wiping his tears away with the back of his sleeve. Without another word he stood up and walked stiffly over to join the rest of the small group awaiting the next move. When David glanced over at Otto, the tough sergeant gave a small nod of approval before moving among his men, auditing their ammunition supply. When he got to David he crouched.

  ‘None left,’ David answered in German. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘We get the hell out of here under cover of darkness, and fall back to the main body of the Brigade,’ Otto answered. ‘You all did well today.’

  The tough, solidly built old soldier inspired hope in the tiny house, and without any other option to cling to, David placed his life in the man’s hands.

  ‘When?’ he asked, and the German glanced out the window at the fading shadows.

  ‘When it is dark enough to make our escape. I will tell you when.’

  So they waited, counting the minutes and living in fear that the Nationalists would launch another attack. David had heard the rumours that Franco’s forces did not take prisoners, shooting the captured where they stood. He glanced at the watch he had purchased in London before setting out on his journey to Spain. The watch his grandmother had given him as an eighteenth birthday present had been taken from him at Dachau, and the replacement watch was a reminder of why he was now in this bullet-riddled room. He remembered how he had spent his twentieth birthday in Paris getting drunk with Horace, but that now seemed a lifetime ago.

  Jaroslav, the Czech, joined him and passed a flask of wine he had found in the house kitchen. ‘Are you old enough to drink?’ he asked with a wry smile.

  David took the flask and gulped down the red wine to quench his raging thirst. It was bitter but it wet his dry mouth and throat. ‘What was it like in the Legion?’ David asked, passing back the flask.

  ‘Tough,’ Jaroslav grunted and took a long drink from the flask. ‘I missed the green fields of my country when we were in North Africa. But the men I served with were my b
rothers and the Legion my family.’

  A bullet cracked above their heads and David instinctively ducked. He noticed that Jaroslav hardly flinched.

  ‘Are they coming again?’ David asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but they are positioning snipers to keep us pinned down,’ he replied. ‘That is what I would do. But the German is a good soldier and we will get out of here back to the Brigade.’

  Reassured, David held out his hand for the flask, the wine helping to sooth his nerves. At home he would not be allowed to drink but here there was only one rule – fight or die.

  That evening, when the night had arrived with a blanket of blackness, Otto moved among the men and gave his orders for the escape.

  ‘We will leave here in twos – a minute apart,’ he said, squatting in the downstairs room where all the section had gathered. ‘Pick a man to go with you and remove your boots. We can’t make any sound on the cobbles of the street. You keep going until you strike our main force HQ, which should be about four blocks to the north.’

  Jaroslav placed his hand on David’s shoulder and volunteered for them to be the last to leave.

  The order was given and Horace left with the American, the first two to depart, leaving the rest to wait in absolute silence, straining to hear if the first pair out had struck any trouble. There was no sound and the next two departed. Finally, only David, Jaroslav and the sergeant remained.

  ‘Time to go,’ Otto whispered and they slipped out the door onto the street, acutely aware that the enemy forces were still close. It was dark but a glow above the roofs indicated some of the shattered houses were burning.

  At first they moved cautiously, clinging to the walls of standing houses until a voice yelled at them in Spanish from a rooftop not far away.

  ‘Run!’ Otto said loudly and the three began a sprint along the cobblestone street. David’s boots were tied around his neck and they banged against his face and chest. He was aware that they were being fired on as bullets smacked into the street, splintering chips of stone. David hurtled around a bend and straight into three shadowy figures armed with rifles. As startled as David, the three men hesitated, and David barrelled into the one raising his rifle. Both David and the man went down hard, while behind him he could hear Otto shout something.

  ‘Don’t hurt him! He’s one of us.’

  David recovered his feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in English and the other man also stood up, brushing himself down in the process.

  ‘You ever play rugby?’ the well-educated English voice asked, surprising David.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he answered.

  ‘You must have been a front row forward,’ the unknown Englishman said with just a hint of amusement. ‘I played breakaway. I gather from your accent that you’re a colonial from Australia. May I introduce myself: I am Archibald White. I believe I once had relatives living in Australia about fifty years ago. Call me Archie.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ David said, extending his hand. ‘David Macintosh.’

  ‘Funny thing,’ Archie said. ‘I believe that one of my long-lost relatives married a lady by the name of Fiona Macintosh in Australia. Not relatives of yours by any chance?’

  ‘I don’t know much about my family,’ David replied.

  ‘I think it’s time we left this street and got back to the lads at HQ,’ Archie said and the defenders moved away. The Nationalists had been held back that day by international volunteers and a ragtag army of poorly armed factory workers prepared to resist until the end. But the Nationalists were already bringing up reinforcements for another assault on the Spanish capital.

  That night Otto’s section found brigade HQ and were treated to a meal of salami, cheese and bread. Flasks of wine were passed around and the section gravitated to the rubble of a house that had been smashed by an exploding bomb. It was hard to remember how only hours earlier they had been showered with the joyous greetings of the Spanish Republican supporters as they marched through the streets. So much had happened in one day that the hours felt like years.

