In any case, Nasenberg took it upon himself to explain his situation.
“Yes, my friend, I’m French. To begin with, and because you’re all the same, you natural-born Frenchmen, you won’t admit that that designation could apply to someone whose name is reminiscent of Germany. It would be better, evidently, if, in granting us our letters of naturalization, you permitted us to call ourselves Durand or Dupont. Unfortunately, I’m still Nasenberg, and I possess, in addition, a fine red beer-drinker’s face. External signs are always sufficient for you to judge someone—that’s your mania. Fortunately, there are others, and those, true entitlements to glory, attest more than is necessary to my sincerity and my attachment to France, and justify my present sentiments. Those entitlements are my businesses. Is there one of them that has not been conceived with a humanitarian, social or patriotic goal? Was not the Hygienic Dairy Company, for example, conceived with a view to procuring rigorously pure milk for families lacking wet-nurses? Since our dairies have been functioning in the populous quarters, they have saved more than half a million human lives. That is, in addition the business that first earned me the red ribbon. The Soissons Mushroom-Growing Company, my dear chap, provides a living for hundreds of people. I know that people complain about the works that I’ve undertaken in those immense caverns, but that’s all the same to me. To conclude, let’s merely mention the sums that I’ve devoted, under the direction of our friend Henri Rozal, to the manufacture of powerful and rapid aircraft that will be masters of the air. Was that not a gift that I prepared in advance for National Defense? Unfortunately, contrary fate has caused this war to break out a little too soon...”
“Unfortunately,” Turner repeated, his throat constricted, thinking about his friend.
But Nasenberg looked the aviator full in the face. “It’s never too late to accomplish a great work, and to give the fatherland an element of success that might be decisive. I have the conviction, in fact, that in the war that is beginning, aircraft will play a considerable role.”
“I too have that conviction.”
“Then what prevents us from collaborating in the continuation of what Rozal undertook? That direct crossing, without a port of call, from Paris to New York, amazes me. I swear to you that I dared not believe it. It’s true that Rozal has not succeeded completely, since he died while landing. Even so, the fact remains of an audacious flight over the Atlantic Ocean. Oh, if it were possible to reconstruct the aircraft that permitted that exploit, it would doubtless make a fortune—but it would also, placed in the service of the French army, be an incomparable instrument of combat. My friend, my dear Turner, it’s necessary for the two of us to set to work!”
Turner reflected. Why had Henri Rozal, in saying farewell, not advised this collaboration? And why, above all, were the documents relating to the secret of the engine not to be found in the strong-box at the factory, where they would normally be kept? Was it because Rozal had been suspicious of Nasenberg?
The aviator was oppressed by anxiety. A painful conflict was taking place within him, as an atrocious problem presented itself: should he deprive the country of this support, of indisputable combative value, or should he respect the secret wishes of the dead man, who had believed that he ought not to leave the plans in his partner’s hands?
Nasenberg continued talking.
“You’re the custodian of his secret. Rozal told me that himself before his departure, and I approved of it in every way. It’s in consequence of a verbal agreement made between us, in the anticipation of a catastrophe, that he designated you as his successor, with my approval.”
George Turner had no reason to doubt the veracity of this declaration. Since Nasenberg knew that he was the custodian of the secret, the rest must logically be true. In those conditions, the aviator’s hesitation was immediately abandoned.
“So be it,” he said, after due reflection. “In the interests of France, I ask no more than to set to work right away. And I promise you, Monsieur Nasenberg, that it is also for the glorification of Rozal’s name that I shall devote all my strength and determination to the success of the enterprise.
Nasenberg was radiant. “Bravo!” he cried. “You’re a true friend and a good patriot. You’ll see what good work we shall do, together.”
“No, not together!” declared Turner, coldly. “My friend’s testamentary conditions are that I should work alone in occupying myself with the fabrication of the engine for some time yet, at least, until I’ve taken out the patents.”
Nasenberg bit his lip. He wanted to argue, but he sensed that Turner’s decision was irrevocable. It was better not to insist.
“Yes,” the young man continued, “I want to be alone, and to work in the most absolute secrecy. If that condition isn’t granted, I won’t do anything.”
“Your conditions will be mine—or, rather, those of our fatherland,” said Nasenberg, trying to be amicable—but the aviator’s resolution was obviously profoundly disagreeable to him.
Turner suddenly slapped his forehead. “Anyway, it’s impossible to do anything. I’ll be mobilized on the fourth day.”
Nasenberg looked at him pityingly, and replied: “Don’t worry about a thing, my dear chap; you’ll be mobilized in your factory, along with your workers. The necessary steps will be taken tomorrow morning, I promise you. I’ll go to see the Minister of War, my friend Claude Barsac, tomorrow.”41
On this magisterial assurance, the banker favored the young man with the grip of his protective hand and went out majestically, wearing a smile.
