Beyond the Horizon (6 page)

As darkness enveloped the arid land, Matthew could hear the yip of a jackal in the distance. The cold was bitter and he barely slept. At some time in the night he rose to urinate and saw a distinct glow just beyond the next line of ridges. Maybe a camp of Bedouins, he thought; he would head in that direction when the sun rose.

In the morning Matthew‘s back and neck were still stiff and sore but the bleeding on his arm had congealed. He removed the wax paper from the two sandwiches and took his time eating one of the soggy cheese and cucumber sandwiches before carefully rewrapping the second. He drank two small mouthfuls of water, then removed his flying jacket, placed it over his head as shelter from the sun and began walking.

By midmorning Matthew had reached the top of the next ridge and he paused to get his breath, swig a mouthful of water and gaze down into the flat, wide ravine below.

‘Bloody hell!' he exclaimed. There was an Albatros fighter plane down there. Matthew suspected it was the one that had shot down his own aircraft which, in turn, must have been shot down by the other pilot on Matthew's mission. It must have been the burning plane he'd seen last night, not a Bedouin camp. Matthew scanned the area around the burnt-out German aircraft but could see no signs of the pilot. Satisfied, he made his way down the steep ravine to the wrecked aircraft and walked cautiously towards it.

‘Do not move, Englisher, or I will shoot you,' said a voice from Matthew's left. He froze, then slowly turned to see a German pilot propped up against a rock, obviously badly wounded. Matthew stared at the man; both his hands were empty. Matthew had to admire his bravado. He could see that both the man's legs were badly smashed and his face was covered in blood. Matthew crouched down beside him and realised that he was barely in his twenties.

‘You speak English?' he asked and the German grimaced. ‘
Ja.
A little,' he gasped.

‘I speak a little German,' Matthew replied in that language, surprising the wounded German flyer. German had always been spoken in Matthew's family, they had family in Germany. ‘Can I offer you some water?' The German pilot nodded once, his face twisted in pain.

Matthew took out his water canteen and poured a capful into the German's mouth.

‘Thank you, my friend,' the pilot said. ‘I am Oberleutnant Christian Lang.'

‘Captain Matthew Duffy, Australian Flying Corps,' Matthew said. ‘Who shot you down?'

‘Your comrade. There was only two of us left in the air when I was hit,' Lang answered. ‘Who shot you down?'

‘You did.'

Lang stared into Matthew's face with a look of sympathy. ‘It is the way of war that enemies must kill each other. I know that my injuries will kill me and I hope that you will deliver the coup de grâce to release me from this terrible pain.'

‘I suppose, considering I have the only weapon between us, you are officially my prisoner and therefore, under the terms of the Geneva Convention, I cannot execute you unless you attempt to escape.'

Lang tried to laugh at the ridiculous notion of him attempting to escape but he coughed and bent over in pain. It was then that Matthew noticed something else. He gently opened Lang's leather jacket to see his entrails protruding from a tear to his lower abdomen.

‘God almighty,' Matthew groaned, carefully securing the front of the jacket to retain the bulging mound.

‘I know, my friend,' Lang said through gritted teeth. ‘It would be merciful for you shoot me now.'

‘We might get found by one of our flights,' Matthew said. ‘Either yours or mine.'

‘Do you believe that?' Lang said. ‘I think that we have both been posted as missing in action. The front moves on, and if you remain here with me, nothing but our bones will be found.'

Matthew sat back. Lang was right. He did not have enough water to keep them both alive, and remaining with the badly wounded man could cost him his own life. ‘How about I stick around until tomorrow morning?' Matthew compromised. ‘See if any of our brothers in arms come looking for us.'

‘You are a fool, Captain Duffy,' Lang said. ‘But I thank you. I do not wish to die alone in this godforsaken place.'

Matthew knew that Lang's life was measured in hours rather than days. His skin was pale and damp with sweat, and his eyes had a feverish look. Even if they were rescued very soon, there was no chance of Lang recovering from such massive injuries.

The sun was fierce now and Matthew went about constructing a makeshift overhang with his jacket to protect the wounded man against the sun. Neither man spoke as the day passed; doing so was too painful for the wounded German. Eventually the sun set and Matthew took a swig of his water before pouring the remainder into the wounded man's mouth.

Lang took Matthew's hand. ‘You have used your precious water on a man you should have killed,' he gasped. ‘You are a good man.'

‘We'll get more,' Matthew said, although he didn't believe it. ‘Just close your eyes and get some sleep.'

