Tranquilly, without waiting for a reply, he rummaged in his pockets. He stepped closer to the table in order to deposit the papers concerning Rozal’s invention, and Turner, taken by surprise, momentarily losing his composure, was watching him do it, still keeping the barrel of his gun leveled, when suddenly, with a violent blow, Nasenberg smashed the electric bulb hanging from the end of a silken cord—and immediately threw himself to one side, in order to avoid the bullet that instantly whistled past his ear, and fled into the darkness.
“Please God!” Turner howled. “More light, now!”
If he took the time to replace the light-bulb the other would be far away. As for the factory lighting, there was no point thinking about that, after the deliberate short-circuit he had caused in order to reach the banker. He had to make haste to catch up with the fugitive before he got too far away.
Ah! he thought. The iron doors!
It was, in fact, by that route that Nasenberg had to escape. Any other direction would have been too dangerous. Besides, Turner clearly remembered that the portal had been open when he arrived, in order to allow free passage to the aircraft they had just stolen. He launched himself forward.
Nasenberg, not so young and somewhat obese, could not have got far. The engineer, swift and agile, threw himself into the wind-tunnel—but at that moment he was violently thrown backwards and almost crushed against the wall. The methodical German must have anticipated everything; with a view to barring that passage to anyone who tried to get into it, he had started the motor of the fan and had turned the funnel of the apparatus toward the factory. This, a formidable tempest was emerging from the tunnel, preventing any passage.
Turner understood that he would not be able to switch off the fan, precautions having been taken. He lost no time in making his exit from the factory by the usual door, running round the building and exploring the surroundings.
A flash of lightning splitting the darkness revealed the spy to him, fleeing in the direction of the Seine as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Ha ha!” he sniggered. “I’ll make you take a bath.” And he ran rapidly in the direction of the river.
As he reached the bank, however, he heard a sputtering on the water, and a propeller began to turn—and from the motor-boat that moved off, a mocking voice called out to him: “Au revoir, my dear friend! When the Germans enter Paris—soon…!”
On the bank, Turner howled: “Au revoir, yes, to punish you, blackguard—for I’ll get you, you bandit!”
XIII. An Admiring, Disappointed Parenthesis
Georges Turner turned back as soon as he was convinced of the hopelessness of an impossible pursuit. In the darkness, and thanks to the speed of his motor-boat, Nasenberg had made good his escape. An automobile was doubtless waiting for him somewhere on the river bank; in an hour the spy would be far away, and tomorrow, at home—in our home—behind enemy lines.
And the aviator could not, in spite of his anger, prevent himself from feeling a certain admiring amazement for the artfully-organized spy, who had left nothing to chance and who had continued audaciously in the most dangerous conditions, in wartime. In truth, the Germans were also incomparable in that order of organization.
Georges Turner went back into the factory. He had the satisfaction of finding the night-watchman in his hut, who had only been bound and gagged, half-stifled. He freed him rapidly; the having brought him round, he heard his explanations—but he learned nothing more than he already knew, and advised the worthy fellow to go to bed.
Having closed the portal again, he removed an essential piece from the airplane engine—which he regretted not having done before—and went in search of the automobile he had abandoned on the road. He brought it to the factory and decided to sleep in the office, where Rozal had previously installed a camp-bed.
But he could not sleep; he was too eager to be ready to depart aboard the powerful aircraft that as about to become, in his hands, an instrument of vengeance—or rather, of punishment—and he was thinking about pitiless reprisals.
XIV. The Departure for the Front
At daybreak, his workers arrived. The military authorities also came, and representatives of the Law, for the engineer had telephoned an account of the dramatic scene. The corpse of overseer Kauffmann was removed, and Turner’s declaration recorded. Then preparations were made for an immediate departure.
It was agreed with a representative of the Ministry of War, who had come in haste, that the aviator would go by air to place himself at the disposal of Generalissimo Joffre, in a location that would be revealed to him confidentially.
And in front of a small group of favored individuals, Rozal’s invention of genius finally got ready to take off.
After the previous night’s tempest, the morning was calm but cold. A kind of icy fog remained suspended over the Seine and the neighboring meadows. It was a miserable dawn that saw the first departure of the avenging bird. Deep down, however, the aviator experienced an indescribable joy—slightly egotistical, doubtless, but so human, that of feeling that he would be superior to everything when he flew, shortly, over the land, tons and people like a royal eagle. Then too, there was the satisfaction of having realized his latte friend’s dream. If he was able to seem without eyes from the land of darkness, Rozal ought to be content with Turner, for he had continued the work nobly, and had completed it.
Before the Sun appeared and dispelled the cold veils of mist, the pupil would take flight—the new master.
He waved goodbye with his hand, to which his watchers replied with a frantic hurrah. And when everything was ready, he turned the handle to activate the engine. Teasingly, he did not want to leave at top speed. In the conditions formerly imagined by Rozal he had rolled rapidly over a distance of thirty or fifty meters before climbing into the air, but with his new mechanism he could effortlessly rise up almost from a standing start. He only activated the supportive propeller, and the apparatus was then seen to quite the ground gradually, as if invisible wires were hoisting it up toward the clouds. He reached a height of fifty meters in this way, and when he was there, the aviator leaned over to show himself to the people down below.