V. During the Advance on Paris
Nasenberg had not been boasting in assuring Turner that he would obtain government authorization for him to take over the airplane factory in order to continue Rozal’s work there. It was, in fact, no trouble for him to obtain the necessary support for the enterprise, considered as being in the notional interest, and to conserve its means of operation, its workers and everything indispensable to the progress of its exploitation.
The banker had told the Minister of War, Claude Barsac—who was, indeed, his friend—that within two months he would put an extraordinary aircraft at the disposal of France that would sow terror among the enemy’s lines. He had been believed, and he had been guaranteed all possible facilities for the completion of the work, for no one—at least in alert milieux, the Ministry of War especially—was unaware of Rozal’s unexpected performance, and that fabulous precedent was a guarantee of the future. Another cause of sympathy, for the competent services of the army, was the presence of Georges Turner, a well-known aviator, at the head of the factory.
This overly credulous confidence in Nasenberg, who was persona grata in high Republican political circles, was that of all officialdom. Barsac, moreover, gave proof of intelligence in not sending to barracks, on the imbecilic pretext of equality in the taxation of blood, those who might render greater service to the country in aircraft factories. Thus, mobilized to his industrial post with a dozen selected workmen, Rozal’s friend set to work confidently.
Things did not go as rapidly as he had imagined and desired, however, not only for his personal satisfaction but for the fatherland, at grips with a gigantic and redoubtable adversary.
The first fortnight was extraordinarily impassioned at the Nanterre factory on the river-bank. For the construction of the airplane, everything had progressed normally. The workmen, guided by an intelligent foreman, quickly put pieces that were familiar to them in place. The tests conducted in the wind-tunnel at the end of the hangar also gave the expected results. There was no more to do than equip the apparatus with its essential and indispensable organ: the engine.
Now, the difficulties having begun at the very outset, Henry Rozal had been able to keep the secret of his invention, jealously, from the eyes of his staff, and it was necessary for Turner, replacing him in an absolute manner, to indicate to each worker how to construct each piece separately, with the same precautions that his friend had taken, since it was now more necessary than eve
r to work in secret.
For several months, the engineer had locked himself away with the documents contained in the precious envelope. He had studied them, penetrated their principles and their precise indications, to the point of making the idea of genius his own. His objective, in acting thus, was to be able one day to destroy, if the need arose, the papers left to him by his dead friend.
Only when he was certain of being able to labor usefully, without the help of drawings, plans and calculations, did Turner order work to begin on the construction of the turbine.
But the days had gone by, to Nasenberg’s great despair, and by means of a sudden lightning attack, the Germans, cutting through Belgium—albeit delayed by the forts and Liège and then those of Namur—were advancing like a formidable tide whose flow was irresistible.
France was not ready. Undoubtedly, to the East, at Verdun, Toul, Épinal and Belfort, serious defenses would command respect from the enemy, but, knowing what military organization they would collide with there, the Germans had preferred, cynically, to violate the neutrality of valiant little Belgium and hurl their long-assembled masses upon us through the Meuse valley: two million men, thousands of cannon, machine-guns, cavalrymen and armored trains; the entire infernal apparatus of a plan that should not, could not fail. In fact, the invading armies, during that first fortnight of August would not have encountered the desired resistance on our soil. Our territorial regiments, rapidly formed, composed of poorly-trained elements, and in consequence of a numerical inferiority, would have folded up before entire divisions disposing infantry, artillery and cavalry.
During that strategic retreat, the wisdom of which escaped the mentality of the crowds, opinion took fright and pessimists already saw France defeated. Nasenberg was one of the most tormented among them. Every morning and evening he came by automobile to the Nanterre factory, and during one of these feverish visits, he said to Turner, when he found him alone in the private office:
“My friend, we must finish this quickly, at all costs. I know that your task is hard, and that it’s difficult, in a few days, to reconstruct what Rozal took years to achieve, but you have the benefit of his experience, since he’s confided everything to you. You have in hand, moreover, the complete documents, plans and calculations. It’s our duty to produce a steel bird similar to the one that carried him to the other side of the Atlantic ready to fly.”
Georges Turner was cool in the face of this nervousness. By virtue of his temperament, he remained calm while the other was agitated, and that permitted him to observe the enigmatic man more carefully. Undoubtedly, more than anyone else, the Frenchman was determined to realize Rozal’s dream once again, but he did not want to act carelessly; he felt that it was necessary to succeed at the first attempt. One partial success had already compromised the enterprise, and it was necessary that the enterprise did not fail.
He became anxious. Why this frenetic patriotism in a recently-naturalized individual, who had until now seemed to have but one ideal: money?
However, when Nasenberg, advising him to work night-shifts in order to attain the objective rapidly, begged him to risk everything to attempt a definitive experiment, he shared his opinion. The Germans were marching too swiftly. Nothing could resist their terrible advance, neither fortified positions nor mobile units. It was necessary to oppose them with some new, unexpected, disconcerting element, rapid in its effect, which would demoralize their troops. Now, that new element, Turner was forging frantically in his workshops. It was time to enter into in the tragic dance.
