To Ride the Wind (34 page)

‘I wanted to see if you were okay,’ Tom said, glancing around at the beds on either side of Jack. Satisfied that the Canadian and South African were asleep he leaned over to speak quietly to the wounded Australian captain. ‘You remember when we both copped it back at that Froggie village?’ Jack nodded. ‘Well, something happened while you blokes were still coming up.’

‘I heard you killed a couple of very high-ranking German officers,’ Jack said. ‘Pity that you couldn’t have taken them alive.’

‘There was a Froggie there I was forced to kill when he pulled a pistol on me,’ Tom said quietly. ‘He was carrying a lot of diamonds.’

Jack glanced around to see if his fellow patients were in a position to overhear their conversation.

‘What do you mean by lot of diamonds?’ he asked with the professional interest of a former gold prospector.

Very carefully, Tom withdrew the four black velvet bags from his trouser pockets and placed them on Jack’s lap. Jack undid the string on one and looked inside. He was barely able to restrain himself, whistling at what he saw before indicating that Tom should conceal them again. ‘You have enough stones there to pay an army’s wages for a year,’ he said in a whisper. ‘How in hell did you come across them?’

‘The Froggie told me that they were meant to pay the Fritzes for what he said were French interests in Germany,’ Tom explained, securing the bags. ‘If I had not been there they would probably be in some Berlin bank by now.’

‘You know you should hand them over to the army,’ Jack said.

‘Would you?’ Tom countered.

‘No, I would be working out how to dispose of them, so that I did not have to worry about some rear echelon scab stealing them. If I were . . .’ Jack’s face broke into a grin. ‘So, that is why you refused to be stretchered out of the lines when you were hit.’ Tom returned the grin, acknowledging Jack’s perceptiveness. ‘How did you get Major Macintosh to let you stay on?’

‘That’s just it, boss,’ Tom answered with a frown. ‘I mentioned the name of an old blackfella I know, and Major Macintosh looked like he had seen a ghost. It appears that my kinsman lives on a Macintosh property I visited a while back. He agreed to let me stay so long as the RMO agreed – which he did – but thought I was a fool, when I could have been back here in a ward with clean blankets and good food.’

Jack chuckled. ‘Not when you are the richest lance corporal on the Western Front,’ he said. ‘Now, it is time for an old friend of mine in Paris to take care of your problem and turn the stones into hard, cold cash. I once met a prospector in New Guinea who was born an Alsatian. He had problems with identifying which side he should be on in this war as his mother is German, like my own mother was, and his father French. I heard that Henri is now in the business of trading gold and precious stones. As we spent a few months together up in the old German territory, I got to know him, indeed saved him once from a native arrow. He owes me one – and I can vouch for his honesty. But you will have to trust me.’ Tom looked at Jack with a blank expression. ‘The doctors here tell me I will be released tomorrow and going on wound leave to Paris. I had intended on catching up with Henri anyway as he also deals in excellent wines and spirits. Are you able to return tomorrow when I am to be discharged?’

‘I have a forty-eight hour leave pass and the battalion is only three hours away. I can make it,’ Tom answered.

‘When I am let out I will take the parcel from you and get the stones to Henri who will convert them into cash and place it in an account you nominate with a Swiss bank.’ Tom had no real understanding of high finance, but was reluctant to admit so. ‘Henri will take a commission but of no more than ten per cent, I promise you,’ Jack continued quietly. ‘And I don’t want a cut. You earned it fair and square for all the risks we . . . I have asked you to undertake.’

‘I don’t have any idea of how to set up an account,’ Tom finally admitted. ‘Can you do that for me?’

‘I can,’ Jack replied, realising the total trust the young soldier placed in him. ‘If in the event something happens and you go west,’ Jack continued, ‘who do you nominate as your next of kin?’

For a moment Tom thought on the matter. ‘Mrs Kate Tracy.’

‘A lady friend?’ Jack asked, raising his eyebrow.

‘My aunt,’ Tom replied. ‘She lives in Townsville and will know what I want done with the money if I don’t make it home.’

Both men knew that the way the war was dragging on it was probably only a matter of weeks – if lucky, months – before they would be killed, as such was the lot of the infantryman on the front.

