Wherever the Wind Blows: The Jack Riordan Stories, #6

By Patrick Ford

Hans is an old soldier, a refugee from post-war Germany. Patrick Riordan befriends him and learns his story.

When the old man is arrested and charged with war crimes in the camps of occupied Poland. Patrick and his father, Jack, set off for Europe to find Hans's missing sister, who can prove his identity.

Meanwhile, the real criminal is living in Florida. He flees after being recognised by a camp survivor and goes to ground.

In Europe, a group of old Nazis try to stop Jack and Patrick finding the truth and exposing the real perpetrator. They send men to kill them and the missing sister they have discovered.

They have not bargained on a man like Jack Riordan, and their attempts fail, However, their actions bring them to the notice of the Mossad that had been hunting them since the war's end.

Will they save their friend, or will the real criminal be brought to Justice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Ford
• Release date: Sep 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386910077

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

Whither Blows the Wind

By Patrick Ford

Many remark Justice is blind.

Pity those in her sway, shocked to discover she is also deaf.

DAVID MAMET, Faustus

Although parts of this book are based on actual events, all characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 Patrick Michael Ford. All rights reserved.

THE RIORDANS OF BALLINROBE

JACK RIORDAN (1807-1867) & Harriett James

William John George Anne Daniel Richard Mary Harry Peter

HARRY RIORDAN (1855-1925) & Hannah O'Brien

EDWARD ('JACK') George William Fred

EDWARD (JACK) RIORDAN (1880-1938) & Ethel (‘Ettie') Wright

James PATRICK Harry Lillian John ('YOUNG JACK') Roy

JOHN (JACK) RIORDAN (1922-1944) & Dominique Lemaitre

Vivienne

PATRICK RIORDAN (1907-1964) & Helen Cook

JACK  Denni

JACK RIORDAN (1946-) & Susan Baker

Jacquie PATRICK Genevieve MICHAEL ('JACK')

PATRICK RIORDAN (1969-) & Mektilde Meltzer

Helen

MICHAEL ('JACK') RIORDAN (1978-) & Elsbeth Naumann

Contents

1 - A Strange Old Man

2 - Once There Were Flowers

3 - Cataclysm

4 - Strange Bedfellows

5 - Westward

6 - A Slice of Luck

7 - New Worlds

8 - The Old World Catches Up

9 - Into the Past

10 - Lost but not Forgotten

11 - South to North

12 - The Sudetenland

13 - Last Piece of the Puzzle

14 - Reunion

15 - Fate Lends a Hand

16 - Last Moves

17 - Truth Will Out

18 - Loose Ends

1 - A Strange Old Man

Goondiwindi, Queensland , Australia, Oct. 1980

Just after his twelfth birthday, Patrick Riordan saw the man for the first time. He was trudging along the dirt road running past his father’s property, ‘Ballinrobe’. The morning sun in October already had the feel of summer about it, raising a shimmering mirage from the hard-packed gravel of the road. Who’s that man, Dad? he said.

Jack Riordan smiled at his elder son and replied, Why, that’s old Herman the German, Let’s see if he wants a lift. He slowed and pulled his vintage Land Rover to the side of the road. Want a lift, mate? he asked. The old man stopped and looked them up and down. Old truck, he said. The Land Rover was Jack’s pride and joy. His father had purchased it in 1956, and it remained much as it had been then, an emotional link for Jack to his father, who had died when Jack was a teenager.

The man was wearing old work clothes and sported a few day’s growth of beard, but his boots were in excellent order, military style - army surplus most likely. A belt made from salvaged baler twine held up his old trousers, and he carried a burlap sugar bag over his shoulder. He jerked his head at the nearby farmland. You own?

That’s right, said Jack. I’m Jack Riordan, and this is my son Patrick.

"Ja, I haf seen the boy in the fields, driving dis old girl. He is not bad for a Junge. Spend a lot of time mit der rifle too. I vood like if he could spare me a fat rabbit or two. It might be change from corn beef."

You don’t have your own rifle? asked Jack.

He hesitated for a while before answering. He seemed disturbed. "Nein, he said, I not like guns. He climbed into the vehicle, crowding Patrick across the seats to his father’s side. How far you go?" he said.

Well, just down the road, but if you want to go to town, I’ll drive you there. It’s only ten miles and I can pick up a few bits and pieces I need. Save me a trip tomorrow.