“Au revoir, my friends! See you soon!”
“Au revoir! Long live Turner!” cried the workmen.
The magistrates who had come for the enquiry, and the officers who were watching this first maneuver of the bird, whose construction had remained secret, maintained an anguished silence. They wondered whether they were dreaming or whether the impossible miracle had really come true.
“Let’s go!” Turner exclaimed, raising his flying helmet.
Then, abruptly, something unexpected happened. The bird, ceasing to rise up, sped straight ahead, like an arrow launched by a formidable bow. A kind of rapid swish was heard, or a whistle, like that of a shell leaving the barrel of a cannon, and there was soon no more than a fugitive vision of a beast piercing the grey mass of the fog, and then nothing—nothing but the cold mist dancing and swirling above their heads, after the passage of human wings.
The officers looked at one another in surprise; their eyes displayed the joyful amazement of that unexpected spectacle.
Alone now, in the sea of silence and mist, the aviator let his mind drift into reveries—but the vapors surrounding him were a horizon too narrow for his ambition, and he jerked the controls in order to gain height. In a matter of seconds, he had quit that padded atmosphere and was flying though pure, clear air 1000 meters above the fog. Soon, in any case, he was flying over a different landscape, and experienced the joy of contemplating, far ahead of him, a marvelous sunrise.
He continued flying, on and on.
He was heading eastwards, toward the rising star, as if he wanted to get ahead to it, to attain heights that it would never reach. And in the matinal dazzle of that September sunlight, the splendid panoramas suddenly appeared below him, as if ablaze, of immortal France: peaceful countryside traversed by white ribbons that were roads and others, blue in colo
r, that were the tributaries of the river for which he was searching, reminding him of the incomparable charm of his fatherland.
He continued heading eastwards, toward the climbing light and hope. There were villages that were waking up, and others that had not slept, because they were swarming with little mobile dots: soldiers.
He too, at present, was a soldier. And he went forth, equipped with his combat aircraft, to put himself at the service of the great leader. Soon, he would be in battle, and he would do his duty on high, like the trooper down below crouching in his trench. Already, a little to his left, he could hear the dull rumble of artillery in action, and he quivered with impatience.
XV. Above Frightened Germany
The generalissimo of the French armies, Joffre, was a brave man. Tall of stature and corpulent, he gave the impression of being the grandfather of soldiers whom he was trying to spare as much as possible. Was his simple and ruddy face, striped with a broad white moustache, an impressive set of features that everyone would remember in order to transmit the image to his children and descendants for the future? That illustrious head had no eyes; sheltered and hidden by thick eyebrows, they gazed through the visor of a kepi embroidered with oak-branches. Gallieni, the governor of Paris, had initiated the attacking movement whose consequence was the victory of the Marne, reaped by Joffre.45
The generalissimo had quickly formed a judgment of the man who came to him thus, by way of their air, to place himself at his disposal. He talked to him immediately in simple but definitive terms.
“My friend, you know better than I do, better than anyone here, what the apparatus you are piloting is worth, and what service it might render. In consequence, you will act according to your own personal initiative, as soon as I have acquainted you with the exploits that I would be particularly glad to see you accomplish. Once you are up to date with our greatest inconveniences, on the part of the adversary, with regard to aviation, you will have carte blanche. You will be informed of the location of supply dumps and ammunition dumps of every sort, and you will then be free to show us what you can do. I wish you good luck.”
With that, Joffre offered his hand to Turner, and took his lave. Then officers gave him a series of precise indications. For example, they would love to see a few particularly important railways, used or the raid transport of reinforcements, disappear. The stations at Trèves and Aix-la-Chapelle were too well-guarded for devoted and courageous spies to take the risk of trying to blow them up. They had thought of mounting an attack by means of armored aircraft, but any such attempt was dangerous; they were protected by anti-aircraft guns, and Taubes and Aviatiks46 never ceased flying overhead, giving advance warning of any suspect appearance. It was necessary, to reach that target, to make us of extremely rapid machines capable of flying at any altitude whatsoever in the most difficult weather. They also desired the destruction of certain factories manufacturing aircraft or munitions—but everywhere that the Germans were constructing machines and engines of war, a strict guard prevented any approach. In brief, like the generalissimo, they gave him a license, at least for the time being, to act freely.
That liberty pleased the aviator. To begin with, he was flattered, and in order to demonstrate that that the confidence had been invested in him had not been squandered, Turner dreamed of accomplishing great things—but he had to think about it.
All day long he studied maps in the light of the information furnished by an officer of the general staff. On a list that he studied at length he organized, so to speak, the employment of his future day, and coolly noted, to be accomplished in the space of a few hours, fantastic raids whose mere enumeration would have frightened the craziest of aviators.
In the midst of all these projects, however, he did not forget his vengeance. He hoped, one day or another, to find out what had become of Nasenberg, and he meditated his punishment by means of the invention of genius that the strange “fifth columnist” had wanted to appropriate.
