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Chapter Fifteen
Concerns Harold Hale

Christmas came, but it brought no relaxation to Teddy, or to myself.

We were working hard at our scheme out at Gunnersbury, making experiment after experiment, many being failures, with a few successes.

Of Eastwell we saw nothing, for he had flown up to the north-east coast in order to watch some evolutions being carried out by the anti-aircraft corps, and had not returned.

Sir Charles had now given Roseye permission to assist us in our work and, indeed, one morning in the first week of the New Year she made her first flight since that day of her disappearance.

My mind, however, was by no means at rest. After my own experiences I was careful to examine and to fly her machine several times around the aerodrome before I would allow her to go up. If my machine had been tampered with in the way it had, then there was but little doubt that an attempt might be made against her.

She had gone for about an hour when I saw her returning, a tiny speck in the clear sky coming from the south-west, and flying very high. When at last she landed and I handed her out of the pilot’s seat, she put up her big goggles and, flushed with satisfaction, cried:

“I’ve had such a splendid wind behind me! The weather is quite perfect. How good it feels to be out once again, Claude!”

“Yes, dear,” I answered, as we strolled together over towards the hangars, whence one of the school-buses had just begun to flap. “I should like to go up but, as you know, they are busy putting in my second engine for night-flying, and to drive the dynamo. I fear it won’t be ready for quite another fortnight yet.”

“What speed do you really expect to develop?” she asked, much interested.

“In order to overtake a Zeppelin I must, at least, be able to fly eighty miles an hour,” was my reply. “And I must also be able to fly as slowly as thirty-five in order to economise fuel and to render the aim accurate as well as to make night-landing possible.”

“Are you certain that you will be able to do it?” she asked, a little dubiously I thought. She knew that, as far as our apparatus for the direction of the intense electric current was concerned, it was practically perfect. Yet she had, more than once, expressed her doubt as to whether my monoplane, with its improvements of my own design, would be able to perform what I so confidently expected of it.

“Of course one can be certain of nothing in this world, dear,” was my reply. “But by all the laws of aerodynamics it should, when complete, be able to do what I require. I must be able to carry fuel for twelve hours cruising at low speed, so as to enable me to chase an airship to the coast, if necessary. Further, I must, in order to be successful, be able to climb to ten thousand feet in not more than twenty minutes. You see,” I explained, “I am trying to have the engines silenced, and I am fitting up control-gear for two pilots, so as to allow one to relieve the other, and, further, I have designed the alterations whereby either Teddy or myself can have equal facilities to work the searchlight as well as the deadly current.”

“I do hope it will be a success. You have had so many failures, dear,” she said, as we stood together, watching Teddy make a descent, for he was up testing his engine.

“Yes, that first magnetic wave idea proved a failure,” I said regretfully. “And why, I can’t yet discover. My first idea was to create an intensified magnetic wave which would have the effect of ‘seizing’ the working parts of the Zeppelin engines, and putting them out of action. For instance, from your aeroplane you would direct this wave against the Zeppelin and bring its engines gradually into a state of immobility. The natural act of the Zeppelin engineer, on finding that his engine was slowing down, would be to admit more fuel for a few moments. On the sudden release of the arresting medium the engine would ‘pick-up’ violently and blow the heads out of the cylinders, thereby causing the explosion which we desire to create.”

“Your experiments were all in secret,” Roseye remarked. “The theory seems sound enough. Curious that it did not work!”

“Yes. Even now I can’t, for the life of me, discover the reason,” I replied. “Yet we have, happily, tested this new apparatus of ours, and we know it is feasible as soon as ever we can get its weight further reduced, and the ray intensified.”

“And the sooner you can do that, the better,” my well-beloved declared. “Before very long, at the present rate of increase, we shall, I expect, see Zeppelins of a much greater size.”

