Flight of Eagles

‘That’s me.’

‘Your luck is good, sir. We were only a mile away when we got your message.’

Two crew members reached down and hauled him up. Harry crouched, oozing sea water. ‘I never thought a deck could feel so good.’

‘You American, sir?’ the warrant officer asked.

‘I surely am.’

‘Well, that’s bloody marvellous. Our first Yank.’

‘No, two actually.’

‘Two, sir?’ The warrant officer was puzzled.

Harry indicated his bag. ‘Take me below, find me a drink and I’ll show you.’

Max, down to 500 feet, raced towards the French coast. On his left knee was a linen bag containing a dye. If you went into the sea, it spread in a huge yellow patch. He’d seen several such patches on his way across and then he saw the coast east of Boulogne. No need to do a crash landing. The tide was out, a huge expanse of sand spread before him. As his engine died, he turned into the wind and dropped down.

He called in his position on the radio, with a brief explanation, pulled back the canopy and got out, lit a cigarette and started to walk towards the sand dunes. When he got there, he sat down, looked out to sea and lit another cigarette.

An hour later, a Luftwaffe recovery crew arrived in two trucks, followed by a yellow Peugeot sports car driven by Adolf Galland. He got out and hurried forward.

‘I thought we’d lost you.’

‘No such luck.’ Galland slapped him on the shoulder and Max added, ‘The plane looks fine. Only needs fuel.’

‘Good. I brought a sergeant pilot. He can fly her back. You and I will drive. Stop off for dinner.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

Galland called to the burly Feldwebel in charge. ‘Get on with it. You know what to do.’

Later, driving towards Le Touquet, he said, ‘Biggin Hill worked out fine. We really plastered them.’

Max said, ‘Oh, sure, but how many fighters did we lose, Dolfo – not bombers, fighters?’

‘All right, it isn’t good, but what’s your point?’

‘Too many mistakes. First, the Stukas – useless against Spitfires and Hurricanes. Second, the bombing policy. Fine – so we destroy their airfields if possible, but fighters are meant to fight, Dolfo, not to spend the whole time protecting the Dorniers. That’s like having a racehorse pulling a milk cart. The strategy is flawed.’

‘Then God help you when we turn against London.’

‘London?’ Max was aghast. ‘All right, I know we’ve raided Liverpool and other places, but London? Dolfo, we must destroy the RAF on the South Coast, fighter to fighter. That’s where we win or lose.’ He shrugged. ‘Unless Goering and the Führer have a death wish.’

‘Saying that to me is one thing, Max, but never to anyone else, do you understand?’

‘That we’re all going down the same road to hell?’ Max nodded. ‘I understand that all right,’ and he leaned back and lit another cigarette.

Harry was delivered back to Farley Field by a naval staff driver from Folkestone. Several pilots and a number of ground crew crowded round.

‘Heard you were in the drink, sir. Good to see you back,’ a pilot officer called Hartley said. ‘There’s a group captain waiting to see you.’

Harry opened the door to his small office and found West of the false leg sitting behind his desk. ‘What a surprise, sir. Congratulations on your promotion.’

‘You’ve done well, Kelso. Anxious couple of hours when we heard where you were, but all’s well that ends well. Congratulations to you too. Your promotion to flight lieutenant has been confirmed. Also, another DFC.’

Harry went to the cupboard, found whisky and two glasses. ‘Shall we toast each other, sir?’

‘Excellent idea.’

Harry poured. ‘Are we winning?’

‘Not at the moment.’ West swallowed his drink. ‘We will in the end. America will have to come in, but we must hang on. I need you for a day or so. I see you’ve only got five Hurricanes operational. Flying Officer Kenny can hold the fort. You’ll be back tomorrow night.’

‘May I ask what this is about, sir?’

‘I remembered from your records that you flew an ME109 in Finland. Well, we’ve got one at Downfield north of London. Pilot had a bad oil leak and decided to land instead of jump. Tried to set fire to the thing, but a Home Guard unit was close by.’

‘That’s quite a catch, sir.’

‘Yes, well, be a good chap. Have a quick shower and change and we’ll be on our way.’

Downfield was another installation that had been a flying club before the war. There was only one landing strip, a control tower, two hangars. The place was surrounded by barbed wire, RAF guards on the gate. The 109 was on the apron outside one of the hangars. Two staff cars were parked nearby and three RAF and two Army officers were examining the plane. A Luftwaffe lieutenant, no more than twenty, stood close by, his uniform crumpled. Two RAF guards with rifles watched him.

Harry walked straight up to the lieutenant and held out his hand. ‘Rotten luck,’ he said in German. ‘Lucky you got down in one piece.’

‘Good God, are you German?’

‘My mother is.’ Harry gave him a cigarette and a light and took one himself.

The older army officer was a brigadier with the red tabs of staff. He had an engagingly ugly face, white hair and wore steel-rimmed spectacles. He looked about sixty-five.

‘Dougal Munro. What excellent German, Flight Lieutenant.’

‘Well, it would be,’ Harry told him.

‘My aide, Jack Carter.’

Carter was a captain in the Green Howards and wore a ribbon for the Military Cross. He leaned on a walking stick, for, as Harry discovered a long time later, he’d left a leg at Dunkirk.

The senior of the three Air Force officers was, like West, a group captain. ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on, Teddy,’ he said to West. ‘Who on earth is this officer? I mean, why the delay? Dowding wants an evaluation of this plane as soon as possible.’

‘He’ll get it. Flight Lieutenant Kelso has flown it in combat.’

‘Good God, where?’

‘He flew for the Finns. Gladiators, Hurricanes and 109s.’ West turned to Harry. ‘Give your opinion to Group Captain Green.’