by Peter Watt
Jose was a Mexican, born on American soil into poverty. To feed his wife and three children, he had jumped a ship as crew to enlist in Spain. As he already spoke Spanish and was not a citizen of the country, he was accepted and had seen service overseas with the Spaniards. David could see that he was a gentle man whose only concern was sending back the meagre pay he received to his family in El Paso.
When Jose was relieved of his sentry duties, the guard who took his place refused to enter into any conversation.
Archie and David sat the afternoon out, shivering in the cold until near sunset when the execution squad came for them.
‘Well, old chap,’ Archie said, rising stiffly from the earth. ‘It has been an honour serving with you in this damned wasted cause at the arse end of the world.’
Two Spanish soldiers tied David’s and Archie’s hands behind their backs and led them away from the camp. David guessed that their execution would be done out of sight so as not to raise any questions. A half-mile from the camp the execution detail came to a stop under the command of the German sergeant, whose expression demonstrated some sympathy for his unfortunate prisoners. He ordered his men back twenty paces, leaving the three standing on the edge of the hill.
‘I am sorry, my friends,’ he said, checking that the rope around their wrists was still tied. ‘I do not take any comfort in executing fellow Europeans for these dago bastards –communist or not.’
David stared over his head at the firing squad of six men already lining up and checking their rifles.
‘Would you prefer to kneel and be shot in the back of the head, or would you prefer to face the rifles of the squad?’ he asked. ‘We do not bother with any cover for your eyes so I suggest you close them before I give the order to shoot.’
David felt that he was really just having a nightmare and that he would wake up on the plantation back in New Guinea, to see the smiling face of his wonderful grandmother, Karolina. He fought his terrible fear by retreating to another place and time.
‘I prefer to be shot facing my executioners,’ David finally said in a flat voice. ‘I am sure my English comrade would prefer the same.’
‘You are brave men, my friend,’ the German sergeant said. ‘Maybe Herr Himmler is right and there is a Valhalla, and you will be welcomed as warriors.’ With his final statement, the sergeant turned and marched back to his firing squad.
David and Archie stood as erect as they could to hide their fear. There was nothing else they could do as the final seconds of their life ticked away. At least they would show the enemy that they could die bravely.
David felt the bitter wind curling around his body as the sun began to set before his eyes. His final thoughts were of regret that he had not told those he loved how much they meant to him. That he had not written to the man who had become a father to him and that he would never experience the meaning of love for a woman who would bear his children. He was only twenty years of age and had barely begun living life. He could hear Archie muttering the Lord’s Prayer beside him, and he became aware that he was trembling uncontrollably.
‘Shoot straight, you dago bastards!’ David cried out to his executioners. ‘See how an Aussie dies without any fear.’
David’s rousing words were carried by the wind. It was his last act of defiance as the volley of shots from the firing squad echoed off the hillside and he felt the bite of the bullet. The two men slumped to the earth as the sun began to descend into the Spanish hills.
*
It was a hot day on the other side of the world. Sean Duffy sat at his desk perusing a sheaf of legal documents for a forthcoming matter in the court of petty sessions.
He had ignored the dull pain in his chest but it suddenly became like a giant vice crushing him, and spread to his jaw. Sean began to sweat as he clasped his hand to his chest and attempted to rise. He staggered for the door but toppled over his desk, scattering an ink well and the legal papers. He did not know if he cried out in his pain but when he looked up he could see the shocked face of a clerk staring down at him. Then the pain went away and Sean Duffy lost consciousness.
*
Sir George could feel the pain rack his body and he reached for the vial of pills. He knew that the insidious disease was reminding him that death was around the corner. With the glass of water on his desk he swallowed the pills and waited in his library for the pills to take effect.
George had summoned Clement Woods, his leading director, for a meeting and wanted to be clear-headed when the man arrived. If all went well George might just be able to ensure his empire survived in the future, should he not live out the year. Already he had come to the conclusion that there would be no future if his son was able to squander all George had built over the years.
He glanced at the painting of Lady Enid Macintosh; the artist had captured her determination. Maybe his own daughter had inherited her spirit and even if he allowed Donald to take nominal head of the Macintosh companies it would be Sarah who would really rule behind the scenes. Maybe the next generation sired by Donald would be able to put the management back into male hands.
‘Your visitor is here,’ the valet said at the doorway.
‘Send him in,’ George said, slipping the vial of painkillers into a desk drawer.
‘Ah, Sir George,’ said Clement Woods, a man in his fifties and the most influential director of the board. ‘I hope that you are well.’
‘Yes,’ George replied. ‘Take a seat, Clem.’
Woods sat down opposite George’s desk with his hands in his lap.
‘I would like to speak with you about the future management of the Macintosh companies,’ George said.
‘Certainly, Sir George,’ the director answered dutifully.
‘I am going to propose that my daughter, Sarah, be granted a seat on the board when she turns twenty-one,’ George said and watched his director’s expression carefully at this radical announcement. The man blanched.
‘I believe your daughter is only around sixteen years of age,’ he replied awkwardly.