Lang closed his eyes and when the sun was gone from the sky he slipped into a delirium, groaning and calling out for his mother. Matthew had wrapped the heavy leather jacket around Lang's body but he still shivered uncontrollably. Above, the night sky was a blaze of stars. Lang continued to cry out, but eventually his cries faded then stopped altogether, and Matthew was left alone beside the body of the man who had shot him down.

When the sun rose the next day Matthew laid out the body of the German flyer, crossing his arms across his chest. There was no sense in burying him as that would use up all Matthew's strength; he had to continue trekking west today. He went through the flyer's clothing and found a photograph of a pretty young blonde-haired woman nursing a serious-faced little boy on her lap. Matthew was lucky to find a map and fob watch in Lang's jacket and also papers identifying him. Should he survive, Matthew was determined to have the few personal possessions forwarded through the Red Cross to the mother Lang had cried out for in his final hours. He could at least give her consolation that he had not died alone.

The Australian flyer ate the last sandwich, now little more than smelly mush, and left the body of the German pilot not far from his downed aircraft. Then he gathered up his few possessions and walked on.

By late morning the sun was a searing ball of flame and even the hardy desert reptiles sought shade from it. Matthew trudged on, glad to have a bullet in his revolver to finish himself off if things became hopeless. Dying of thirst was a terrible, agonising death and by evening of that day he was seriously considering using the revolver to end his suffering.

5

J
oanne Barrington's father's vast banking fortune could buy just about anything, and it had secured her one of the best suites in the luxurious Cairo Shepheard's Hotel, where she had access to the magnificent Ezbekiyya Gardens and the Royal Opera House, both within a short walk. Cairo had been called Paris on the Nile and its landscape was dominated by elegant minaret spires, noisy street stalls, and tiny shops selling replicas of ancient Egyptian artefacts. Camels, donkeys and automobiles jostled side by side along the streets and narrow lanes.

Joanne was dressed in a long white cotton dress nipped at the waist. She wore a broad but elegant hat to ward off the sun, and as she entered the spacious marbled foyer of the hotel she undid the ribbons and took it off. It had been a long day of poring over maps of the crumbling Ottoman Empire in the company of other archaeologists, British military officers and tropical-suited men from the British Foreign Office.

The request for her services as a consultant on the drawing-up of postwar borders had come directly from the American president's office. Woodrow Wilson was concerned that the French and British intended to colonise the lands taken from the Ottomans in order to dominate the rich oilfields producing much of the world's crude. Not that the USA had much to fear for lack of oil, as discoveries in places like Texas had ensured that the rapidly expanding industrial base of the country had an adequate supply of the black gold. But it was rumoured that the ancient lands of Mesopotamia had even more reserves, to fuel a world requiring the precious energy source for the new oil-driven era. American intelligence concerning the British and French intentions appeared to indicate that those two countries wanted to corner the market, and the USA was not going to be left out of any such scheme.

Joanne's reputation as an archaeologist specialising in Mesopotamian history and culture had earned her a place on the team exploring where borders would be drawn so that the British and French could share the wealth of the conquered. Her inclusion on the team had caused some raised eyebrows among the British. A selected handful knew her dark reputation as a double agent for both Mr Churchill and Mr Wilson.

‘I have booked us for a six o'clock dinner at my hotel,' said a man at Joanne's elbow. He had been waiting for her in the lobby, reading a copy of the
London Times
. Joanne had spotted him as soon as she'd walked in.

Jonathan Myles was a handsome man in his thirties, with a touch of grey at his temples. His American accent bore traces of his time studying at Oxford.

‘Do you think the Brits have you under surveillance?' Jonathan asked.

‘I don't think so,' Joanne replied with a smile. ‘My relationship with Winnie ensures that the British military intelligence respect my privacy. The English like to think they're gentlemen, and it wouldn't be cricket to spy on an ally.'

Jonathan had been briefed by his department in Washington on Miss Joanne Barrington. She was an exceptional woman. He had been impressed that she had killed a German officer and two Turkish soldiers while working under the cover of her archaeological profession in the Sinai desert. He also knew that her father controlled a banking empire and was personal friends with Woodrow Wilson. When Joanne had become pregnant while working as an intelligence gatherer in Palestine, giving birth to twins and refusing to name the father, the scandal had been cleverly hidden by her father with a cover story of her British fiancé having been shot down over France. This was partly true, as she had once been engaged to a British aristocrat, killed in action while flying in French skies.

