by Peter Watt
‘She’s ready to go, skipper,’ a corporal mechanic said. ‘Got you a thermos of tea and a packet of sandwiches in your cockpit.’
Matthew thanked his mechanic and climbed into the cockpit. The chief mechanic swung on the wooden propeller until the engine was turned over and spluttered into life. It opened up with a steady roar. The plane vibrated and the chocks were whipped away from the undercarriage. The little biplane bumped its way along the hard earth until Matthew could see the airsock. It lay limply against its post. He glanced over to see his mechanic indicating the little wind for direction and turned the nose into the gentle breeze now rising with the sun.
Matthew opened the throttle and the aircraft picked up speed to eventually drift into the air. Climbing and turning, he pointed the aircraft north, using his compass to indicate the flight path. He was hardly in the air when he began scanning the pale blue sky. He knew the Germans were out there and waiting to finish the job they had started the day before. Matthew had a premonition that this was his last mission, but curiously only wondered what it might feel like to die.
For the first thirty minutes of his flight low over the rugged land of seemingly endless craggy hillocks and jagged ravines he was alone. In his mission orders Matthew was to attempt to locate any rearguard positions laid down by the enemy that might cause problems to General Allenby’s advancing army, and photograph and mark such positions on the map squashed on his lap. He passed over one or two nomadic camel trains but did not sustain any ground fire. They were the people of the Bible who had lived their lives oblivious to any Western influence in their lands and would probably do so for another century, Matthew mused, waving down to them.
Around the fortieth minute of his flight Matthew saw the movement. It was a column of around fifty camel-mounted Turkish troops winding their way along the high ground between ravines. He wished that his New Zealand gunner was manning the forward cockpit with his Lewis guns as the Turkish patrol had been caught unawares when Matthew swooped over them, scattering the patrol in different directions. The camels looked so slow and awkward as they were spurred on by their riders but Matthew knew how his Australian mounted infantry cobbers respected these animals for their endurance in this harsh, waterless land.
Leaving them behind, Matthew attempted to lay out his map and mark the position he had observed the camel patrol. He could make a note of what it was and knew it would not be necessary to take a photo. That was usually withheld for fixed fortifications so that those back at base could interpret strong points and wire layouts. So occupied was he in attempting to unfold the map and pencil in the position, he was hardly aware of the extra shudder of his aircraft. But a wire snapping beside him on the wing caught his attention. He was under attack – not from the ground but from the air. Desperately, he swivelled his head. Over his shoulder was the distinctive shape of a German aircraft. Not any aircraft, he realised, but the same one that had attempted to shoot him down the day before. Matthew had instantly recognised the Fokker’s colours and it was obvious to him that he was in the German fighter pilot’s patrol area. Tiny wisps of smoke had torn away from the barrels of the enemy machine guns and Matthew felt the bullets tear through the canvas and wooden frame of his plane. Turning his head, Matthew realised that he was skimming just above the ground. His only choice was to pull up, although he knew that was what the German pilot expected him to do. Already he could see him raising the nose of his Fokker for the coup de grace.
If he was going to get out of this alive Matthew knew he had only one option. Instead of pulling up he aimed his already badly shot-up aircraft at a stretch of flat ground, praying he could land and get away from the stricken biplane before a bullet exploded the extra tanks of fuel. Fire was the most feared cause of death for pilots, and as the B ritish g overnment had not provided parachutes, pilots couldn’t opt to bail out. Many pilots also ensured that they carried a sidearm to end their own lives rather than go down in flames, burning slowly to death. Matthew carried his own revolver for that principal reason.
The ground came up quickly and the flimsy undercarriage hit the earth hard, the aircraft rolling along the ground until a wheel hit a small boulder, toppling the biplane over on its back. Matthew, strapped into his seat, found himself upside down, straining against his harness. He realised that the drums had spilled out and broken on the hard, rocky surface. Already, he could see the vapour fumes fanning out and knew he might be only seconds from being engulfed in flames. Desperately he unleashed himself and fell heavily to the ground. Overhead, he could hear the drone of the German aircraft and knew that it would probably strafe his downed plane to ensure that it was destroyed. But the German had not as yet done so and Matthew was a little puzzled by his adversary’s hesitation.
