To Ride the Wind

by Peter Watt

  By the dim light of a kerosene lantern he worked alone in the cold, making his notes in a code that he hoped would not be broken if intercepted. The next stage was to transfer his coded message to Berlin and for that he would have to use his Australian-born civilian contact – a man who was the most unlikely of German sympathisers as he had a brother serving in the army and a father fighting on the battlefields of France.

  *

  George Macintosh gazed across the candlelit, polished dining room table at those surrounding him. The dinner was a regular Sunday night gathering at his mansion overlooking Sydney Harbour, a family tradition. George loathed these Sunday evening meals but his beautiful wife, Louise, insisted on the tradition being continued despite the fact that the family head, Patrick Duffy, could not be present. Talk of war was forbidden at the table at the insistence of George, who now ruled his family’s vast financial empire to the extent that he actually paid his father and brother an allowance.

  Sitting opposite him was his younger brother, Alexander, wearing his army uniform, a shiny Sam Browne belt across his chest. George was in his early thirties, his younger brother in his late twenties. They were a matching pair, having inherited their handsome Irish looks from their father. Beside George sat his brother’s wife, Giselle, equally as beautiful as his own wife. It was ironic, George mused, that his younger brother should be married to a German Jewess who should by all means be interned at Holdsworthy – along with her mother.

  The two seats left vacant at the table were meant for Fenella, who they all knew was living in California and working in the American film industry but under the assumed name of Fiona Owen. The second vacant place at the table was set for his father, anticipating his safe return from the war. The layout of the chairs had been insisted upon by Louise although George considered the tradition she was establishing to be complete sentimental nonsense. Secretly, he hoped that both places would not be filled; he wanted his father, brother and sister all dead, leaving him with complete power over the family business. He had used his managerial skills as an excuse to remain out of uniform mostly because he was afraid he might be killed in a war. But he dismissed his cowardly action with the rationale that by managing the company’s links with the booming war production he was more important to Australia’s strategic needs.

  The fact that he had been able to secure very lucrative contracts with the government, supplying products on a grand scale, had helped the Macintosh family expand their already overflowing coffers, and George had voted himself a generous salary rise for his efforts while his brother insisted on living on his army pay. But Alex was a fool, and even more of a threat to all that George’s ancestors had struggled for in their Protestant world after promising to raise his newly born son in the Jewish faith. That alone was enough to want his stupid brother dead. George cursed the fact that the military powers had not satisfied his brother’s request to be sent off to war instead of leaving him at home in a training unit. After all, had not Alex proved his bravery in the covert operation against the Germans in the Pacific before the outbreak of war? Given time and good luck George might yet see the demise of his family in this time of war. He could only pray to the devil for such to eventuate.

  ‘To those not with us tonight,’ Alex said, raising his glass of wine. ‘Hear, hear,’ echoed from those gathered around the table. Even George responded to the toast. He did not want to be seen in his true colours although secretly he was toasting the prospect of his father’s death.

  ‘We are not to speak of the war,’ George cautioned, placing his crystal goblet on the table before him. ‘That was a rule we agreed on.’

  ‘What should we talk about?’ Alex asked. ‘How the family business is booming when so many of my friends have already lost their lives in this war?’

  ‘I know that you would like to join them,’ George retorted.

  ‘You mean – die,’ Alex countered with a grim smile.

  ‘No, no . . . I did not mean that,’ George hurriedly said. ‘I meant join them on the battlefield, where you belong.’

  ‘I think that we can find a more pleasant subject of conversation than battlefields and business profits,’ Louise said, attempting to defuse what she could see was a dangerous tension. She received a grateful look from Giselle, who also knew of the brothers’ mutual animosity. ‘Now that the table will be cleared I suggest we retire to the drawing room for coffee,’ she continued, rising to lead the way, but her example quickly followed only by Giselle.

