by Peter Watt
She excused herself, leaving Matthew and Guy alone in the office.
‘You are sure that you are able to eliminate the Germans without any suspicion falling on the British government?’ Guy questioned.
‘How much do you wish to know about how I plan to go about it?’ Matthew countered.
‘I would rather know nothing, old chap,’ Guy answered. ‘That way the government I represent can deny any knowledge. But if you are able to carry out this mission I think I can promise that you will be suitably rewarded. There is another oil company intending to carry out exploration here and in Iran. I’m sure that you would win the tender and it would probably be generous enough to upgrade your fleet to more than one plane.’
Matthew understood the under-the-table offer and extended his hand. The mission was sealed with a handshake, and the British intelligence officer departed the office leaving Matthew to mull over his plan. However, while he toyed with the idea he excluded one person from the list of those to be executed – Erika. When he looked deep in his soul he realised that killing a woman was something he was not prepared to do – despite her political leanings. He was sure Major Wilkes would have no trouble killing Erika, but that was the nature of a man sworn to protect his country’s interests at any cost. So, how was he to eliminate the two men and spare the woman while not raising any suspicion of an organised execution of German citizens?
*
James Barrington Jnr had finally arrived in Basra after a boat trip via the Suez Canal and then up the river to the port city. The sights and smells of this very alien land were so unlike those he had experienced on his European holiday with his grandfather and sister. This is a land of intrigue and mystery, he thought as the cargo ship steamed up the mighty river that had cradled the birth of civilisation.
When the ship docked James went ashore with the little luggage he had and found a taxi blowing volumes of smoke from its exhaust. James had learned from his grandfather the name of his father’s airline and where it was located. He slipped into the taxi and gave the name of the airstrip, which thankfully the driver knew. It was only as they drove out of Basra that it hit James he was about to meet his father.
The taxi arrived in the cold afternoon at the airstrip, and James paid the driver, hefting his single carpet bag from the taxi. He saw that he was only around a hundred yards from a lone aircraft sitting on the tarmac. James recognised the American-built trimotor aeroplane from those he had seen in the USA, and he spotted a man standing on a ladder tinkering with one of the engines. From the distance he could not make out the man’s features. He took a deep breath and strode towards him. When he was at the bottom of the ladder he looked up as the man turned to see who the visitor was. Immediately James knew that this man was not his father.
‘What can I do for you, lad?’ the man asked, holding a spanner and glancing down at him.
‘I am looking for Captain Matthew Duffy,’ James said.
‘You’re a Yank,’ Cyril said. ‘Why would a Yank be looking for the skipper?’
‘And I deduce from your accent that you are one of those damned Canadians,’ James retorted. ‘Just tell me if Captain Duffy is here, and where I could find him.’ James found that his patience was wearing thin with the anticipation that any moment he would confront the man who he would normally have called father. Cyril climbed down from the ladder and wiped his greasy hands on his overalls.
‘No need for bad manners, young man,’ he said. ‘The skipper is in his office, but he has a flight out within the hour so he might be a bit busy to see you.’
‘I think he might just have time for me,’ James answered.
‘Why would that be?’ Cyril asked, cocking his head.
‘Because I am his son.’
Cyril’s expression of bemusement at the appearance of this cocky young American changed to puzzlement. ‘I’ll take you to him,’ he said, slipping the spanner into a back pocket, and James followed the Canadian engineer towards the hangar.
They stepped inside and walked towards the company office in the corner of the hangar. Cyril stopped at the door and opened it without knocking.
Matthew was behind his desk filling in forms and hardly glanced up at Cyril.
‘Got someone to see you, Skipper,’ Cyril said as James stepped forward from behind the Canadian.
For a moment Matthew stared at the face of the young man, as though there was something vaguely familiar in his features.
‘Who are you?’ he asked without rising.
James remained standing in the doorway. ‘You don’t recognise me?’ he asked.
‘You look vaguely familiar,’ Matthew replied. ‘Are you the son of someone I do business with?’
‘My name is James Barrington Jnr and it seems that I am your son . . . Captain Duffy.’
Cyril rolled his eyes and walked away, leaving the reunited father and son to experience this awkward moment alone.
19
In that moment, face to face with Matthew, it dawned on James that his father was in all respects a total stranger. The only thing they shared was blood and now he wondered if the long journey across the Atlantic to Europe and then on to the Middle East was in fact a waste of time.
‘I’m not sure how I am to react to your visit,’ Matthew said. ‘I notice you have adopted your grandfather’s family name, and I am Captain Duffy to you.’
‘What did you expect?’ James said. ‘My sister and I last saw you when we were little children.’
Matthew rose from behind his desk. ‘How is your grandfather?’ he asked.
‘He is well,’ James replied. ‘He wonders how you could run down your business the way you have.’
‘Not everything in life is about making money,’ Matthew flared. ‘I am still flying, and that’s all that matters to me. So, now you’ve seen me, what else do you want from me?’ he asked.
‘I have run out of money,’ James lied. ‘I was hoping that you might be able to give me employment so that I can save enough to return home.’
