‘She can twist and turn like a snake,’ the Baron said, ‘and climb like a monkey. Jump in and sit at the controls.’
Napoleon clambered up onto the plane and lowered himself into the cockpit. He looked at the dials and levers and at the machine guns mounted in front of him.
He was lord of the clouds.
The most famous pilot ever.
The Baron tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Sorry, my little French fry, but I must interrupt your dreams. I need to get ready. We have a mission later today – a most important mission.’
Napoleon climbed out of the plane. ‘And I have to get home,’ he said. ‘I have pigs to feed.’ He held out his hand to the Baron. ‘Goodbye,’ he said.
The Baron shook Napoleon’s hand. ‘Auf wiedersehen,’ he said, then clicked his heels, saluted, and marched off.
‘Superior DNA sample,’ Skin said as the Baron vanished into the mist.
‘Yes, good job, BB!’ said Professor Perdu. ‘Which means you can get out of that place! The GC-Locator is working now. It is a very dangerous place to be!’
‘But I haven’t finished the mission,’ said Napoleon. ‘How far did you say it was to the Australian camp, Skin?’
‘Estimated distance is fifteen kilometres.’
‘And we got here early, so we still have a few hours to spare,’ said Napoleon.
‘This was meant to be a quick job,’ the professor said.
‘It still can be,’ Napoleon said. ‘We just have to find the Aussies.’
‘And how are you going to do that?’ the professor asked.
Something had just caught Napoleon’s eye. A bike. It looked like a pushbike, but had a motor as well. He walked over to the machine and inspected it carefully.
‘Is this what I think it is?’ he asked Skin.
‘Affirmative,’ Skin replied. ‘It is a motorbike. One of the first ever made. NSU, 1909 model. Top speed seventy kilometres per hour.’
‘That should be fast enough.’
‘Napoleon Augustus Smythe!’ the professor shouted.
‘Do not get on that motorbike!’
But Napoleon was already on the bike.
‘Relax, Prof. Most of the Germans are still in bed. And no one will see us in this fog. By the time it lifts we’ll be with the Aussies, waiting for the Baron to drop by.’
The professor shouted something else, but static filled the screen of the Battle Watch and Napoleon was already pedalling off. A moment later he clunked the bike into gear. It spluttered and almost stopped.
‘Increased pedalling required,’ Skin said. ‘The engine will activate soon.’
The bike backfired, sent out a cloud of smoke, and then growled like a real motorbike. Napoleon pulled the throttle back and took off down the track.
‘I hope it’s got brakes!’ he yelled as the mist swallowed him.
Napoleon sped blindly through the fog. Skin was giving directions using the GC-Locator.
‘There is a wide curve to the left coming up, and then a sharp turn to the right. A hundred metres after that you’ll be out of the German camp.’
They shot past a couple of German soldiers who were fast asleep in a ditch.
‘Suggest reducing travel speed,’ said Skin. ‘Probability of accident high.’
‘But I don’t know how to!’ Napoleon shouted back. ‘The throttle’s stuck. HOLD ON!’
The track took a sudden sharp turn and Napoleon almost ran over a cat, just missed a cow, sent two horses galloping off and nearly ended up in a creek.
‘Phew! That was close,’ he said.
‘I concur,’ said Skin. ‘Dangerous situation narrowly avoided.’
Soon they were out of the German airfield and heading down the road to the village of Cappy.
When they reached the village the mist had lifted a little. Napoleon stopped, took the bike out of gear and let it idle for a while.
He then rubbed his hands together and opened them like a book. His palms became a computer screen, displaying a map of the area.
‘Destination is St Colette,’ said Skin. ‘It is a very small village, located towards the edge of the map.’
‘Too easy,’ Napoleon laughed. We’ll be there in no time.’
‘ETA approximately twenty minutes,’ said Skin.
Napoleon rubbed his hands together and the screen vanished. Then he flicked the bike back into gear and sped off.