Satisfied that he had no broken bones and that he was still able to use his limbs, Matthew scrambled from beneath the biplane to a good distance away to look up at the German aircraft. It was so low when it swooped over him that Matthew could clearly see the leather helmet and goggles of his adversary looking down at him. The pilot waved and waggled his wings. Matthew now understood why he had not immediately been strafed. His enemy was honouring a rare code of chivalry among pilots, giving him a chance to get free – if he was still alive. Gratefully, Matthew returned the wave and the German aircraft climbed away to the north, leaving Matthew alone beside his now useless aeroplane.
The desert took on its lonely silence, broken only by the steady tick-tick of the cooling metal of the engine. Matthew could see his thermos and rifle lying among the ruptured fuel drums and knew both items may be vital to his survival so far from his own lines in enemy territory. He pushed himself up from the earth to take a step towards recovering them when a sudden whoosh exploded under the aircraft and blew him off his feet. He felt the searing heat from the explosion of the fuel drums as he was blown back to lay crumpled on the hot, hard earth. The explosion was quickly replaced with a loud crackle as the fuselage went up in flames. Black, oily smoke rose into the dry, still air, proclaiming the location of his downed aeroplane for miles around.
Matthew rose once again and brushed himself down. When he took in the terrain around him he could see that he was on a treeless plain of sand and rocks with a rise on the horizon about half a mile away. While he was surveying this rise his feeling he had not cheated death returned. In the shimmering haze of the desert air he could see a line of Turkish camel riders forming up and guessed that they were the patrol he had flown over some ten minutes earlier. Their figures danced in the haze as if they were made of water. Matthew saw a tiny spout of earth erupt about ten feet from where he stood and the crack of the rifle rolled to him a second later. The line of enemy suddenly came down off the rise in a trot as more spouts of hard earth appeared. Matthew was in the open with nowhere to run for cover. And it was obvious that the Turks were not going to take him prisoner.
Matthew drew his revolver from the canvas pouch. So, he had not cheated death on this mission and would be killed in some godforsaken piece of earth where it was unlikely that his body would ever be recovered. As Matthew stood before his burning aircraft, the revolver in his hand, he had a fleeting regret that his beloved mother would not have any grandchildren to carry on her proud heritage. But just as strange, Matthew found that his thoughts were on an old Aboriginal warrior. It was as if Wallarie was actually standing beside him, spear in hand, and facing down the rapidly approaching Turkish mounted soldiers who by now were firing from their saddles in defiance of Wallarie’s warrior traditions.
‘Wallarie, help me,’ Matthew said softly, not expecting an answer but trying to rouse the last vestige of courage to die fighting impossible odds. He raised the pistol to shoulder height and waited until either a bullet took him down or they were foolish enough to get close to him, providing him a target for his shorter-ranged weapon.
Now he could hear the thundering hoof beats of the charging camels and the Turkish war cry of ‘Allah akbar!’ Matthew was surprised at the eerie ca
lm he experienced as death came closer. He would die in the Biblical lands of Abraham and Moses but with the spirit of the old Aboriginal warrior beside him.
The enemy were now only 300 yards out. Matthew decided to take his first shot into the rank of Turkish soldiers but did not see any camel or enemy soldier fall. He considered keeping the last round in his revolver for his own death, having heard the stories from others of how in the hands of Turkish soldiers torture normally preceded execution.
Matthew fired his second shot. He would only fire five times at the enemy before turning the gun on himself. For a second Matthew stood stunned. Was it Aboriginal magic or had he not just knocked down at least a half-dozen camels and troops with a single shot?