  ‘I got these,’ John Steed said, handing out cigars to the survivors of his section. David took one from the American, although he did not smoke, and slipped it into the top pocket of his jacket. No one asked where the Yank had found the precious tobacco. David was exhausted and he soon fell asleep. That night he experienced his first nightmare of combat. He could clearly see the blood-drenched face of the beautiful young Spanish girl, whose face was now a meaty pulp. She was begging him in English to save her.

  The next morning the section was resupplied with ammunition and orders were issued for their part in the defence of Madrid. David glanced around at the survivors from the day before and wondered whose face would come to his nightmares that night, or whether he, too, would be experiencing the sleep of the dead.

  In the distance he could hear the crump of artillery shells exploding and the pop of rifle fire alongside the chatter of machine guns.

  ‘Section, move out,’ Otto commanded, and the men fell into a single file to make their way towards the front lines defending the city. The noise grew louder and David experienced the rising fear once again. Suddenly an Italian fighter plane swooped on the column making its way towards the front. Bullets smashed into the cobblestones, spraying the volunteers and Spanish militia with splinters of rock. Men screamed in their death agonies and the smell of blood filled the air. This was now the Australian boy’s world, far from the peace he had once known growing up in New Guinea.

  13

  The private investigator’s report on Sir George’s office desk caused him to explode in fury.

  ‘Damned worthless cur!’ He picked up his telephone and called his secretary.

  ‘Have my son report to me – now!’ he roared and slammed the receiver down. Within minutes Donald appeared.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Father?’ he asked cautiously.

  George rose from behind his desk and walked across to his son, waving the report. ‘Do you think I am some kind of fool?’ he asked, nose to nose with his son.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, but I don’t know what you mean,’ Donald replied, backing away.

  ‘I employed a private investigator to look into your life,’ George said, turning on his heel and walking away from his son. ‘You gambled the money I gave you to wipe your gambling debts, and it appears you would rather indulge in alcohol and women of dubious virtue than live in the upstanding manner I expect.’

  Donald’s face reddened. ‘What I do in my personal life has nothing to do with my role in the company,’ he spluttered.

  ‘It does when I have SP bookies ringing my office, demanding that I cover your gambling debts, and when you’re fiddling the books to pay for your extravagant lifestyle.’

  Donald hung his head in contrition.

  George returned to his desk and slumped in his chair. ‘You leave me with just one choice,’ he sighed, toying with the report in front of him. ‘I am sending you to Glen View for a couple of years, where you will learn how to manage cattle properties. At least out in the scrub you will have little opportunity to spend our money, and it will get you out of the grips of the bookies in Sydney. I am prepared to sign off on whatever you still owe those people, but I swear it will be the last time.’

  Donald heard the name Glen View and was horrified. From what he knew of the cattle station it was stuck in the middle of nowhere. ‘Father . . .’ he attempted but George simply raised his hand and glared at him.

  ‘There is a doddering old Scot, Hector MacManus, who currently manages the property, and I have been considering firing him,’ George said in a calm manner. ‘I feel that you are the man to replace MacManus until the time comes for you to return to Sydney and assist me with the management of our companies. It is not a life sentence and, who knows, you might even find the challenges of rural life satisfying.’

  ‘How long, Father?’ Donald asked despairingly.

  ‘Two years – if you stay out of trouble,’ George replied
. ‘I want you to leave on one of our coastal traders which is sailing for Brisbane this week. So, you can have time to make your farewells and pack for your new career. Are we both in agreement?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Donald replied meekly. ‘If I could, I would like to take the rest of the day off.’

  George stared at his son standing in the centre of his office. ‘You may,’ he replied. ‘Now, go and pack for your trip.’

  Donald walked from the office like a man walking to his death. George watched him go and wondered how he could have sired such a worthless son and such an ambitious daughter. It was a pity women could never assume the helm in the Macintosh companies. It was well known that women were the weaker sex and not capable of rational decision-making. But then he thought about his grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh, who had defied that image of women, and he wondered. Maybe Enid Macintosh was a freak of nature who had the ability to match any man in the ruthless world of high finance. He tried to dismiss the idea of his daughter ever taking a managing role in the family business. She would find a suitable husband and be a good wife, bearing children and fading into obscurity in a genteel way. As for Donald . . . who knew what went through his vacant head? The boy was a waste of time.

  *

  ‘Is there nothing you can do to change Father’s mind?’ Donald asked his mother at her flat.

  Louise stood before a large canvas on her easel, filling in bright colours of the harbour below. Her landscapes were shaping up well, and a friend had promised an exhibition in one of the city’s most reputable galleries.

  ‘My darling Donald,’ Louise replied. ‘It is only for two years, and I have always wanted to visit Glen View, so you will not be altogether alienated from your family.’

  Donald found a chair and sat down, hardly glancing at his mother’s work of art but noticing that the damned portrait of that odious Sydney solicitor, Sean Duffy, was now hanging in pride of place on her studio wall. ‘Isn’t there a curse on all Macintoshes who visit the property?’ he asked in the hope that his mother would show some sympathy and go into battle for him against his father.