“He had it in his hands, then?”
“Naturally—as always...”
There was nothing more to say. The overseer, an upright and devoted, though taciturn, Alsatian had only done his duty.
“But you had cast an eye over the figures on the sheet when I gave them to you,” Turner went on. “Do you recall the numbers? Were they similar, at that moment, to those that you observed when you set to work?”
The workman reflected, then became distressed. “I can’t be certain. I can’t remember figures very well. I don’t know any more. The paper was messed up, then?”
“Alas, yes. You read 166 instead of 170. It’s necessary to start over.”
The workman’s face became despairing. “But that’ll take time. God, no! Are you sure, Boss? I never make mistakes. Oh, I wish I could find the sheet! If it says 170, I’m the worst of stupid good-for-nothings!”
It was not found.
From then on, Georges Turner had the certainty that enemies were on site, and his suspicions fell upon Kauffmann, the overseer. But why would that zealous patriot, that vengeful Alsatian, be the adversary of a project that would aid in the liberation of his native land?
The engineer was a man of too much resolution not to take the necessary measures immediately, without any warning. He ordered a new component straight away, and would ensure that it conformed to the indications furnished. But he would arrange to remove the overseer from the assembly of the turbine.
Nevertheless, no matter how certain he was, he could not comprehend the man’s motive, if he really was guilty. Why had he impeded, temporarily, the success for which everyone hoped? And for whom was he working? Should he denounce him publicly, have him arrested? There was no proof, and his entire past militated against suspicion. Turner was sure, however, that he was not mistaken. Then again, if the piece of paper had disappeared, it must bear some trace of an erasure or overwriting—the proof, in any case, or the fraud that had aborted their patriotic hopes.
Come on! They had to get back to work. Days had been lost, to be sure, but they would catch up. He would keep an eye on Kauffmann, of course, and if anything similar occurred, he would have the key to the mystery.
VII. The Perfection of the Aircraft
Meanwhile, with his intelligence alert to problems of aeronautics, Turner had soon realized, on learning the details of his friend’s death, what had caused his failure on arriving in New York. That too had been a reason for the delay in the reconstruction of the aircraft. Was it not necessary, as Rozal had recommended, to profit from the tragic information, and correct the hidden defect that it had revealed?
That had not been easy. The apparatus’ lack of lift-providing surface had caused the accident, because the insufficiency in the dimensions of the wings prevented a reduction in speed for landing. On the other hand, by augmenting the wingspan, Turner would diminish the bird’s vertiginous speed. It was therefore necessary for the engineer to return to the work of study, as it were, at least with regard to that delicate matter.
Turner did not want, for anything in the world, to alter the model of the steel bird conceived by Rozal. Having respect for the work accomplished, and being too much of a sportsman to desire to build a less speedy apparatus, he had preferred, on the contrary, to try to gain a few kilometers per hour. It was, therefore, necessary to search for the solution in another direction.
He found it without too much trouble. Very quickly, he observed an excess of power in the marvelous engine conceived by his friend. The miraculous turbine developed such force that he had the idea of making use of it as a brake at the moment of descent. In fact, although he needed 300 or 400 horse-power to attain fabulous speeds in full flight, he required less than 100 in order to travel at only 75 per hour, a speed at which he would land without danger.
In consequence, he installed a second propeller above the apparatus, which he could activate by means of a diversion of the power of the turbine, when he wanted to land. That propeller being sustaining, it was only used for the descent; in normal operation, its two vanes were orientated longitudinally, so that they did not have a deleterious effect on the machine’s speed. Thus, by virtue of this ingenious combination, Turner realized the problem of the airplane and the helicopter, which people had been obliged to abandon because of the insufficiency of engines. Now, Rozal having invented a turbine that could reduce the ratio of weight to horse-power to an insignificant number, there was, in sum, no merit in Turner making use of that combination; the achievement was entirely due to its primary inventor—but Turner experienced a veritable pride in having made it a little more practical.