“Are you ready?” That was the question posed every morning by the banker on arriving at the factory-but the engineer shook his head.
“No. My friend Rozal didn’t leave anything—no molds, no templates, no models—relating to the turbine engine. He destroyed everything before departing; everything has to be done again.”
“Well, construct the pieces according to the plans you have...”
“That’s already done—but the assembly is delicate and difficult. It’s not routine work, even for our workmen. Do you remember how Rozal had pieces that he condemned for scrap restarted twenty times over? No one knew what contented him or displeased him about the items in question. I have his plans, yes, but their execution will take a long time.”
“How many more days, in all?”
“Ten, perhaps…by making a superhuman effort, we might perhaps gain 48 hours.”
“In ten days, the Germans will be in Paris. The Boche will be passing under the Arc de Triomphe, taking their coffee in the cafés on the boulevards, and this factory will have been destroyed for some time. Our invention will belong to them.”
“Never!” cried Turner. “Before the enemy can take possession of it, I’ll have destroyed everything, if I must.”
“You’d do that?”
“I swear it on the memory of my friend, Henri Rozal.”
Nasenberg went pale. Turning his head, he directed a nasty look at the aviator. Georges Turner was exultant, however.
“No, no, the Germans shan’t pass beneath the Arc de Triomphe. They’ll have millions of breasts to pierce first. The army of immortal France has not said its last word!”
But the banker did not want to hear any more. He shrugged his shoulders scornfully and left.
That was August 22. Through the valley of the Oise, through the Somme, the Ardennes and the Argonne, through every access route, the tumultuous flood of Barbarians came on, spreading terror, chasing horrified populations before it. And Turner, who was suffering atrociously, although his soul refused to entertain dangerous doubt, pursued with an unbreakable tenacity, but with his habitual calm, the realization of the engine that might perhaps change the fate of armies.
Perhaps?
What if he did not succeed? At that thought, he shivered profoundly. But when he contemplated the day’s work as dusk fell, and saw the miraculous engine that he could only see sketched out—the robust and mysterious turbine, so complicated in appearance, with its innumerable delicate winglets, and yet the product of a luminous theoretical genius—there was an intense flame of hope in his eyes. For he knew, as a skilled, intelligent and cool-headed aviator that such an engine would permit unsuspected feats. With Rozal’s irresistible bolide, he would be able to fly over enemy territory in a quarter of an hour, sowing panic as he passed. Before his intentions could even be divined and his slight advertised, he could destroy strategic bridges of cardinal importance, railroads, viaduct, stations and ammunition dumps. He would cast demoralization into the armies by setting fire to their supply trains and dispersing their staff headquarters. And thus, halting the invader’s progress, he would give the French army the time to form up and then to confront those savage hordes, magnificently and victoriously.
VI. Overseer Kauffmann
And that ardent conviction—which, instinctively, he did not allow Nasenberg to detect—enabled him to accomplish the miracle of gaining three days instead of two on the most optimistic anticipations. On the twenty-ninth of August he finally began the assembly of the turbine.
When he tried to start the engine spinning, however, he experienced a great disappointment. He thought that, in his haste, he had designed a piece of secondary importance badly: the inexact side of an armature prevented a cylinder from rotating normally on its axis. Because of that tiny error, they would lose more days, since it was necessary to redesign the piece from scratch, establish a wooden model, and then proceed to cast it, drill it, turn kit and adjust it. In ordinary times, these hitches are normal during the establishment of a prototype, even in the most expert factories manned by meticulous engineers, for the final set-up is always the most important phase in mechanical matters. In these dramatic circumstances, however, they did not have the right to make mistakes.
On reflection, however, Turner could not believe that the error was his. He had the intimate conviction that he had followed Rozal’s instructions scrupulously, according to his precise documents. How could he have given inexa
ct specification? Oh, the discrepancy was not very great—166 millimeters instead of 170—and yet those four millimeters were sufficient to prevent the turbine from spinning. Even so, the difference could only be explained by a mistakenly-copied figure or by an aberration of the part of the workman who had drilled the component. Turner wanted to know.
He went to find the workman at his machine-tool, as precise as a chronometer.
“Show me the sheet of paper I gave you, concerning the construction of the axial cylinder of the turbine.”
The worker searched everywhere, in the tidy drawer where he habitually arranged the plans confided to him. He was astonished not to be able to find the piece of paper.
“I haven’t lost it, though,” he stammered, “And I’m sure I put it in here.”
Turner had gone pale. The loss of the plan was of no significance and it was not of great importance; one item from the entire assembly could not be of use to anyone. If the piece of paper was lost, however, that must mean something.
“You didn’t lend the paper to any of your comrades?”
“No, Monsieur—why would I have done that? That’s not customary, among us.”
The man seemed sincere. His gaze was frank.
“Did anyone come to watch you work?”
“Yes—Overseer Kauffmann, of course. He made sure that I was following the instructions on the paper, which he gave back to me.”
The Human Arrow Page 27