You do that for me? he said. He looked surprised anybody would want to do him a good turn, but he didn’t know Jack well enough to know he was a generous-spirited man. Presently, he fumbled in his pockets and retrieved the makings, a round tin of honey-coloured Log Cabin tobacco that he fashioned into a cigarette. Smoke? he said to Jack. No thanks, mate. Never smoked in my life. You go ahead though.

Herman smoked in silence for a while, until the cigarette was down to within half an inch of his nicotine-stained fingers, then he butted it out and broke the remaining tobacco back into his tin. He looked about him, as if he had successfully concluded an important task, then he gazed at Patrick. "Vot you do mit life, boy? he said. Farm like you Papa?"

I guess so, replied Patrick. Perhaps the army for a while after I finish school. My Dad was a soldier; he was in Vietnam.

The old man looked disturbed again. "Nein. he said, not army, nein, nein! He continued to mumble away, and for a short while, he trembled. I not like guns," he said.

Later that evening, the Riordan family discussed Herman around the dinner table. I don’t know much about him, said Jack. He’s had a camp on the reserve near the river for a couple of years now. Sometimes he does a bit of casual work. Today I suppose he was going to town to stock up. It’s pension day. I think he drinks a bit. Everyone calls him Herman the German. One night when he was drunk, he was shouting out about Germany and Hitler; that’s how he got the name, I suppose.

Patrick said, He looked funny there today, as if he was mad.

His sister, Genevieve, said, He might be if he was at the war. It must have affected many people. I know a couple of kids whose Dads are a bit that way and they drink too much too.

Enough, said their mother. She had seen her fair share of worry about wars, when her husband and brother were in Vietnam; she didn’t like this kind of talk at all. I think you should keep away from him, Patrick. He could be dangerous.

He just wanted me to shoot him a rabbit, Patrick said. Dad says he lives in a tent and has only a pension. He could do with some company, I reckon. What do you think, Dad?

Jack deferred to Susan as he did when family matters arose. Shoot him one, Patrick, and I will go with you when you give it to him, but we shouldn’t make a habit of it. A few days later Jack and Patrick took a fat rabbit, skinned, and cleaned, on the short drive to the river where Herman had established his camp.

Jack had not been there before, save to drive past, and the cleanliness and order of the place surprised him. Jack had been a senior army officer, albeit a part-time one, and he recognised the military-like organisation at once. Looks as though he’s an old soldier after all, he mused. The tent was neat and straight, with a heavy rubberised fly and a small trench around it to keep it dry: a neat bedroll lay inside it. A ring of rocks contained the small campfire where coals smouldered, damped down, for they did not need it this warm October day. The old man sat on a crude stool fashioned from a tree stump; he was wearing old carpet slippers. Alongside the tent sat a pair of polished army boots. In contrast to the campsite, a couple of rose bushes, well cared for, loaded with flowers, grew near the tent.

He laid aside a book and a pair of wire-framed spectacles as the Riordans drove up. Then he put a quietening hand on the head of an old dog. "Guten Tag, mister, he said. Then his eyes lit up at the sight of Patrick’s package. You haf rabbit for me?"

Here you go, said Patrick. One nice juicy rabbit. Do you have a pan for cooking it? If you don’t, I’m sure we could lend you one.

The old man waved his hand towards the tent. "Ja. I haf der pot für der cooking. I vill eat vell today, Danke! He pointed to a log nearby, indicating for them to sit, and then he took out his tobacco tin and rolled a cigarette, raising an eyebrow to Jack as if offering him a smoke as well. Then he shook his head. I forget. You no smoke. The cigarette was his only offering to his visitors. They sat for a long time in silence, while he smoked his cigarette down to a stump and then completed his brief ceremony of returning the unsmoked shreds of tobacco to his tin. After an interval, he said, Forgive, I haf not the good manner. You vont kaffe?"

He had a smoke-blackened and old-fashioned coffeepot sitting beside the fire. For most Australians of the time, coffee was something you indulged in at a coffee shop; at home, most drank tea. The Riordans were different. Susan was an American, and Jack had spent a lot of time with Americans. They were familiar with those addictive roasted beans. Jack shook his head. We have to be going now. Enjoy your rabbit. I’ll see if we can get you another soon. He did not miss the slight expression of relief on the old man’s face as they drove away.

