Читать книгу Flight of Eagles - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 10

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.

He turned back towards the British lines, to 7000 then 5000 and was aware of a burning smell. He made 3000, flames flickering around his engine. There was the briefest glimpse of the trenches below, the battlefields of Flanders. Time to go. He unbuckled his seat-belt, picked up Tarquin and stuffed him inside his heavy leather coat then turned the Bristol over and dropped out. He fell for 1000 feet, pulled his ripcord and floated down.

He landed in a shell hole half filled with water, unsure of whether he was on the British or German side of the trenches, but his luck was good. A khaki-clad patrol half plastered in mud reached him in a matter of minutes, clutching rifles.

‘Don’t shoot, I’m Flying Corps,’ Kelso shouted.

There was a burst of machine-gunfire in the vicinity. As two soldiers unbuckled Kelso’s parachute, a sergeant lit a cigarette and put it between his lips.

‘Funny accent you got there, Captain,’ he said in ripest Cockney.

‘American,’ Kelso told him.

‘Well, you’ve taken your time getting here,’ the sergeant told him. ‘We’ve been waiting since 1914.’

The field hospital was in an old French château which stood in glorious parkland. The trip out of the war zone had been hazardous and Jack Kelso had lapsed into unconsciousness thanks to the morphine the infantry patrol had administered. He awakened to a fantasy world: a small room, white sheets, French windows open to a terrace. He tried to sit up and cried out at the pain in his leg, pulled the sheets to one side and saw the heavy bandaging. The door opened and a young nurse in a Red Cross uniform entered. She had blonde hair, a strong face and green eyes and looked to be in her early twenties. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life and Jack Kelso fell instantly in love.

‘No, lie back,’ she said, pushed him down against the pillows and adjusted his sheets.

An Army colonel entered the room wearing Medical Corps insignia. ‘Problems, Baroness?’

‘Not really. He’s just confused.’

‘Can’t have that,’ the colonel said. ‘Taken a rather large bullet out of that leg, old son, so you must behave. A little more morphine, I think.’

He went out and she charged a hypodermic and reached for Kelso’s right arm. ‘Your accent,’ he said. ‘You’re German and he called you Baroness.’

‘So useful when I deal with Luftwaffe pilots.’

She started to go and he reached for her hand. ‘I don’t care what you are as long as you promise to marry only me, Baroness,’ he said drowsily. ‘Where’s Tarquin?’

‘Would that be the bear?’ she asked.

‘No ordinary bear. I’ve shot down fifteen planes and Tarquin was always there. He’s my good luck.’

‘Well, there he is, on the dressing-table.’

And so he was. Jack Kelso got one clear look. ‘Hi there, old buddy,’ he called then drifted into sleep.

Baroness Elsa von Halder had been trapped in Paris with her mother when the war began. At twenty-two, her father an infantry general killed on the Somme, she was from fine old Prussian stock with a decaying mansion and estate, and absolutely no money at all. As the days passed, Kelso filled her with tales of his privileged life back in the States, and they found they had something in common: both had lost their mothers in 1916, in each case to cancer.

Three weeks after he arrived at the hospital, sitting in a deck-chair on the terrace looking out over a lawn with many wounded officers taking the sun, Kelso watched her approach, exchanging a word here and there. She carried a package which she held out to him.

‘Field post.’

‘Open it for me,’ he said, and she did.

There was a leather box and a letter. ‘Why, Jack, it’s from headquarters. You’ve been awarded the Distinguished Service Order.’ She took it out and held it up. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’

‘Sure. But I already have a medal,’ he said. ‘What I don’t have is you.’ He took her hand. ‘Marry me, Elsa. You know I’ll keep asking until you give in.’

She did, and this time she heard herself asking, ‘What about your father? Shouldn’t you speak to him first?’

‘Oh, it’ll take too long to get a letter to the States and back. Besides, amongst his many other qualities, my father is a snob. He’ll love you, and so will Boston society, so let’s get on with it. There’s a resident chaplain here. He can tie the knot any time we want.’

