To Ride the Wind (5 page)

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.

‘Well, it is not true,’ Karolina lied. She was, in fact, growing more than fond of the widower. ‘But I am not here for gossip. I have the papers that we wish to send to Sweden.’

Karolina rose, walked over to George’s desk and placed the sheaf on the ink blotter on his highly polished teak desk. George scanned the first page and noted that it was in the code he had seen before but been unable to decipher. The papers would be posted to an address in Stockholm linked to the Macintosh companies, and from there spirited to Berlin. To the casual observer they were lists of notes on commercial matters concerning wheat and sheep. International commerce went on, despite naval blockades, and Sweden was a neutral country, profiting from the madness of warring Europe.

‘It will be done,’ George said, placing the papers in a drawer of his desk, locking it with a key he always carried on his person. He knew that by complying with her wishes the Macintosh commercial interests in the German chemical industry were being secretly protected by the Kaiser’s government. Still, George was uncomfortably aware that his brother had once mentioned in casual conversation that entering into correspondence with the enemy amounted to treason, one of the few capital offences under Australian army law. Unlike British military law, an Australian soldier could not be executed for running in the face of the enemy or desertion – something that British commanders, and some Australian commanders, bridled at.

‘I have a request,’ Karolina said, preparing to leave George’s office.

‘What is that?’ he replied suspiciously.

‘I believe that you are attending a garden party next weekend at Sir Keith Gyles’ house,’ Karolina said. ‘I would like you to organise an invitation for me.’

‘That can be arranged,’ George said in a tired voice. He knew full well that many highly placed government civil servants would also be there – along with some front-bench politicians – and it was obvious to him why Karolina wanted to be present.

Captain Matthew Duffy’s neck was stiff from continuously scanning the pale blue sky around him. The noise of the V8 engine of his BE2c twin-seat biplane deafened him and his gunner/observer, who was sitting in the forward cockpit swivelling his two Lewis guns, searching for a target. Matthew prayed they would not be intercepted by any of the superior German fighter planes en route to their targets near the Egyptian village of Romani. His aircraft was much slower and less manoeuvrable than the German Fokker fighters, as the British-built aeroplane was designed as an observation aircraft to be stable rather than nimble.

Below him were the ever-present arid deserts around the Suez Canal. At low altitude the heat given off by the hot sands would wash over him and the New Zealand–born Sergeant Bruce Forsyth. Sergeant Forsyth had once represented his nation as a rugby player and it took some effort to squeeze his solid build into the forward cockpit. He had enlisted in the Australian army on the first day of war as he had been working as a sales representative in the country and had met Matthew in England before their squadron was posted to Egypt. Matthew had bridled at his transfer as he had hoped for action on the Western Front with a squadron in the latest designed fighter planes. But his previous experience with the Half Flight in Mesopotamia had got him assigned to the ancient Biblical lands of the Middle East once again. There he had found himself flying photo recon missions as well as undertaking the occasional strafing and bombing of Turkish troops, airfields and infantry columns. It was dangerous but not glamorous work for an airman hoping for the honour of being called an ace. To reach the five enemy aircraft downed needed for the title of ace, he found himself five short of the total required. He was, however, seeing his dream of aerial warfare put into practice. Since the outbreak of war in 1914 aeroplanes were now being used as offensive weapons over the battlefields instead of simply passive collectors of intelligence.

His gunner suddenly gestured down to the starboard side of their aircraft. Matthew craned his neck to gaze at the flat desert below them and as he did so he could see his gunner swivel his twin machine guns. Then Matthew saw what had attracted Sergeant Forsyth’s attention. Below them was a Turkish patrol of soldiers. Around platoon strength, Matthew calculated. They were closely clumped together and had seen the low flying aircraft, and were already desperately setting up a machine gun on a tall tripod constructed for anti-aircraft defence.

Bruce turned to grin at Matthew, his face smeared black by engine oil and only his goggles cleaned to provide vision. Matthew nodded vigorously and flipped the aircraft into a banking motion. What had first appeared as little dots now took on the form of uniformed men as Matthew guided his aircraft into a shallow dive. Bruce was already firing, the sound of the machine guns merging with the roar of the engine. Spent cartridge cases glittered in the sun as the New Zealand gunner poured a stream of .303 bullets into the enemy scattering below. Matthew saw men fall as the bullets found their targets on the first sweep. He pulled up, aware that his little biplane was lucky to make 70 knots of speed and was alarmed to feel the frame of his aeroplane shudder. The enemy were returning fire and some of their bullets were ripping through the flimsy canvas of his wings. Matthew jerked on the controls to take him off a straight course. The aircraft responded, reassuring him that his ailerons were undamaged by the Turkish fire. Bruce was occupied replacing the empty ammunition drums on his twin Lewis guns with two more full cases. He turned to glance at Matthew, the big grin still on his broad face. Matthew made a sweeping turn and Bruce swivelled his guns to the portside for another strafing run on the patrol. When Matthew took in the desert below he could see at least five men sprawled in bloody rings while the remainder were firing upwards with their rifles and machine gun. The Lewis rattled into life again, spraying the scattered force with bullets. Two more men fell as the dust kicked up by the bullets hitting the ground swamped them. With the pass complete, Matthew pulled on the controls to roll to make a figure eight pass on the Ottoman troops taking casualties from his gunner. It was then that he felt a real shudder of impacting rounds close to his feet and was alarmed to see the New Zealand sergeant let go of his guns and slump back into his cockpit. Matthew did not have to be told that Bruce had been hit. How bad, he did not know. Matthew’s only concern for now was to return to his airfield and get the New Zealander medical treatment – that was, if he were still alive. He aborted his pass and flung the little biplane over, to track back to base.

