Jack Higgins
Flight of Eagles
Dedication
For my wife Denise,
for special help with this one. Amongst many virtues, pilot extraordinaire …
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Publisher’s Note
The English Channel
1997
1
When we lost the starboard engine I knew we were…
2
The German connection for me was simple enough. National Service…
The Beginning
1917
3
August 1917. At 10,000 feet over the lines in France,…
Europe
1934–1941
4
Max sat on the terrace of their country house with…
5
The Blitz on London, the carnage it caused, was so…
6
It was two weeks later that Sarah Dixon left the…
Interim
1941–1943
7
Harry now found a different kind of war: desert, baking…
End-game
1943–1944
8
During October, Harry worked for West, visiting various squadrons throughout…
9
It was a day or two later that Abe Kelso…
10
Harry reported to Croydon at ten the following morning and…
11
In London two days later, and staying with Munro again,…
12
Jacaud was not what Harry had expected at all. He…
13
At Fermanville, Max was enjoying a drink in the mess…
14
At noon Bubi led the way along a corridor to…
15
A headwind slowed him down, but the flight was no…
16
Max and Molly danced on the crowded floor but he…
17
Max spent the afternoon brooding in the bedroom Carter had…
Cold Harbour
1998
18
It was almost a year to the day when Denise…
About the Author
Other Books by Jack Higgins
Copyright
About the Publisher
Publisher’s Note
Flight of Eagles was first published in the UK by Michael Joseph in 1998. It was later published in paperback by Penguin but has been out of print for several years.
In 2011, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a wonderful story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back Flight of Eagles for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.
THE ENGLISH CHANNEL
1997
1
When we lost the starboard engine I knew we were in trouble, but then the whole trip was bad news from the start.
My wife had been staying with me for a few days at our house in Jersey in the Channel Islands when a phone message indicated a strong interest from a major Hollywood producer in filming one of my books. It meant getting over to England fast to our house at Chichester, a staging post to London. I phoned the air-taxi firm I usually used, but they had no plane available. However, they’d see what they could do. What they came up with was a Cessna 310 from Granville on the coast of Brittany and a rather ageing pilot called Dupont. Beggars not being choosers, I booked the flight without hesitation because the weather forecast wasn’t good and we wanted to get on with it. I sat in the rear, but the 310 having dual controls, my wife, being a highly experienced pilot, chose to occupy the right-hand seat to the pilot. Thank God she did.
The Channel Islands and the English Channel are subject to fogs that appear in an incredibly short time and close down everything fast, and that’s exactly what happened that morning. Taking off from Jersey was fine, but within ten minutes, the island was fogged out, and not only the French coast but Guernsey also.
We started for the South Coast of England, Southampton our destination. Dupont was close to sixty from the look of him, grey-haired, a little overweight. Sitting behind my wife and looking to one side as he worked the plane, I noticed a film of sweat on his face.
Denise was wearing headphones and passed me a spare pair, which I plugged in. At one stage she was piloting the plane as he engaged in conversation with air traffic control. He took over and she turned to me.
‘We’re at five thousand. Bad fog down there. Southampton’s out, including everything to the east. We’re trying for Bournemouth, but it doesn’t look good.’
Having avoided death as a child from IRA bombs in the Shankill in Belfast, and various minor spectaculars in the Army years later, I’ve learned to take life as it comes. I smiled above the roar of the engine, confident in my wife’s abilities, found the half-bottle of Moët et Chandon champagne they’d thoughtfully provided in the bar box, and poured some into a plastic glass. Everything, I’ve always thought, worked out for the best. In this case, it was for the worst.
It was exactly at that moment that the starboard engine died on us. For a heart-stopping moment, there was a plume of black smoke, and then it faded away.
Dupont seemed to get into a state, wrestling with the controls, frantically making adjustments, but to no avail. We started to go down. In a panic, he started to shout in French to the air traffic control at Bournemouth, but my wife waved a hand at him and took over, calmly, sweetly reasonable.
‘We have fuel for perhaps an hour,’ she reported. ‘Have you a suggestion?’
The air traffic controller happened to be a woman and her voice was just as calm.
‘I can’t guarantee it, but Cornwall is your best bet. It’s not closed in as fully there. Cold Harbour, a small fishing port on the coast near Lizard Point. There’s an old RAF landing strip there from the Second World War. Abandoned for years but usable. I’ll put out your details to all rescue services. Good luck.’
We were at 3000 for the next twenty minutes and the traffic on the radio was confusing, often blanked out by some kind of static. The fog swirled around us and then it started to rain very hard. Dupont seemed more agitated than ever, the sweat on his face very obvious now. Occasionally he spoke,