War Clouds Gather

by Peter Watt

  ‘Over there,’ Otto whispered. ‘I can see the outline of a sentry.’

  The four men followed the German’s observation to see the silhouetted head and shoulders of a careless sentry.

  ‘We take him,’ Otto said.

  Easier said than done, David thought. How many others would be with him in the trench?

  Another flare went up but this time it was followed by a long burst of machine-gun fire that raked the ground around David’s section. It was obvious that they had been spotted and death was coming for them. David hugged the earth, whimpering a prayer over and over again. He did not care which God heard it so long as the bullets did not find his body and rip him apart.

  *

  A white Christmas was coming to the US state of New Hampshire. In the Barrington home the traditional Christmas tree had already been erected and decorated by the staff.

  Young James Barrington stood with his back to the great log fire in the spacious living room, warming himself after returning from gridiron practice. He had bathed and changed his clothes and was wondering if his grandfather would notice if he took some of the fine bourbon from the liquor cabinet on the other side of the room. Football practice had gone well and in the new year James would be playing in the much-followed college league as one of the star players.

  Olivia entered the room dressed in a fashionable skirt and blouse. She greeted her brother, who was very much the favourite of her girlfriends. They often pestered her with questions about her twin with a view to getting closer to the handsome and eligible young man.

  ‘Have you ever wondered what our father is doing right now?’ he asked.

  His question took Olivia by surprise. She took a book from the library shelf that occupied one complete wall of the room.

  ‘I rarely think about him,’ she replied. ‘I doubt that he even thinks about us at all.’

  James frowned. He did not know why but as the last year had passed he had come to think about his estranged father more and more. Maybe it was because he was on the verge of pursuing his own life as an adult, and he wondered if he was anything like the man who had sired him.

  ‘We have not seen or heard from him since we were little children. I wonder if he’s even alive,’ James continued. ‘Grandfather never speaks of him, and I know there’s no love lost between the two of them.’

  Olivia placed the book on a polished sideboard and sat down in one of the great leather chairs facing the open fireplace.

  ‘There were times when I was just a little girl I would hope our father would come riding in on a big white horse and sweep me up in his arms,’ she said bitterly, staring into the flickering flames of the fire. ‘But it did not happen, so I try not to think about him any more. As far as I am concerned he died when our mother did.’

  ‘Maybe he has had a reason not to see us,’ James defended. ‘I think I would like to meet him now that we’re older.’

  Olivia looked up at her brother. ‘And how could we do that when we don’t even know where he is, let alone if he is still alive? From the little I have been able to get out of Grandfather, our father lives – or lived – a very precarious life in the Bible lands, flying aeroplanes.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ James said. ‘He’s had such an adventurous life, and was once a fighter pilot in the war. I think he was even a Brit ace.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘I remember when Grandmother used to visit us when we were young. She told me the stories about Father,’ James said, a note of eagerness creeping into his voice. ‘When he was much younger than we are now he ran away from Australia to fight the Dutch farmers in Africa. He must be a truly adventurous man.’

  ‘You’re our football star,’ Olivia answered, noticing her brother’s wistful expression. ‘And one day you will take control of Grandfather’s business.’

  James slumped into a leather chair beside his sister and watched the fire. ‘Do you know, I would give anything just to meet with him once and ask him why he has not kept in contact with us,’ he said sadly.

  ‘I have thought the same thing,’ Olivia said quietly. ‘There’s so much he could tell us about our mother. It must have been so romantic the way they met. But I do not know even that detail of their lives. Was it at some grand ball, or did they meet in a French café on the Seine?’

  ‘I’m going to find him,’ he said and Olivia looked sharply at him.

  ‘You don’t even know where to start,’ she scoffed.

  ‘I’ll approach Grandfather and speak with him.’

  ‘He won’t help you,’ Olivia said. ‘He hates our father.’

  ‘If Grandfather won’t help me, I’ll do it on my own,’ James said stubbornly. ‘I’m no longer a child. I’m free to do as I will.’

  ‘I wish you luck,’ Olivia sighed and picked up the book beside her chair and rose. ‘If you ever find our father, ask him why he has been absent from our lives for so long. I’m sure he will have no excuse to offer. He’s just a selfish man who only thinks about his own needs.’

  James watched his sister leave the room. They were very close and James often growled at his pals who showed more interest in Olivia than he thought appropriate. His thoughts drifted back to the conversation that he dared share only with Olivia, wondering how he would find the legendary Captain Matthew Duffy, hero of the war and daredevil pilot. Since their holiday in Europe, James had found himself thinking more and more about finding his birth father. There was so much he wanted to know from him. With or without his grandfather’s assistance, James was determined to go in search of Matthew Duffy. All he needed was money and that was not a problem as his doting grandfather had opened a generous account for him.

  The fire crackled softly as James once again thought about stealing some of his grandfather’s good bourbon.

  17

  Christmas had come and gone. Sir George Macintosh sat in his library staring blankly at the wall opposite, with an open bottle of Scotch on the desk. He hardly saw the array of Aboriginal weapons that had been collected after the massacre of the clan that had inhabited Glen View lands for thousands of years.