“True,” I remarked, as I watched Teddy spring out of his bus, and make his way across the aerodrome in our direction. “No time should be lost. To be effective the aeroplane will have to be able to climb to 18,000 feet, and even remain aloft at that height for hours to lie in wait for the airship. The airship of one year hence will inevitably be a much more formidable machine than the present Zeppelin.”

“But we must be most careful to keep the secret, Claude,” she urged. “The enemy must not know it, or they may combat us!”

I was silent for a few moments. Across my mind there flashed the recollection of that strange enemy message in cipher that had been found in her card-case.

What could be the explanation of that mystery? It was plain that the enemy were in possession of some facts and, further, that at all hazards, and regardless of all risks, they intended to discover our secret.

I disregarded her remark, merely answering:

“I fear the Zeppelin menace will be serious in the North Sea before many months. It is only the bad weather which protects us.”

The alterations to my machine were being carried on by a first-class firm at Willesden, therefore, at Teddy’s suggestion, all three of us ran over in the car in order to inspect the work, which we found progressing most favourably.

The foreman engineer, a big fat, elderly man, just as we were about to leave the premises, called me aside and, in a confidential tone, exclaimed:

“Excuse me, sir. But did you send a gentleman named Hale here?”

“Hale?” I repeated, looking at him in surprise. “I know nobody of that name!”

“Well – here’s his card,” said the engineer. “He called yesterday afternoon, and told me that you’d sent him, and that he had your authority to look at your machine.”

I took the rather soiled card, and saw upon it the name: “Harold Hale – National Physical Laboratory.”

I held it in my hand in surprise.

“A Government official!” I exclaimed in wonder. “I gave no such permission!” I declared. “As I have repeatedly said, these alterations you are making are strictly in secret.”

“That’s what I told him, sir.”

“You didn’t let him see the work, I hope?” I asked anxiously.

“Not very likely, sir,” was the man’s reply. “I asked him for a written authorisation, but he said he’d left it in his office. There was a good deal of swank about him, I thought. He seemed to have a swelled head.”

“Well – what happened?” I inquired.

“Oh! He became very officious-like – said he was a Government inspector of aircraft, and demanded to see what alterations you were making in your machine. My reply was to tell him that when he brought a letter from you, I’d show him – and not before.”

“Excellent!” I said. “Then he didn’t produce any credentials?”

“None. But he argued with me for a long time – told me that I had no right to deny him access to information required for official purposes; that I was liable under the Defence of the Realm Act, and all sorts of other bunkum. In reply, I merely told him to go along to the office and see Mr Smallpiece, our manager – whom I knew to be up at the London office,” added the foreman with a grin.

“What kind of man was he? Describe him,” I urged.

“Well – he was about forty I should say – round-faced, with a little close-cropped black moustache. He was well dressed – a dark-blue overcoat with velvet collar, and a grey plush hat. He came in a taxi.”

“Ah! If we could find the driver, we might perhaps discover who he was,” I exclaimed.

“Well, sir, I suspected him, somehow. I didn’t like him. So I took the number of the taxi. You’ll see it on the back of the card.”

I looked, and there found a number scribbled in pencil.

“By Jove!” I cried. “Most excellent. I’ll soon find out what his movements were. Thank you very much,” I added. “Remember nobody is to know anything whatever of the work in progress. That man may have been a Spy.”

“That’s just exactly what I put him down to be, sir!” declared the foreman. “But trust me. Nobody shall know anything.”

When I rejoined Roseye and Teddy they were inquisitive – and very naturally – as to what the foreman had been telling me. But I kept my own counsel, determined to make investigations alone.

We drove back to town and lunched in the restaurant at the Piccadilly Hotel. Teddy had suggested the Automobile Club, but I had overruled him, and we went to the Piccadilly instead. At the club there was far too much flying “shop” – and I wanted time to think.

At three o’clock I ran Roseye home, dropping Teddy on the way, and then returned to Shaftesbury Avenue.