  ‘I am sorry for that,’ Giselle said to Louise as they made their way to stand beside the warm, glowing open fire. ‘Alex is frustrated by the fact the army will not send him overseas. He becomes melancholy.’

  ‘But I suspect that you are pleased he has been forced to remain home and can be with you and the baby,’ Louise said, gently squeezing her best friend’s elbow.

  Giselle looked guilty. ‘What woman wants to remain behind knowing that the man she most loves in this world might be killed? I pray that the war will be over before Alex can be sent to fight.’

  ‘But you do not tell him of your fears,’ Louise said gently, guiding her to a table where a decanter sat beside a tray of tiny crystal goblets set out by their house maid. ‘Men are absolute fools if they think they can impress us with their heroic gestures of riding off to war.’

  ‘You are fortunate,’ Giselle said, accepting a glass of sweet sherry. ‘At least George had the sense to remain out of uniform.’ For a moment she could have sworn she saw a scowl cross her friend’s face.

  ‘Do you ever hear from Alex’s cousin, Mr Matthew Duffy?’ Louise asked, changing the subject.

  Giselle glanced at her friend and replied with a mischievous tone. ‘Alex still receives his letters but it is strange that you should so unexpectedly ask about him. Although he is rather handsome, dashing and single . . . as far as I know. Matthew is in England awaiting transfer with his squadron. At least, that is the last Alex heard.’

  ‘Don’t get any wrong ideas,’ Louise chuckled. ‘I was merely making idle conversation.’

  ‘But he is rather dashing, is he not?’ Giselle persisted, enjoying this game of teasing her friend who was more like a sister to her than a former schoolmate from the posh ladies’ college they’d attended years earlier in Sydney.

  ‘Oh, I wish I’d had the opportunity to accept his offer to fly up into the sky in his aeroplane before the war,’ Louise sighed, taking a sip of her drink. ‘It is so boring being married with little to do – except occupy George’s bed, host his fat business acquaintances and supervise the servants. I wish I could do something that has meaning. At least your mother is doing something for the war cause, albeit for the other side, by visiting the internment camp and liaising with our authorities to help those poor women and children behind the wire. One has to admire Karolina for her selfless acts of charity.’

  ‘I think that she has met someone at the camp she may be romantically interested in,’ Giselle said, moving a short distance away from the fire gently flickering in the hearth.

  ‘Oh, do tell!’ Louise exclaimed.

  ‘He is actually a distant relative of our family,’ Giselle replied, wondering if she should indulge in gossip about her mother’s affairs of the heart. For a long time her mother had been bitter about the death of Giselle’s father in New Guinea. A native uprising had taken his life and she had blamed the Australian government, stating that if the natives had not known of the Australians seizing German territory they may have never rebelled, and her husband would still be alive. Giselle had disagreed, saying that they had no proof of this and that the natives at the end of the valley were always skirmishing with them. ‘His name is Karl von Fellmann and he is a Lutheran pastor.’

  ‘I know him,’ Louise said thoughtfully. ‘I met him at the regimental ball back in ’14. He was with his twin brother, Kurt, at the time and I thought that they were a very handsome pair. Your mother has good taste in men. I remember how handsome your father was.’ Louise cou
ld see the pain in her friend’s face at the mention of her dead father and chose to change the course of the conversation. ‘Well, I have been meaning to ask you if you would like to join me at the theatre this Tuesday to see Nellie’s latest film.’

  ‘That would be grand,’ Giselle answered. ‘We could do some shopping as well.’

  As the two women continued to chatter about matters important to the family, Alex and George sat at the table with a bottle of good port between them. George had uncharacteristically taken to imbibing strong spirits since the outbreak of the war and Alex thought that at least this made him a little more human.

  ‘George,’ he said, taking a long sip. ‘You and I may not have seen eye to eye on a lot of matters but I am going to ask a great favour of you.’

  George stiffened. ‘What would that be, old boy?’