  A gentle knock at the door was followed by the entry of his daughter Sarah.

  ‘Father,’ she said softly. ‘You have not taken any meals for the last two days.’

  ‘I’m not at all hungry,’ he answered in a flat voice.

  Sarah walked over to her father and placed her arms around his shoulders. George had not encouraged affection from his children, and the fact that Sarah had hugged him took George by surprise.

  ‘If there is anything wrong I would like you to tell me,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing is wrong,’ George lied. Only that he had exiled his worthless son to Queensland and he had an incurable disease that would eventually kill him.

  ‘With Donald away,’ Sarah said, ‘I was hoping that you might consider me for a place in the family business. I know that I am able to be an asset to you, Daddy.’

  Heaven forbid that a woman could run such a vast financial concern as the Macintosh companies, and yet he could not ignore the success of Lady Enid Macintosh. He knew that she had been the iron fist in the velvet glove, and the rumours were that she, in fact, established their financial success while her husband and eldest son were off carving out Glen View from the northern wilderness. Had his daughter inherited her character? Was she ruthless and ambitious in a way he hadn’t realised?

  Sarah moved from behind her father and suddenly sat in his lap as if she were a little girl. She placed her arms around his neck and leaned against his chest. George softened, comforted in his loneliness. Here was one person in the world who loved him, yet George also knew that his daughter could manipulate him with her love.

  ‘I will think about your proposal and possibly find you a position in my office,’ he said gruffly and Sarah looked up into his eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ she said with a broad smile. ‘I promise to help you lead the companies into a big
ger and better future.’

  George had a strong feeling that she could, although Donald would remain the token head of the Macintosh companies.

  But he also remembered with gloom that David Macintosh, the son of his brother, would also take a share in the running of the companies. This is a matter that has to be resolved before the boy reaches twenty-one, George thought. There were legal ways of ensuring Sarah took his place should David not survive until he was of age.

  *

  David felt the crack of machine-gun bullets close to his head as he dug with every ounce of his strength in the cold earth beneath his body. He wanted to shrink to the size of an ant and scuttle away. He dared not raise his head to see where the machine gun was firing from, and behind him he knew that the rest of the section was also clinging to the earth. The machine gun had been firing in disciplined bursts to ensure that the barrel did not overheat, which indicated that the men in the trenches ahead were well trained. But then the gun ceased firing and another flare went up into the night sky.

  ‘They are changing belts,’ Otto said behind David. ‘See if you can locate them.’

  David raised his head a fraction – enough to see the outline of the trenches – and noticed that the enemy had not as yet completed sandbagging the forward edge. In fact, he could see the outline of the two-man crew working the machine gun silhouetted against the light of the drifting flare. He calculated that they were about forty yards away.

  ‘Try and take out the gun crew,’ Otto said as rifle rounds continued to crack around them from the Nationalist positions. The machine gun was still the most dangerous threat. They all realised that they were pinned down and when the sun rose they would be fully exposed to any sharpshooter with a rifle.

  David slid his rear rifle sight to forty yards and dug the butt into his shoulder. Breathing as calmly as he could, he sighted the upper half of the soldier who was feeding a new belt of ammunition into the breech of the machine gun. The flare gave him plenty of illumination so when David squeezed the trigger his shot was true. He saw the soldier throw up his arms and disappear from sight.

  Quickly ejecting the empty cartridge, he swivelled just a tiny bit to place the man behind the weapon in his sights. They had been foolish not to have their prime weapon sandbagged and now they were paying the price. David fired again and saw the soldier drop.

  Satisfied that David had temporarily put the machine gun crew out of action Otto gave the order that it was every man for himself on the deadly dash back to their own lines.

  When the flare had fizzled out, each man rose, turned and ran as fast as he could, leaving the night as black as the entrance to hell.

  David hefted himself from the earth and ran in as much of a zigzag as he could. Bullets from rifles still zipped around them but they were being fired blindly into the night. The hope was that the fleeing section could put enough distance between themselves and the Nationalist lines to cause the enemy shooting to become inaccurate. In the dark Archie suddenly grunted and fell in front of David, tripping him.

  ‘I’m hit,’ Archie groaned with David sprawled over him.

  ‘Where are you hit?’ David asked.

  ‘In the bloody arse,’ Archie answered and David slung his rifle over his shoulder, scooped up the Englishman and continued towards their own lines, now only about five hundred yards away.

  Archie was not a big man but the struggle up the slope to the town took a toll on the young Australian.

  ‘Just drop me off here, old chap,’ Archie protested. ‘I’ll make my own way back.’

  David ignored him and continued to sweat his way towards the dim lights he knew marked their lines. Finally a voice called out a challenge. David responded with the correct password and he was helped past the barricades by a couple of Spanish militiamen who laid Archie out on the cobblestones of the street.

  David collapsed to his knees beside Archie, fighting to get his breath as the Englishman reached up to grip his shoulder.