‘Oh, Jack, you’re a nice man – such a nice man.’

‘Germany is going to lose the war, Elsa. All you have to go back to is a decaying estate and no money. I’ll take care of you, I promise.’ He took her hand. ‘Come on, it’ll be good. Trust me.’

So, she did, and they were married two days later. After all, he was right: she did have nothing to go back to.

The honeymoon in Paris was fine, not the greatest romance in the world, but then he was always aware that she hadn’t married him for love. His wound had left him with a pronounced limp, which needed therapy, and she transferred to a Red Cross hospital in Paris. She became pregnant very quickly and Kelso insisted that she go to the States.

‘Any child we have must be born at home, I won’t hear any argument.’

‘You could come, too, Jack. Your leg still isn’t good, and I asked Colonel Carstairs. He said they’d give you a discharge if you asked for it.’

‘You did what? Elsa, you must never do anything like that ever again.’ For a moment, he looked a different man, the warrior who’d shot down fifteen German fighters … and then he smiled and was dashing Jack Kelso again. ‘There’s still a war to win, my love, and now that America’s joined in, it won’t take long. You’ll be fine. And my old man will be ecstatic.’

So, she did as she was told and sailed for America, where Abe Kelso did indeed receive her with considerable enthusiasm. She was a big success on the social scene, and nothing was too good for her, especially when she went into labour and produced twin boys. The eldest she named Max after her father; the other Harry, after Abe’s.

On the Western Front, Jack Kelso received the news by telegraph. Still in the Royal Flying Corps, where he had decided to stay instead of joining the Americans, he was by now a lieutenant-colonel, one of the few old hands still around, for losses on both sides had been appalling in what proved to be the last year of the war. And then suddenly, it was all over.

Gaunt, careworn, old before his time, Jack Kelso, still in his uniform, stood in the boys’ bedroom shortly after his arrival in Boston, and looked at them sleeping. Elsa stood at the door, a little afraid, gazing at a stranger.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘They look fine. Let’s go down.’

Abe Kelso stood by the fire in the magnificent drawing room. He was taller than Jack, with darker hair, but had the same features.

‘By God, Jack.’ He picked up two glasses of champagne and handed one to each of them. ‘I’ve never seen so many medals.’

‘Loads of tin.’ His son drank the champagne down in a single swallow.

‘It was bad this past year?’ Abe inquired, as he gave him a refill.

‘Bad enough, though I never managed to get killed. Everyone but me.’ Jack Kelso smiled terribly.

‘That’s an awful thing to say,’ his wife told him.

‘True, though.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I see the boys have fair hair. Almost white.’ He blew out smoke.

‘They are half German.’

‘Not their fault,’ he said. ‘By the way, my personal score there at the end? It was forty-eight.’

She saw then, of course, just how damaged he was, but it was Abe who spoke with forced cheerfulness. ‘Now then, Jack, what are you going to do with yourself? Back to Harvard to finish that law degree? You can join the firm then.’

‘You must be joking. I’m twenty-three years old, and if you include my time machine-gunning the trenches, I’ve killed hundreds of men. Harvard is out, the firm is out. I’ve got the trust fund my mother left me. I’m going to enjoy myself.’ He emptied the glass. ‘Excuse me, I need the bathroom.’

He limped out. Abe Kelso poured a little champagne into her glass. ‘Look, my dear, he’s been through a lot. We must make allowances.’

‘Don’t apologize for him.’ She put down her glass. ‘That isn’t the man I married. He’s back there in those Godforsaken trenches. He never got out.’

Which wasn’t far from the truth, for in the years that followed, Jack Kelso acted as if he didn’t care if he lived or died. His exploits on automobile-racing circuits were notorious. He still flew, and crash-landed on three occasions. He even used his motor yacht to run booze during Prohibition, and his capacity for drink was enormous.