Matthew sat back down behind his desk while James found the big leather chair and made himself comfortable.
‘I can barely pay my copilot and engineer,’ Matthew said. ‘What skills do you have?’
James frowned. ‘I do a lot of tinkering with my grandfather’s cars.’
Matthew stared at his son for a moment. ‘You can work with Cyril,’ he said. ‘But Cyril is your boss – and you do what he says.’
‘Hot dog!’ James said, a smile lighting his face. Despite his misgivings about his father, the idea of working on an aircraft had great appeal to the young American.
‘For the moment you work for bed and board, until Cyril tells me you’re up to scratch. In the meantime you can bunk down at my place. It’s nothing fancy.’
‘Thank you, Captain Duffy,’ James said, rising from his chair. ‘When do I start?’
‘First thing in the morning. Today I have a flight north to an oil field,’ Matthew said.
‘Would it be possible for me to go with you so I can see what the Ford is like?’ James asked eagerly.
Matthew frowned. ‘Why not? I suppose a flight will give you an idea how the kite performs. Leave your bag here and I’ll see if Cyril can rustle up some gear for you.’
With the meeting over Matthew went in search of his engineer, and informed him that he now had an apprentice. He also organised flying gear and brought James into the hangar to go through the spare kit.
Watching James burrowing through the big wooden crate caused Matthew many emotions he had not known before. He was standing in the presence of the human being he and Joanne had created so many years earlier. It was hard to take in that this tall, well-built young man was actually his own flesh and blood. Matthew regretted his coolness in the first moments of their meeting, and was also experiencing the guilt of not making more of an effort to keep in touch with his children.
‘I can’t find a jacket big enough for me,’ James said, turning to face his father.
‘I have a spare jacket from my days flying in the war,’ Matthew said and recovered it from another wooden crate. He held it up and thought that he saw a look of pure joy on his son’s face when he took the heavy leather jacket with its fleece-lined collar and sleeves. The jacket bore the marks of much use. It fitted perfectly and James was ready to fly.
‘C’mon, boy,’ Matthew said. ‘Time to start earning your keep. You can take the second seat in the cockpit.’
And so father and son, total strangers to each other, flew out of Basra.
*
Matthew was flying low enough for James to be able to pick out the detail they passed over on the flight north to the British oil fields. He was fascinated that in the vast expense of semi-arid lands, away from the mighty river system that fed the country, he could still see signs of life below: tiny mudbrick villages and the tents of Bedouin leading camels across the sandy wastes.
James had made up his mind not to allow himself to get close to his father. But the well-worn leather jacket made James squirm just a little as he sat in the copilot’s seat beside his father – it reminded him that Matthew had been only a little older than James when he had flown the dangerous skies as a fighter pilot.
‘Do you want to take the controls while I go back and get some coffee for us?’ Matthew shouted to his son.
Startled, James did not know how to reply. Matthew leaned over to provide basic instructions on how to handle the aircraft’s guidance system of rudder and yoke. James gripped the controls and placed his feet on the rudder pedals. Immediately he realised that the pulsing he could feel through his body was the life of the aeroplane sliding though the freezing air outside.
‘Just keep it straight and level on the magnetic bearing you can see here in front of you,’ Matthew said, indicating the needle moving very slowly from side to side. ‘I won’t be long.’ With that, he unbuckled his harness and slipped from the pilot’s seat, leaving his son frozen with trepidation in control of the aircraft’s flight. The nose dipped a little and James desperately tried to remember what his father had said about straight and level. He pulled on the control stick gently and the nose rose again.
Matthew stepped behind the doorway to the cockpit and grabbed the thermos on a small rack, along with two metal mugs. He ensured that he was only seconds from his own seat in case he was required to take charge, but his son seemed to have the Ford flying on a level course and Matthew felt a swell of pride that the boy appeared to show signs of being a natural flyer.
Matthew remained standing back in the doorway, watching his son’s intense concentration on keeping the aircraft straight and level. After a long five minutes Matthew strapped himself back in his seat, and passed James a mug of hot, sweet coffee from the thermos.
James reluctantly let go of the controls when his father took over, but gratefully accepted the coffee while staring ahead through the perspex window at the horizon beyond. He sipped his drink while his thoughts swirled about the experience of flying the aeroplane; that his father had given him so much time without showing any great concern for his competence said a lot.
Within the hour Matthew spotted the tall oil rigs in the desert and the airstrip not far away. James was impressed with how smoothly his father brought the aircraft down onto the hard-packed earth, then taxied to a lorry where two men stood waiting for the engines to be shut down.
Matthew unbuckled his harness straps and James followed suit.
They climbed down from the aircraft and one of the men wearing a hard hat marked Boss greeted them. When the giant man spoke, James recognised his Texan accent.
‘I see you have a new copilot, Captain Duffy.’
‘Not yet,’ Matthew replied. ‘He’s still a rookie, but he shows promise. One day he might just make a flyer. Mike, meet my son, James Barrington. James this is Mr Mike Halata.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ James said, accepting a bone-crushing hand shake from the jovial Texan.
