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.’