VIII. The Prussians at Senlis
Nasenberg continued to come to the Nanterre factory twice a day, regularly. His patriotic hope seemed the same, but his pessimism became unbearable. He exasperated Georges Turner. The aviator conserved an unshakable faith in France, which could not perish. The banker opposed to that the pitiless march of the enemy, in forty-five kilometer stages. How, in those conditions, could there be any hope of putting a brake on the Barbarian invasion? Nasenberg often said “the Boche,” but he also said, very aptly, “the Barbarians.” He had, moreover, personal reasons for lamentation. What would become of his famous quarries at Soissons, in which he had installed mushrooms—at great expense—amid all these disasters? Already, the “dirty swine,” as he also said, had passed that point, doubtless destroying everything. The loss was significant—and anyone who knew Nasenberg appreciated the cruelty of a wound to his wallet.
Turner was not overly astonished, therefore, by the fact that the banker’s character had become suddenly gloomy, but he had a vague mistrust of his sleeping partner, who now seemed to lack sincerity with regard to his haste to see the turbine finally spin.
“What’s the point?” he avowed, one day. “All is lost! Our leaders have proven incapable, by virtue of having had no foresight...”
He said “our leaders” like a true Frenchman, and that simple detail made Turner uneasy. Yes, in speaking of the Germans, whom he still called “the Boche,” his lip curled increasingly with scorn. Had he, then, forgotten his origins? He had assimilated gallic blood, and that proof of attachment to France caused the engineer, for some unknown reason, to experience a strange sentiment that contained an element of anguish.
“Yes, what’s the point?” Nasenberg repeated. “When the Boche were far away, we could at least hope that our invention would cause them serious annoyance; now, we’ll be impended by the irreparable. In four days they’ll be in Paris. We’ll continue to work, though, won’t we? And if the factory is threatened, we’ll head for Bordeaux, like the government.” He accentuated that phrase with coarse laughter, with attempted humor but in which Turner detected a wounding insult.
Privately, Turner thought: Yes, I’ll continue, and we’ll be ready sooner than you suppose, Monsieur Nasenberg. Then, perhaps, you won’t say, as you do today: “What’s the point?” While one Frenchman remains on French soil, France will not be lost. Personally, I’m confident, and I can await the moment…but when that moment comes, I need to be there to answer: “Present!”
Thus, between the two men, by virtue of a secret, internal repulsion, an inexplicable hostility was born, which rendered the future uncertain. One had lost all hope, the other still believed in his patriotic ideal, and that intimate conflict further hollowed out the ditch that racial differences had traced.
Alas, on September 2, the Prussians were in Senlis, and the Parisians, in the grip of panic, were fleeing in all directions.
IX. The Human Tidal Wave
It was now the beginning of September, and Turner was asking himself, with anguish, whether he would be ready before the Germans made their sinister appearance outside the walls of Paris. After his fine optimism, he too was beginning to experience mortal anxieties as he read the official communiqués every morning and evening, always mute with regard to the successes of our troops. He certainly did not doubt the courage or the vitality of Fra
nce, but all the same, that formidable rush of an enemy superior in numbers and in materiel, that methodical and irresistible advance toward Paris was enough to strike fear into the most confident heart.
At the outset, after the attacks on the forts at Liège and Namur, our mobilization having been realized, a general offensive by our armies in invaded Belgium had been officially announced—and that news, succeeded by brief victories in Alsace, had generated a kind of prideful joy in France, which could only render disillusion more bitter if it were produced. Now, the battles of Dinant, Mons and Charleroi were extraordinarily murderous, and the public learned that from the newspapers. It is true that our troops were everywhere in the presence of an enemy three or four times superior, but if our defeats were glorious, if they cost the adversary dear, the result was no less dolorous for our hopes.