‘I didn’t know you had a son,’ Mike said as another lorry arrived to unload the cargo of mail, rig parts and fresh rations.
‘I also have a daughter,’ Matthew said. ‘But she is back in the US with her grandfather. It’s a long story, Mike, and it would cost you one of your best bottles of bourbon to hear it.’
James noticed the respect between the two men working on this dangerous frontier, and as they chatted James looked up to see a flight of four British RAF biplanes skimming overhead with bombs under their wings.
‘I heard the Brits had identified some tribesmen north of here as recently being armed with German rifles,’ Mike said. ‘No doubt the Limeys are on their way to sort them out. We got a call to expect a column of Brit armoured cars through here tomorrow to mop up what the flyboys miss.’
‘Well, no time to stand around enjoying ourselves,’ Matthew said, extending his hand to his old friend. ‘Got to get back before the light fades.’
James followed his father to the aircraft where a couple of men using hand pumps had just finished refuelling the Ford from forty-four gallon drums. For some strange reason James felt an eerie sense of belonging as he trailed the man he had set out to punish, although he refused to let him off the hook – yet.
On the flight back Matthew gave James more instruction on the controls, but there was so much information that it did not all sink in. The most important part was that his father allowed him to take the controls for over an hour. The dimming skies were clear and still, with only occasional buffeting, and James could have sworn that his father actually closed his eyes while James held the controls. The young man felt a flush of pride that his father had so much confidence in his skills.
*
David’s section was now reduced to the German sergeant, the Englishman who had recovered from his wound in the buttocks, and the tough Czech. John Steed had fallen to a Nationalist sniper bullet. They trudged across a bleak landscape of scattered stone houses and a hill where they could see a church and a living complex nearby. The section had been tasked with joining a Republican militia unit at the nominated rendezvous, and warily they continued their march as the cold wind and drizzle whipped around them.
When they finally struggled up the hill along a well-beaten track David began to sense that something was wrong. He was leading the small section and signalled a halt.
‘What is it?’ Otto asked, clutching his rifle ready for use.
‘I thought I heard a woman screaming,’ David said.
‘Maybe the wind,’ Otto replied and signalled to push on until they entered a wide courtyard. There they froze at the terrible sight before them.
Three Spanish militiamen stood over the bodies of five women, lying among their torn clothing. David could immediately see from the clothing that the women were Catholic nuns. A few feet away, the body of a man still dressed in the cassock of a priest lay in a blood pool and it was obvious that he had been shot.
The three militiamen were smoking cigarettes and leaning on their rifles when the section entered the yard. One of the women was still alive and reached up with her hand, imploring the militiamen to let her go. One of the men raised his rifle and shot her between her breasts. Her hand fell back and her head lolled to one side.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ David hissed to Otto, who was staring with anger at the horrific scene.
‘They have a rule to execute any priests or nuns they find,’ he answered bitterly. ‘The Church is on Franco’s side, and religion is viewed as the opiate of the masses.’
‘Those women were raped,’ David said. ‘Does Karl Marx insist that innocent women be raped?’
‘It is war,’ Otto said. ‘Those people there were enemies of the revolution.’
‘It was cold-blooded murder,’ David countered and felt his rage rising as the three Spanish militiamen greeted them with grins.
‘You have come just a little late, my friends,’ said one of the Spaniards. ‘Had you been earlier you could have had some virgin bri
des of Christ.’
His face suddenly twitched with fear as he stared behind David and Otto. A rifle shot rang out and the Spaniard fell with a bullet through his head. Without questioning who had fired the fatal shot, David swung up his rifle and fired at one of the militiamen attempting to bring his weapon to bear on him. David’s shot took the man in the stomach and he dropped his rifle, pitching forward to his knees and groaning in his agony. The third shot came from Otto’s rifle and his bullet took the third Spaniard in the chest, forcing him backwards onto the cold earth. David chambered another round and fired at the head of the man he had shot in the stomach. A silence fell on the courtyard and Otto turned to the Englishman, Archie White, standing beside the Czech who was covering the bodies with his rifle lest they show any sign of life.
‘You damned fool, did you fire the first shot?’ he questioned in heavily accented English.
Archie nodded. ‘They were animals and deserved to be executed for their crime.’
Otto stomped around the yard in frustration and anger. No matter what the militiamen had done, he knew that his section would not receive a friendly reception from other militia who would not be far away. Even as he pondered on their situation he looked across the courtyard to the valley below to see a column of Republican soldiers winding its way towards the church and small convent. From the corner of his eye he spotted a fourth militiaman in the doorway of the church building gaping at the bloody scene.
‘We have to get out of here,’ Otto barked. ‘There may be others of these goddamned militiamen around who might have seen us kill their comrades.’
The rest of the section did not need any further prompting and quickly made their way out of the courtyard, retracing their route back to the town where they had been billeted. They were now hunted by both sides of the civil war.
*
It was night-time when David and the others approached the town and a challenge from a sentry was answered with the correct password. David’s section filed through the Republican lines and were met by the town’s commander, a small wiry Spaniard with cold dark eyes.