As I entered, Theed told me that his father had been up to say that on the previous night there had been some strangers about the shed at Gunnersbury. He had heard footsteps around the place at about three o’clock in the morning, but on going out he could discover nobody. He had taken out his big heavy Browning pistol which I had bought for him, and he had told his own son that he regretted that he had not caught the intruders.

Here was another source of suspicion! It confirmed my belief that the Invisible Hand had been laid once more upon us, and, further, that whoever directed it was alike most daring and unscrupulous.

“That’s most curious!” I said, in reply to Theed. “Your father seems to be having quite a lively time at night out there!”

“Yes. He does, sir. He’s convinced that somebody is watching to find out what’s going on – spies, he declares.”

“No, no, Theed,” I laughed, in order to hearten him. “There’s far too much bunkum talked about spies, and far too many sensational rumours on every hand. Tell your father that he’s becoming nervous. Surely he ought not to be after all his long police service!”

I only uttered those words for effect. I knew that Theed would bully the old man, and tell him that he was suffering from nerves. Every son loves to jeer at his father, be he peer or peasant.

I passed into my room and took up the telephone.

In a few moments I was on to my friend Professor Appleton, the Director of the National Physical Laboratory, that department which, for years, had studied aeronautics.

“I don’t follow you, Mr Munro,” he said, when I told him the facts. “What name do you say?”

“Hale,” was my reply. “H-a-l-e,” and I spelt it.

“We’ve nobody of that name. There must surely be some mistake!”

“But he came with a visiting-card,” I said. “He went to the firm of engineers who are making certain alterations in my monoplane, and demanded of the foreman the right to examine what was in progress. He told them at Willesden that he was an official of your Department, sent by you, with authority from myself.”

“Well, Mr Munro,” replied the professor, in that quiet, matter-of-fact way of his, “this is the first I’ve ever heard of any Mr Hale. He certainly has never been sent by us. In fact I was entirely unaware, until this moment, that you had any experiments in progress.”

“Really, professor, I’m awfully sorry to trouble you,” I said. “But I’m only trying to do my little bit – my very small bit – in the war. Thank you for telling me this. One never knows when one meets enemies. The Germans are so clever, so practical, and so subtle.”

“They are,” he answered. “Be wary, my dear Munro. If you are carrying out experiments upon any extensive scale you may be quite certain that somebody in enemy pay is watching. I have long seen it – long before the outbreak of war.”

Here again we had come up against the dead wall of fact.

“Then you think that the stranger was an enemy spy?” I asked.

“Well, in face of the facts, and of what I myself know, I’m perfectly certain of it,” the professor said. “I have no knowledge whatever of any person called Harold Hale. He evidently went out to Willesden to try and obtain certain knowledge, yet, by the sturdy attitude of the foreman whom you mention, he was defeated. Truly the wily and dastardly plots of our dear-brother-Germans – as they were called by some irresponsible Englishmen those hot August days of the declaration of war – have been amazing. It seems to me, Munro,” added the voice over the wire, “that if you are wary and watchful you may discover something that may be of unusual interest to the Intelligence Department.”

Then in my ear there was a loud buzz, followed by a sharp click, and all became silent.

Chapter Sixteen
At Holly Farm

Those constant proofs of the enemy’s eager inquisitiveness were, I here freely admit, very disconcerting.

We seemed surrounded by spies.

A dastardly attempt had been made to kill me, while some evil – what, I knew not – had happened to my well-beloved. It often struck me as most peculiar why she should preserve that strict secrecy regarding her whereabouts through those weeks when she had been missing.

Her terror of the mysterious woman whom she so constantly described as possessing the eyes of a leopard, together with the unbalanced condition of her brain, were, in themselves, solid proof that she had passed through some horrifying and terrible experience. Besides, had she not admitted that she had existed in what she herself had termed “a living tomb?”