‘We’ll just go straight through the middle of town,’ Napoleon said as he rode into Cappy. ‘That’s the fastest way.’
But as he came speeding around a corner into the main street, Skin suddenly said, ‘Danger ahead.’
Napoleon slammed on the brakes. There was a line of soldiers pointing their guns straight at him.
It was a German road block.
Napoleon stared at the soldiers.
The soldiers stared at Napoleon.
Then, they opened fire.
‘Evasive action required,’ said Skin.
‘It’s a bit late for that,’ shouted Napoleon. ‘I’m right in the firing line!’
He spun the bike sideways, did a perfect 180-degree slide and raced off the way he’d come in.
‘We need more speed,’ Napoleon yelled, looking over his shoulder. The Germans were after him. An army car with two riflemen on board was in pursuit.
‘It is a Kubelsitzer,’ Skin explained as they raced along. ‘A Mercedes Benz Torpedo Kubelsitzer. 1913 model.’
‘I don’t care what it is,’ Napoleon screamed into the wind. ‘They’re fast and they’re firing. At me!’
Bullets whizzed around him like angry bees.
‘Pursuit vehicle gaining,’ Skin warned. ‘Recommend next side street.’
Napoleon hung a hard right into a narrow lane, sending a bunch of startled chickens high into the air. The birds flapped around for a while and then landed in the Torpedo as it screeched around the corner on two wheels.
A rooster came down on the driver’s head and clung on with its sharp claws. A bunch of hens landed on the riflemen and did the same. The birds cackled and squawked as the army car shot down the thin alley.
At the end of the lane there was a wide pond into which the town sewerage emptied. It stank something awful. Napoleon could smell it more and more with every second.
The driver of the car was too busy fighting with the rooster to see anything, so when Napoleon took a sharp right turn, the Torpedo kept going.
It shot up the side of the bank and flew through the air.
The soldiers shrieked as the Torpedo dived straight into the pond and began to sink into the murky water.
‘Yeehah!’ shouted Napoleon as he sped on through the narrow lanes.
Soon, he reached the main road, heading west towards St Colette.
‘Look out Aussies,’ he crowed. ‘Here we come.’
The tiny village of St Colette was easy to find. It only had a few houses. There was a brick factory next to the road with a tall tower that could be seen for miles around.
Napoleon stopped next to the brick factory and turned off the motorbike. A blue sky was opening over the fields. He could see a few planes in the distance.
‘Allied aircraft above,’ Skin said.
‘So the Germans will be up there soon, too,’ Napoleon said. ‘We need to find the Australians.’ He walked to the edge of a field. ‘Are we in the right place?’
‘Co-ordinates correct,’ Skin confirmed. ‘Australian gunners should be 45 degrees to right.’
A loud cry echoed across the fields. ‘Coooeee.’
‘That must be them,’ Napoleon said. ‘But where are they?’
‘Hey, sonny.’ Several voices called out. ‘Up here, mate.’
Napoleon stared towards a low ridge several hundred metres away and eventually saw a group of soldiers waving to him.
‘Come and join us,’ they yelled.
Napoleon grinned. Finally, he’d found the Australians!
The Australian soldiers crowded around
Napoleon when he reached them, admiring his bike.
‘What a beauty,’ one of them said. ‘Where’d you get it?’
‘I took it this morning,’ Napoleon said, grinning. ‘From the Germans.’
The Australians didn’t understand him because he was speaking French. So he tried again, mixing words with action. He grabbed the bike and tiptoed along with it, looking furtively behind him.
‘I think he stole it from Fritz,’ one soldier said.
Napoleon nodded, and soon all the soldiers were slapping him on the back. ‘Good onya!’ they laughed.
A cook handed him a hot cup of tea and a piece of damper. ‘Here, sit down, mate. Make yourself at home. Anyone who puts one over the Germans is welcome here.’
The cook served up tea and biscuits to the soldiers and soon everyone was sitting down. Napoleon stared across the fields towards the Somme River.