After these bloody battles at the frontier, the communiqués were sober in detail, in order not to alarm public opinion, which remained confident. Abruptly, however, we learned that the enemy was holding a vast line that extended from the Somme to Belfort. There was amazement and great discouragement.
While it was believed that the arrow menacing Paris was only constituted by an audacious column of cavalry, armored cars and companies armed with machine-guns, there had been little anxiety. “They’ll soon be stopped,” people said, with a smile. “Then they’ll be cut off.”
Everyone thought that the arrow in question, departed from the Belgian frontier, coming through the Oise valley, by-passing Compiègne, then Senlis, would break against the formidable ring of the fortifications of Paris. The menacing column was assumed to be very narrow, like a long ribbon that our armies would attack at its weak point, somewhere in the North, to disperse it thereafter with ease. It was at that moment that he café strategists adopted knowing expressions to explain their plans, of a puerile simplicity I execution. Then, one morning, an exact revelation of the situation arrived: more than ten départements invaded; Rheims, Leon, Épernay, Châlons-sur-Marne, Cambrai, Soissons in Prussian hands; Maubeuge captured; our armies threatened with imminent encirclement; Joffre, the generalissimo, retreating incessantly. How far? The banks of the Loire? The plateaux of Morvan? How far?
At the same time, we discovered, by the examples of Maubeuge, La Fère and all the other forts that had been unable to stand up against heavy artillery fire, that the fortified enclosure of the capital would only pose a derisory obstruction to the invading flood. It was necessary to come to the conclusion that he situation was bad, if not desperate.
Then there was, in Paris, an indescribable panic. With Poincaré42 at its head, the government had left for Bordeaux, leaving the city in the hands of the military authorities. Paris was no longer a capital, without the President of the Republic, but an entrenched camp. And the rich people, those who had been courageous the day before, the idlers who had maintained their habits stubbornly in spite of everything, the civil service, the banks, the newspapers, the companies—the entire mundane world of pleasure, money, commerce and industry—made haste to decamp. After the second of September, all that remained were committed curiosity-seekers, combatants and the poor, with the innumerable horde of those who had not been able to get on to the trains and who stoically formed a queue for three days running at the gates of Gares de Lyon d’Orsay, d’Orléans and Saint-Lazare, aiming for Bordeaux, Perpignan, Marseilles and Brittany, fleeing in all directions—except North and East.
The most anxious, crazed with terror, took to the streets on learning of the departure of the Ministers and the President of the Republic. They hailed and hired taxis, and for huge sums, varying between 600 and 1000 francs, had themselves taken immediately to Tours or Bordeaux, as if they were instructing the driver to take them to the racecourses at Maisons-Laffitte or Tremblay.
During those tormented days, when those who still believed in a miracle were very rare, the young engineer worked feverishly—but he wondered, in anguish, whether he would see the factory invaded by the dreaded soldiers. In that event, his course of action was decided: he would flee! He would go away, to continue the work elsewhere, and he would come back when he was able to fly in Rozal’s aircraft, to take magnificent revenge.
Suddenly, at the height of the panic, amazing and unexpected news arrived, the significance of which escaped the crowd, ignorant of modern strategy or the realities that had not been made known by the official bulletins: General von Kluck’s enemy army, instead of continuing its rapid march on Paris, had veered abruptly to the left, toward Meaux. Why?43
There was a moment of anguish then. People strove to understand—and tormented mind would soon have found an explanation: the Germans were going to circle behind our army, to attempt to link up with their troops from the entrenched camp at Trèves, and perhaps take prisoner the mass of our retreating armies! Verdun would be attacked from behind, and taken. Then, with the French army beaten, annihilated, the German would come back toward Paris, which they would overrun in a matter of days. The certainty became greater that that was the exact plan when the enemy was seen to descend as far as Coulommiers, further south than Paris.
That was the culminating point of the anguish, and although he tried, Georges Turner could not hold an atrocious dolor at bay. He wept with rage and impotence before the unassembled components of his turbine, then as he contemplated the steel bird that was awaiting, in its hangar, the powerful engine that was to give it movement and life.
