Jack Higgins - Flight of Eagles

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.’