  ‘You know how much it means to me to join Father in France on the front,’ Alex said, swallowing not only the port but his pride. ‘And I know how close you are to people in the government. I was wondering if you could put in a word to those in the war department to have me transferred overseas.’

  The tension in George flowed away. His brother was the fool he took him for, wanting to rush off to be killed. He would be more than happy to help him do so. Alex could not have asked a more pleasing favour. ‘I must admit that I do have some highly placed contacts and it would be my pleasure to help you realise a dream,’ he answered. ‘I promise you that I will call on every favour owed me and get you transferred overseas to join Father.’

  ‘I thought that my request might please you,’ Alex replied, raising his glass in mock salute.

  No other words were said about the matter between the two brothers and Alex soon rose to join the ladies in the drawing room, leaving his brother at the table to consider how he could satisfy Alex’s request and at the same time see one of his own dreams come true. With any luck Alex would die a hero’s death and bring glory on the Macintosh family name for the generations yet to be born in the dynasty.

  2

  ‘Cut!’

  Randolph Gates could still feel the ringing in his ears and taste the Californian dirt in his mouth. The six gun on his hip had left a throbbing pain in his side which he guessed would produce a huge bruise. He lay face down and could hear the snorting of the horse that had thrown him a few feet away.

  ‘You okay, pal?’ a male voice asked above him.

  He felt a pair of hands attempt to roll him over and hoist him into a sitting position. Randolph spat dirt from his mouth and gazed around the film lot. He focused on the cumbersome cameras and the men standing around while the director stood holding a cone-shaped megaphone at his side and watching him.

  ‘They get the shot?’ Randolph asked, clambering to his feet clumsily with the assistance of one of the film crew.

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t think your horse throwing you was in the script.’

  Randolph dusted off the heavy cowboy chaps he was wearing with his huge Stetson hat and rubbed his hip. He recognised the man who had helped him as the assistant director, Joe Oblachinski. He had shown at least some concern for Randolph’s welfare even if the young man holding the megaphone had not. It was the last day of the project and Randolph had been able to get a part in the cowboy film supporting the main actor, an Italian immigrant with oily dark looks and equally slimy charm. At least that was Randolph’s opinion of him – though not that of the adoring female fans or, it would seem, Fenella Macintosh’s.

  Fenella was now known as Fiona Owens and was already a big name on the screen. She was touted by the film industry of California as an Irish woman although the surname was obviously Welsh, but this did not seem to matter to the movie studio’s publicity department. When Randolph cast about to find her he noticed that she was deep in conversation with the up-and-coming Italian actor off to one side of the set. She had paid hardly any attention to his nearly fatal fall when his mount had suddenly baulked at the sound of an explosion on a nearby set where they were filming a Western using explosives to simulate a blown bank safe.

  ‘You look like you could do with a shot,’ Joe Oblachinski said, helping Randolph off the centre of the set to a folding canvas chair. ‘We will keep the last bit of you being thrown in the can for a future film. Nothing gets wasted around here.’

  Randolph nodded, watching Fenella break into soft laughter and lean forward to the Italian actor. It was obvious that he had her complete attention. Randolph shook his head in an attempt to clear the ringing in his ears and was satisfied to note he was not as hurt as he might have been. ‘Thanks, Joe,’ he said when the assistant director passed him a hip flask containing a shot of good bourbon to ease his pain. The American film man was of solid build and in his early thirties. Prior to drifting into the flourishing film industry he had managed a company making cameras and, on a whim, decided to stake his career using the cameras to make films for the entertainment industry. Randolph liked Joe and they often would drink together at the end of the day and have a game of pool in the newly opened hall constructed by Louis B Mayer on the corner of Hollywood and Western streets. It was a dingy smoke-filled basement in the movie producer’s building but a place where Randolph could forget his troubles with Fenella.

  ‘Fiona seems a bit distracted by that Dago,’ Joe said, sensing that his friend was more upset by what he was observing than the heavy fall from the horse.