Jonathan Myles had to admit that it would not be hard to fall for this remarkable woman. And they would make a fine couple. He was of the right pedigree, Protestant, from a good family with a background in manufacturing. His family was doing very well out of military contracts, and it was expected that after his stint in the government's foreign affairs department he would return to take over the reins of the family's many companies. A union with the Barringtons, with their banking empire, could be highly profitable for both families.

‘I have reserved us a table overlooking the Nile,' Jonathan said quietly, aware that the foyer was filled with high-ranking British officers and British government officials. ‘The food is excellent and the breeze from the river makes the heat almost tolerable.'

Joanne nodded, deciding that it would be a good opportunity to debrief him on the British plans for a postwar Mesopotamia. However, she was astute enough to know that the American diplomat was attracted to her.

‘Did your enquiries regarding the Australian flyer's whereabouts bear any fruit?' she asked and she could see the shadow of annoyance cross Jonathan's patrician face.

‘Yes, Captain Duffy,' he frowned. ‘Apparently his plane was shot down a few days ago. He is presumed killed in action. It seems that another flyer with him did not see him escape from his burning aircraft after it crashed.'

Joanne tried to conceal her shock. Surely it couldn't be true? Matthew, missing presumed dead? She could hardly take it in.

She'd known it was foolish to make enquiries about Matthew, especially as she had promised her father that she would not try to contact the Australian airman again. She and her father had had a blazing row and he'd threatened to cut her off without a penny. She'd thought perhaps she could earn enough money to support herself, but she knew she wouldn't be able to support two children as well. She wanted James and Olivia to grow up with all the advantages wealth brought, and so she'd given in to her controlling father. She was glad in a way; Matthew had not replied to any of her letters and she'd started to feel a niggling, painful suspicion that his silence was an indication of his indifference.

James Barrington had arranged for a staff of nurses and servants to take care of the twins in Joanne's absence. She had been surprised to see how much her stern, unaffectionate father had taken to his grandchildren, despite their parentage. He'd been a doting grandfather from the moment he'd held the twins in his arms. She'd convinced herself she had made the right choice; but now, hearing about Matthew's death, she realised she'd been a coward. She should have stood up to her father and demanded that Matthew have contact with his children. Now it was too late.

‘Has his death been confirmed?' Joanne asked, trying to sound calm.

‘He went down in some godforsaken stretch of land. If he survived the crash, there's no chance he'd make it back safely. I'm sorry, but that's war.'

War
, Joanne thought bitterly, staring at Jonathan.
What would you know of war?
Jonathan had spent his war in the world's best hotels; he had no idea what it was like to fight, to risk your life for your country every single hour.

‘Will you excuse me,' she said. ‘I wish to retire to my rooms and rest. It has been a rather warm day and I have a headache.'

In her room Joanne flung herself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling fan. Outside she could hear the Moslem call to prayer, and the clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestones below. She couldn't hold back the tears any longer and she began to sob. Why had she given in to her father when Matthew was the only man she had truly loved; he had never left her heart or her thoughts.

The pregnancy had come as a shock to her as they had only shared one beautiful and passionate night together. At first she had kept the news to herself – lest she miscarry under the prison conditions – but her father's international influence, contacts and money had secured her freedom. When Joanne had arrived home her condition could not be hidden. Her father had concocted some story about her dead aristocratic fiancé and she had gone along with it. In war, such lapses of morality could be glossed over as unfortunate mistakes deserving of forgiveness. James Barrington knew of a score of eligible men who would gladly take her hand in wedlock and not question his cover story.

Joanne had thought she could forget Matthew, but when the twins were born she had realised that she would never be able to dismiss their father from her heart. She and Matthew had shared dangerous times and he had proved to be strong, funny and brave. She'd felt immensely sad that he would not reply to her letters, but she supposed that he may have forgotten her, maybe even have met someone else.

Then Woodrow Wilson had personally requested Joanne as the American agent for this mission. He knew of her work in Mesopotamia and thought her gender made her less obvious as a spy; she was also a darling of the British politician of some influence, Winston Churchill. Joanne had agonised over whether to accept the position; she felt heartbroken over leaving her little son and daughter, but she also knew that this was daily occurrence among the men being posted to the front. Her gender was no bar to her duty to her country. In the back of her mind she had also hoped that by getting to Egypt she would be that bit closer to Matthew, although she tried to tell herself that she would obey her father's orders and not make contact with him.

