Beyond the Horizon (5 page)

Jack made a hasty retreat from the office. It wasn't until he had left the building that he could breathe properly again. That file could be the end of his police career if anyone with half a brain read between the lines. But how had the inspector general got hold of it? Jack had made sure it had been buried in the bureaucracy of police paperwork. He was shaking and he reached for a cigarette to steady his nerves.

‘Duffy and Griffiths,' he snarled under his breath. Those two had to be behind the file finding its way upstairs to Mitchell's office. The bastards. It was time to discuss this matter with the man whose payroll financed his weakness for the horses – George Macintosh. Duffy and Griffiths were still a threat to both of them and it was time to eradicate the threat.

Firth knew that this would not be easy. Duffy and Griffiths were tough men who had long ago lost any fear of physical threat, having returned from the hell of the trenches. But they were in his territory now and he knew that he had the edge.

Harry Griffiths sat on a stool in the bar of one of Sydney's less salubrious hotels. He was chatting with another former serviceman, Lenny Johnson, who had decided to use his skills to rob innocent victims out on the mean streets at night, and to pimp out a couple of girls on those same streets. Lenny had been discharged from the army as suffering severe shellshock, although Harry knew different. Lenny had studied the symptoms of shellshock and feigned them in front of doctors in a hospital in England. Harry didn't judge him for that. There had been times when he might have done the same thing to get out of hell. Harry often came to Lenny for information; there wasn't much that happened in the inner city that Lenny didn't know about.

The two men were chatting when Harry suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up; this eerie sense of danger had saved his life several times during active service.

‘Well, well, well,' a familiar voice behind him said, and Harry turned to face Inspector Jack Firth. Firth was in the company of four uniformed officers who were watching the patrons of the pub warily. ‘So you consort with Lenny here, do you?' Firth said with a sneer.

‘It's a free country,' Harry said. ‘I drink with whoever I want.'

Lenny had not turned to face the police inspector, but slouched over the glass of beer on the counter before him.

‘Your lucky day, Griffiths,' Firth said. ‘I have come to ask Lenny here to accompany me down to Phillip Street. I might just be coming back for you too, and then your chum Duffy won't be able to protect you.'

‘What you want me for?' Lenny asked in a sullen tone.

Firth reached out and grabbed Lenny by the hair, dragging him from his stool. The man hit the hard floor with a sickening thud.

‘Resisting arrest for a start,' Jack said, pulling Lenny to his feet. ‘Then a few questions about the stinking corpse of one of your ladies.'

The constables looked uncomfortable but obviously knew better than to protest Firth's rough method of arrest. Lenny was frogmarched out onto the street with Jack Firth following.

When the police left, the talk in the public bar started up again, although it was subdued now, as though no one wanted to draw attention to themselves.

The barman idled over to Harry. ‘I'd keep my head down, Harry, if I were you,' he said quietly. ‘I heard tell that bastard is gunning for you. I'd take his threat seriously and make yourself scarce.'

‘Yeah, I might do that,' Harry said, swallowing the last of his lemon squash. ‘But Firth will have to be up early if he thinks he is going to take me down. I might just get him first.'

Harry left the pub and made his way home. He was worried now. He had seen the look in Firth's eyes. The same cold look men had after the terrible stress of hand-to-hand combat. It was the look of death.

4

C
aptain Matthew Duffy sat at the tiny table in his tent, finishing a letter to his mother, Kate Tracy. He did so with some guilt as he was not a very good letter writer, and he preferred that she did not know what life was really like for him flying the dangerous skies of Palestine. He could not tell her how sometimes the strain got so bad that he would be physically sick before he flew missions deep into enemy territory, or that he sometimes had trouble controlling his shaking hands. Publicly, he and the other pilots in the fighter squadron played the game of not feeling any fear, but in private their bodies shook and their nightmares made them shout out their fears into the desert nights.

Matthew finished the letter and placed it in an envelope. Censorship was not applied to officers but he had nothing to censor anyway. It was an only partially true monologue of good times and bad food. He gazed out the flap of his tent at the flat, treeless horizon. The afternoon's briefing to the aircrews of his squadron had not raised morale. They had strafed the railway station of Amman and destroyed a bridge in the north, but the Turkish engineers had repaired the line so their supply trains were running once again. It also seemed the enemy airfield over at Jenin had been expanded to seventeen hangars, and fourteen aircraft had been counted on the airstrip.

Everyone at the briefing was aware what it all meant; that they would have to return to the dangerous, low-level bombing missions where there was a good chance of being shot down by an enemy plane or ground fire.

Matthew stood up from the table, ready to head to the officers' mess, when he realised someone was standing at the tent's entrance. The strongly built, bearded man was wearing the traditional garb of an Arab irregular.

‘Saul, you old bastard,' Matthew cried, stepped over to embrace the man he could have called brother. ‘What's it been . . . a year?'