He hoped, too, at the same time as he was carrying out his program, to find himself facing unexpected difficulties, unsuspected dangers that would render his task more original and more glorious. Thus, the renown of his dead friend would be augmented—and he thought that the memory of Henri Rozal would be well worthy of that revenge on Destiny.
That is why, the next day, Turner prepared his aircraft and took off, mysteriously, for an unknown destination. At first, having climbed very high, to 2500 meters, he undertook technical trials of stability and speed. It was the first time he had carried a heavy, inert load of shells as powerful explosives in considerable quantities, and he did not know how the aircraft would perform with that surcharge.
He had the satisfaction of observing that the augmentation of weight did not reduce the speed, because, from the altitude to which he climbed, he allowed himself to glide at a gentle slope to 1000 meters lower down, and while that glide continued, he progressively attained a fantastic speed to which the engine almost ceased to make a contribution. When he had descended further, he made use of the full power of the turbine to rise up again very rapidly—after which, he flew once again on his inclined plane, thus imitating the large sea-birds that travel for immense distances without moving a wing.
He went straight ahead for three hours, without deviating from a vigorously straight line, in a north-easterly direction, and hat aerial journey undoubtedly resembled the one that Rozal had accomplished above the interminable waves—whose depth varied between 6000 and 8000 meters—of the Atlantic. But he flew too high to distinguish the details of the Earth or recognize the character of the terrain he overflew, on which he did not even leave the trace of his shadow.
After having passed both the frontiers of Lorraine, however, and traversed the sky of the Palatinate, he perceived the Rhine at Mayence, flowing majestically through the picturesque plain. Soon, in resplendent light, he was flying ever more rapidly beneath a blue sky, an immense serene and pure expanse, over Germany. How far away the desolate and tragic war-torn landscapes of France were that he had flown over that morning, immediately after his departure!
But speed is a very seductive intoxication; to feel oneself carried away by a crazy vertigo is a rare pleasure, known only to sportsmen who do not fear death; continuous and constant speed, without pause, resembles those Chinese tortures that begin in voluptuousness and end in frightful suffering. Turner experienced the difficult moments of initial fatigue.
At that time he was flying over southern Westphalia, then the Weser, then Hanover; finally, he found himself at an altitude of at least 3000 meters, above the estuary of the Elbe, carrying, for his work, shells and engines of destruction, of massacre, in the armored holds of his bird of death.
Abruptly, he was assailed by a violent tempest. He was going so quickly that he was able in consequence to pass through good and bad weather from one hour to the next. And although he had flown for hundreds of kilometers in the tranquil blue, over peaceful Germanic countryside, now, as he approached the sea, he found himself at odds with the angry elements. In his powerful and robust aircraft, however, he was protected against surprises, and he continued on his way, without excessive emotion.
On the contrary, the change in the atmosphere and the décor brought him back to full possession of his means, and he could no longer hear the dolorous music and bizarre buzz of bells, the distant, unreal orchestrations and appeals of the ride of the Valkyries, which had resonated briefly in his head during the initial moments of his lassitude—dangerous moments, during which he had accomplished, nevertheless, the necessary gestures, by virtue of the unconscious reflexes of his habituated muscles.
Soon, having flown over the province of Holstein, he was in Schleswig—where his real work began.
In Kiel harbor, which he examined for some time, describing interminable circles, he discovered squadrons lurking fearfully, sheltered from bold thrusts. Turner tried to recognize the units from above, but because of the tempest, the atmosphere was thick and grey, charged with dar
k rainclouds. He went further down.
At that moment, a hail of bullets struck his aircraft. At that distance he was in no great danger, for the impact were deadened by the armor. Nevertheless, he regained height, still circling. Soon the rapid-fire cannons placed on the masts dispatched shells of greater efficacy, but he only had to increase his speed to put off their aim. He laughed wholeheartedly every time there was an explosive burst behind him or in front of him.
“Even so, it’s not healthy here...”
He positioned himself above a dark mass that had to be a battleship and, suddenly letting himself fall like a stone, like a vulture or an eagle, he descended abruptly to 200 meters. There, he twitched the controls, immobilized his apparatus momentarily, and released twenty bombs through a panel that suddenly opened. Then, like an arrow, the aircraft fled outside the danger zone, before the stupefied artillerymen had time to take aim.
He was already far away when the spotters on the other vessels decided to aim volleys at him from their guns. While he drew away, he had the joy of hearing a series of brutal explosions, and then one mighty one; his bombs had struck the target, and an on-board ammunition store had just exploded.
“Let’s go!” he said. “I’ll come back soon.”
For that was his objective: to strike fear, by a series of sudden attacks, into those monsters that were obstinate in not budging. Perhaps, thus, he would oblige them to emerge from their lair?
Instead of returning by the same route, he made a detour to see what was happening at the other end of the canal, on the side of the North Sea. He was there in ten minutes, and scarcely was he flying over the yellow-tinted waters of the mouth of the Elbe than he heard a violent cannonade from the direction of Heligoland. A flick of the controls and he was over the battleground; English cruisers were in combat with German destroyers. He dropped two dozen bombs on the small enemy vessels, which were rendered harmless.
The Human Arrow Page 30