So evident was it that we were being watched by some persons who intended, at all hazards, to discover the secret of our directive electrical apparatus that Teddy and I now adopted a new scheme. Each evening, after concluding our experiments, instead of taking the brown deal box back to my rooms, both my friend and myself disconnected the essential parts of the apparatus, each taking part of it home for safe keeping, thus leaving only the shell to be inspected by any intruder who might make a further visit to the shed.

Old Theed, however, kept a good look out and, as twice he had reported suspicious persons in the vicinity at night, he always carried his Browning pistol.

A fortnight had passed and my newly-arranged monoplane was nearing completion. Daily I went out to Willesden to superintend, and make certain alterations which had occurred to me since I had adopted my new design.

That more Zeppelin raids were expected everybody knew, and none better than myself.

The weather in the last fortnight of January 1916 was bad, and many people were declaring that the German airships would not dare to venture out except in calm conditions.

Some of the boys were discussing that point at Hendon one afternoon.

Teddy was inclined to argue as the public argued, that Zeppelins were affected by weather conditions, and advanced many theories of fogs, clouds, rain, snow, and the barometer.

“Then you don’t think inclement weather any protection, Claude?” asked my friend, while the others all listened in silence.

“No,” I said. “I quite agree with the arguments put forward on a basis of fact by many writers in the press. Of course Zeppelins, like every other craft not independent of the weather, prefer to sally forth in calms or light winds. But the utmost one can say is, first, that the calmer the weather the likelier a raid is to occur; and, secondly, that raids are less likely to occur in broad moonlight than on dark nights.”

“Then, my dear fellow,” whispered Teddy into my ear, in a tone so low that the others could not hear, “it is on one of the dark nights that we must make our trial flight – eh?”

“Well, according to the latest yarns,” remarked a fellow named Ainley, “the newest Zeppelins are armoured, and these very large craft have a gross lift of over thirty tons.”

“That is not much larger than the Zeppelins existing when war broke out,” I said, “but, of course, it must be admitted that even a small increase of size enlarges an airship’s capabilities and range. The top speed of the new thousand horse-power type is said to be about sixty-two miles an hour, but driving at such high speed must involve a heavy consumption of petrol.”

“What about climbing?” asked Ainley. “You’ve made Zeppelins a study, Munro. Tell us your opinion?”

“Well, in order to escape, more than one German airship has risen, we know, to 10,000 feet, but that was only in case of great emergency, and meant sacrifice of load and great waste of gas. You see, if a Zeppelin is over a town and is discharging her bombs and consuming her petrol, her natural tendency would be to rise. Probably the new type of super-Zeppelin could, I should say, rise 4,000 to 5,000 feet, but it must be remembered that it cannot, with impunity, go to 12,000 or 15,000 feet because of the density of the atmosphere.”

“Cover Great Britain with up-to-date ‘Archies.’ That’s my opinion – and one shared by many competent writers on the subject,” Ainley remarked, whereupon Teddy and I exchanged glances.

Little did that small group of pilots dream of the great surprise which we had “up our sleeve.”

A few days later – the First of February to be exact – the country was startled by the news published in the morning papers that on the previous night no fewer than six Zeppelins had flown over some Midland counties, dropping a large number of bombs, and killing and injuring many innocent women and children.

People who read the accounts stood aghast. Then, once again, came the cry from the big populous centres in the Midlands that warning of the approach of enemy aircraft should be given, and once again the papers were flooded with letters from indignant readers making all sorts of wild suggestions how to combat the Zeppelin peril. On top of this, however, came the welcome news that the L19, one of the raiders, had been found by a trawler in a sinking condition in the North Sea.

At least one of the barbaric baby-killers had got its just deserts.

Personally, I felt deeply moved by this latest dastardly invasion. That there must be an end to “traditions,” to political speech-making, to conferences and to promises of imaginary “nests of hornets,” was now clear. The homes of Englishmen were threatened with destruction. Germany had adopted a new mode of warfare that must change everything. Therefore, happily, unfettered by red tape, and unattached to any naval or military branch of the Service, but merely an experimenter, I intended, at the earliest moment, to put my directive wave to the crucial test.