One thing that could be said for him, however, was that he treated his wife with grave courtesy. For her part, Elsa played the good wife, the elegant hostess, the affectionate mother. She was always Mutti to Max and Harry, taught them French and German, and they loved her greatly, and yet their affection for their drunken war-hero father was even greater.

He’d managed to buy a Bristol fighter and kept it at a small flying club outside of Boston that was owned by another old air ace from RFC days, named Rocky Farson. The boys were ten the day Jack strapped them into the rear cockpit and took them for a flight. Their birthday treat, he called it. The boys loved it and Elsa threatened to leave him if he ever did such a thing again.

Abe, as usual, was the man in the middle, trying to keep the peace, on her side because Jack had been drunk, but since Jack was rich in his own right, there was no controlling him.

Nineteen twenty-eight and 1929 came. Disillusioned not only with her marriage but with America, Elsa had only her sincere friendship with Abe and her love of the boys to sustain her. They were, of course, totally alike: their straw-blond hair and green eyes, their high German cheekbones, their voices, their mannerisms. No individual blemishes or birthmarks set them apart. Most times, even she couldn’t tell them apart, and neither could Abe. It was a constant sport for them to change roles and make fools of everyone. Totally bonded, the only thing they ever argued about was who owned Tarquin. The fact that Max, as the eldest by ten minutes, was legally Baron von Halder never bothered them.

It was the summer of 1930 when the tragedy happened. Jack Kelso was killed when his Bentley spun off a mountain road in Colorado and fireballed. What was left of him was brought back to Boston, where Abe, now a Congressman, presided over the funeral. The great and the good were there, even the President, the twins in black suits on either side of their mother. They seemed strangely still, frozen almost, and older than their twelve years.

Afterwards, at the big house when everyone had left, Elsa sat by the open French window in the drawing room, elegant in black, and sipped a brandy. Abe stood by the fire.

‘Now what?’ he asked. ‘It’s a bleak prospect.’

‘Not for me,’ she replied. ‘I’ve done my bit. I was a good wife for years, Abe, and put up with a hell of a lot. I want to go back to Germany.’

‘And live on what? Most of the fortune his mother left is gone. Sad to say, there’s not much coming to you in his will, Elsa, you know that.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘But you’ve got millions. More than you know what to do with. You could help me, Abe.’

‘I see.’

‘Abe, we’ve always been good friends. Let me go home. I’ll restore the estate, I’ll restore the family name.’

‘And take my grandsons with you?’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t bear that.’

‘But they’re my sons, too, they belong with their mother. And Max – Max is the Baron von Halder. You can’t make him give that up, Abe, it wouldn’t be right, it wouldn’t be just. Please, Abe, I’m begging you.’

Abe Kelso sat for several long moments, the air thick with regret and loss. Finally, he spoke.

‘I’ve often worried about it, you know – what would happen when Max was old enough to appreciate the title. Would he move away to claim it, leave us all here? I always thought I’d have at least a few more years before it came to that, but –’ He stopped and sighed. ‘But with Jack dead, and you wanting to leave, there’s not much of us left, is there?’ He smiled sadly. ‘You’re right, Elsa. Max does deserve that chance. And so do you. But on one condition.’ Here his voice became firm and strong. ‘Harry stays here. I won’t give up both my grandsons, I couldn’t possibly agree to that. I’ll give you what you need to restore the von Halder estate – but Harry stays with me. Are we agreed?’

She didn’t even argue. ‘Agreed, Abe.’

‘Okay. We can sort out the details later about visitation, schooling and the rest. The only thing that worries me is how the boys will feel about this.’

‘I’ll talk to them.’

‘No, let me first. Ask them to come to my study, would you?’

Later that evening before dinner, when she went back to the drawing room, Max and Harry were surprisingly calm, but then they’d always been like that: alone, cool, detached, on the outside looking in. Although they loved their mother, they were aware of her inner selfishness, so the latest turn of events came as no real surprise. She kissed them in turn.

‘Your grandfather has told you?’