It all seemed so peaceful. The morning sun soaked into his skin and the hot tea warmed him as the soldiers laughed and talked.
Some of the soldiers were very young. Not that much older than him.
Some of them would never go home again.
‘Don’t get too comfortable, you blokes.’ A captain interrupted Napoleon’s thoughts. ‘HQ says Fritz is in the air. Sparks will be flying soon.’
The soldiers downed their drinks and moved quickly to their gun posts and observation points.
Napoleon watched them prepare for battle while Skin updated him.
‘The bullet that killed the Baron may have been fired from here on the ground.’
‘So any of these guys could’ve done it?’ Napoleon said, staring at the many machine gunners and riflemen lined up along the ridge.
‘No,’ said Skin. ‘We have also simulated the plane’s flight path. And you are standing exactly where it flew over.’
Napoleon’s eyes brightened. ‘So the bullet must have been fired from near here.’
‘Affirmative. It narrows our choices down to three. No. 1: the gunner on the left.’
Napoleon looked at the man sitting behind a large machine gun.
‘That is a Vickers gun,’ continued Skin. ‘It is a water-cooled weapon that pumps out 450 rounds per minute. No. 2: on your right.’
Napoleon’s gaze moved to another soldier. His machine gun was not as big.
Vickers machine gun
‘He is preparing to fire a Lewis gun,’ said Skin. ‘Small but extremely powerful. They call it the Rattlesnake.’
‘So we need to watch these two closely,’ Napoleon said.
Lewis gun
‘Affirmative. No. 3 is ahead of you.’
Napoleon didn’t see the soldier at first. But then he spied him, sitting in the shade of a tree, leaning against the trunk, rifle on his lap.
‘That rifle is a Lee-Enfield,’ said Skin. ‘It has a ten-bullet magazine and in the hands of a good marksman it is deadly.’
Napoleon watched the soldier carefully cleaning his rifle. The man seemed so calm and unhurried.
‘Information assimilated, BB?’ Skin checked.
‘Yep,’ Napoleon replied. ‘All we have to do now is wait for the Baron to turn up.’
They didn’t have to wait long.
A few minutes later the siren sounded. The long angry scream shattered the peace of the morning.
‘Here they come!’ a soldier shouted from an observation post higher up the ridge.
A cluster of planes came into view, high in the sky to the south-east. They weaved and dived around each other, engines screaming, guns blasting.
About twenty of them were German, mainly Albatros scouts, in bright colours: blue, green, orange, yellow and purple. There were only eight or nine Allied aircraft, the type known as Sopwith Camels.
Suddenly the sky filled with fire and smoke as two German planes burst into flames. They spluttered and coughed and then crash-dived towards the ground, buzzing like mad hornets.
‘Where’s the Red Baron?’ Napoleon asked.
‘He is watching and waiting,’ said Skin. ‘The Baron is a master tactician.’
Napoleon searched the sky for any sign of the red triplane, wondering when the Baron would strike. And then there was a shout.
‘Trouble at 12 noon,’ a soldier yelled. ‘Look!’
A Sopwith Camel had pulled out of the crowd of planes and was trying to run for home. Instantly, another plane appeared from the clouds high above. A red triplane. It dived at the Camel like an eagle after its prey.
‘It’s the Red Devil!’ someone shouted.
But a second Camel suddenly screamed in from nowhere, keeping the sun behind him. Now the Red Devil was the one being chased.
‘That is Captain Brown,’ Skin explained. ‘He is the one who is officially credited with shooting down the Baron.’
Brown and the Baron circled and twisted around each other, firing furiously.
‘They’re coming our way,’ the Australian sergeant shouted. ‘And they’re low. This is our chance, boys. Looks like they’ll fly right over the top of us. Everyone at the ready!’
‘Stand by, BB,’ said Skin.
The planes screamed closer and closer.