  ‘You should not have put your life in danger like that, David,’ he said gratefully. ‘You still have many long years ahead of you.’

  David tried to smile but was getting his strength back when Otto came over to him and shook his hand.

  ‘Well done,’ he said, then walked away, leaving David to reflect on just how close they had all been to getting killed. His action had helped save the section and he realised that they were like his own family: the German, the Czech, the Englishman and the Yank. David now knew that he no longer fought for a cause but for the men he served with. Not that he had much choice: when the volunteers signed on they forfeited the right to walk away.

  The section returned to the widow’s billet and fell into troubled sleep.

  David was shaken awake after noon and given a meal of cheese, coarse bread and olives. Very little was said but Otto made a point of sitting beside David when he took a seat by the open fireplace.

  ‘You are a strange one,’ Otto said, chewing on a piece of cheese. ‘You are not a communist and yet you fight alongside us.’

  ‘I am here because I have experienced what your Nazi government does to people in Dachau,’ he replied, staring at the hot, glowing coals of the fire.

  ‘You were in Dachau?’ Otto repeated. ‘I have had many friends sent there – not to come back.’

  ‘I joined up to kill fascists, and you don’t have to be a communist to do that,’ David explained. ‘If we do not stop the fascists here, then we will be facing a war in the near future.’

  ‘You are very wise for one so young,’ Otto said. ‘And I fear it will be my country that you will be fighting.’

  David glanced at the tough German sergeant. ‘My father died on the Western Front in the war,’ David said. ‘He was fighting your countrymen.’

  ‘Then you have reason to hate us,’ Otto said, finishing the cheese and searching in his pockets for the stub of a pre-smoked cigar.

  ‘Strangely, I don’t hate you – or your country,’ David answered. ‘Just the people in your government running things.’

  ‘Then we have that in common,’ Otto said, finding the stub of his cigar and lighting it with a small stick he found by the side of the fire. ‘The German people are not bad but they are being led blindly into another war.’

  ‘We can both agree on that,’ David said with a small laugh. ‘But for now all we have to do is survive here in Spain.’

  They fell into silence as the distant crackle of small-arms fire drifted on the winter wind to the little house in the town where men from five nations waited to take their place on the front line.

  *

  James Barrington Jnr stood in his grandfather’s study, a defiant set to his jaw.

  ‘I need to find my father,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ James Barrington Snr asked. ‘What do you hope to achieve searching for a man who has shown little or no concern for you and your sister?’

  James knew that his reasons were not easily explained – he even had trouble understanding them himself. It was as if he needed to see what he might become, and at the same time make Matthew hurt for his neglect of his children.

  ‘I am not deserting you, Grandfather,’ James answered sincerely. ‘It’s something I just need to do.’

  James Barrington Snr leaned back in his great leather chair and gazed at his beloved grandson. ‘I have always dreaded this day coming,’ he said. ‘But I will not deter your plans. You need to face your father and see the worthless man that he is.’

  James blinked at how easily his grandfather had acceded to his wish. He had stepped into his grandfather’s study expecting a fight.

  ‘Thank you, Grandfather,’ he said. ‘I promise as soon as I have found him I will return home.’

  ‘Your journey should commence in Iraq,’ James Barrington Snr said, leaning forward and pulling out the drawer of his desk. ‘I would suggest that you travel to Basra, and there you will find Captain Matthew Duffy. He owns an aviation business that I have heard is suffering
hard times. I will even organise for your travel to Basra, but on the proviso you spend no more than a week there. I will arrange for you to take a passenger liner to Europe, and from there you can make your way to Basra. The costs will be debited against future earnings, so that you don’t leave under the impression that I condone your search for your father. You can leave on the first available liner.’

  James stepped forward and extended his hand. ‘Thank you, Grandfather,’ he said, his head swimming with the adventure ahead. ‘I accept that the cost will be mine to incur.’

  *

  It was time for Tom Duffy and his daughter Jessica to return to Townsville. They had spent Christmas at Glen View and in that time Donald had decided he was in love with the big man’s daughter, although nothing more than the occasional stolen kiss and holding hands had occurred between them.

  Neither had mentioned the word ‘love’ and Donald was frightened to express this feeling lest Jessica reject him, although from what Donald could perceive she was attracted to him. Promises were whispered that they would keep in touch by letter as Tom loaded the sulky for their long journey across the plains back to Townsville.

  Old Hector MacManus stood leaning on his walking stick to farewell his guests, and Donald could have sworn that the tough Scot had a tear in his eye as he waved them goodbye. Donald and Hector stood side by side until the sulky had disappeared into the scrub, and only the cawing of crows remained to break the silence.

  Hector finally turned to return to the house. ‘Time you got back to work, laddie,’ he said to Donald. ‘Your leave is over.’

  Donald was about to remind the station manager that in most terms he was really Hector’s boss as he was the son of the owner, but bit his tongue. He had come to like this man he at first rejected as incompetent, influenced by his father’s opinion, but soon learned just how capable the Scot was running such a big enterprise. Donald had quickly learned that Hector had the respect of the stockmen – Aboriginal and European.