During the past week we had not been idle a moment, and Teddy and I, after more failures, had at last been able to reduce the weight of our apparatus by nearly one-half, while we had been able to more than double the intensity of the current since that well-remembered night when we had tested it upon our wireless-pole while strangers had lurked unseen in the vicinity.

My monoplane was at last completed, and ready for delivery. All three of us became greatly excited, for after so many months of patient experimenting and designing, all was now ready for a practical trial in the air.

Lionel had returned from the North, but was gone to France in connexion with some trials of a new French monoplane at the aerodrome at St. Valéry-en-Caux. Therefore he was in ignorance of our pending experiments.

That we were being closely watched by spies, and that our every movement was being noted, we knew quite well. Indeed, Roseye seemed, curiously enough, to be filled with serious apprehensions.

Because of this, I decided not to fly from Hendon, but to experiment out in the country. Therefore on Thursday, the Tenth of February, in greatest secrecy, I removed my machine in two motor-lorries down to a little place called Nutley, on the borders of those high lands of Ashdown Forest, about eleven miles north of Lewes.

There, after some search, we found a convenient barn at a lonely, out-of-the-world place called Holly Farm, and this we soon converted into a suitable hangar.

The farmer and his wife were quite ready to rent us the house furnished as it stood, so next day we found ourselves in full possession.

Our party consisted of Teddy Ashton, the Theeds (father and son), Roseye, the maid Mulliner, and myself. Roseye and I made another journey by car up to Gunnersbury, and also to my rooms, in order to fetch down the remainder of the apparatus, and on the third day of our arrival all the parts were ready for assembling.

Holly Farm was a small but comfortable old house, with an ancient whitewashed kitchen which had black oak beams across its ceiling. The living-room was typical of the “best room” of the old-fashioned British farmer. In the deep-seated window stood a case of wool-flowers beneath a glass dome, while upon the horsehair-covered furniture were many crocheted antimacassars, and upon the wide, open hearth the farm-hand, an old fellow of nearly eighty, made huge log fires which were truly welcome in that wintry chill.

We had brought with us an ample stock of provisions, for the place we had chosen stood upon one of the highest points, not far from Chelwood Beacon, and miles from any town or village of any size.

From the attic windows which peeped forth from the thatch, we commanded a magnificent view both away north over Surrey, and south across the Downs to the Channel. We were up upon what the Bathy-orographical map of England terms “The Forest Ridge,” which lies between the North Downs and the sea.

With old Theed as sentry, we worked away in the farmyard, the doors of which were carefully closed, assembling the machine. That work took three days, though we all strove with a will, leaving Mulliner to act as housekeeper and prepare our meals.

Every day Theed’s son took the farmer’s cycle and went to get us a paper at Forest Row Station on the line between Tunbridge Wells and Horsham, that being the only connexion we held with the world outside. The good farmer I had paid handsomely, and had frankly told him that we were making some secret experiments with a new aeroplane against the Germans, whereupon he, as a good Englishman, had promised to hold his tongue.

That week passed rapidly – a week of arduous work, of intense anxiety and excitement. Sometimes a part would not fit, or was missing, and then our spirits would instantly flag. Still, after much eagerness – and sometimes a few bad words, sotto voce, of course – we gradually got the machine into readiness, and began the engine-test.

So powerful were those twin engines, with their wide throttle range, that their roar could be heard miles away, for I had not been able to silence them. Nevertheless, nowadays, country people are happily so used to hearing the rhythmic throb of aeroplane engines, that they scarcely take notice of it. Mine, however, were unusually fierce, especially when both were working, one for the propeller, and the other either for the searchlight or the directive sparking apparatus.