Napoleon felt himself trembling with excitement.
This moment made history, he thought. And I’m here. Right in the middle of it.
He held his breath.
‘I am monitoring the two machine guns,’ Skin said. ‘You observe the lone soldier.’
The soldier already had his rifle pressed against his shoulder, pointing at the sky, finger on the trigger, one eye watching out for the Baron to appear.
It seemed to take forever.
The roaring of the planes grew louder and louder until there was nothing else, just one almighty roar. And then they were there, almost right on top, no more than twenty metres above them. First the Camel, and then the red triplane.
The machine guns opened fire, rattling at the sky, thumping out a hail of bullets.
The lone soldier took careful aim as the red plane passed over, following it with his rifle. Then, at the very last minute, he pulled the trigger.
Napoleon looked up at once, and what he saw made his heart leap.
Everything seemed to slow right down in that moment, so slow that he felt sure he could see the bullet itself streaking towards the red plane and striking it just under the cockpit. But that wasn’t what made his heart leap.
It was the Baron’s face.
The red plane was so close that as Napoleon looked up he saw the Baron peering back from the cockpit. There was a look of surprise on his face; he had no idea that these guns were waiting for him.
And then von Richthofen’s face was gone. Seconds later the red plane shot upwards, its engine howling. It paused in midair, spluttered and coughed, then plunged down again as if it had suddenly lost all power.
‘We got him!’ someone shouted, and everyone watched the triplane fall out of the sky.
The Baron regained some control as it spiralled down, and the plane straightened for a forced landing in the field. The undercarriage was torn off as the plane bounced and skidded to a standstill.
There was wild excitement in the Australian camp. The soldiers cheered and shouted, and then all rushed down from the ridge.
All except one.
The lone soldier stood where he was for a while, under the tree, rifle hanging at his side. He watched the others yelling and whooping down the hillside. Then he leaned his rifle against the tree and walked away.
When Napoleon looked again, he had gone.
‘Excellent operation, BB,’ Skin said.
‘Thanks, Skin,’ said Napoleon. But he didn’t feel great. He had just watched a national hero, and a sort of friend, die. He felt sad.
‘Unhappiness detected,’ Skin said. ‘Remember that this is in the past. It happened almost a hundred years ago.’
‘I know, Skin. But for me it happened only moments ago. I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘Advice, BB: observe and record onl
y. Do not get close to subjects.’
‘How can you not get close to someone if they’ve been kind to you?’
Skin didn’t reply, and Napoleon knew why. All those microcircuits and intellichips didn’t know the answer to that question.
As the Australians rushed to stare at the mangled aeroplane, Napoleon stayed on the ridge.
The soldiers were pulling off bits of the plane to keep as souvenirs. Their voices drifted up to him.
‘We got him, boys,’ someone yelled. ‘We brought the Red Devil down!’
‘Yeah, but who shot him?’ someone else asked. ‘Who fired the fatal bullet, eh?’
There was a lot of arguing and shouting. Many claimed that they had shot down the Red Devil. Napoleon knew the answer, but suddenly this great military mystery didn’t seem to matter any more.
He looked across at the tree where the lone soldier had stood. Where was he now? Only his rifle remained.
Napoleon walked across to the tree. He lifted the rifle and examined it briefly before putting it back. He was about to walk away when he saw a spent cartridge lying on the ground.
He leaned down and picked up the shell. Was this the bullet that killed the Baron?
Napoleon turned the empty cartridge over in his hand, and was about to toss it away when he heard the professor.
‘Time to go, BB.’
‘OK, Prof.’ He’d seen enough. ‘Ready when you are.’
Almost at once the column of red light appeared a few metres away, beaming up into the sky. Napoleon walked over and stepped straight into it.
This time he wasn’t instantly sucked up, but lifted slowly, so he had time to look around.
He saw the wreck of the red plane surrounded by men, the camp with its guns idle, and the discarded motorbike.
Red Devil Down Page 2