Eleven Eleven

CHAPTER 3

2.00 a.m. American Air Service airbase

Eddie Hertz slept in a plush feather bed in a farmhouse in Prouvy – close to the Belgian border. His squadron had moved forward from Doullens three weeks ago and he was settling in nicely.

His lodgings suited him well. It was right on the edge of his airbase and close enough for him to hear the empty shell case that hung by the operations room. When the duty officer hit that with an iron bar, they all had to rush over at once. The other flyboys in the American Air Service First Pursuit Group were having to make do with corrugated iron sheds or, even worse, tents, for their accommodation. Eddie had outbid his fellow flyers for the rent on this room. It was worth every franc. This was most definitely not the season for a tent, especially as the ground round here was so boggy.

Eddie had never been this close to the action before, but the war was moving at a rapid pace. The airbase at Doullens, which had been his home since he’d arrived in France in early 1918, was now too far away from the Front.

Despite the comfort of his lodgings, Eddie was having a restless night. His thoughts drifted to Céline – a dark-haired French girl he knew. Thinking about her made a pleasant change from the concerns that usually plagued his resting hours. Céline had been working at a field hospital close to Doullens and she and her fellow nurses were regular guests at the pilots’ mess. She’d also been posted forward, close to Eddie’s new base. He was sure fate was working in his favour. They talked about a bullet with your name on it. Céline had his name on her. He liked her a lot.

That night Eddie had told her the pilots all thought a scarf from a pretty girl was a sure-fire good-luck charm to keep them safe in the sky. How could she refuse? It was expensive too. Pure silk. She must like him, to give him that.

Now, as Eddie drifted on the edge of sleep, the room was suddenly illuminated by a great flash of light. Then the roar of a terrible explosion tore through the night.

He sat bolt upright, muttering, ‘What the hell was that?’

He rushed to the window, but outside was total darkness. He wondered if the Germans were mounting an attack, but dismissed the idea. If Fritz really was going on the offensive, there’d be more explosions. Eddie thought the Germans were a busted flush. There were hardly any Boche planes up these days. They were done. The war was almost over.

Eddie said ‘Boche’ when he was around Céline, like she said it, to entertain her. That was what the Frenchies called the Germans. But then he would feel like a creep. His family was German. He was only first-generation American himself. He even spoke the language.

He wondered whether or not to get dressed and report to the briefing hut. He pulled on his trousers, then decided not to bother. No one was sounding the alarm, and his bed was more inviting than the cold air of this autumn night. He cursed himself for dithering. His old girlfriend in New York, Janie Holland, she was always changing her mind. This hat or that, this dress or that skirt. It drove him mad. It was a relief when her letter arrived at his airbase telling him she had met a US Navy captain and that was the end of Eddie and Janie. His parents adored her though – and their wealthy families were friends. ‘It’s good to marry money, Eddie,’ said his mother. ‘That way you know they’re not just marrying you for yours.’

The Hertz fortune was founded on electrical domestic appliances – toasters, kettles, hotplates, ovens – and had netted the Hertzes an apartment overlooking Central Park and the best education for Eddie, and his younger brother, Bobby, that money could buy.

It was only over the last few weeks he’d really fallen for Céline. She never asked him about his family or his money. Maybe he’d ask her to go to Paris with him. He’d been last month. It was beautiful, but unsettling. Full of old men. The only young ones he’d seen had missing limbs or other nasty wounds. And all those women in their widow’s black.

He tried to sleep, but it was impossible.

Last night a group of British flyers had joined them in the mess – a return visit from the airbase down in Monchaux-sur-Écaillon, where the American pilots had been invited the week before. It had been a great evening, until the British started singing their macabre songs. One of them went:



Take the cylinder out of my kidneys

The connecting rod out of my brain

From the small of my back take the camshaft

And assemble the engine again.



The other guys in the squadron roared with laughter, but Eddie could only muster a polite smile. Céline didn’t find it funny either and didn’t even pretend to be amused. They both agreed the British had a strange sense of humour. Actually the song made Eddie feel a bit queasy. He told himself it was the wine, but he’d sobered up a bit and the song still kept going round and round in his head.

He’d been in France nine months now, and he’d seen enough gruesome accidents to know exactly what happened to a flyer when fate deserted him. Three days ago, at around ten in the morning, he had landed his plane on a flat field behind the Allied lines where he had downed a Fokker triplane – his fourth kill.

As he ran towards the wreckage, he saw a crowd of soldiers, who he took to be British Tommies. They stood in a semicircle by the downed plane, which was still burning around its mangled engine.

The pilot had been thrown clear and the crowd was keeping a respectable distance from his lifeless body. He lay on his back, arms and legs flat on the ground, eyes open. Eddie could see he was a handsome fellow, even though his face was covered in sooty, greasy oil. A shock of dark hair, a strong jaw, not much older than him. They even looked quite alike. But his clothes were badly burned and half hanging off him.

