Into the Dark Night, Falling

By Patrick Ford

This is the story of the original Jack Riordan, uncle of the Jack Riordan of Drowning in Her Eyes and The House that Jack Built. He grows up in a sleepy country town and joins the air force during the Second World War. He trains and travels to England, where he becomes a bomber pilot. He is reported missing on operations, and presumed dead, his body never recovered. But the story is not that simple. He is shot down into the North Sea and he and two of his crew survive to be rescued by Dutch fishermen. They get him ashore and feed them into the escape network for downed fliers. There Jack meets Dominique, a French girl who is part of the resistance. They fall in love and stay together, fighting the Germans, until Jack is taken prisoner by the SS just before the liberation of Paris. He does not know that Dominique has fallen pregnant and he never knows, for he is executed by the Germans. After the war, Dominique searches for him without success. Finally, after her death, their daughter, Vivienne, becomes obsessed with finding her lost fathers last resting place. After much research she does find him. He had been buried wearing another mans identity discs. Vivienne travels to Australia to find her unknown relatives, and in the process she finds a love of her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Nov 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493104291

Patrick Ford

Patrick has had an interesting life – student, soldier, farmer, accountant, teacher. He is widely travelled and loves history. His wide experiences have given him deep well of knowledge from which to draw inspiration for his stories. He writes from his home in rural Queensland and produces what Aussies call “a bloody good yarn”.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Patrick Ford.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4931-0428-4

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4931-0429-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 09/20/2013

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Contents

A Boy from the Bush

Dominique

Learning

Catastrophe

England

Fighting Back

Fine Tuning

Running the Line

Operations

Treachery

Berlin

Le Canard Malade

Too Bloody Far to Swim

Running

Death of a Traitor

Paris

The Forest

Such Sweet Sorrow

Learning to Live Again

Blind Alleys

Searching

Coming Home

Epilogue

To the dead of Bomber Command.

History did not treat you well.

Your political masters ignored your sacrifice

‘Tho you made victory possible.

Your old comrades are mostly gone now

Only your families remember and

Honour you.

A Boy from the Bush

Waverley Cemetery, Sydney, Australia: 1927

The view from the cliff top was splendid. The sparkling blue waters of the Pacific Ocean stretched all the way to the eastern horizon. To the north towards South Head, the white beaches of Bronte and Tamarama were bright crescents against the blue water.

It was warm in the sun, dressed in the tight black mourning suit, and John Allen Riordan (known as ‘young Jack’ to all and sundry) wished he was on one of those beaches; funerals were not much fun for seven year old boys at any time, and this one, for an uncle he hardly knew, was even less fun.

It was pure happenstance that the family was in Sydney on one of their rare visits to their cousins. Jack did not even know most of them. He stood with his parents, Ted and Edna, along with his four brothers and two sisters, thinking about all those things that occupied the minds of seven year old boys.

His immediate thoughts were of the wake to follow. There would be exciting food and drink he rarely experienced in his simple bush life in the small town of Goondiwindi up in Queensland, a two day train trip from here.

There was the prospect of getting out of this uncomfortable suit, a hand-me-down from one of his three elder brothers, but mostly, he wanted to be on the train north, heading home.

There was the sound of martial music and a small band led the cortege into the cemetery. Behind the band, prancing and tossing their heads came four bay horses, ‘Walers’ as the Australian Stockhorse was known, ridden by old comrades of his uncle.

One of these men was his uncle’s brother, Bill. The others had served with his uncle, George Riordan, in Palestine with the 7th Light Horse. They wore their Light Horse uniforms and their campaign medals, and on their heads the famous Australian slouch hat, bearing a spray of emu feathers.

Uncle George’s coffin was borne on a gun carriage, and on the lid were his medals and his slouch hat. George had been twice decorated for bravery and mentioned in despatches. He was the much discussed hero of the family. Now he was carried to his rest, the victim of an untimely heart attack. He had been only forty-two years old.

Jack started to take an interest in all this military activity. There was a speech from Colonel someone or other, a volley of rifle shots was fired, and the ‘Last Post’ was played by a lone bugler. It is a poignant, sad, melancholy tune, but somehow, it lifts the human spirit. After the funeral, he asked his father to tell him more about the uncle he had hardly known, about what he had done in the war against the Turks.

Ted said there might be a book about somewhere. His uncle Bill, who had been at George’s side all through the campaign, took him aside into the drawing room, where he unearthed a small, slim volume entitled ‘The 7th Light Horse Regiment 1914-1919’.

Here you are young Jack, he said, take this home with you. It’ll tell you all you need to know. See you look after it, mind, and I’ll collect it on my next visit north. Uncle Bill did not get to Goondiwindi all that often, so Jack knew he would have plenty of time to read the book. He thanked his uncle profusely. Next day they all boarded the train at Central Station to begin the long trip north.

