The Secret Generations (10 page)

They ran the engine up, and the aeroplane trundled out onto the grass, with Dick at the controls. Fifteen minutes later it was back, nose turned in James’ direction. Once the engine was switched off, and the propeller stopped, he jumped down. ‘Okay, you want to take her around?’

Dick lent him his flying gear and James climbed into the hard little seat in front of the engine. Dick went through the controls: the levers for elevators, rudder and ailerons; exactly how much throttle he would need; cautionary advice on not being heavy-handed with the elevator, and a word about judging his speed for landing.

His mouth was dry, and he could feel the sweat starting from his pores, in spite of the cold. The palms of his hands were damp under the leather as he tested the control levers. There was a good forward view, allowing him to judge the angle of the elevator – directly in front of him – stretching out on the jutting triangular framework.

He heard Dick, behind him, calling to ask if he was ready; and they went through the familiar starting-up ritual.

James had not bargained for the vibration, or noise. You were aware of it from the ground, but once at the controls everything took on new perspective. The Farman was translated from an inanimate object to a machine that had life and purpose.

He concentrated, feeling a sense of achievement at steering the aeroplane across the field, finally turning into the wind, holding back on the elevator lever to keep the boxed tail and rudders down on the ground.

He gave the throttle a touch, lowering the revolutions; but the rudder box wanted to rise – the rudders themselves needing hard handling to swing the front of the craft into position. Finally it came around, giving James a view of grass spread out in front of him, with the skyline and trees in the far distance, a couple of miles away.

He looked about him, as other pilots did, to ensure no other aeroplanes were nearby, or overhead. Then, still holding the tail down, he pushed the throttle lever forward, calling up the power needed to launch himself into the air.

The racket behind him grew louder, and more distracting, as the machine began to move forward. At first, the motion was hardly noticeable; then the whole aeroplane tried to slew violently to the left. Correcting quickly with the rudders, he had to push even harder on the elevator to keep the rear down, as the Farman bumped over the grass, gathering speed at a frightening rate.

Everything appeared to blur as the speed rose, wind lashing at his face, trying to penetrate the leather of helmet, and the glass in his goggles. Then the rear stopped swinging and he was moving in a straight line.

Now, he thought, letting the elevator lever loosen slightly. The curved control plane moved fractionally, ahead of him, and he allowed it to find its natural position before tightening his grip, holding it as the rear of the Farman came up. The machine’s angle altered, as it tried to lift. Then, a slight bounce, and other noises: wind whining through the bracing wires; a rippling and creaking of fabric and wood; the clatter of the engine.

James was unaware that he was speaking to the craft, just as he had talked to his first horse when learning to ride.
‘Hold her there. Back, now! Back!’ The jutting front section holding the wide elevator seemed intent on dropping forward, and it took muscle to pull back on the elevator, bringing the whole flimsy triangular framework sharply up. For a second, he thought the booms behind him would smash into the ground, but he held the position. Steady! Steady! The wheels and skids bumped and rocked on the rough grass.

Then came a new peace. No vibration from below, only the screech of wind over the wings, and through the wires. There followed a sensation James was never to forget.

It took a good thirty seconds for him to realize that the machine had left the ground, finding its natural habitat.

The Farman must have reached almost a couple of hundred feet before he even had the wit to level off. He did not feel the cold; and the noise and wind on his body went unnoticed. From where he sat, perched among the wires, with the great Gnome engine roaring away behind him, it felt as though he sat on the cusp of the world itself. Before him, the landscape of Hampshire spread to the horizon
– clear and bright, the whole unrolling before his eyes like a live relief map. The sensation, and heavy intoxication of the experience, almost made him forget to take off engine power.

As the revolutions gradually dropped, to his command on the throttle, so the machine began to sink. He touched the aileron and rudder controls. Bank and turn to the left. Steady! The left wings dropped sickeningly, and, for a moment, he thought the whole aeroplane would slide out of the sky to bury him in the fields below.
Opposite aileron. The wings remained dipped, and the earth tilted. Now, another touch on the elevator. ‘That’s it, girl. Round we go.’

Holding the Farman level again, James Railton marvelled at the fact that
he
was really flying it – that it did what he told it to do, through the controls, just as others had said in books or conversation.

The gentle turn now brought him south of the field, on a reciprocal course to the one he had taken after lifting the aeroplane from the ground.

He was flying at about one hundred and fifty feet, he thought, and the sight of huts, people, and the terrain beyond, appeared unreal so that he began, wildly elated, to shout, ‘I’m flying! Look, I’m flying!’

When he judged that he had travelled about a mile past the field, James gently tried his next turn
– a wide, sweeping half-circle. This time he moved across the wind, then into it, so that the machine required constant adjustment. Strange, he thought, on the ground there was hardly any wind, yet, up here above the earth, the breeze was strong enough to lift the aeroplane up and down, so that he had to make quick corrections with rudder, ailerons, elevator and throttle.

Everything now required c
oncentration, but the magic of flight remained undiminished, enlarged by a sense of pride as he found himself in line with the field, throttling back, adjusting the elevator, bringing the machine into a glide, dropping fast towards the ground.

He must have come down to within fifty feet before realizing he was too low
– and dropping steadily. The hedgerow surrounding the flying field sped towards him at an unpleasantly fast rate.

For a second he did not realize what was happening, then came the swift kick of fear low in his stomach as he fought to bring the machine under control. The aeroplane appeared to have a will of its own, the front angling up steeply until it was almost standing on the enclosed box-like rudders.

The noise was terrific, and he was banged around in the hard little seat. Then, for a moment, he heard only the scream of the engine as the propeller desperately tried to claw at the air. There came a terrible slapping sound, like water running off the underside of the wings. The Farman refused to answer to the controls, tipping, starting to roll uncomfortably, until, with a grinding sweep of air washing and eddying around it, the whole aeroplane dropped.

The rear hit the ground first, tearing the booms away, and James only just had time to use his common sense, chopping back on the throttle and flicking the petrol cock closed. He was conscious of the wings being ripped off on the starboard side, and of a terrible buzzing and cracking as the propeller chewed into the earth.

Then came the unbelievable splintering noise, and blackness. He came to, lying on the hangar floor, with Dick Farthing leaning over and calling his name.

He heard his own voice, disembodied, saying,
‘Sorry, Dick,’ then, slowly, life returned. He was able to move each limb, gingerly, one at a time. Nothing broken except the aeroplane. He could not stop saying sorry, for his mind was filled only with the pile of wood, metal and fabric which had been the beautiful Farman – ruined, by him, beyond repair.

For the first time in years, James wanted to weep. He had not shed a tear at his grandfather
’s death – for him, that grief manifested itself in other ways – yet now he could sob for a machine.

A doctor had been sent for, and, by all the ill strokes of fate, he turned out to be Martin Savory
’s father, who took James straight home.

He had suffered minor cuts, a lot of bruising, and shock; but this did not stop the good doctor from quizzing him hard about the
‘rambles’, and the whereabouts of his own son. Dr Savory was in no way unpleasant, but, James reflected, he would not care to be in Martin’s shoes.

To his surprise, James found his own father more irritated than angry. What amazed him was that John Railton
sounded very like The General, and even appeared to understand his desire to fly. ‘If you wanted to mess around with aeroplanes before going to Sandhurst, why, in the name of heaven, didn’t you tell me?’ he asked. Later, James heard about his stepmother’s riding accident. It had, he reasoned, upset his father and greatly affected him.

Sara insisted that he call her by her Christian name, and, in spite of the shaking she had received at Lady Nellie
’s Hedge, tried to form a bond of trust between James and herself. