by Peter Watt
When George Macintosh read the headlines days later at breakfast he felt no grief for his murdered sister. Her death had been an economic necessity, as far as he was concerned, if the family business was to flourish under his sole management. Now only his younger brother remained and George cursed the army for not releasing him for active service. He reached for his cup of tea and continued to read the scandal that was unravelling about the beautiful young actress’s sordid life before her tragic death.
‘Typical,’ George muttered, placing his cup on its saucer. She even brought shame to the family name in death, he mused. With a sigh, George rose from the table and folded the paper. He must relay the news of Fenella’s death to his father overseas, he thought, smiling, as his driver pulled into the driveway.
8
Winter was coming to the Northern Hemisphere and Captain Sean Duffy knew that the men on the Western Front would feel its impact in the trenches. As he sat behind his desk in a tiny room warmed by a coal burner he cursed the army and all its bureaucrats. At the end of his staff college course for company commanders, he had expected to be posted back to his old battalion, if not as a company commander at the least company second-in-command. But this had not happened and for the last two months he had found himself posted to London to the War Office in a role that any clerk could fill.
Sean suspected that the matter of the incorrect report nominating him for a gallantry award had somehow brought about what he saw as a punishment posting. It had not been his report that had brought him to this office safe from the bullets and bombs his comrades suffered every day. He felt like a coward. Even the fact that he had been able to occupy Colonel Patrick Duffy’s comfortable flat a short walk from his office had not negated his feelings of shame and hopelessness. He should be back on the front with his men, not skulking in an office job.
The clerical corporal knocked on Sean’s door and entered to drop a pile of papers on his desk. ‘Never seems to end, sir,’ he said, stepping back. ‘Oh, there is a message that a Colonel Duffy will be returning tonight from France and requests your company at his club this evening at 6pm.’
‘Thank you, Corp,’ Sean answered as the English NCO departed the room.
It had been months since he had seen his distant cousin and Sean was pleased to hear that he had returned safe and well from his posting with divisional headquarters. If anyone could get to the bottom of why he had been posted to the War Office for liaison duties it would be Patrick.
When his working day had ended, Sean took his greatcoat from the stand, slipped on a pair of leather gloves and made his way along the London street to Patrick’s club. He passed civilians and soldiers alike. The civilians hardly gave him a glance but British soldiers were wary enough to salute the officer. Sean wondered at the seeming complacency of the city’s residents towards the war, although Patrick’s upper-class civilian friends constantly complained how it was interrupting their social lives and causing shortages in goods. Not that they went short on anything, he’d noticed when he was an occasional guest at their country houses, usually to make up numbers for the many single women and even unescorted married women who attended.
Sean had found himself in one or two young women’s beds after such parties but felt nothing for his sexual partners. It was as if something had died in him and although the young ladies found him dashing and glamorous with his award of the Military Cross for action at Gallipoli, sex was not the answer. Sean would gaze down at each partner knowing that he could not say the words they wanted to hear. Self-loathing for being safe or simply that none of the women attracted him for more than the relief of the moment, he wondered. More often than not he did not even know when he left in the mornings.
Except for the rare zeppelin raid over England the war was contained to the Continent, and only the streams of badly mangled bodies being off-loaded at railway stations and the men with trembling hands and nightmares returning on leave reminded civilian observers of the horrors experienced in the trenches.
When Sean reached the club he was shown in by an elderly former soldier who relieved him of his bulky greatcoat. He found Patrick lounging in a large leather chair that no doubt had also warmed the backsides of generals who had served anywhere from Tibet, India and Africa to China and even the Australian colonies many years earlier. Patrick rose as Sean crossed the floor of the elegant room filled with pipe and cigar smoke. Only the clink of ice in the tumblers of gin and whisky seemed to disturb the quiet ambience.
‘Sean, it is good to see you well and hale,’ Patrick said with a warm smile, stretching out his hand. ‘What can I order for you . . . a gin, whisky?’
‘Whisky would be fine, thank you, sir,’ Sean answered, glancing around at a few frowning faces who obviously disapproved of a young colonial officer in their midst. At least the colourful purple and white riband on his jacket deflected some of the looks of disapproval.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Patrick said, gesturing to a chair similar to his own and at the same time signalling to a white-jacketed waiter hovering nearby. ‘A whisky, neat,’ he said to the waiter. ‘On my chit, James.’
The waiter nodded and moved away to fill the order.
‘I am sorry for your loss, sir,’ Sean said, taking his seat. ‘The news of Nellie’s death reached me in the papers over here.’
‘It was not just a death – but murder,’ Patrick replied, taking his seat.
For a brief moment Sean thought the tough, professional soldier might burst into tears. ‘The American press seemed to have exposed Nellie’s true identity,’ Sean said, hoping to steer the colonel away from his grief. ‘They should be damned to hell for the lies they have printed in the press over there about Nellie’s private life.’
‘I know that you were very fond of my daughter,’ Patrick said. ‘I expect that you are missing her too.’
‘I never really had the honour of pursuing my feelings for Nellie,’ Sean answered, lowering his voice as the waiter returned.