Near Talwood, Qld, Australia: 1928

Jack watched as his father Ted urged his bullock team on. They were harnessed and chained to a large Cypress pine tree trunk, dragging it up to the dolly that fed the logs into the screaming saw of the timber mill. His older brother Patrick (Paddy) fed the logs into the mill, cutting them into long baulks of timber.

The other brothers, Jim and Eddie worked at stacking the timber or out in the forest, felling, trimming, and de-barking the logs. It was hard, dirty work.

Ted had toiled on this work for many years. Finally, he had prospered. This portable mill would soon be shut down and back in Goondiwindi preparations had begun for the construction of a permanent saw mill. There would be staff to employ, and the retirement of the bullock team. He had ordered two new trucks to cart the logs to town.

Jack had come to the mill with his mother, on a regular trip to deliver provisions to the camp. He was not really interested in the sawdust, sweat, and hard work of the timber business, but he loved mechanical things, and he was fascinated by the wheezing steam traction engine that drove the machinery.

He loved to gaze at the glistening piston rods and the spinning orbs of the governor. Sometimes Paddy would let him oil some parts and feed wood into the boiler fire.

Jack had read the book his uncle Bill had loaned him. He had not understood much about the war before, but now he was familiar with some of it. He was struck by the hardships that the men and their horses suffered, and the bond between horse and man that went beyond the understanding of anyone who had not been there.

He read of the actions that had earned his uncle his decorations, and was filled with pride that his family had contributed so much to victory, including the death in action of another uncle, Frank Riordan, who had perished at Beersheba. He thought he might be a soldier when he grew up. It sounded like a lot of fun.

Goondiwindi, Qld, Australia: 1938

Jack, along with his brothers, carried their father’s casket from the church. Ted had died from cancer. He was only fifty-five years old, but years of hard work and pipe smoking had aged him prematurely. He had been ill for some time, so his death had not come as a surprise.

Things had been going well for the Riordan family. They were not rich, but between Ted and his sons they had laid the foundations for the future. They had invested in 5,000 acres of good land, had begun a building supplies store, and a bottling plant for carbonated soft drinks. Things were looking bright.

Paddy and his brothers were not so sure about that.

From far away in Europe, news bulletins were reporting the startling events surrounding the activities of Chancellor Hitler. Germany had invaded Austria and added it to the Reich. Now Hitler was demanding that Czechoslovakia be handed over as well.

They heard of the back-down by the British and French; many feared another war. Some people even applauded Hitler, seeing him as a defence against the spread of communism.

It was only a foretaste of the chaos to come. The Riordan brothers discussed it at length. Jim and Paddy were already married and Jim had a daughter. Paddy had settled on the property that he had named ‘Ballinrobe’ after the town in Ireland from whence the family had come.

Somebody has to stay here to look after ‘Ballinrobe’ and the saw mill, said Jim, besides men with families shouldn’t have to go. Paddy said, I suppose that they won’t let me go anyway. They will need me to grow the wool for their uniforms. It gets bloody cold in Europe, so I’m told.

Their mother was fearful that they would be taken by the army. She didn’t like the idea. Those Germans always were trouble makers, she said, But the British haven’t done us Irish any favours either.

But we’re not Irish now, Mum, said Roy, the youngest, we will have to go if there is a war but at least I won’t have to go for a few years." Roy was only fifteen years old.

Jack had joined the local militia two years before.

He had remained interested in military matters, and was proud to serve as a light horseman as his uncles had done before him. He also retained his love of machinery and was hoping that the horses would be replaced by armoured vehicles before too long.

He was a particular mate of his brother Paddy. He spent many happy hours at ‘Ballinrobe’ with him and his wife Helen. Paddy was happy to have him there for he had become a very good bush mechanic and Paddy soon put him to work maintaining the shearing machinery and the electricity generating plant, as well as the station truck. In 1938, skilled mechanics were few and far between in the bush.

Jack had attended the primary school in Goondiwindi. He showed a better than average intelligence, and had done well with his studies, particularly mathematics. In a later and more prosperous time he would have found himself at a university studying engineering, but, in the closing stages of the great depression, there was no money for such things. Jack had been working in the family business since he had left school at the age of twelve.

Dominique

Ville St-Michel, near Bergerac, France: 1938

Dominique Lemaitre celebrated her sixteenth birthday with a small family gathering at Clement’s Restaurant in Bergerac, not far from their small village of St-Michel, on the day Hitler swallowed Czechoslovakia. But not even this could put a dampener on the event. Dominique was so happy knowing she would not have to go to school anymore.