LATER, AT THEIR SPECIAL ‘thinking place’, Jack and Susan discussed the visit to Herman the German. The ‘thinking place’ lay in a grove of pine trees near a stock watering trough. It had a special significance for four generations of the family, a place where they could renew their spiritual attachment to their land and ponder special problems. Jack said, Susan, I think your opinion of the old man is wrong. He seems harmless enough to me, and grateful for the gift of the rabbit. He’s more than meets the eye too, I think.

How so, darling? Susan snuggled closer to her Jack. He loved the unrestrained affection she always paid him. It had been ever thus.

Well, to start, he must have been a soldier. His boots are spit and polished and his camp spotless with everything squared away. He is also a reader, and not the cheap fiction you might think. I’m sure the book he had was a classic, leather bound, and I think written in French. Also, he had a pair of rose bushes near his tent. They are almost as good as my mother's.

Susan took this in. I don’t know about French, isn’t he a German? Then she answered her own question. I guess it could have been. Europeans speak a few different languages, usually. Need to, I suppose, living amongst all the other countries. Still, her mother’s protective instincts prevailed. It could quite disturb him, the war, with no family to go back to. His family is dead probably hence his status here. Australia had taken many displaced Europeans after the conflict, Greeks, Italians, Yugoslavs, Dutch, Balts, Poles and Germans. Mostly, they had become good citizens amongst the egalitarian and tolerant locals. I still worry he might tip over the edge or something. Jack thought she was over-cautious, but he was willing to defer to her opinion. After all, circumstances rarely proved her wrong about her instincts, but they decided maybe they could continue to take the old man some provisions, a rabbit, a leg of lamb from their own flock, some fresh-baked biscuits. Susan was a kind and caring person and pitied the lonely old soldier.

IN CONTRAST, THE OLD man fascinated Patrick. Patrick’s great-uncle Jack had lost his life in the skies over Germany in 1944. He had been missing for many years, without explanation for his disappearance. The same conflict this old man had endured had swallowed him up with millions more. Like his parents, Patrick was cultivating a passionate interest in history. Therefore, he continued to visit the camp by himself, taking small gifts of food and books to the old man. The adults found him harder to talk to than Patrick did, and Patrick learnt he had no family. The old man had come to Australia as a displaced person in 1948, worked in logging camps, gaining permanent residence. He had drifted about, before grounding himself here, on the banks of a small river in rural Queensland. He liked it here, he said, and he stayed.

For the rest of the summer, Patrick continued to visit the old man, with his mother's blessing, and the trust between them continued to grow. At Christmas, they invited him to the house to have Christmas dinner, but he refused. Indeed, he seemed almost frightened to go. Christmas Day was always a big family day at ‘Ballinrobe’. Susan thought he might not like crowds, so she sent Patrick with a large plate of ham and salad, and some cold bottles of beer, received with gratitude.

Patrick had to go away to school at the end of January, and he made a last visit to his strange acquaintance. Just a week ago, the man had revealed his actual name to Patrick as Hans. "You keep secret, ya?" he said almost fiercely. Patrick agreed to do so. He had been careful to note Hans’ demeanour each time he visited. A few times, he had seen the hesitation in his eyes as he spoke to him, when matters of firearms and the war arose. It was obvious he did not want such a conversation. Once, a work party arrived to do some road works nearby. They unloaded a bulldozer from a truck, the clattering and squealing of the tracks bringing a look of fear to his eyes. Another time, a crop-spraying aircraft passed close overhead, producing the same result. Patrick noticed the man still trembled long after the aircraft had gone.

This day, Hans departed from his usual reticence. Patrick, he said, "You ask many question. You are mein freund now, I think. I vill tell you story." The boy looked at him with interest as he began, and his gaze never left the old man as he enunciated his fractured English. There were words he did not understand, that he later would, but he would remember it with startling clarity for the rest of his days.

2 - Once There Were Flowers

Metz, Alsace Lorraine , France, 1941

Hans Konrad and his family had no political ambitions or affiliations. The family had lived in this French district for over four hundred years. At various times, depending on the last successful conqueror, they had been citizens of the Holy Roman Empire, France, Germany, and, after 1919, France again. A year ago, the triumphant Germans returned; it seemed they would be there for a long, long time.

Hans’ father, August, clung to his Germanic origins, and it pleased him to see the Germans once again. He knew little of Hitler, but argued that, with the Germans in charge, administration should improve, and for a year or more, his opinion proved correct. However, it did not last. Some months ago, some of his neighbours disappeared.