Patrick signed the paper handed to him. ‘I cannot dwell on Nellie’s death at the moment. So many are dying over in France, as a result of outdated tactics that should have been left on the veldt of Africa.’
Sean could see that Patrick was forcing himself not to dwell on the reports of his daughter’s murder, and admired him for his strength to focus on what he could change.
‘It’s not going well, is it, sir?’ Sean said, swishing his whisky around the ice cubes before taking a sip.
Patrick sighed. ‘We need to review our tactics,’ he said. ‘Just hopping the bags and attempting frontal attacks does not work. The Huns are too well entrenched, better than we are, and the little ground we win is lost in counterattacks. We need to look at using small groups of men, well armed, attacking weak points in the lines to push through to strike at the Hun rear echelon while we push forward our arms to finish off any pockets of resistance left behind.’
Sean listened dutifully as the divisional officer outlined his idea of forming units of a new kind of soldier trained to carry out shock attacks on the enemy.
‘But the bloody politics I come across at divvie level does not have the brains or imagination to see my ideas.’
‘Maybe the Hun will one day beat us to the punch and form units of what you call shock troops,’ Sean suggested by way of acknowledging that he had been listening to Patrick’s tirade against the military establishment. ‘At least we do attempt to learn from the enemy.’
‘Probably,’ Patrick replied gloomily. He took a long swig from his drink, before turning to gesture to the waiter to refill it. ‘But the troubles of a staff officer are not those of a captain about to be posted back to the battalion in France.’ Sean almost dropped his tumbler at Patrick’s unexpected announcement. ‘You will receive your movement orders tomorrow,’ he continued casually. ‘I hope that you will be ready to move within twenty-four hours.
‘Sir, you have obviously pulled some strings,’ Sean said, leaning forward and almost hugging
his cousin. ‘I am still damning to hell that bloody Irish major who had me transferred to the War Office.’
‘It was not he who had you seconded,’ Patrick said. ‘You were posted to the War Office on my request.’ Stunned, Sean slumped back in his chair to stare at Patrick. ‘You see, I felt that you were not ready to return to the battalion straight after your staff college. I thought that a spell away from France might help you get your thoughts straight.’
‘I was ready, sir,’ Sean protested indignantly. ‘I realise that there was some confusion in what I did at Fromelles that day but I was ready to lead again.’
‘Sean, you are one of the best officers I have had the honour to command,’ Patrick said. ‘I saw you lead at Gallipoli and was proud to see you recognised with the award of the MC, but I have been a soldier for a long time and know that we are sometimes asked to go beyond what I would call the breaking point. The doctors are naming this nervous sickness shell shock and I feel that you were on the edge of losing your reason. The medical people believe that rest and time away from the front goes towards curing a soldier. I am not sure if they are right but the army needs good men such as you to lead others – to their deaths, if necessary.’
‘Did Sergeant Kelly say something about my behaviour that day?’ Sean asked.
‘When I questioned him for the report he was nothing but supportive of your actions,’ Patrick answered gently. ‘From reports I have seen of him in the last couple of months he is a bloody good soldier and I would hope that one day he takes a commission. But despite the fact that he would say nothing against you I was able to read between the lines. You should have been sent home to Sydney after Gallipoli for a rest before returning to France.’
‘Sir, I think I lost it that day and do not know why,’ Sean choked. ‘Sergeant Kelly should have got the VC for what he did that day clearing the trench.’
‘Sadly, because of my eagerness to see you rewarded again, the British are punishing me,’ Patrick replied. ‘And the British government has downgraded Kelly’s nomination from VC to a DCM. However, it is certainly a higher award than the Military Medal. He should be pleased.’
‘I am sure he will be,’ Sean agreed, without sounding very convincing. His actions that day had cost the gallant soldier the high award he deserved. It should have been him submitting the report, not Colonel Duffy. No, Sean well knew that he had let down Sergeant Kelly.
‘The battalion is currently resting up behind the lines so you will have the opportunity of squaring away when you join them,’ Patrick said. ‘I will be returning to France within the week and may come across you from time to time.’
‘I hope so, sir,’ Sean answered. ‘I would appear churlish if I did not thank you for all that you have done.’
‘No thanks required,’ Patrick replied, waving off the young officer’s gratitude. ‘I just pray that my old friend John Hughes continues to be successful in detaining Alexander in Australia for the duration of the war,’ Patrick confessed. ‘I know that my son would not appreciate my efforts to keep him away from the front but he does not realise just how important it is that he remain alive to one day take the reins of the family companies.’
Sean was not surprised to hear the colonel confess to his secret manoeuvring to ensure Alex remained away from the war. If he had a son he would have done the same. Deep down he knew it would only be a matter of time before the bullet with his name on it took away his life. The former solicitor had resigned himself to death and just prayed that when the time came it would not be painful. Worse still was the thought of being mutilated like some of the pitiful creatures he had seen survive their wounds only to be terribly disfigured or lose their limbs. There were some things far worse than dying.
*
For hours after Matthew and Joanne fled the scene of the killing they had said little to each other. A cold, bleak wind that cut through them like icy bullets reminded them that winter was hovering, about to descend on the ancient lands.