She was a slender girl with long dark hair and an almost Mediterranean appearance, not so rare in this part of France. She had large brown eyes and a mischievous smile and she had captivated many of the boys at her school, but she was only interested in one man, the local Docteur, Leon Maigrait. He was ten years older than her, and had not shown any interest in her, except as a physician, but hope springs eternal, and she knew it was only a matter of time.

Today her mother had given her a very special present, away from male eyes, a silk camisole, and several pairs of silk stockings. She was told only to wear these on special occasions. She was not to know that they were the only silk stockings she would ever own.

In her village, most of the inhabitants had never ventured more than ten kilometres from their homes. There was a bus to Bergerac, but few people could afford the francs required for the fare. However some had travelled. Marcel, the Postmaster, had spent some time in French Morocco and there were several veterans of the Great War, including Dominique’s Grandfather. He was very concerned that there would be another war, one that would swallow up another generation of young men like the horror he had endured.

Here, in 1938, village life was quiet. Dominique had been born in the house she still lived in. She thought that nothing had changed in her sixteen years since. There was a small weekly market, where the good citizens of St-Michel purchased their family’s needs. There was a small café, a boulangerie, and a pharmacie. A bar à vin provided a refuge for the menfolk.

Dominique delighted in wandering in the village market. The rows of geese, ducks, pigs and rabbits hanging in their gauze protection from clouds of flies was unattractive, but she loved the cheeses, wines, and vegetables on display. There was a small stream meandering through the village. Years ago there had been a mill and the abandoned buildings were a wonderful place for children to play.

All the mothers of the village constantly forbade their children to go there, because of the dangers of the swift running mill stream, but no child could resist such an exciting place.

She had heard of the treaty of Versailles but knew very little of it. Her father tried to explain the war to her. She could not conceive of the terrible things he told her, of the millions of dead, of the awful destruction.

"Is that what Grand-père had to do?" she had asked. She could not envision such a gentle old man sticking a bayonet into anyone, not even a German.

She did not know how much death and destruction she would see in the coming years, and the part she would play in it.

Le Café du Chat Vert, St-Michel, France: 1938

Dominique had asked the proprietor of the café for some work as a waitress. She had also asked her father if she could travel to Bergerac on the bus five days a week to study at the École de commerce. It would be her only chance to acquire some skills to get her out of the village.

Otherwise, marriage and motherhood would commit her to the life of drudgery she had seen her mother endure. She did not want that.

Surprisingly, her father had agreed. She would begin her study in January 1939. Meanwhile, she waited on tables at Le Chat Vert to save some francs for her education and bus fare. She dreamed of being a Secrétaire to the manager of a large company, to live in Paris in a fancy apartment overlooking the river Seine.

Plenty of men tried to woo her at the Café but she rejected them all. She was only interested in one man, the Docteur Maigrait. One morning, the other waitresses came to Le Café du Chat Vert with some delicious gossip. The Docteur’s wife had packed her bags and left for her parents’ house in Lyon. She did not intend to return.

Two weeks later, the Docteur came to the café and sat at one of the tables. He ordered coffee and sat reading a newspaper. Dominique served him his coffee. As she turned to leave, he placed his hand on her arm. A moment, he said, Are you Dominique Lemaitre?

"Oui," she said.

You have grown into a fine young woman, my dear he said. Do you have a young man?

Dominique knew she should not get caught up in conversations with customers, but she was so overwhelmed by the chance to talk to the Docteur, that she disregarded all that. "Non," she replied.

Ah, a great pity for one as beautiful as you. You should be enjoying your youth, my dear, not being lonely like me. Since my wife left, I have been quite distraught. Would it be possible for you to share a bottle of wine with me this evening? We would have plenty to talk about, I’m sure.

"Docteur, I could not. I am far too young for that. My father would not approve. Oh well, I shall have to spend my evening in solitude, au revoir." Maigrait continued to visit Le Café du Chat Vert. He continued to ask Dominique to come to his house for wine. She was completely besotted.

Soon she imagined herself in the Docteur’s arms. She saw herself becoming his wife. He was rich; it was an attractive thought for this poor young woman.

Finally, one day, she agreed to his suggestion. Do not fear, my dear, he said, it is quite safe. My housekeeper will be there to chaperone us. Your virtue is assured.

Dominique felt a stirring she had not experienced before. She was not at all certain that she wanted her virtue to remain intact. After all, if he were to marry her, it would not matter anyway.

That night, she wore her silk stockings and her best dress. Her father was still at the bar and her mother was gossiping over the back fence. She slipped out of the house unnoticed. In a few minutes she was knocking on the Docteur’s front door. To her surprise, he opened the door himself. Come in my dear, he said, I am afraid that my housekeeper is delayed. No matter, come into the parlour.

He quickly uncorked a bottle of red wine. What do you like? he said. "This is a fine Bordeaux, but perhaps you would