Flight of Eagles

‘She was Wonder Woman yesterday,’ I said. ‘Saved our lives.’

‘Tell me.’

Which I did.

When I was finished he said, ‘My God, what a woman.’

‘An understatement. She can be infuriating, mind you.’

‘And the rest of the time?’

‘Absolutely marvellous.’

He was coughing again and finally said, ‘So, what’s it all about? A phone call out of the blue at the crack of dawn.’

‘I need your expertise. A rather astonishing story has come my way. I’ve got brothers, twins, born 1918, named Harry and Max Kelso. Father American, mother Baroness Elsa von Halder.’

He grunted. ‘Top Prussian aristocrats, the von Halders.’

‘The twins were split. Harry, the youngest, stayed in the States with his rich grandfather, who bankrolled the Baroness to return to Germany in 1930 with Max after her husband was killed in a car crash. Max, as the eldest, was automatically Baron von Halder.’

‘I’ve heard that name.’

‘You would. The Black Baron, a top Luftwaffe ace. The brother, Harry, was also a flyer. He flew for the Finns against Russia, then was a Yank in the RAF. Battle of Britain, the lot. More medals than you could shake a stick at.’

There was a silence, then, ‘What a story, so why isn’t it one of the legends of the Second World War?’

‘Because for some reason, it’s classified.’

‘After all these years?’

‘I’ve been talking to an old boy who’s past caring at eighty-eight so he’s given me a lot of facts, but the German side is virtually missing. I thought an old Gestapo hand might still have access to classified records. Of course, I’ll understand if you can’t.’

‘What do you mean if I can’t?’ He started to cough again. ‘I like it, I love it. It could give me a new lease of life, not that it matters. I’m on limited time. Lung cancer.’

God, but that hurt, for he was a man I’d liked more than most. I said, ‘Jesus, Konrad, leave it.’

‘Why should I? I’ll have such fun. I’m old, I’m dying, so I don’t care about classified information. What a joy. For once in a lengthy career in Intelligence, I can turn over the dirt and not give a damn. You’ve done me a favour. Now just let’s go over a few facts, whatever you know about the Black Baron, and then I’ll get on with it.’

A little while later, the aroma of frying bacon took me to the kitchen, where Zec had made sandwiches. I sat at one end of the table, drank tea you could have stood a spoon up in and ate the sandwiches and felt on top of the world.

‘Phone call okay?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ I told him. ‘A relative of mine. If anyone can find out the German side of things as regards Max Kelso, he can.’

‘You seem pretty certain.’

‘Oh, I am. He’s a lot like you, Zec. Seventy-seven, seen it all, has the right connections.’ I poured another cup of tea. ‘He was in the Gestapo during the war.’

He almost fell out of his chair laughing. ‘Dear God.’

I said, ‘You’ve told me everything you can?’

‘Of course not. Let’s see what you come up with, then we’ll look at any missing pieces.’ He got up. ‘Must check the beer kegs. I’ll see you later.’

After breakfast. I went to the end of the jetty, lit a cigarette and stared out into the fog, thinking about it all. Denise turned up about ten minutes later, in a huge sweater and jeans obviously intended for a man. She was holding two mugs of tea.

‘I thought you might like a wet. I’ve been on to Goodwood Aero Club. Bernie Smith’s flying down to pick us up.’

‘That’s good.’ I drank a little and put an arm about her waist. ‘Thanks!’

‘Bad night?’

‘The German connection. Things you never knew about. The border a long, long time ago. Ireland, the Troubles. It all went round and round.’ I hesitated. ‘You mentioned that cousin of mine in Hamburg, the one who’d been in the Gestapo.’

‘So?’

‘I phoned him earlier. He’s still in Hamburg. He has the kind of past that gives him access to things.’

‘Was he willing to help?’

I gave a deep sigh. ‘Absolutely delighted. Turns out he’s got lung cancer. He said the problem would give him a new lease on life, but not for long, I should imagine.’

She held me tight. ‘How rotten for you.’

How rotten for me? I said, ‘Let’s go back to the pub. You could do with some breakfast. Konrad will come up with something. Hot stuff, the Gestapo.’

He did, of course, performed magnificently and also died six months later. Pieced together from what he uncovered, and from what Zec told me, and from some researches of my own, this is what we found out: the true and remarkable story of the brothers Kelso.

THE BEGINNING

1917

3

August 1917. At 10,000 feet over the lines in France, Jack Kelso was as happy as any human being could be. Twenty-two years of age, and the scion of one of Boston’s finest and richest families, he could have been doing his final year at Harvard, but instead, he was working through his second year with the British Royal Flying Corps.

The aircraft he was flying was a Bristol fighter, one of the great combat aircraft of the war, a two-seater with an observer-gunner in the rear. Kelso’s sergeant, who had taken shrapnel the day before in a dogfight, had been hospitalized and Kelso, a hotshot pilot with a Military Cross and fifteen German planes to his credit, had illegally taken off on his own. Well, not quite on his own, for sitting in the bottom of his cockpit was a bear called Tarquin in leather helmet and flying jacket.

Kelso tapped him on the head. ‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me down.’

At that period, the British War Office still banned parachutes on the argument that their use made cowards out of pilots. Jack Kelso, a realist and a rich young man, sat on the very latest model, his private possession.

He was a realist about other things as well: Always watch for attacks out of the sun. Never cross the line under 10,000 feet on your own.

The great von Richthofen once shot down four Bristols in one day and there were reasons. The pilot had a fixed machine-gun up front, a Vickers. The observer carried two free-mounting Lewis guns in the rear, which meant the man in the back did all the shooting. After a series of disasters, it had been pilots like Kelso who’d discovered that the plane was so manoeuvrable that she could be handled like a single-seater.

The weather was bad that morning, wind and rain, thick storm clouds and in the noise and confusion, Kelso wasn’t even aware what kind of plane it was that made his luck run out. There was a roaring, a shadow to port, machine-gunfire ripping the Bristol apart, a bullet tearing into his left leg and then he descended into the safety of heavy cloud.