To Ride the Wind

by Peter Watt

  ‘Was that policeman Inspector Jack Firth?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Karolina replied. ‘Since I have been returned to the camp only the protection of Pastor von Fellmann has kept me from being killed by certain people in here,’ she continued. ‘What he has learned from loyal members of his congregation is that a rumour was circulated that I had informed on those loyal to the Fatherland. That could only be started by the policeman who arrested me.’

  Sean had already taken that leap in his reasoning; Firth would be rid of the woman’s embarrassing existence if she were dead.

  The pastor returned with two chairs and placed them in the centre of the hall. Sean could see from the looks that passed between the Jewish woman and Christian missionary that their relationship was close.

  ‘I can assure you, Mrs Schumann, that I am looking after your daughter and grandson’s wellbeing, and I also extend that to you if you wish to avail yourself of my legal services,’ Sean said.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Duffy,’ Karolina said. ‘I have not yet expressed my sympathies for your injuries.’

  ‘Just the bloody luck of the draw,’ Sean replied, waving off her kind thoughts. ‘I know that you are a loyal citizen of your country and I hope the damned war ends soon so that no more legs and arms go west on either side.’

  ‘Yes,’ Karolina nodded. ‘The war seems to have no end and soon there will be no young men to return home from either side.’

  Sean chatted with Karolina for a short time before excusing himself and going back to the commandant’s office to sign out. He was met by the commandant, who said he hoped that Sean’s visit had been fruitful.

  ‘Is there any chance of any of your internees being released?’ Sean asked, leaning over the big book with its columns of names of visitors and times.

  ‘Yes,’ the commandant replied. ‘Some of the internees have been proved to be loyal citizens and are being released back to their homes. I have men and women in here with German or Austrian names, who were born in this country and hardly speak German. A damned shambles, if you ask me. At the beginning of the war neighbours often used the hysteria to settle old scores. I believe you met Pastor von Fellmann. He is a good example of a man who should be back on his mission station and not locked up here at the government’s pleasure. I have a feeling he may be released within the next couple of months if the paperwork goes through without any hitches.’

  ‘What about Mrs Karolina Schumann?’ Sean asked, placing the fountain pen back on its cradle.

  ‘Mrs Schumann is an odd one,’ the commandant frowned. ‘She does not attempt to hide the fact that she is loyal to her Fatherland – but what damage can a lone woman do, I ask you?’

  Sean could have answered but he now saw himself in the role as her legal representative and kept quiet on the matter. ‘Is there any chance of having her released?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ the commandant replied. ‘She is under a bit of a cloud. One moment she is free and then she is returned to us without any explanation.’

  ‘What circumstances might get her freed?’ Sean persisted.

  The commandant scratched his balding skull. ‘Maybe exceptional family circumstances,’ he finally replied.

  As he drove back to his office along a dusty, rutted road Sean reflected on what he now knew about George Macintosh and Jack Firth. The link was beyond doubt, and it appeared that Macintosh pulled the strings. The two made a dangerous pair and Sean felt even more unease for his safety, despite the fact that Louise had made it plain she wanted nothing else to do with him. He had attempted to telephone her, but she refused to take his calls. Not satisfied that she had suddenly fallen out of love with him, he also realised that he would have to find some resolution to the problem of her husband’s ever-growing power in the Macintosh family.

  Sean found himself thinking about France and Patrick Duffy. It would be winter on the battlefields and the icy ground would be ideal to spread shrapnel. He shuddered at the memories. He honked his horn at a horse-drawn dray occupying the centre of the narrow road and pulled past it with some difficulty. The bloody government had to do something about the roads around the city, he thought angrily. The advent of automobiles meant they needed better roads to ensure safety. But Sean was pleased that he had something else to think about other than the men he had left behind to continue living with frostbite, bitter cold and barbed wire.

  The fighting along the Passchendaele front had exhausted the Australians and New Zealanders, and those in high command recognised that the weary, battle-worn men would have to be pulled out of the Ypres salient. As usual, for all the tactical victories achieved with sheer courage and blood, the Germans had not been dislodged from the Belgian coast, thus denying the Allies the ports badly needed for resupply. Under orders, Patrick had gladly withdrawn with his brigade to a quieter section of the front. He hoped that they would remain out of the fighting until his battalions could be reinforced, and his men given rest from standing and sleeping in the mud of their trenches. Looking back, he remembered how his men had bled in the lowlands of Flanders the previous year and throughout the year now drawing to a close.

  Patrick had established his brigade headquarters behind his lines in a green field shivering under the grey skies of the coming winter. He appreciated that his HQ must be located out of enemy artillery range, but close enough to coordinate the movement of his battalions. It was always a juggling act to find the right distance. The days would pass as he oversaw his staff officers, planned the logistics for his brigade, and prepared orders for the day-to-day defences of the battalions. Signals flowed, were logged and intelligence summaries updated. Brigade HQ was the brain of the body, and Patrick’s HQ had a reputation of competency due to his quiet but firm leadership.

  He stood over a large photographic map beside his operations officer, a major who had once been a grazier from Victoria, pondering on the movement of long-range German artillery batteries photographed by a recon aeroplane.

  ‘Still no threat,’ the major commented, tracing the distance between their location and that of the enemy artillery units with a ruler.

  ‘The information is two days old,’ Patrick reminded him. ‘I would like to have the Poms do another fly over and confirm the current position of their big guns,’ he said. ‘Arrange to have a signal sent to our English flyers for a mission on that sector.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the major replied, straightening his back while scribbling down the coordinates of the German artillery’s location.

  Patrick was aware that a young signals corps captain hovered like an excited terrier behind him, clasping a sheet of paper. Patrick turned to him. ‘Yes, Mr Grant?’ he asked.

  ‘Sir, I think this might be of interest to you,’ he said, passing the sheet to Patrick who quickly read the abbreviated contents, raising his eyebrows and returning his attention back to the captain.

  ‘Send a signal to say that I request the company of our esteemed prisoner. He is to be escorted here by eighteen hundred hours to dine with the officers of our mess.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the captain replied and hurried off to telephone divisional HQ.

  ‘Well, I will be damned,’ Patrick muttered.

  His ops officer had not seen his boss smile since the death of his son.

  ‘Some good news, sir?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Not good news for the Hun, Major,’ Patrick said. ‘They had one of their regimental commanders captured just a bit too far forward from his HQ by one of our forward patrols. It also happens that he is a distant relative of mine, General Major Kurt von Fellmann, and is now a prisoner of war. He will be dining with us tonight in the mess and I think you will like the fellow. He speaks fluent English and is a likeable sort of chap.’

  It was kind of funny, the major thought, that the capture of a high-ranking enemy general could bring some happiness to the brigadier.

  That evening, Kurt von Fellmann arrived at Patrick’s HQ under guard by two red-capped British military police. Patrick met him
outside his HQ in the driveway and both men saluted each other before exchanging firm handshakes, as a small but curious crowd of Australian staff officers lingered briefly at the entrance to the HQ, looking on.

  Kurt was dressed in his grey field uniform and Patrick could see that he had lost a lot of weight since he had last seen him in Sydney before the outbreak of the war.

  ‘I must congratulate you, Patrick,’ Kurt said, accepting the cigar offered to him. ‘I was foolish enough to be too far forward of my lines on an inspection and had underestimated the cunning of your band of thieves. So here I am, a prisoner of your British allies.’

  Patrick held out a light for Kurt who lit his cigar, sucked in the smoke and blew it out into the chill of the late afternoon.

  ‘I am pleased to see that you are still alive, my friend,’ Patrick said. ‘I know that my Aunt Penelope must be relieved to know that you are now out of harm’s way.’

  ‘I suppose that you are right,’ Kurt sighed as Patrick led them on a slow stroll through what was left of the garden of the French manor. The two MPs trailed a discreet distance behind.

  ‘You know,’ Kurt said, pausing to gaze across the fields divided by quaint stone walls, ‘you and I have been pitted against each other as far back as Fromelles. Our intelligence service has been very good at keeping a dossier on your career. I have often thought of you on your side of the line.’

  Learning his distant cousin had been aware of his military movements, Patrick had a painful thought. Possibly his eldest son had been providing the information. But he dismissed the idea. It was too horrible to think that his own flesh and blood could be capable of such a treacherous deed. George might be ruthless in his ambition to swell the family coffers but he was not a traitor.

  ‘You look as if you could do with a hearty meal,’ Patrick said. ‘I have ordered a special dinner tonight of Yorkshire pudding to mark your company with myself and my officers.’

  ‘I have always liked your English pudding,’ Kurt replied, placing his foot on a low, stone wall. ‘I am afraid that you must know the British naval blockade is having an effect on the Fatherland. Many women and children will die of hunger and that must play on your conscience, my friend.’

  ‘You have had no conscience using your zeppelin dirigibles to bomb innocent women and children in London,’ Patrick countered.

  ‘We should not argue about the morality of what we do,’ Kurt said, placating him. ‘We are, after all, simple soldiers who do the bidding of our political masters.’ On that point they both agreed and Kurt shifted the conversation. ‘Tell me, how is my cousin Alex? Intelligence informed me that he has been sent to the front.’

  ‘Alex was killed a few weeks ago on the Ypres front.’

  ‘I am sorry. I did not know. Please accept my condolences. He was a fine man and a good officer, as I recall from when we were at your regimental ball in Sydney back in’ 14.’

  ‘Thank you for your kind words of condolence,’ Patrick replied, looking out across the fields to the horizon where he saw the flashes light up the darkening sky. Seconds later, he heard the booming and recognised the sound of long-range German artillery.

  Kurt stood up straight to view the horizon. With little time to react, both men heard the distinctive sound of large artillery shells hurtling through the darkening sky in their direction. The first one slammed into the ground and exploded in a great geyser of smoke, earth and fire in the field they had been gazing at. The next four rounds exploded in a cluster just short of the manor. Patrick spun around to shout but before the words could leave his mouth another round blasted rock and shrapnel a few feet from where he and Kurt stood. Kurt was flung through the air by the blast and fell heavily ten yards away. Winded, he fought for breath, his ears ringing.

  The shelling had ceased for now and Kurt guessed that his heavy guns were carrying out a registration mission. As he sat up to examine himself for injuries he saw Patrick lying face down in a pool of blood twenty paces from where he sat. One of the two MPs guarding him had been blown into bloody scraps from a direct hit and it seemed that Patrick had taken metal pieces from the exploding shell. Kurt scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Patrick!’ he yelled. He could barely hear his own voice as the blast had left him with a severe ringing in his ears. Already officers were spilling from the manor to race towards their brigadier.

  Kurt rolled Patrick onto his back and groaned. Tiny wisps of smoke drifted from what was left of his chest and stomach. A large piece of red hot metal had all but ripped Patrick apart. Kurt could see that his cousin was still alive, but had little to no hope of surviving the terrible wound inflicted by the shrapnel. Patrick opened his eyes, his face unmarked by the blast. He could not speak, however, and within moments the old soldier died. Kurt took Patrick’s hand but felt himself being pulled back.

  ‘Leave him alone, you bloody Hun,’ the operations major snarled as he dropped to his knees beside Patrick. The major’s tears flowed, knowing that his friend and respected commanding officer was dead. Wiping away the tears with the back of his jacket sleeve, the major rose to his feet. He glanced at the captured German officer and felt a twinge of guilt for his outburst when he saw in the German officer’s face his own grief.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the Australian major said gently. ‘The brigadier told me that you were related.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kurt replied, his ears still ringing. ‘And now the war is over for us both on this day.’

  ‘I am sure that the brigadier would have wanted you to stay and dine with us tonight,’ the Australian major offered.

  ‘Thank you, major,’ Kurt replied, brushing down his uniform. ‘We will have the opportunity to raise our glasses to toast the simple soldiers that we are on both sides. No toasts to Kings and Kaisers – just to the young men dying in this war.’

  The last remaining thorn in his side had been removed, George gloated when the news was delivered that his father had fallen on the Western Front. He was careful to present a sombre face to all he knew, receiving condolences for the loss of the man Sydney knew and respected for his philanthropic services to the community. George decided that he should have a memorial service for both his father and his brother on the same day to save time and expense. He chose a chapel that he knew his father’s militia unit used for services and the little church was packed out with senior military officers who knew Patrick and Alex. Giselle was unable to attend as she was already en route to Queensland but Louise placed two wreaths on the altar on her behalf.

  With the service over George was pleased to be out of the church. Although he had played the grieving brother and son, he had allowed his wife to make all the arrangements for the service and the wake that would be held at their home. Louise had done a very good job but as George stepped into the bright sunshine he was startled to see Sean Duffy leaning on his cane and talking with Colonel John Hughes. The sight of Sean made George’s skin crawl. How could Louise see anything in the cripple? Sean looked away from the British army officer, catching George’s eye, and both men stared at each other across the church steps with mutual hatred. George broke first, glancing behind to reassure himself that Louise was still in the church.

  When she came out a short time later George watched her reaction when she caught sight of her former lover. She paused for a moment but turned away to walk towards him. The solicitor meanwhile had returned his attention back to John Hughes, for whom George also had a great dislike. Hughes had once intimated that George was on the German payroll as an agent for their Fatherland. Although he had not been able to prove it, George feared him more than ever since his plan to have Karolina killed had failed. Now that she was under the protection of the Lutheran pastor there was little chance he could arrange to have her silenced forever.

  ‘Did you invite that bastard?’ George snarled quietly to Louise when she was close to him.

  ‘Who do you mean? Colonel Hughes or Major Duffy? Major Duffy served under Patrick,’ Louise replied. ‘He had every right
to be here today.’

  ‘Did you invite him because of your feelings towards him?’ George snapped.

  ‘It is over between us,’ Louise sighed sadly. ‘You have won. You have me under your roof and now you have total control of the family’s fortunes. I am surprised that you did not organise a celebratory party instead of a service to remember your father and brother.’

  ‘What I strive for is to make the Macintosh family name the most powerful in Australia,’ George answered. ‘So that my son will one day inherit what is due to him.’

  ‘Have you forgotten that Giselle has a son, too?’ Louise said, bridling, causing a scowl to appear on her husband’s face. ‘He has an equal claim to Patrick’s inheritance.’

  ‘That brat will be satisfied just having a roof over his head, and an allowance to squander as he grows older,’ George replied. ‘My brother’s blood was weak and that will probably be his son’s inheritance.’

  Louise looked away, hoping to catch sight of Sean, but he was already gone. She knew that he would not attend the wake although he was entitled to. Her body still ached for his strong arms holding her at night but she also knew her sacrifice might keep Sean safe from her husband’s dangerous machinations – so long as she did not break her promise to never see Sean again.

  She excused herself and went down to the car waiting for her, leaving George still standing at the bottom of the steps to the church. Jack Firth had informed him that the solicitor had employed a man to ask questions about a wide range of matters that touched on their business arrangement. Tiny threads could be woven into a strong thread, George thought. It was time to arrange for some more threads to be cut. It was time to meet with Jack Firth.

  23

  Sean’s meeting with Colonel John Hughes at the memorial service had not been coincidental. Sean had telephoned the British officer, as Patrick had once mentioned that if anything were to happen to him then John Hughes could be trusted with any matters concerning the family. They had agreed to meet at the service.