And beneath the mocking gaze of Nasenberg, he went furiously to work, with a secret hope in his heart in spite of everything. He was right. One morning, the newspapers announced an enormous item of news that caused all France to quiver: the victory of the Marne! Without anything having prepared the public for that sensational surprise, people learned, at the same time, that the enemy had been driven back more than 100 kilometers, that the retreat was not yet complete, that the dislocated armies were trying to regroup a little further on in the shelter of defensive positions. Thousands of cadavers were strewn in the fields, amid the smoking ruins of farms and trampled crops. The victory was undoubtedly costly, but France was saved.
Soon, the newspapers were advising the public to remain calm. It was necessary not to believe that it was all over. The adversary was in good shape and would be bound to turn around, attempting to cover the retreat with formidable counterthrusts. Even so, hope had returned and everyone felt that the beast, out of breath after its effort, might not recover the strength to recommence its powerful lightning attack, so long in preparation.
Then Georges Turner had another surprise that would not, from the moment it was revealed to him, let his mind rest. As he was in the midst of his workers, commenting on the fortunate turn of events, he saw Nasenberg coming toward him in distress. After the kind of philosophical resignation that the banker had shown during the previous lugubrious days, he was now unable to hide an atrocious anxiety that was reflected in his porcine face, once ruddy but now seemingly green-tinged.
He took Turner to one side. “Come quickly, my friend—I need to talk to you.”
The two men went into the factory office, and when they were alone, Nasenberg explained in a low, anguished voice.
“By dear chap, you need to get the aircraft ready to fly, at all costs. At first, I pressed you. Since then, seeing the turn taken by military events, I haven’t insisted, urging you less because I believed sincerely, that all was lost. In those conditions, I had no wish for the Germans to find, on entering this place, a fully-prepared apparatus of which they would have made use...”
“Don’t worry; they wouldn’t have made use of it.”
“Yes, I know that you’ve taken your precautions. But who can tell whether it might have been made impossible for you to destroy what you had created in good time?”
Beads of sweat formed on Turner’s temples. “That’s true,” he stammered. “I didn’t think of that.”
“You see…I thought of it, though. Alas, things aren’t going very well, in spite of the Boche retre
at from the Marne. You know about my cordial relations with the government, and that my particular friendship with the Minister of War has permitted us to mobilize the personnel of this factory in situ. Well, I’m told that they’re desirous of being able to count on the airplane we’ve promised. The moment has come to keep our promise.”
“I soon shall!” declared the engineer, in a firm voice.
“In how many days?”
“Four or five at the most. The component that it was necessary to recast, drill, turn and adjust is completely finished. It’s only a matter of putting in place, proceeding with the trials and making the final adjustments.
“Are you sure that it will all go well?”
“If Rozal’s documents can be trusted, I can’t be mistaken. The aircraft that crossed the Atlantic will be reconstituted.
Nasenberg’s face expressed an intense satisfaction, which contrasted so strongly with his former anguish and depression that Turner wondered what the change signified. The man was making him anxious now. He had seen him devoid of emotion when our troops were incessantly in retreat, from the Belgian frontier to the forts of Paris—but now that they were pursuing the enemy, a sword at his back, he was gripped by disquiet and obstinately intent on procuring, as rapidly as possible, the redoubtable aircraft that Turner was preparing.
Suspiciously, the engineer asked: “No immediate danger is threatening Paris or this factory?”
Nasenberg trembled internally under Turner’s gaze, but he overcame his emotion and declared: “I can’t tell you everything, because that’s forbidden. Know, however, that your apparatus is awaited with impatience and that it will serve to complete, in the near future, the work of liberating the territory. The Prussians haven’t gone away, my poor friend. At this moment, they’re getting their breath back—and beware of their reawakening!”
The Human Arrow Page 28