Saul Rosenblum was not actually an Arab irregular serving in the cause of Colonel Lawrence, he was just dressed that way to pass in these lands. He was a former Australian cattleman with Jewish ancestry who had enlisted to fight in South Africa eighteen years earlier; he had deserted the army in the name of love, and eventually found himself on a
moshava
in Palestine where he had rapidly risen to be one of the leaders. His military expertise had saved his community on more than one occasion, and his two sons were also learning to protect their small community against their hostile Arab neighbours. Both Matthew and Saul had served together at the battle for Elands River in South Africa and had become firm friends. They had met up again when Matthew had been posted to flying missions in this part of the world and it was through Saul that Matthew had met Joanne Barrington. Saul was older than Matthew by around ten years and time had added a few pounds to his girth.

‘Ah, Matthew, how are you, old son?' Saul said, staring into Matthew's face and smiling broadly. ‘I hear that you've now shot down four enemy aircraft. One more will make you an ace.'

‘How in hell did you know that?' Matthew asked.

Saul tapped the side of his nose. ‘That you should ask me such a question,' he said with an all-knowing arch of his eyebrows.

‘Come, have a seat,' Matthew said, dragging across a camp stool and unfolding it. ‘Tell me, how is your family?'

‘They're all well. And we are all still grateful to you for saving our village.'

‘I didn't do much,' Matthew said, waving away his involvement in the British-sanctioned operation to destroy a radical Arab leader and his followers. ‘You and Joanne took all the risks.'

‘Ah, it is interesting that you should mention Miss Barrington's name. I am not sure if you are aware, but she has returned to this part of the world.'

Saul's news gave Matthew a jolt like an electric shock. For a moment he was at a loss for words.

‘I see from your reaction that you were not aware of this,' Saul continued gently. ‘She is in Cairo working with the British. I saw her when I was there on a matter for the British army.'

‘How is she?' Matthew said finally. ‘Is she well?'

‘She is, although I think she feels torn between her work and her role as a mother,' Saul answered. ‘She has twins, a boy and a girl.'

‘Tell me, old friend, do you know their names?' Matthew asked eagerly. ‘Did she bring them with her?'

‘Your son is named James and your daughter is Olivia,' Saul replied with a gentle smile. ‘As far as I know they are doing well in the care of their grandfather in New Hampshire. He is a man of great wealth and influence.'

‘I know,' Matthew answered glumly; he suspected that Joanne's father had forbidden her to communicate with him. Matthew was not the sort of man he would approve of – a Catholic of Irish descent, and from Australia to boot. That didn't quite fit with the upper-class Protestant world of the Barringtons.

‘I spoke with Joanne when I attended a meeting with a British Foreign Office agent in Cairo,' Saul continued. ‘I think she was as surprised to see me as I was to see her. She asked after you, whether you were still alive. I told her that as far as I knew then, you were still alive and flying our skies.'

‘When the war's over,' Matthew said quietly, ‘I'm going to see my children.'

‘You have to survive first,' Saul sighed. ‘You can't afford to let your heart rule your head until this is all over, my friend.'

Matthew knew Saul was right. He couldn't afford to be distracted while he was flying; a momentary slip of focus could get him killed. But that wouldn't stop him thinking of ways to find Joanne when he wasn't flying. He was due for leave soon and he'd take it in Egypt. With any luck, Joanne would still be there.

‘So what are you doing here, Saul?' Matthew asked, changing the subject.

‘I'm going north with a small detachment of my men to carry out an independent recon of the Ottoman positions,' Saul replied. ‘The desert wind told me you were here and I thought I would pay you a visit on the way.'

‘I'm glad you did, old friend. Now, how about a drink?' Matthew was about to break into his precious stock of whisky when one of his ground crew put his head around the tent entrance.

‘Er, ah, sir,' the lance corporal said, eyeing Saul nervously. ‘The boss is calling all pilots for a briefing on a mission you have to fly before sunset.'

Matthew thanked the man and rose from his chair. ‘Looks like we'll have to have that drink another time,' he said, gripping Saul's hand in his own. ‘It's been so good to see you again, old cobber. Take care.'

‘You, too,' Saul said. ‘My Arab friends have a saying I like –
Inshallah
, if it is God's will. I pray that it's His will to keep you safe.'

Matthew nodded, then strode over to the operations briefing tent. He could see the other pilots making their way towards the briefing and he wondered if they were feeling the same dread as he was. It seemed even worse to know that if he died James and Olivia would never know their father. He had so much to live for and yet he knew the odds were not good that he would get out of this war alive.

As his fighter plane rose into the shimmering afternoon sky Matthew looked over to his right. A younger, new pilot was flying on his right flank; off to his left was an experienced pilot who had been transferred from another squadron. He was glad to have two other aircraft under his command on this mission. They were all flying Nieuports and had been briefed to reconnoitre an area where Turkish troops were mustering. The area they were flying over was an endless sea of craggy hills and deep sandy ravines devoid of any sign of human habitation. It was not a good region to be shot down over and Matthew had to work to keep down the bile that wanted to rise into his throat.

With any luck they would not encounter enemy aircraft and the patrol would prove to be uneventful. The experienced pilot had been tasked with taking photographs of anything of interest while Matthew and the new pilot were flying protection.