They had both been run “upon the bench” for many hours, of course, and passed as perfect by the makers. Yet a pilot never likes to trust himself upon something he has not tested with his own hands.

Each one of us had his or her own work, and each one of us worked with a true spirit of patriotism. I had argued that if the Anti-Aircraft Service were unable to bring down Zeppelins, then I, as a private individual and a pilot who had had some experience in the air, was ready to risk my own life in the attempt. And in this Teddy was whole-heartedly with me.

Naturally, Roseye often grew apprehensive. It was because of that she made me repeat many times the promise I had given her – that she should make the first flight with me in the newly-constructed machine.

Each day Teddy and I, aided by young Theed, worked testing, tightening strainers, seeing to pins and washers, adjusting bolts and other things. And at evening, while the Theeds and Mulliner gossiped in the kitchen, we three made ourselves comfortable before the great log fire in the farmer’s best room, and sometimes passed the time with cards, a well-thumbed pack of which Roseye had discovered in a drawer.

One evening we had played cards and Teddy had wished us good night, taken his candle and ascended the narrow creaky stairs, worn hollow by the tread of generations of farmers.

“Claude,” exclaimed my love, when we were alone, “I feel so very worried over you! I know how keen you are to act your part in this war, and to put your theory to the test. But is it really wise? Remember that you are going to risk your life. The creation of that electric wave, when in the air, may re-act upon your own engines and seize them – or it may create a spark across your own petrol-tank. In that case you would be blown up in mid-air!”

“Ah! That contingency I’ve already provided for, darling,” I assured her. “Have you not seen that my new petrol-tank is a wooden barrel held by wooden bands, so that there is no metal over which to spark?”

“I know. But electricity is such a mysterious force, one never knows what it will do, or how it will take effect.”

“You are going a little wide of the mark, Roseye,” I laughed. “We know pretty well the limitations of electricity – or rather we three know as much – and perhaps a little more, than the enemy does. My discovery is quite simple, after all. I have found out the means by which to create and to direct a flash of intense electrical current, a kind of false lightning. And that current, sparking over the interstices between the aluminium lattice-work and envelope of a Zeppelin, must certainly ignite the inflammable gas with which the ballonets are filled and which is so constantly escaping.”

“Yes, I know,” was her answer, as she allowed me to place my arm tenderly about her slim waist.

Then she seemed unduly thoughtful and apprehensive.

“Well?” I asked. “Why are you worrying, darling? I am striving to do my very best for my country. I am going to fight – or attempt to fight – just as valiantly as though I were dressed in khaki, and wore the winged badge of the pilot of the Royal Flying Corps. Indeed, my chance is better. I have no Flight-Commander to look to for orders. I am simply a handy man of the air who has, I trust, thought out a feasible plan.”

“Your plan is most excellent, Claude,” she admitted. “But what I fear is the great personal risk and peril to yourself.”

“There’s none,” I laughed. “You, my dear, have no fear when you are flying – even at high altitudes. Neither have I. Both of us are used to being up, and our machines are part of ourselves. I never think of danger; neither do you, Roseye. So don’t let us discuss it further,” I urged.

Then, in order to turn our conversation into a different channel, while I still held her hand as she sat upon that old black horsehair couch with me at her side, I said:

“I’ve just been reading what is termed a hot-aircraft poem in the Aeroplane. I wonder if I recollect the concluding lines. They run something like this: – ”

The Scout makes no question of Ays or Noes,
But right or left, as banks the Pilot, goes
And he who dropped One down into the Field —
He knows about it all – he knows, he knows!

Here with a Dud Machine, if Winds allow,
A Flask of Wine, a Load of Bombs – and Thou
Before me sitting in the Second Seat —
A Midnight Raid is Paradise enow.

And when I turn upon the Homeward Trail,
Dreaming of Decorations, Cakes and Ale,
How bitter on the First Day’s Leave to find
My Name spelt wrongly in the “Daily Mail!”