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.
EUROPE
1934–1941
4
Max sat on the terrace of their country house with his mother, and told her all about it – the flying, everything – and produced photos of himself and Harry in flying clothes, the aircraft standing behind.
‘I’m going to fly, Mutti, it’s what I do well.’
Looking into his face, she saw her husband, yet, sick at heart, did the only thing she could. ‘Sixteen, Max, that’s young.’
‘I could join the Berlin Aero Club. You know Goering. He could swing it.’
Which was true. Max appeared by appointment with Goering and the Baroness in attendance, and in spite of the commandant’s doubts, a Heinkel biplane was provided. A twenty-three-year-old Luftwaffe lieutenant who would one day become a Luftwaffe general was there, named Adolf Galland.
‘Can you handle this, boy?’ he asked.
‘Well, my father knocked down at least forty-eight of ours with the Flying Corps. I think I can manage.’
Galland laughed out loud and stuck a small cigar between his teeth. ‘I’ll follow you up. Let’s see.’
The display that followed had even Goering breathless. Galland could not shake Max for a moment, and it was the Immelmann turn which finished him off. He turned in to land, and Max followed.
Standing beside the Mercedes, Goering nodded to a valet, who provided caviar and champagne. ‘Took me back to my youth, Baroness, the boy is a genius.’
This wasn’t false modesty, for Goering was a great pilot in his own right, and had no need to make excuses to anybody.
Galland and Max approached, Galland obviously tremendously excited. ‘Fantastic. Where did you learn all that, boy?’
Max told him and Galland could only shake his head.
That night, he joined Goering, von Ribbentrop, Elsa and Max at dinner at the Adlon Hotel. The champagne flowed. Goering said to Galland, ‘So what do we do with this one?’
‘He isn’t seventeen until next year,’ Galland said. ‘May I make a suggestion?’
‘Of course.’
‘Put him in an infantry cadet school here in Berlin, just to make it official. Arrange for him to fly at the Aero Club. Next year, at seventeen, grant him a lieutenant’s commission in the Luftwaffe.’
‘I like that.’ Goering nodded and turned to Max. ‘And do you, Baron?’
‘My pleasure,’ Max Kelso said, in English, his American half rising to the surface easily.
‘There is no problem with the fact that my son had an American father?’ Elsa asked.
‘None