Bruce struggled to get to his feet. He looked over his shoulder and gave Matthew a thumbs-up signal but his face was twisted into a pain-filled attempt at a smile. He pointed down into the cockpit to indicate that his wound was below his waist somewhere and held up a blood-soaked flying glove. Matthew returned his gesture by pointing to the south, indicating they were returning home. Bruce nodded his understanding and collapsed back into the sitting position in his forward cockpit. Matthew prayed that they would make it to the Regimental Aid Post before his fellow crewman and friend bled to death.

Matthew glanced over his shoulder at the rapidly disappearing troop of Turkish soldiers and could just make out that they also were attending to their wounded. He forced himself not to think about what they had just done. Somewhere in far off Constantinople or some little Turkish village, mothers, wives and children would soon learn of the death of their loved ones. Matthew only hoped that the same would not be repeated in Bruce’s home town of Christchurch. But mostly he was glad that it was not his cobber, Randolph Gates, manning the Lewis guns in the forward cockpit. Last he had heard was that Randolph was enjoying the high life of California far from the world war on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

Kate Tracy had reached her seventieth year yet she had the appearance and demeanour of a woman much younger than her actual age. She sat on the front verandah of her sprawling, high-set timber and corrugated iron–roofed home on the outskirts of Townsville in Queensland’s far north, reading a selection of poetry from a slim leather-bound book in the late afternoon. Below her, two gardeners (old men she employed so they would have a home and three meals a day) pruned a hedge of rambling tropical shrubs. Her house reflected a modest affluence, belying the vast financial empire she had acquired through hard work and wise investment. Kate had outlived two husbands and survived life as a young woman on the wild frontier of the Palmer River goldfields where she had gained her first fortune walking beside the great bullock teams heaving supplies to the miners. She had given birth to her son, Matthew, in the arid lands of central Queensland under one such bullock wagon and lost her beloved husband, an American gold prospector, somewhere on that same frontier. He had simply disappeared.

‘Missus, a man come on a horse,’ Mary, her young Aboriginal housemaid, said as she brought afternoon tea for her employer.

Kate glanced over her reading glasses to look down the long avenue of gum trees now rapidly filling with raucous white cockatoos. She loved the big white birds despite their destructive and mischievous ways. She focused on a tall, young man who sat astride his mount as if he were part centaur.

‘Tom!’ she gasped, but quickly checked herself. She knew that was impossible. Her brother had died almost a half century before in the wild country of Burkesland from a trooper’s bullet. But the man was the image of her long-lost brother, albeit with a darker skin.

The rider reached the house, dismounted near the bottom of the stairs and hitched his horse. Kate was already on her feet, staring down at the stranger.

‘Mrs Tracy?’ the young man asked, looking up at her.

‘Yes,’ she replied, still amazed at the uncanny resemblance the visitor had to Tom Duffy, the bushranger who had once roamed the north of Australia, in company with Wallarie.

‘I am Tom Duffy,’ he said, removing his broad-brimmed hat.

‘Oh my God!’ Kate exclaimed. ‘You must be Tim’s son!’

‘Yes, Mrs Tracy, my father was Tim Duffy,’ Tom answered, pleased to note that this woman he had only heard about knew his place in the family. ‘But he is dead now.’

Instinctively, Kate took the steps down the verandah and wrapped her arms around the startled young man, who stiffened at her embrace. ‘You have come back to us. You must join me for afternoon tea and tell me all that you remember of your father,’ Kate said, taking Tom’s arm and leading him up the stairs. ‘Mary, fetch another cup and saucer for our guest.’

With some confusion, Mary, who was fifteen years of age, stared at the tall and handsome young man she knew to be part-Aboriginal.

‘Yes, Mrs Tracy,’ she finally responded, disappearing inside the house to bring an extra cup for the visitor.

Kate sat Tom down in a chair beside her and continued to hold his hand. Tom suddenly felt a sense of belonging and, before he knew it, he was answering Kate’s many questions. The sun was well on the horizon before he paused. He had told her how his father had met his mother and how Tim had died from a snake bite while mustering cattle. He explained how his mother had raised him and insisted that he get an education.

‘I will have the gardeners stable your horse and have Mary prepare a room for you,’ Kate said firmly, quelling any protest from Tom. ‘It is not every day that I have a prodigal son return from the wilderness.’

Kate had warmed to her long-lost relative as she observed the obviously highly intelligent young man. Dinner was served and afterwards Kate arranged for a bottle of good quality rum to be taken to the verandah where they could continue talking in the warmth of the tropical night. Tom was stunned to see that Kate poured herself a liberal nip of the dark liquid, rather than tea or coffee. She chuckled at his surprise. ‘I found that it was a great comfort on the Palmer track at nights,’ she said to answer his unasked question. ‘Much better then sherry. And now, I must ask you why you are here.’