‘Get yourself a drink,’ Abe said. ‘You’re going to need it.’
Harry, at that time twenty-one, poured a Scotch and water and joined his grandfather. ‘What’s the fuss?’
Abe passed him the first magazine, a close-up of a dark taciturn face under a Luftwaffe Schiff, then the other, a copy of Signal, the German forces magazine. ‘The Black Baron,’ Abe said.
Max stood beside an ME 109 in flying gear, a cigarette in one hand, talking to a Luftwaffe mechanic in black overalls.
‘Medals already,’ Harry said. ‘Isn’t that great? Just like Dad.’
‘That’s Spain and Poland,’ Abe said. ‘Jesus, Harry, thank God they call him Baron von Halder instead of Max Kelso. Can you imagine how this would look on the front page of Life magazine? My grandson the Nazi?’
‘He’s no Nazi,’ Harry said. ‘He’s a pilot. He’s there and we’re here.’ He put the magazine down. Abe wondered what he was thinking, but as usual, Harry kept his thoughts to himself – though there was something going on behind those eyes, Abe could tell that. ‘We haven’t heard from Mutti lately,’ Harry said.
‘And we won’t. I speak to people in the State Department all the time. The Third Reich is closed up tight.’
‘I expect it would be. You want another drink?’
‘Sure, why not?’ Abe reached for a cigar. ‘What a goddamn mess, Harry. They’ll run all over France and Britain. What’s the solution?’
‘Oh, there always is one,’ Harry Kelso said and poured the whisky.
Abe said, ‘Harry, it’s time we talked seriously. You graduated magna cum laude last spring, and since then all you do is fly and race cars, just like your father. What are you going to do? What about law school?’
Harry smiled and shook his head. ‘Law school? Did you hear Russia invaded Finland this morning?’ He took a long drink. ‘The Finns need pilots badly, and they’re asking for foreign volunteers. I’ve already booked a flight to Sweden.’
Abe was horrified. ‘But you can’t. Dammit, Harry, it’s not your war.’
‘It is now,’ Harry Kelso told him and finished his whisky.
The war between the Finns and the Russians was hopeless from the start. The weather was atrocious and the entire country snowbound. The Army, particularly the ski troops, fought valiantly against overwhelming enemy forces but were pushed back relentlessly.
On both sides, the fighters were outdated. The most modern planes the Russians could come up with were a few FW190s Hitler had presented to Stalin as a gesture of friendship between Germany and Russia.
Harry Kelso soon made a name for himself flying the British Gloucester Gladiator, a biplane with open cockpit just like in the First World War. A poor match for what he was up against, but his superior flying skills always brought him through and as always, just like his father in the First World War, Tarquin sat in the bottom of the cockpit in a waterproof zip bag Harry had purchased in Stockholm.
His luck changed dramatically when the Finnish Air Force managed to get hold of half a dozen Hurricane fighters from Britain, a considerable coup in view of the demand for the aircraft by the Royal Air Force. Already an ace, Harry was assigned to one of the two Hurricanes his squadron was given. A week later, they received a couple of ME109s from a Swedish source.
He alternated between the two types of aircraft, flying in atrocious conditions of snowstorms and high winds, was promoted to captain and decorated, his score mounting rapidly.
A photo journalist for Life magazine turned up to cover the air war, and was astonished to discover Senator Abe Kelso’s grandson and hear of his exploits. This was news indeed, for Abe was now very much a coming man, a member of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s kitchen cabinet.
So, Abe once again found a grandson on the cover of a magazine, Harry in a padded flying suit standing beside one of the ME109s in the snow, looking ten years older than when Abe had last seen him and holding Tarquin.
Abe read the account of Harry’s exploits with pride, but also sadness. ‘I told you, Harry, not your war,’ he said softly. ‘I mean, where is it all going to end?’ And yet, in his heart of hearts, he knew. America was going to go to war. Not today, not tomorrow, but that day would come.
Elsa von Halder was having coffee in the small drawing room at her country mansion, when Max arrived. He strode in, wearing his flying uniform as usual, in one hand a holdall, which he dropped on the floor.
‘Mutti, you look wonderful.’
She stood up and embraced him. ‘What a lovely surprise. How long?’
‘Three days.’
‘And then?’
‘We’ll see.’
She went to a drinks table and poured dry sherry. ‘Do you think the British and French will really fight if we invade?’
‘You mean when we invade?’ He toasted her. ‘Of course, I have infinite faith in the inspired leadership of our glorious Führer.’
‘For God’s sake, Max, watch your tongue. It could be the death of you. You aren’t even a member of the Nazi party.’
‘Why, Mutti, I always thought you were a true believer.’
‘Of course I’m not. They’re all bastards. The Führer, that horrible little creep Himmler. Oh, Goering’s all right and most of the generals, but – Anyway, what about you?’
‘Politics bore me, Mutti. I’m a fighter pilot, just like this fellow.’ He unzipped his holdall, produced a copy of Life magazine and passed it to her. ‘I saw Goering in Berlin yesterday. He gave that to me.’
Elsa sat down and examined the cover. ‘He looks old. What have they done to him?’
‘Read the article, Mutti. It was a hell of a war, however short. A miracle he came through. Mind you, Tarquin looks good on it. Goering heard from our Intelligence people that Harry got out to Sweden in a Hurricane. The word is he turned up in London and joined the RAF.’
She looked up from the article, her words unconsciously echoing Abe Kelso’s. ‘How will it all end?’
‘Badly, I expect. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have a bath before dinner.’ He picked up his bag and went to the door and turned. ‘Twenty-eight Russkies he shot down over Finland, Mutti. The dog. I only got twenty in Poland. Can’t have that, can we?’
There were at least thirteen American volunteers flying in the Battle of Britain in the spring and summer of 1940, possibly more. Some were accepted as Canadians – Red Tobin, Andy Mamedoff, Vernon Keogh, for example, who joined the RAF in July 1940. The great Billy Fiske was one, son of a millionaire and probably the first American killed in combat in the Second World War, later to be commemorated by a tablet in St Paul’s Cathedral in London. And others bound for glory like Pete Peterson, a DSO and DFC with the RAF, and a lieutenant-colonel at twenty-two when he transferred to his own people.
Finland surrendered on 12 March 1940. Harry flew out illegally in a Hurricane, as Max had told his mother, landed at an aero club outside Stockholm, went into the city and was in possession of a ticket on a plane to England before the authorities knew he was there.
When he reported to the Air Ministry in London, an ageing squadron leader examined his credentials. ‘Very impressive, old boy. There’s just one problem. You are an American and that means you’ll have to go to Canada and join the RCAF.’
‘I shot down twenty-eight