  Randolph shook his head as if to dismiss Joe’s comment. He had now lived in California for almost two years. At first his arrival had been welcomed by an overjoyed Fenella. She had been able to get him employment as a stunt man on the sets and he had proved very good at his job. The strict moral code of her studio bosses forbade her living with Randolph and marriage was a subject she avoided whenever Randolph hinted at their future. He was quickly learning how ambitious the daughter of Patrick Duffy was. Fenella would often rage at some other actress being given a role she felt should have been hers. Randolph was slowly learning too that he was not the centre of her universe, despite the fact that she had the ability to throw him off balance with her declarations of love for him alone. But California’s seedy past had not been left behind. Randolph knew of the studio parties where sex, hootch and drugs were a heady part of the entertainment for those in the film industry. The town of Los Angeles was rapidly becoming a movie-dominated place of dirty secrets. The big studios ruled local politics and scandals were quickly suppressed by the specialists hired to do so by the movie moguls. Although, as a mere stuntman, Randolph was not invited to the parties in the rich suburbs of LA, he knew that Fenella attended. She did not attempt to hide the fact that she had been at rumoured sex orgies but denied she had ever let herself get involved, calming Randolph with the excuse that she had to be at the parties to garner favours for better roles from the movie executives.

  Despite Fenella’s declarations of love and her reasons for getting mixed up in the rumour mill, Randolph was beginning to consider moving on without her. His pride was severely hurt by the stories he would hear of what Fenella did behind his back. It was obvious to him that her words of endearment rang hollow. How could he compete against the younger, more handsome and suave men of the movie industry in California? He would have to confront Fenella at some time to save the little of his pride that still remained. He had survived years in dangerous places with his best friend, Matthew Duffy, who was now flying aircraft somewhere over Egypt or Palestine. He realised that he missed Matthew’s company. Maybe it was time to join his old buddy.

  Randolph glanced over at Fenella and saw her bend back her head in laughter at something the Italian actor said.

  Turning his back, Randolph strode off the set with Joe.

  Across the Pacific Ocean in Sydney, George Macintosh sat in his well-furnished office of the Macintosh companies in Kent Street. He was not alone. Across the room sat a very attractive woman in her early forties. The presence of this woman, Karolina Schumann, made George very uneasy despite the fact that she was the mother-
in-law of his brother, Alexander. Not only was she a German national released from the internment camp outside Sydney on his father’s word, but she had in her hands a sheaf of papers for him that were as deadly as the poison gas now being used by both sides on the Western Front.

  ‘How is Herr Bosch?’ George hoped against hope that Karolina might say he was dying.

  ‘He is well,’ she replied. ‘He sends his compliments.’

  ‘Do you have much contact with him?’ he asked, aware of the tension between them.

  ‘Very little,’ Karolina said. ‘The guards observe me in the company of Pastor von Fellmann, whom they do not suspect. He has the respect of the commandant of the camp and their trust.’

  George knew that the Lutheran minister was not a part of Karolina’s espionage but simply a pawn in her dangerous game. Karolina was a patriot prepared to die for the Fatherland. The former assistant German consul to Sydney, Maynard Bosch, was Karolina’s contact in the camp and the puppet master for spying activities. George had deluded himself before the outbreak of war that he’d been an innocent contact, but now he was being blackmailed into reluctantly helping the spymaster transfer intelligence.

  ‘My wife commented that you may have feelings for the pastor,’ George said, taking the normally composed woman by surprise.

  ‘Why would Louise say that?’ she countered.

  ‘Oh, I suspect idle gossip with your daughter,’ George answered.

  An expression of concern crossed Karolina’s face. Giselle was completely unaware of her role in espionage and Karolina wanted it to stay that way to protect her daughter and grandson. That Giselle had paid so much interest in her comings and goings from the camp was disturbing. Karolina did not want to consider the consequences of her own discovery if things went wrong.