‘She is now seventeen and I said when she turns twenty-one,’ George countered. ‘Not now, although I would like her to have a responsible position in the head office so that she can commence learning about the workings of the companies. She is very bright and a quick learner.’
‘It is highly unusual to have a woman on a company board,’ Woods replied. ‘I personally would support any suggestion that you put to the board, but I am afraid I am but one voice.’
George rose from behind his desk to tower over the man. ‘I also know that you carry the most influence and I expect you to lobby the board before the next meeting.’
‘But you have Donald to take the reins when you choose to step down,’ Woods attempted.
‘My son will take his place in the company when he returns from Queensland but I am talking about the future. It would not be until 1941, when Sarah turns twenty-one.’
‘I will do my best to convince the other board members to accept your wishes,’ Woods said in a resigned voice.
‘It is not simply a wish but an order,’ George said in an icy tone. ‘Make sure it happens. I can promise all who accept will be richly rewarded. Maybe it is time that some generous bonus packages be paid to you and your fellow directors. Now, I am sure you have a lot of telephone calls to make and you will be wanting to be on your way.’
Clement Woods rose from his chair, nodded to George and left the library.
George knew that Woods would do the job, and that at the next board meeting the request for Sarah to take a seat on the board would be unanimously endorsed by all in attendance. He smiled to himself. What Sir George wanted, Sir George got.
*
Sean was confused when he opened his eyes and felt his hand being held by someone close by.
‘Where am I?’ he asked and felt tears splash his face. He smelled the familiar perfume of the woman he had always loved.
‘Oh Sean, my love,’ Louise sobbed. ‘You are st
ill alive, thank God.’
‘What happened?’ Sean asked, focusing on the sterile white world around him, noticing the antiseptic scent of a hospital ward.
‘You had a heart turn,’ Louise answered, dabbing at her eyes. ‘They rushed you in an ambulance to hospital and the doctors did not think that you would recover. But by some miracle you’re still with us.’
Sean struggled to remember having the heart attack, and a strange memory came to him. He was not sure if he had been imagining it but for a fleeting moment he’d been somewhere very cold with a view of the sun setting. The pain had been like being shot in the chest.
‘When you are allowed to leave the hospital I insist that you stay with me at my apartment where I can tend to your recovery,’ Louise said.
‘I have a law firm depending on me,’ Sean tried to protest, but from the serious expression on Louise’s face he knew that this was a battle he would never win. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But just until I’m on my feet again.’ Then Sean laughed. ‘Funny, I have no feet to stand on anyway. The Huns took care of that.’
And then the eerie memory returned. It was near night and the sun was setting across a grassy hillside, and for some reason Sean felt a terrible anxiety that caused him to break into tears.
‘Oh my love,’ Louise said, stroking away the tears. ‘There’s no need to cry. Soon you will be well and your old self. What is making you cry?’
Sean fought the uncontrollable feeling of dread. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered, holding Louise’s hand. ‘I just don’t know.’
21
Two weeks had passed since James had turned up, and in that time Matthew had ensured that his son work hard for his bed and board.
James showed a great interest in learning to fly but Matthew reminded his son that his job was to work with Cyril on the maintenance of the airfield and the Ford. The weather was turning and the sun shone over the ancient and arid lands of Iraq. At least this made working outdoors a little less uncomfortable when Cyril and James pulled apart the engines to repair them. The desert sands played havoc with moving parts and the heavy, dirty work seemed to James as though it would never end.
Finally, he’d had enough. Splattered in oil and grease he marched to his father’s office and, without knocking, walked in.
‘What is it?’ Matthew asked, barely glancing up at his son standing with his hands on his hips.
‘You said that you would teach me to fly,’ James blurted. ‘I’ve been working with that cranky old Canadian from dawn till dusk and I have not had a single flying lesson.’
Matthew looked up with a bemused expression. ‘Must I remind you that I am running a business and making very little money? Most of the time just bloody sandstorms and swarms of flies. I don’t have time to play nursemaid to you. And from what you have told me you will be due back in the States soon enough to return to your law studies at Harvard. I am sure you will make a fortune in your grandfather’s business when you graduate.’
For a moment James stood uncertainly, mulling over the reality of what his father had stated. He knew that he must soon return to the USA to commence his studies as he had promised his grandfather that he would do so and it was already past the time he had said he would return. But James had contacted his grandfather and already furious letters arrived from him in New Hampshire.
‘Are there any books that I can study about flying?’ he asked quietly.
‘Why?’ Matthew asked. ‘I’m sure you can take flying lessons back home if you want to be a weekend flyer.’
‘If I had something to start with I might be able to learn a bit more from you,’ James swallowed. ‘I have heard that you’re one of the best.’
Matthew reached into his desk and removed a dog-eared manual. He stood up and walked over to his son, passing it to him.
‘This is a manual on meteorology, aerodynamics and just about everything else you have to know before you can take the controls of an aircraft on your own. Read that, and if you can pass all the questions I throw at you, then I will take the next step and put you in the cockpit. Normally you would learn to fly on smaller aircraft, but if you’re good enough, we’ll go straight to the Ford.’
