The Zeppelin Destroyer: Being Some Chapters of Secret History

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!”

“Ah!” protested my love. “You really don’t take it with sufficient seriousness, Claude!”

“I do,” was my quick protest. “I am not worrying about failure: I am only anticipating success.”

“Do not be over sanguine, dear, I beg of you.”

“I never have been,” was my reply. “To-morrow I shall make the first test in the air – and you shall come with me, as I have for so long promised.”

Chapter Seventeen

Not Counting the Cost

From our aviation map – a plan of the country unfamiliar to most people – we had ascertained that about fourteen miles away, in a direct line due east from Holly Farm, and about three miles beyond the little town of Mayfield, lay a small village called Stockhurst.

The reasons why it attracted us were twofold. First the church was situated alone at some little distance from the village, and, secondly, it possessed an unusually high, pointed spire.

Therefore on the following morning Teddy and I took the car, and after going round by the high road which took us eighteen miles, through Maresfield, Buxted, and across Hadlow Down, we at last, after going along a picturesque lane, then brown and leafless, arrived at the long, straggling village street of Mayfield, a quiet old-world place, far removed from the noise and bustle of the world at war. Most of the homely cottages were thatched, and the whole place was typical of the charm of rural Sussex. As we passed slowly along we saw upon our right an ancient comfortable-looking inn with its big stable-yard at the side, the “AA” badge and a sign which told us that it was “The George.” Yet, farther on, an incongruous note was struck by a glaring red-brick shop called “The Stockhurst Stores.”

That morning was bright and crisp, with a clear blue sky. Indeed, before we had left we noted that the barometer was rising, and that the flight conditions were hourly improving.

A little way out of the village we came upon the fine old ivy-covered church, with a tall spire of a type similar to that of St. Martin’s in Trafalgar Square, while the dimensions of the aisle showed that it had been built in the long ago medieval days when Stockhurst had been one of the important market-towns of that district, until other and more convenient markets had sapped its trade, and it had slowly dwindled down to an obscure little place known only by reason of the monumental brasses and beautiful stained glass of its church, which Thomas Cromwell had happily spared.

Pulling up the car, I placed a file, a pair of heavy cutting-pliers, a piece of asbestos cloth and a short length of copper-wire cable in my pockets and, with Teddy, wandered through the graveyard in pretence of inspecting the exterior of the beautiful castellated fabric. By some arched windows we saw that its earlier portions were undoubtedly Norman, while others were of the Perpendicular Period. These we examined, and discussed, in order not to attract the undue attention of anybody in the vicinity.

We tried all the doors, much gratified, in secret, to find them locked. It proved the absence of any sexton or cleaner.

During our inspection of the church tower we had noticed the exact spot where descending from the spire ran the narrow flat strip of copper connecting the lightning-conductor with its earth-plate. We sauntered back to that place, where in the angle of the ancient flint wall, beside one of the heavy buttresses the metal strip went straight down into the turf. The copper was much oxidised, for it had been placed there many years ago for the protection of the steeple during thunderstorms.

“We mustn’t lose time,” I muttered to Teddy.

“Can you see anybody about?”

“No. All’s clear,” he declared. “I’ll watch, while you do it!”

I went quickly across to the wall and at a spot about five feet from the ground behind a big laurel bush I pulled the strip away from the wall with my fingers and worked at it with file and pliers, until I had severed it.

Then, at about a foot nearer the ground, I made a nick in the copper with my file and bent it until it broke, leaving a portion of the conductor about a foot long in my hand. This I at once concealed beneath the bush, while I placed a strip of asbestos cloth against the wall beneath each of the loose ends of the copper conductor, the latter holding the protective cloth in position upon the wall. Then, when I had concluded the work to my satisfaction, I pushed back the shrub so as to conceal as far as possible the damage to the lightning-conductor, and rejoined my friend.

“I’m afraid the rector wouldn’t much approve of our work – if he knew,” laughed Teddy, as we returned to the car.

“No,” I said, adding, “I suppose you’ll spend a pretty quiet day in this place, won’t you?”

“Yes. The George looks comfortable, but not too cheerful,” was Teddy’s reply. “What time shall you fly over?”

“Just after ten. The whole village should be in bed by then. You go out of the hotel just before the place shuts, and wander up here and watch. Theed, after seeing us off, will jump into the car and come over for you at once. Meanwhile, after the experiment, you can employ your time in connecting up the broken conductor with the bit of wire cable. I’ve left it all ready under the bush.”

“By Jove, Claude!” he said enthusiastically. “I shall be standing there eager to see whether it sparks across when you turn on the current.”