Before leaving the gully, Matthew had scouted a short distance to see if there had been more than the three men but only found their hobbled horses. Perhaps only three had come out in search of them because of the shortage of horses in the Turkish army. Hopefully, if a Turkish patrol found the three dead in the gully they would assume that they had been killed by Arab irregulars under the British officer, Lawrence. Bearing that in mind, Matthew had stripped the bodies and taken the uniforms and weapons to dump them in the desert somewhere along their route. Stripping bodies was the trademark of Arab irregulars and hopefully the scattered items would not be found too soon by the Turkish patrols.
Near midday the big American vehicle bogged down in soft sand and Matthew dismounted to place the metal strips carried for such circumstances under the wheels. Grunting and heaving, he pushed while Joanne drove. Eventually they were able to free themselves from the shifting sand.
‘I think we should have a hot drink,’ Joanne said, standing beside the heavily packed vehicle. ‘This cold could cause us some concern.’
Brushing down his clothes, Matthew nodded. While Joanne set about brewing a pot of coffee on a fire of petrol in a sand-filled tin, Matthew took the opportunity to scan all the horizons with her binoculars and check their bearings on the map. All he could see was a relatively flat surface of rippled sand and tiny pockets of tough, tussock grass. He calculated that they were at the edge of the Sinai, which meant they were not far from his airfield.
Joanne passed him a mug of steaming, black coffee and he sat down with his back against the front wheel. She sat next to him, sipping at her drink.
‘Who are you, really?’ Matthew asked, unable to reconcile his earlier impression of her with what he had seen in the gully that morning.
‘I am what I seem to be,’ she answered, staring at the flat horizon to the east. ‘An American archaeologist touring the Holy Land in search of undiscovered ruins. The war between the European powers does not concern me.’
Matthew gave a short laugh. ‘So, executing that German officer was not of great concern to you?’
As Joanne turned to him he regretted his taunt. There was great pain in her eyes and he thought that she might be on the verge of tears.
‘I have never killed anyone in my life and the death of those three unfortunate men will haunt me forever. But I knew if I did not do what I did you might have lost your life. The German officer I killed has . . . had a reputation for extreme cruelty towards prisoners. I know that as a neutral in this war I have now compromised myself but it was either that or you being taken prisoner and possibly killed.’
‘I am sorry,’ Matthew said in a humble voice. ‘I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just that you did it so efficiently and, well, I had a stupid idea that you might be working for someone in intelligence. You cannot deny that you admitted to knowing the Hun you killed.’
‘My father is a good friend of our president, Mr Wilson, and I could not risk compromising my country in your affairs, Captain Duffy,’ Joanne said. ‘To do so could possibly cause an international incident.’
‘Call me Matthew,’ the Australian said. ‘If I may call you Joanne?’
‘I would like that, Matthew,’ Joanne said, softening. ‘You have a fine name.’
‘For an Irish papist,’ Matthew said and saw the glint of humour in her eyes at his joke.
‘You must know, Matthew, that I find you an attractive man,’ Joanne said impulsively. ‘But I must also say that there is no future in anything other than a lasting friendship.’
‘I did not suspect that there was anything else,’ Matthew lied. ‘I am flattered that you think I hold some attraction to you, as I have thought since we met at the settlement that you are nothing other than a lady to be respected. However, I have to say that since saving my life you have somewhat endeared yourself to me.’
‘Nothing else?’ Joanne queried.
Matthew could hear the disappointment in her question but it gave him some satisfaction not to reveal
his true feelings. It was obvious that she was a strong-willed woman who was used to getting her way with men. Had she not persuaded her father to fund her expedition into a war zone?
‘Nothing else,’ Matthew shrugged, rising to his feet.
‘Then, that is good,’ Joanne said, tossing the remnants of her coffee to the wind.
They continued the journey south and near sundown saw a faint cloud of dust rising before them. Matthew stopped the car and reached for the binoculars.
‘Is it a sand storm?’ Joanne asked anxiously.
‘No,’ Matthew replied, focusing. ‘It’s a column of mounted troops and they have changed course. They are coming this way.’
‘If we turn about we may be able to outrun them,’ Joanne said.
‘Not necessary,’ Matthew answered, rubbing his eyes. ‘They are my countrymen. From their uniforms they appear to be mounted troopers. It seems that we may receive an escort to my base.’
Matthew had been correct about the slouch hats the men wore. Within minutes a patrol of ten troopers rode cautiously towards them, their rifle butts resting against their hips.
‘G’day,’ the leader of the patrol, a tough-looking sergeant said when he had his mount alongside the car. ‘Who in hell are you?’
‘Captain Matthew Duffy of the Australian Flying Corps and the lady with me is Miss Joanne Barrington, an American citizen,’ Matthew answered. ‘We would like an escort to the nearest airfield.’
The sergeant scratched his chin. ‘You have any proof of who you are?’
‘I am afraid I have only forged documents to get me through the enemy lines – thanks to the help of Miss Barrington,’ Matthew responded. ‘However, proof of my identity can be made by my squadron commander as soon as you get us to the airfield. I was shot down some weeks ago and, no doubt, am currently listed as MIA.’