‘There is one thing,’ Jack said as Tom rose from his chair to return to the house where he’d been billeted with a friendly French farmer and his family. ‘I have no knowledge of what you have confessed to me.’

Tom nodded and the next day, as Captain Jack Kelly prepared to go on leave in Paris, he had a visit from Lance Corporal Tom Duffy who passed him a brown paper parcel. All Tom could hope for was that he had made the right decision in trusting the former prospector.

Within a week, Tom received a letter from Jack Kelly saying that his Swiss bank passbook had been posted to Kate Tracy in Townsville. He was also given the number of his account and a statement that the bank book had been sealed with instructions that it was only to be opened upon notification of Lance Corporal Tom Duffy’s death.

In time, Kate Tracy received the thick envelope addressed to her and opened it. She did not recognise the handwriting but the instructions on the outside of a second, sealed envelope were clear enough. She placed the mysterious packet in her sideboard and when a week later a letter arrived from Tom she read of his further instructions on what she should do with the contents of the account should he be killed in action.

Kate sat back on her verandah, a cup of tea at hand, and frowned. Tom’s instructions would be near to impossible to satisfy, she mused, considering her past efforts in the same field of endeavour. The amount of money required to do as Tom wished was unimaginable. It was not likely that a soldier would be able to save even a fraction of the amount.

Kate sipped her tea and sighed. Tom had been consistent in sending her letters, unlike her only son, Matthew, who she only knew was somewhere in Palestine flying missions over the Holy Land. He had always been a poor correspondent in his travels before the war so Kate was delighted to open the second letter that she had received that day. It was from her old leading hand, Randolph Gates, to say that he was in contact with Matthew and that he was well. Kate’s eyes dimmed as she read that they were advancing towards Jerusalem with Matthew’s squadron in support. That Randolph was riding with the Australian Light Horse brigade did not surprise Kate, who knew he was both a superb horseman and a crack shot.

‘Mrs, you want a fresh pot of tea?’ Angela, her young Aboriginal housemaid, asked from the door.

‘No thank you, Angela.’ Kate carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope marked with sweat and gun grease.

The damned war just seemed to drag on and from the news in the daily papers there was no end in sight, despite the appearance of fresh American troops on the European battlefields. Kate placed her reading spectacles on a small table and leaned back in her chair to rest, soon falling into a deep sleep in the balmy afternoon sun.

A voice was calling to her gently and Kate opened her eyes. The sun was softening the day on the horizon and her attention was suddenly drawn to her sweeping lawn below. ‘Wallarie,’ she gasped in her shock. He was standing, staring up at her, but he was very young and carried his array of spears and war clubs. Their eyes met and he gave the slightest of nods to acknowledge that he had seen her. She heard no words, except in her head, and Wallarie’s face broke into a wide smile, as he relayed his message to her.

‘Mrs, Mrs,’ the voice called to her from somewhere close.

She could feel a gentle nudge at her shoulder. Kate came out of her trancelike state, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. Angela was shaking her. Kate glanced back to the lawn to see that Wallarie was gone.

‘Did you see him?’ Kate asked, still scanning the lawn.

‘Who, Mrs Tracy?’ Angela asked, clearing away the long-cold pot of tea from the table.

‘Wallarie. He was just here speaking to me.’

Angela paused, looked out to the lawn with its long shadows. Wallarie was the name of the
debil debil
man whose name was invoked to keep children out of the dark when she was much younger. It was said that he could not be killed because he turned into a great eagle and flew from his enemies.

Angela shuddered. ‘I not see the old blackfella,’ she replied but felt a superstitious awe. She had come to learn that her kindly mistress had spiritual powers and could see beyond the world of the living. If she was sure that the old man had been here she must be right.

‘What did he say?’ Angela asked, noticing the radiant look on Kate’s face.

‘He told me that I was about to become a grandmother,’ she replied, still puzzled by the message, as her son had not mentioned any woman in his life. As far as she knew, Matthew was constantly at the front flying his missions and would have had little chance to meet a woman. But if Wallarie had brought the message then it must be so. She would write to Randolph and try to ascertain if he knew of any romantic interests in Matthew’s life.

Kate rose stiffly from her chair and followed Angela inside. She paused for a moment at the door of her sprawling house and looked back to the lawn.