But then he was acutely aware of the chatter of a deadly Maxim gun from his left, beyond the burning aeroplane. The fusillade tore through the line of assaulting enemy, spilling riders from killed or badly wounded camels. The deadly mayhem continued as the machine gun raked the confused Turkish soldiers. Their attack suddenly broke up as they reeled in their mounts to assess the unexpected threat from their flank.
Matthew also scanned the ground. Beyond his wrecked aircraft he could see a crew of three men manning a Maxim gun mounted on a tripod. Its nose poked from just above a tiny rise in the land. From this vantage point for firing down the line of Turkish troops, the heavy machine-gun bullets could not miss their targets. Matthew could see a band of horsemen dressed in the flowing loose garments he had seen the Arabs wear. They were manoeuvring to form a line to assault the now milling survivors of the machine gun. As he watched in awe Matthew saw the line of horse riders charge the broken line of Turkish soldiers. They were firing from the saddle as they came, killing even more enemy. Matthew did not understand the words his saviours yelled as they attacked. It was a language he had not heard before.
Any surviving Turks quickly attempted to whip their camels away from Matthew but the attacking horsemen swept through them, taking out many more until the attacking party of around fifty was reduced to only a half-dozen enemy soldiers on foot with their hands in the air. But it was to no avail as the mounted men poured rifle fire into the survivors, executing them all without any hesitation. A couple of the men dismounted, walked among the bodies lying in pools of blood, firing shots into any that showed any sign of life. Matthew was in part appalled by the callous attitude of his saviours but reserved some sympathy for what they were doing. It was obvious that the wounded would die a slow, painful death in the desert if left without help and he well knew they were a long way from the nearest village or major settlement.
Matthew lowered his pistol as one of the horsemen wheeled away from the mounted men now going through the dead Turkish soldiers’ possessions, mostly recovering weapons and ammunition. A horseman trotted to within a few feet of where Matthew stood and brought his mount to a halt. He was dressed differently to the men who had saved him and was in his mid-thirties with a clean shaven, deeply tanned face. He wore a dirty cotton shirt, trousers tucked into riding boots with a bandolier of ammunition across his chest. When Matthew looked closely into the rider’s face he could see intelligent eyes behind a grim expression and the demeanour of a leader.
‘Shalom,’ he said. Matthew knew at least that word was of Jewish origin. ‘You know that your bloody escapade almost got all of us killed,’ he continued from his height overlooking the downed aviator. ‘What are you? British?’
Matthew stared into the face of the angry man who had chided him for his ‘escapade’, aware how dry his mouth was. But more than the thirst he was suffering was the realisation that Wallarie had to be behind his miraculous rescue.
‘Saul? Saul Rosenblum?’ he croaked in disbelief. ‘I thought you were dead.’
The rider peered into Matthew’s oil-stained face and his grim expression instantly dissolved. Sliding from his saddle, Saul Rosenblum took a few quick paces to embrace Matthew in a giant bear hug. ‘Young Matt Duffy!’ he roared, lifting Matthew off his feet. ‘You too are alive.’
He released Matthew and stood back to examine him. ‘Who under heaven could have told us that we would meet in God’s land sixteen years after Elands River?’
Grinning, Matthew shook his head. ‘You are listed on the old regiment’s roll as missing in action, you know, old chap,’ he said. ‘So, how is it that you turn up here with what is obviously a band of brigands.’
‘Ah, the men from my settlement,’ Saul replied, glancing over his shoulder to where he could see his machine-gun crew dismantling the deadly weapon and strapping it on the back of a pack horse. ‘We were shadowing the Ottoman patrol when you appeared out of the sky. The Turks are becoming more of a threat to my settlement in their retreat from the Canal. We had planned to ambush them if they appeared to be heading towards the moshava. But the deed has been done and the threat eliminated.’
‘Who are you, these days?’ Matthew asked. ‘And how the hell did you get here from Africa?’