Matthew tried not to think about Joanne, but his thoughts kept returning to her. What was she doing in Cairo? In whose care had she left James and Olivia? What did they look like? The rapid tap tap of something hitting his right wing snapped Matthew from his thoughts when he realised that his aircraft was being hit by bullets fired from behind. He jerked his head as far around as he could, only to be blinded by the fiery ball of the sun. He caught a fleeting glimpse of an Albatros fighter on his tail. Yanking on his controls Matthew flung his little fighter plane into a dive to get out of the gun sights of his enemy. As he did so he was horrified to see that the new pilot had taken a full blast of machine-gun bullets through the fuselage of his plane, which was already trailing smoke and going into a spin. Jesus, the pilot wasn't much more than a kid.

Matthew cursed himself for allowing the flight he was leading to fall into an ambush. There was no time for regrets, though; the pursuing enemy fighter was even now coming back at him. Matthew levelled off and started climbing to five thousand feet. When he glanced around he could see that there only seemed to be two enemy aircraft attacking them and the experienced pilot had already engaged one of them in a snarling dogfight. Below, a black pillar of smoke rose from the side of one of the desert hills where the new pilot had crashed in a ball of fire.

The pilot's fate distracted Matthew for only a moment, but already the enemy pilot had manoeuvred into a position on his six o'clock rear and its twin machine-guns were blazing, tearing away at the wings of the fragile Nieuport. Matthew immediately noticed that his controls were sluggish and he knew it was over. The other man was bloody good, he thought bitterly, desperately seeking out a ravine flat and wide enough to bring down his near crippled aircraft.

With great effort he was able to turn and bring his plane down low between two set of hills in a promising wide, flat ravine. The Albatros overshot him when he pulled away and then went into a tight turn to swoop down and finish him off. This was not the first time Matthew had been shot down and he prayed that the luck of the Irish was still with him. The sandy bottom of the ravine was coming up fast and he pulled back on the stick to lift the nose. Already the engine had cut out, and his aircraft touched the ravine, bumped and flipped over as the wheels bit into the soft earth.

He felt the sharp jerk on his harness and his head snapped back as the aircraft tipped forward. The last time he had been shot down his adversary had spared him, but this pilot had no such sympathy for his defeated enemy. Instead, a long string of bullets ripped through the crippled aircraft. Matthew knew he had to get out quickly. He unbuckled his harness and snatched up the water bottle and packet of sandwiches his ground crew had given him before he took off.

There was an ominous silence broken only by the drone of aircraft overhead and the crackle of flames.
Fire!
Matthew thought. His plane was on fire, he had to get out right now. He hauled himself out of the cockpit and over the side, and fell about ten feet to the sand below just as more bullets stitched his downed Nieuport. His adversary was ensuring that the aircraft was well and truly destroyed so he could count it as a certain kill. As Matthew lay winded on the ground he realised that he had been wounded; his arm as was bleeding profusely. He could barely catch his breath but he knew he had to move, to get away from his aircraft. He began crawling as fast as he could, and just then the crackling turned into a whoosh of flames.

He crawled on, ignoring the pain in his arm and the constriction in his chest. When he was far enough away to be safe, he rolled over onto his back to see that there were only two aircraft left in the blue sky. Their rolling dogfight took them westwards and soon the sound of the aircraft faded and was also gone, leaving Matthew alone in the wilderness.

He knew that he was a long way from help and probably in territory patrolled by the Turks; all he had with him was his revolver with six rounds, a crumpled packet of cheese and cucumber sandwiches and a battered metal water bottle. His bleeding was controllable and Matthew realised that the round must have ripped down his arm, opening the flesh. An inch or two to one side would have shattered his arm, so he gave thanks for small mercies, despite the fact his back ached and his neck felt stiff.

As his downed aircraft continued to burn and send a black pillar of oily smoke into the cloudless sky Matthew took stock of his situation. He did not know whether his surviving pilot had made it back to the squadron's airstrip to raise the alarm. His colleague's plane had disappeared behind hills and what happened after that was in the hands of the desert gods.

He realised that his photograph of Joanne would have been destroyed in the fire, and for some reason he regretted the loss of her image more than his being shot down.

The sun was already setting low over the hills and the long shadows of night crept across the ravine. Matthew was grateful for his heavy fleece-lined leather jacket as the night would be bitterly cold.

‘Well, old boy,' Matthew said aloud. ‘Time to walk home.'

In his pocket he kept a prismatic compass and now he used it to locate the cardinal points of north and south. He knew that he must walk west to find the more fertile lands nearer the Jordan River, where Arab shepherds grazed their goats and ploughed the fields. He made a quick mental calculation from his last known coordinates and reckoned that he was about forty miles east of the ancient river. Between himself and possible salvation lay a long stretch of rugged hills and ravines. There was always the possibility of Turkish patrols and treacherous bandits who were known to kill and rob Allied servicemen.

Matthew began to trek west, climbing the crumbling face of a steep hill only to reach the top and find another, more narrow ravine ahead of him. The sun was now on the horizon and Matthew decided to make camp where he had a good view of the region around him. He had no material for a fire, so, using his bowie knife, he dug out a shallow ditch, big enough to allow him a relatively comfortable bed for the night.