‘Thank you, old friend,’ she whispered, closing the screen door behind her.

Captain Matthew Duffy lined up the hard-packed earthen runway and prayed that his aircraft would take the landing. He had been so badly shot up on his mission to track the retreating Turks that he wondered if his undercarriage would sustain the impact of setting down. He waved to the ground crew observing his return with binoculars and guessed they had anxious expressions on their faces since seeing the damage he had taken from ground fire. But Matthew brought his aircraft down safely and to a halt in front of the operations tent to the cheers of his fellow pilots.

When the engine spluttered to a stop he was aware that the ever-present drone was gone, leaving the ringing in his ears he had come to live with. His ground crew were on his aircraft immediately and one of his fellow pilots strolled over with a mug of tea for him.

‘Bad one, old chap?’ he asked, examining the myriad of bullet holes that had punctured the flimsy fabric of the fuselage. He passed the mug up to Matthew, who had trouble holding it, his hands shook so badly.

‘I got caught between two ridges,’ Matthew said, attempting to sip the hot tea before realising that it was coffee with a strong lashing of rum.

‘Thought you wouldn’t mind,’ the pilot said. ‘We raided your supply while you were gone. The mess seems to have r u n out.’

Matthew swallowed the contents of his mug before easing himself out of the cockpit and jumping to the ground. His ground crew were already working out the repairs required to keep his aircraft in the air as Matthew walked away with his fellow aviator, a young chemist from Queensland who was around the same age.

‘Any word on Allenby’s advance?’ Matthew asked.

‘Not much to report,’ the pilot answered. ‘I have heard a rumour that you may have a lady waiting for you in Jerusalem.’

Matthew glanced at his companion as they approached the gaggle of pilots lounging about and enjoying the last of the day’s sun. ‘I hope so,’ Matthew replied, falling into a silence that his comrade sensed meant no more references were to be made to Matthew’s hopes of finding Joanne. Many of the men still remembered the visit of the pretty, American archaeologist months earlier and envied Matthew.

The sun was long down as Matthew returned to his tent after supper. He was in no mood to share the evening drinking with the other pilots in the mess and sat down on his cot to write a letter home. The months had passed without word of Joanne’s fate and the year was drawing closer to Christmas. The light from his lamp flickered and, startled, Matthew glanced up to see the familiar face of Saul Rosenblum outfitted like a desert bandit. The Jewish settler had contacts with the intelligence section of the squadron and thus as a trusted ally was able to move freely among them.

‘Saul!’ Matthew exclaimed, jumping to his feet to greet his old friend. ‘How the devil are you?’

Saul stepped inside the small tent and embraced Matthew with a great bear hug. ‘It is good to see you, Matt. But I bring both good and bad news. Do you have any whisky or rum?’

Matthew had a half bottle of whisky among his few personal supplies and retrieved it. He poured some into an enamel mug and kept the bottle for himself. Saul took a long swig, draining the shot while Matthew took a short sip from the bottle.

‘Miss Barrington is safe,’ Saul said at last. ‘But she has been sent to Berlin. The Germans are civilised, however, and will treat her with respect given her father’s position in the USA.’

‘ Your son?’

‘Benjamin is well,’ Saul replied. ‘The Syrian doctor was able to treat him and have him smuggled back to us. Our spies in Jerusalem passed on the news of Miss Barrington.’

‘Why would the Turks send Joanne to Berlin?’ Matthew frowned.

‘I don’t know,’ Saul shrugged. ‘But, at least she is alive.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Matthew asked.

‘We are working with your Light Horse, assisting them in intelligence gathering, but we do not advertise the fact in case the Ottomans find out and take reprisals against my settlement,’ Saul explained. ‘Besides, I have enough German supporters in the moshava to make me nervous.’

Matthew poured another half mug of whisky for the Jewish guerrilla who again swallowed the contents, before wiping his mouth and passing the empty mug back to Matthew.

‘Well, old cobber,’ Saul said. ‘Time to go and find the Light Horse HQ and report in. They need the information we have on Ottoman dispositions forward of your base.’

Matthew was always surprised at how Saul Rosenblum could sound so Jewish, and yet in Matthew’s presence use Australianisms so readily. ‘Yes, well, take it easy, and next year – Jerusalem.’