‘Of course. They understand,’ Abe said. ‘Took it surprisingly well. The only problem, it seems, was who was to take possession of Tarquin, but he stays here. That bear sat in the bottom of the cockpit on every flight Jack made.’ For a moment, he seemed lost in thought then he straightened up. ‘Champagne,’ he said. ‘Half a glass each. You’re old enough. Let’s drink to each other. We’ll always be together one way or another.’

The boys said nothing, simply drank their champagne, old beyond their years, as usual, as enigmatic as Tarquin the bear.

The Germany to which Elsa von Halder returned was very different from what she remembered – unemployment, street riots, the Nazi party beginning to rear its head – but she had Abe’s money, so she put Max into school and set about regenerating the von Halder estate. There was Berlin society, of course. One of her father’s oldest friends, the fighter ace from the war, Hermann Goering, was a coming man in the Nazi party, a friend of Hitler’s. As an aristocrat, all doors, were open to him and Elsa, beautiful and rich and an undeniable aristocrat herself, was an absolute asset to the party. She met them all – Hitler, Goebbels, Ribbentrop – and was the toast of café society.

Hitler assumed power in 1933, and Elsa allowed Max to go to America for six months in 1934 to stay with his grandfather and brother, who was a day student at prep school. Abe was overjoyed to see him. As for the brothers, it was as if they’d never been apart, and on their birthday Abe gave them a special present. He took them out to the airfield their father used to fly from, and there was Rocky Farson, older, a little heavier, but still the old fighter ace from the Western Front.

‘Rocky’s going to give you a few lessons,’ Abe said. ‘I know you’re only sixteen, but what the hell. Just don’t tell your mother.’

Rocky Farson taught them in an old Gresham biplane. Someone had enlarged the rear cockpit to take mail sacks, which meant there was room to squeeze them both in. Of course, he also flew with them individually, and discovered that they were natural-born pilots, just like their father. And, just like their father, whoever was flying always had Tarquin in the cockpit.

Rocky took them way beyond normal private pilot skills. He gave them classroom lessons on dogfighting. Always look for the Hun in the sun, was a favourite. Never fly below 10,000 feet on your own. Never fly straight and level for more than thirty seconds.

Abe, watching one day, said to Rocky after they’d landed, ‘Hell, Rocky, it’s as if you’re preparing them for war.’

‘Who knows, Senator?’ Rocky said, for indeed that was what Abe Kelso was now. ‘Who knows?’

So brilliant were they that Rocky used the Senator’s money to purchase two Curtis training biplanes, and flew with each of them in turn to take them to new heights of experience.

During the First World War, the great German ace Max Immelmann had come up with a brilliant ploy that had given him two shots at an enemy in a dogfight for the price of one. It was the famous Immelmann turn, once practically biblical knowledge on the Western Front, now already virtually forgotten by both the US Air Corps and the RAF.

You dived in on the opponent, pulled up in a half-loop, rolled out on top and came back over his head at fifty feet. By the time he’d finished with them, the boys were experts at it.

‘They’re amazing – truly amazing,’ Abe said to Rocky in the canteen at the airfield.

‘In the old days, they would have been aces. A young man’s game, Senator. I knew guys in the Flying Corps who’d been decorated four times and were majors at twenty-one. It’s like being a great sportsman. You either have it or you don’t, that touch of genius, and the twins have it, believe me.’

The boys stood at the bar talking quietly, drinking orange juice. Abe, watching them, said, ‘I think you’re right, but to what purpose? I know there are rumbles, but there won’t be another war. We’ll see to that.’

‘I hope so, Senator,’ Rocky said, but in the end, it wasn’t to matter to him. He had the old Bristol refurbished, took it up for a proving flight one day, and lost the engine at 500 feet.

At the funeral, Abe, standing to one side, looked at the boys and was reminded, with a chill, that they looked as they had at their father’s funeral: enigmatic, remote, their thoughts tightly contained. It filled him with a strange foreboding. But there was nothing to be done about it and the following week, he and Harry took Max down to New York and saw him off on the Queen Mary, bound for Southampton in England, the first stage of his return to the Third Reich.