How could he be dead? She wondered whether he'd known about his son and daughter. She'd bumped into Matthew's close friend, Saul Rosenblum, one day and told him about the twins in the hope that he would see Matthew again and relay the news.

Joanne sat up, wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and swore at herself. It was not possible for the enemy to kill the man she loved. Captain Matthew Duffy, AFC. Until his body was produced she would not accept that he had been killed in action. Somehow she had to use every resource at her disposal to find him and express how much she had missed his slow smile and warm laughter.

It was the fourth day since Matthew's Nieuport had been shot down and he struggled to climb the next ridge. He'd seen desert birds swarm near sunset yesterday and had followed them to the remains of a slimy smear of water trickling from a natural spring. Now he was paying for quenching his thirst with bouts of vomiting and loose bowels. The cramping pain forced him to stop constantly and the dehydrating effects of the illness were starting to make him very weak. Matthew inched his way up the slope and eventually reached the top, only to look out on a scene identical to the one behind him: ravines and arid hills as far as the eye could see.

He lay down on the ground and gazed up into the sky, even now taking on the hues of evening. Then he saw it, and the sight of the great desert eagle circling overhead gave him a glimmer of hope. Surely it must be Wallarie, he thought. Wallarie had come to guide him to safety.

With great effort, Matthew pulled on his leather flying jacket to ward off the chill of the coming night and checked his revolver to ensure it had not clogged with sand. He held the pistol in his hands and considered ending his life again. Thirst was making him delirious and his sun-cracked lips and blistered skin told him how dry his body had become.

Goats! Matthew could smell goats on the gentle zephyr drifting from the west. He crawled to the edge of the ridge to gaze down into the ravine below, and saw a tiny flock of goats grazing on a patch of sparse grasses whitened by the dry air. A young boy was tending the flock, sitting on a rocky ledge. Maybe his camp was nearby, or maybe he even came from a village. Either way, they would have food and water.

Not wanting to frighten the shepherd boy, who he guessed was around ten years of age, Matthew stood and called softly, ‘Hey!'

The boy's head jerked around and he stared up in terror. Without hesitation he took flight, scattering the goats who bleated in protest at the disturbance.

‘Damn!' Matthew cursed. Maybe the boy thought he was one of the evil desert Jinns prevalent in Arabic folklore. At least the boy would tell those in his camp or village what he'd seen, and someone would have to return to gather the flock.

Matthew slumped to the earth and curled up. He hardly had the strength to pull the trigger of his pistol and he prayed that if he was found by the Bedouin that they would be on the side of the Allies against their Ottoman masters.

Matthew was woken by a sharp pain in his ribs. He blinked up at the fearsome sight of a great bearded man standing over him, prodding him with an ancient musket. The man was dressed in the flowing robes of a desert nomad, and Matthew could see that the man was not dressed as a leader, more as a wandering tribesman. The man held out a waterskin and Matthew took a few small sips, then nodded his thanks.

The man was not armed with a British-issue Lee Enfield, which made Matthew think that he was not associated with the Arab rebellion. He shouted something at Matthew and struck him sharply in the ribs again with the point of the barrel.

Matthew rose slowly – he was so weak he wasn't sure he could support his own weight. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Behind the man, Matthew could see around seven others dressed in a similar manner, and also the boy he had hailed yesterday evening.

‘Australian pilot,' Matthew said, using one hand to point at himself, but his gesture did not seem to raise any interest from the fierce-eyed men watching him. ‘Need food, water.'

The Arab with the musket pointed down the slope and prodded him in the back. Matthew guessed that he was being directed to some camp or village and was not reluctant to follow orders. Maybe he might find someone who could speak English and explain his position. He could promise financial reward for his care and release to his own forces.

It took only about an hour to march to an area in the ravine dotted with a few scraggly palm trees and a scattering of Bedouin tents, camels and horses. Matthew's entry into the camp was met with curious glances from behind heavy veils, and looks of interest from raggedly dressed children. He was taken to a stone well and more water was drawn for him. It had a brackish taste but seemed relatively clean and Matthew drank gratefully, careful not to take too much and make himself sick again. One of the men noticed his pistol and took it from him. Matthew did not resist – he did not have the strength – but he was aware he was virtually defenceless without his side arm. He was relieved of all other items he was carrying and even his leather jacket was taken. The man who had prodded him awake appeared to be the leader and Matthew saw him push forward a tired and ragged-looking man in his middle years.