James stood holding the manual as if it were a holy book. He glanced up at his father, who had a faint smile on his face.
‘Thank you, Captain Duffy,’ he said.
‘You know, there has not been a day that has gone past in my life that I did not think about you and your sister, although I don’t expect you to believe that,’ Matthew said, gazing at his son.
‘Goddamn!’ James exploded. ‘Why couldn’t you just have seen us more often? Or even written? My friends would ask about my father and I would lie and say that he was killed in the war. Olivia told the same lie to her friends.’
‘You can see how far Basra is from New Hampshire, and you can also see how other people depend on me being here to keep them employed. Sometimes a man has to face up to responsibilities to others outside the family,’ Matthew said calmly.
‘I would think that your family came first,’ James replied bitterly. ‘Grandfather was right about people with Irish heritage – they are selfish and care for no one but themselves.’
‘You have Irish blood through my side of the family,’ Matthew reminded with just the faintest of smiles. ‘Your grandfather seems to have accepted that – albeit grudgingly.’
‘Goddamn you!’ James said and turned on his heel.
*
‘What’s up with him?’ Tyrone said as James brushed past him out of the office.
‘Nothing to be concerned about,’ Matthew said, returning to his desk to retrieve a flight plan. ‘The young fellow is just a bit confused about his identity.’
‘He is a fine young man,’ Tyrone said. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on him? I heard Cyril say James just wants to learn how to fly, and you have him day in and out up to his elbows in grease.’
‘When the time is right I will keep my promise to him,’ Matthew said. ‘But he is due back in the States in a couple of weeks, and it takes longer than that to become a competent pilot. You and I both know that. Besides, I am Captain Duffy to him – and little else.’
Tyrone did not make any comment. ‘I have the mail,’ he said, passing Matthew a pile of letters.
Matthew took them reluctantly, knowing that most would be invoices but at least he was making that pile disappear with the income from Diane’s contract and the money from the British government. One letter addressed from Palestine caught his eye. He recognised Diane’s handwriting.
‘Thanks, Ty,’ Matthew said. ‘Cyril said he needed a hand loading the cargo.’
Tyrone took the hint and left the office. Matthew eagerly opened the letter and began reading.
Diane had written that she had wished more time with him but her contract had taken her to Palestine where the German team were undertaking another dig on a site not far from Jerusalem. But it was a sentence about their time together in London that caught Matthew’s eye. He had never spent time with Diane in London, and immediately he recognised it as some kind of distress code. It was signed off with the words I hope that we can meet soon underlined for emphasis.
Diane was in trouble. He had to approach Wilkes with his planned mission to Palestine. There was no time to lose.
Matthew hurried out of his office and jumped into the company vehicle. In Basra he sought out Guy Wilkes at the military headquarters, letter in hand.
‘An unexpected pleasure,’ Guy said when Matthew brushed past the orderly-room clerk and into his office.
‘She is in deep trouble,’ Mathew said, waving the letter in front of Guy. ‘I just received this today, and I swear she’s trying to tell me that she needs help.’
The British officer rose from behind his desk and took the letter from Matthew. ‘We suspect that our equivalents in German intelligence may also be reading the Americans’ mail,’ Guy said, passing back the letter. ‘In that case they may have learn
ed of Miss Hatfield’s duplicity.’
‘I can fly out tonight for Jerusalem,’ Matthew said. ‘All I need are papers from you authorising the flight for an urgent humanitarian matter.’
‘By the time you return to your crate I will have the proper papers for you,’ Guy promised. ‘You just ensure that whatever you do, it does not come back to us. I am now going to officially wash my hands of the matter, but unofficially I wish you all the luck in the world. Safe flying.’
Matthew returned to the airstrip and found his son and Cyril in the hangar with a stripped-down piece of the Ford’s engine.
‘If that’s fixed, how long will it take for you to get the old girl ready for a flight?’ Matthew asked.
‘An hour at the most,’ Cyril replied. ‘I didn’t know we had any flights scheduled for today.’
‘Not one on the list,’ Matthew replied. ‘But I want to be off the ground before sunset.’
‘Can I come with you, Captain Duffy?’ James asked eagerly, sensing something dramatic was occurring.
Matthew looked at his son. ‘I’m sorry, James, but this is something you have to stay out of.’
Crestfallen, the young man returned to cleaning the metal pipe in his hand. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he muttered, but Matthew did not hear him.
‘Tyrone flying with you?’ Cyril asked and Matthew shook his head.
‘I’d like to see you in private,’ Matthew said to Cyril, who followed him a distance into the hangar, away from James.
‘I’m going on a job that might be a bit dicey,’ Matthew said awkwardly to the man he considered more a best friend than an employee. ‘If anything happens, I want you to look after James and make sure he gets home safely. Will you promise me that?’
‘You know I will, Matthew,’ Cyril answered. ‘He’s a good lad, and a lot like you must have been at his age.’