Flight of Eagles

So, Abe once again found a grandson on the cover of a magazine, Harry in a padded flying suit standing beside one of the ME109s in the snow, looking ten years older than when Abe had last seen him and holding Tarquin.

Abe read the account of Harry’s exploits with pride, but also sadness. ‘I told you, Harry, not your war,’ he said softly. ‘I mean, where is it all going to end?’ And yet, in his heart of hearts, he knew. America was going to go to war. Not today, not tomorrow, but that day would come.

Elsa von Halder was having coffee in the small drawing room at her country mansion, when Max arrived. He strode in, wearing his flying uniform as usual, in one hand a holdall, which he dropped on the floor.

‘Mutti, you look wonderful.’

She stood up and embraced him. ‘What a lovely surprise. How long?’

‘Three days.’

‘And then?’

‘We’ll see.’

She went to a drinks table and poured dry sherry. ‘Do you think the British and French will really fight if we invade?’

‘You mean when we invade?’ He toasted her. ‘Of course, I have infinite faith in the inspired leadership of our glorious Führer.’

‘For God’s sake, Max, watch your tongue. It could be the death of you. You aren’t even a member of the Nazi party.’

‘Why, Mutti, I always thought you were a true believer.’

‘Of course I’m not. They’re all bastards. The Führer, that horrible little creep Himmler. Oh, Goering’s all right and most of the generals, but – Anyway, what about you?’

‘Politics bore me, Mutti. I’m a fighter pilot, just like this fellow.’ He unzipped his holdall, produced a copy of Life magazine and passed it to her. ‘I saw Goering in Berlin yesterday. He gave that to me.’

Elsa sat down and examined the cover. ‘He looks old. What have they done to him?’

‘Read the article, Mutti. It was a hell of a war, however short. A miracle he came through. Mind you, Tarquin looks good on it. Goering heard from our Intelligence people that Harry got out to Sweden in a Hurricane. The word is he turned up in London and joined the RAF.’

She looked up from the article, her words unconsciously echoing Abe Kelso’s. ‘How will it all end?’

‘Badly, I expect. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have a bath before dinner.’ He picked up his bag and went to the door and turned. ‘Twenty-eight Russkies he shot down over Finland, Mutti. The dog. I only got twenty in Poland. Can’t have that, can we?’

There were at least thirteen American volunteers flying in the Battle of Britain in the spring and summer of 1940, possibly more. Some were accepted as Canadians – Red Tobin, Andy Mamedoff, Vernon Keogh, for example, who joined the RAF in July 1940. The great Billy Fiske was one, son of a millionaire and probably the first American killed in combat in the Second World War, later to be commemorated by a tablet in St Paul’s Cathedral in London. And others bound for glory like Pete Peterson, a DSO and DFC with the RAF, and a lieutenant-colonel at twenty-two when he transferred to his own people.

Finland surrendered on 12 March 1940. Harry flew out illegally in a Hurricane, as Max had told his mother, landed at an aero club outside Stockholm, went into the city and was in possession of a ticket on a plane to England before the authorities knew he was there.

When he reported to the Air Ministry in London, an ageing squadron leader examined his credentials. ‘Very impressive, old boy. There’s just one problem. You are an American and that means you’ll have to go to Canada and join the RCAF.’

‘I shot down twenty-eight Russians, twelve of them while flying a Hurricane. I know my stuff. You need people like me.’

‘A Hurricane?’ The squadron leader examined Harry’s credentials again. ‘I see they gave you the Finnish Gold Cross of Valour.’

Harry took a small leather box from his pocket and opened it. The squadron leader, who had a Military Cross from the First War, said, ‘Nice piece of tin.’

‘Aren’t they all?’ Harry told him.

The other man pushed a form across. ‘All right. Fill this in. Country of origin, America. I suppose you must have returned to Finland to defend your ancestral home against the Russians?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Ah, well, that makes you a Finn and that’s what we’ll put on your records.’ The squadron leader smiled. ‘Damn clerks. Always making mistakes.’

Operational Training Unit was a damp and miserable place on the edge of an Essex marsh. The CO was a wing commander called West with a wooden leg from 1918. He examined Pilot Officer Kelso’s documents and looked up, noticing the medal ribbon under the wings.

‘And what would that be?’

Harry told him.

‘How many did you get over there?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘It says here you’ve had considerable experience with Hurricanes?’

‘Yes, the Finns got hold of a few during the last couple of months of the war.’

‘All right, let’s see what you can do.’

West pressed a bell and the station warrant officer entered. ‘I’m going for a spin with this pilot officer, Mr Quigley. Set up my plane and one of the other Hurricanes. Twenty minutes.’

The warrant officer, without a flicker of emotion, said, ‘Right away, sir.’

West got up and reached for his walking stick. ‘Don’t let my leg put you out. I know a man called Douglas Bader who lost both in a crash and still flies.’ He paused, opening the door. ‘I got twenty-two myself in the old flying Corps before the final crash so don’t mess about. Let’s see if you can take me.’

Those in the curious crowd which assembled to stare up through the rain were never to forget it. At 5000 feet, West chased Harry Kelso. They climbed, banked, so close that some in the crowd gasped in horror but Harry evaded West, looped and settled on his tail.

‘Very nice,’ West called over the radio, then banked to port and rolled and Harry, overshooting and finding him once again on his tail, dropped his flaps and slowed with shuddering force.

‘Christ Almighty,’ West cried, heaved back on the control column and narrowly missed him.

Harry, on his tail again, called, ‘Bang, you’re dead.’ Then, as West tried to get away, Harry pulled up in a half-loop, rolled out on top of the Immelmann turn and roared back over West’s head at fifty feet. ‘And bang, you’re dead again, sir.’

The ground crews actually applauded as the two of them walked back. Quigley took West’s parachute and gave him his walking stick, then gestured towards Kelso.

‘Who in the hell is he, sir?’

‘Oh, a lot of men I knew in the Flying Corps all rolled into one,’ West said.

In his office, West sat down, reached for a form and quickly filled it in. ‘I’m posting you immediately to 607 Squadron in France. They’ve been converted from Gladiators to Hurricanes. They should be able to use you.’

‘I flew Gladiators in Finland, sir. Damn cold, those open cockpits in the snow.’

West took a bottle of brandy from a drawer and two glasses. As he poured, he said, ‘Kelso – an unusual name, and you’re no Finn. I knew a Yank in the Flying Corps called Kelso.’

‘My father, sir.’