Flight of Eagles. Jack Higgins
a swastika on the tailplane. The mechanic wore black Luftwaffe overalls. To one side was a Fieseler Storch spotter plane. There were two hangars behind.
‘What on earth is this?’ I asked.
‘The airstrip up the road. Yes, Cold Harbour. Night flights to France, that sort of thing. You foxed the enemy by being the enemy.’
‘Not too healthy if they caught you, I should have thought,’ Denise observed.
‘Firing-squad time if they did. Of course, they also operated RAF stuff like this.’ He passed her another photo. ‘Lysander. Ugly beast, but they could land and take off in a ploughed field.’
Another photo showed the Lysander, an officer and a young woman. He wore an American uniform, the bars of a lieutenant-colonel, and a string of medal ribbons. I could make out the DSO and the DFC, but the really fascinating fact was that on the right breast of his battledress blouse were RAF wings.
‘Who was he?’ I asked.
His reply was strange as he examined the photo. ‘Harry, I think, or maybe Max, I could never be sure.’
There it was again, that same comment. Simeon looked as bewildered as I did. I was about to ask what he meant, when Denise said, ‘And the young woman?’
‘Oh, that’s Molly – Molly Sobel, Munro’s niece. Her mother was English, her father an American general. Clever girl. A doctor. Trained in England before the war and worked in London during the Blitz. Used to fly down from London with Munro when a doctor was needed. It was all secret, you see.’
He seemed to have gone away to some private place of his own. We said nothing. The fire crackled, rain battered the window, the men at the bar talked in a low murmur.
Simeon said, ‘You all right, Dad?’
‘Never better, but better I’ll be with a large rum in me. I’m cutting loose a burden tonight, a secret nurtured over the years.’ He shook a fist at Tarquin. ‘All your fault, you damn bear.’
Simeon got up and went to the bar. Tarquin, still slightly steaming, sat there, enigmatic to the end.
Simeon, obviously concerned said, ‘Look, Dad, I don’t know what this is about, but maybe it’s a bit much for you.’
Again, it was Denise who cut in, leaning forward and putting her hand on Zec’s. ‘No, leave him, Simeon, he needs to talk, I think.’
He clasped her hand strongly and smiled. ‘By God, I said you were a woman of parts.’ He seemed to straighten.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘The pilot, the American, Harry or Max, you said?’
‘That’s right.’
‘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,