Flight of Eagles

‘Which doesn’t make sense.’

‘Dear God, girl, all the sense in the world.’ He leaned back, laughing, then opened another envelope from the box. ‘Special these. Very, very special.’

They were large prints and once again in black and white. The first was of an RAF flight lieutenant standing against a Hurricane fighter. It was the same man we’d seen earlier in American uniform.

‘Yank in the RAF,’ Zec said. ‘There were a few hundred before America joined the war at the end of ’41, after Pearl Harbor.’

‘He looks tired,’ Denise said and handed the photo back.

‘Well, he would. That was taken in September 1940 during the Battle of Britain just after he got his second DFC. He flew for the Finns in their war with the Russians. Got some fancy medal from them and when that caved in, he got to England and joined the RAF. They were funny about Yanks at that time, America being neutral, but some clerk put Harry down as a Finn, so they took him.’

‘Harry?’ Denise said gently.

‘Harry Kelso. He was from Boston.’ He took another large print out, Kelso in American uniform again. ‘Nineteen forty-four, that.’

The medals were astonishing. A DSO and bar, a DFC and two bars, the French Croix de Guerre, the Legion of Honour, the Finnish Gold Cross of Valour.

I said, ‘This is incredible. I mean, I’ve a special interest in the Second World War and I’ve never even heard of him.’

‘You wouldn’t. Thanks to that clerk, he was in the records as a Finn for quite some time and, as I said, there were reasons. The Official Secrets Act.’

‘But why?’ Denise demanded.

Zec Acland took another photo from the envelope and put it on the table, the show-stopper of all time.

‘Because of this,’ he said.

The photo was in colour and showed Kelso once again in uniform, only this time, that of the Luftwaffe. He wore flying boots and baggy, comfortable trousers in blue-grey with large map pockets. The short flying blouse with yellow collar patches gave him a dashing look. He wore his silver pilot’s badge on the left side, an Iron Cross First Class above it, a Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves at his throat.

‘But I don’t understand,’ Denise said.

‘It’s quite simple,’ Zec Acland told her. ‘Munro gave me that. The other photos, the Yank in the RAF? That was Harry. This is the Yank in the Luftwaffe, his twin brother, Max. American father and German mother, a baroness. So Max, being the eldest by ten minutes, was Baron Max von Halder. The Black Baron, the Luftwaffe called him.’ He put the photos away. ‘I’ll tell you what I can, if you like.’ He smiled. ‘Make a good story for you.’ He smiled again. ‘Not that anyone would believe it.’

By the time he’d finished, the bar was empty, Betsy locking the door after the last customers and bringing us tea on a tray without a word. Simeon, I think, was as astonished as Denise and I were.

Again, it was Denise who said, ‘Is that it?’

‘Of course not, girl.’ He smiled. ‘Lots of pieces in the jigsaw missing. I mean, the German end of things. Top secret there too. Can’t help you there.’ He turned to me. ‘Still, a smart chap like you might know where to pull a few strings.’

‘A possibility,’ I said.

‘Well, then.’ He stood up. ‘I’m for bed and Simeon’s wife will wonder what he’s about.’ He kissed Denise on the cheek. ‘Sleep well, girl, you deserve it.’

He went out. Simeon nodded and followed. We sat there by the fire, not speaking, and then Denise said, ‘I’ve just thought. You served in Germany for a while in the Army. You mentioned those German relatives from years ago. Didn’t you say one of them was in the police or something?’

‘In a manner of speaking. He was Gestapo.’

She wasn’t particularly shocked. The war, after all, had been half a century before, well before her time. ‘There you are, then.’

‘I’ll see,’ I said, and pulled her up. ‘Time for bed.’

The room was small, with twin beds, and I lay there, unable to sleep, aware only of her gentle breathing as I stared up through the darkness and remembered. A long time ago – a hell of a long time ago.

2

The German connection for me was simple enough. National Service with the old Royal Horse Guards, a little time with the Army of Occupation in Berlin, a lot more patrolling the East German border in Dingo scout cars and Jeeps in the days when the so-called Cold War was hotting up.

The area we patrolled was so like the Yorkshire moors that I always expected Heathcliff and Cathy to run out of the mist or the snow or the torrential rain for I can honestly say that inclement was a mild word to describe the weather in those parts.

The border at that time was completely open and, as a kind of police action, we were supposed to stem the tide of refugees trying to flee to the West as well as the gangs of black marketeers, usually ex-SS, who operated out of East Germany, using it as a refuge.

Our opponents were Siberian infantry regiments, hard men of the first order and occasionally the odd angry shot was fired. We called it World War Two and a Half, but when your time was up, you went home to demobilization. American troops doing the same work in their sector got three medals. We got nothing!

Back home in Leeds, as I started a succession of rather dreary jobs, I received a buff envelope from the authorities reminding me that I was a reservist for the next ten years. It suggested that I join the Territorial Army, become a weekend soldier and, when I discovered there was money to be earned, I took them up on it, particularly as I was considering going to work in London. There was a Territorial Army Regiment there, called the Artists Rifles, which the War Office turned into 21 SAS. When the Malayan Emergency started many members volunteered for the Malayan Scouts, which in 1952 became a Regular Army Unit, 22 SAS.

When in London job-hunting, I reported to 21 SAS with my papers and was enthusiastically received as an ex-Guards NCO. I filled in various papers, had the usual medical and found myself finally in front of a Major Wilson, although in view of what happened later, I doubt it was his real name.

‘Just sign here, Corporal,’ he said and pushed a form across the desk.

‘And just what am I signing, sir?’ I asked.

‘The Official Secrets Act.’ He smiled beautifically. ‘This is that kind of unit, you see.’

I hesitated, then signed.

‘Good.’ He took the form and blotted my signature carefully.

‘Shall I report Saturday, sir?’ I asked.

‘No, not yet. A few formalities to be gone through. We’ll be in touch.’

He smiled again, so I left it at that and departed.

I had a phone call from him about two weeks later at the insurance office in Leeds where I worked at that time, suggesting a meeting at Yates’ Wine Bar near City Square at lunchtime. We sat in a corner enjoying pie and peas and a light ale while he broke the bad news. I was surprised to find him in Yorkshire, but he didn’t explain.

‘The thing is, old son, the SAS can’t use you. The medical shows a rather indifferent left eye. Although you don’t advertise the fact, you wear glasses.’

‘Well, the Horse Guards didn’t object. I fired for the regimental team at Bisley. I was a crack shot. I had a sharpshooter’s badge.’

‘Yes, we know about that. At least two Russians on the East German side of the border could confirm your skill, or their corpses could. On the other hand, you only got in the Guards because some stupid clerk forgot to fill in the eye section on your records and, of course, the Guards never admit mistakes.’

‘So that’s it?’

‘Afraid so. Pity, really. Such an interesting background. That uncle of yours, staff sergeant at Hamburg headquarters. Remarkable record. Captured before Dunkirk, escaped from prison camp four times, sent to Auschwitz to the enclave for Allied prisoners considered bad boys. Two-thirds of them died.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Of course they’ve kept him at HQ Hamburg because of his excellent German. He married a German war widow, I see.’