‘It’s a long story, cobber,’ Saul said, slapping Matthew on the back and leading him away from the burning aircraft. ‘But we will take you back with us to the settlement, where you will meet my wife and sons. I can arrange to get news that you are safe to your unit and in due time get you back – depending on how secure our lines of communication are back to your army.’
‘Sounds like a reasonable idea,’ Matthew shrugged. ‘I could do with a good drink of anything wet in the meantime. Until you appeared I was about to say my prayers and leave the earth, hopefully on the wings of angels, if I could not use my own.’
‘Do you know that I served with the Zion Mule corps as a sergeant at Gallipoli and saw Colonel Duffy?’ Saul asked, walking Matthew to a spare horse led by the Jewish fighters now quickly recovered from their ambush on the Turkish patrol. They had incurred no casualties on their own side but were not celebrating their victory. Matthew could see from the way the men were disciplined in their actions that they were seasoned fighting men and their unsmiling faces showed that they did not wallow in the damage they had inflicted on the unfortunate Turkish camel soldiers. ‘But then I was under another name and avoided Colonel Duffy – lest he recognise me.’
Matthew did not want to think that his old friend from the South African campaign had deserted all those years earlier but it nagged him. No doubt Saul would tell his story and there would be a good explanation. Saul Rosenblum, former Queensland stockman and mounted infantry trooper, once recommended for the award of the Victoria Cross, was a man of honour. Matthew doubted that the man striding beside him had really changed in character.
When Matthew swung himself astride the horse provided he impulsively glanced back at his still-burning aircraft as if expecting to see the old Aboriginal warrior standing by it. Despite the fact that he did not he casually threw a salute. ‘Thank you, Wallarie, old friend,’ he said under his breath, and turned to ride with Saul Rosenblum and his band of fighters.
The thin man with the scarred face stood at the rails of the Macintosh cargo ship as it pitched and rolled just beyond the towering sandstone headlands that were the gateway to Sydney Harbour. He sucked on a cigarette and reflected on what lay ahead of him in the next few weeks. Mr George Macintosh had made a substantial down payment for him to carry out a killing on some actress in America. He knew the woman from watching her on the screen in the smoke-filled, darkened theatres in Sydney. She was a bonzer-looking sheila and he wondered why a well-known and respected Sydney businessman would want her dead.
A pod of dolphins followed the wake of the ship that spewed black coal smoke into the air as it prepared for the long voyage across the Pacific Ocean to San Francisco. The thin man flicked his cigarette butt at them as they drew close under the bow. Why Mr Macintosh wanted the woman dead did not really matter to him, he thought, as he unconsciously fingered the closed cutthroat razor in his trouser pocket. He was born into poverty but was an intelligent man and the dreaded Sydney street gangs had provided him with opportunities to make money. He had risen
in their ranks because he was smart enough to keep himself out of jail. Even Inspector Jack Firth had grudgingly referred to him as a ‘good crim’ – that is, one who knew his business rather than one of exemplary morals.
So, he had only a few weeks when he got to Los Angeles to carry out his mission and then reboard the ship he was presently on. Back in Sydney he would collect the balance of his payment. He knew that on American soil he had the advantage of not being known to the local law authorities and so long as he kept to himself he would draw no interest from those around him. He would not live lavishly while he was in the States but simply carry out his observations as to the best place and time to cut her throat. Maybe, if the opportunity presented itself, he would use her for his carnal needs before he killed her. Proof of her death would easily be obtained. It was not every day that a film actress was murdered and it would be in the papers either side of the Pacific.
The thin man cupped his nicotine-stained hands around another cigarette and expertly lit it against the strong breeze blowing off the sea and across the deserted deck. He reflected on how his victim might have been living life to the fullest if only she knew that she had less than two weeks to live. The thin man had killed three times before with his deadly razor – a perfect score as he had only ever been assigned to kill three men. A hundred per cent result spoke for itself.
As if sensing the evil thoughts of the man on the deck above them, the pod of dolphins suddenly veered away from the bow of the ship and disappeared beneath the waves.