Eddie had seen dead bodies before – some of them burned to a cinder and others so badly mutilated they were unrecognisable. This death was one he was personally responsible for and it had particularly touched him. The fellow he had shot down and killed could have been his kith and kin. If his parents’ families hadn’t left Germany for New York forty years before, that dead man could have been his comrade-in-arms. He could have been him.

Eddie had walked towards the body, unsettled by the stillness of death. He knew the man had had a terrible end. He had seen his body jerk forward when Eddie had fired into the plane. That hadn’t killed him – that would have been a merciful death. Instead, the fellow had struggled to put out the flames around his engine, beating at them with his gloved hands. The fire went out – more through luck than the efforts of the wounded pilot, Eddie suspected – but the engine had died and the man had made a gallant effort to guide his aircraft down to earth. He nearly made it, but the plane stalled close to the ground and crashed with a great grinding crump.

Eddie knelt over the body, unnerved by the man’s sightless gaze. He almost expected the eyes to follow him or for the pilot to suddenly cough or breathe.

He reached down and took the man’s identification tag from a chain on his neck. That was part of the flyer’s code – pilots took it upon themselves to notify their enemies who had died and who had been captured. They would drop the tags and a wreath on the nearest enemy airbase. Flyers on both sides did it. Then he closed the man’s eyes. He was still warm, of course. Ten minutes ago he was as alive as Eddie and all the others standing there gawping. Some of them were thawing themselves by the blazing machine. That annoyed Eddie. It seemed discourteous.

‘Hey, get away,’ he yelled at the soldiers. ‘That thing might go off again. Or the ammunition might ignite.’

‘You can piss off, Yank,’ came a voice from the other side of the plane, obscured by smoke. The others laughed. Eddie half recognised the accent – they certainly weren’t British – probably Australians or New Zealanders.

He had expected them to greet him as a hero. Instead, they looked on him as some sort of curiosity. ‘Off yer go, mate,’ said another soldier – a barrel of a man with sergeant stripes on his sleeves – and placed a firm hand on Eddie’s shoulder. As he turned to leave, the same fellow said, ‘Well done, but as yer soar off back into the sky, and then back to yer comfy little bed, spare a thought for the poor bloody infantry.’

Eddie got back into his aircraft and took off, feeling a little foolish. As he banked over the scene, none of the soldiers below paid him any attention. So much for all that ‘Knights of the Sky’ crap he had read about in the newspapers and magazines back home.

That dead man’s face haunted him now as he tried to get back to sleep. Eddie’s fourth victim. One more, if he lived that long, and he’d be an Ace. That would make his mother proud. He tried to turn his thoughts back to Céline. Her silk scarf hung over a chair, still with a hint of her perfume. He recognised it. Quelques Fleurs. The scent hung in the air like a ghost. Eddie rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head. ‘One day, when this is all over, I shall take her back to New York,’ he told himself. ‘One day I might even ask her to marry me!’

How could she refuse? A rich, handsome American – was there a more eligible man in the whole of France?



As Eddie drifted half a world away, his mother Else Hertz drew back a thick velvet curtain in the grand living room of their Upper East Side apartment so she could look down over Central Park. It was a cloudy night, but for a moment the moon came through and the trees were lit with a silver glow. A lone horse and cart clopped past, seven storeys below, the sound of hooves on asphalt almost drowned by the thrum of motorcars on still-crowded Fifth Avenue.

Walter, her husband, had gone to his room in a huff, and Bobby, their sixteen-year-old son, had been sent to bed in disgrace. The family had been dining at Delmonico’s, and Else and Walter had argued over how much wine Bobby should be allowed to drink. She had been right. One glass would have been quite sufficient for a boy his age. There’d been similar scenes with Eddie only a year or two before.

She reached for a copy of The New York Times and looked for a story she had read that morning.



YALE MAN DOWNS FOURTH HUN



Eddie Hertz, the nineteen-year-old heir to the Hertz family fortune, claimed his fourth kill over Flanders on Thursday. Showing the kind of grit that earned him a place on the Yale Bulldogs football team, the American Air Service First Pursuit Group flyer chased a Hun triplane for over an hour before he sent him crashing to the ground.



Else cut the piece from the page and placed it in an envelope addressed to her friend Mary Holland. Things had been a little cool between them since Mary’s daughter Janie had dropped Eddie for that sailor. Now Eddie was a war hero! This was the fourth time he’d made the papers this year.

She sealed her letter and left it in the tray for the maid. But when Else finally retired to bed an hour later, she felt uneasy. She wished Eddie could be doing nothing on a destroyer in the middle of the north Atlantic, like Janie’s new fellow, rather than taking to the skies over Flanders in one of those flying death traps. She looked wistfully at the photograph of her boy in his pilot uniform, taken the day before he boarded the troopship to England. He looked barely more than a child, and she’d give up everything she had just to see him again.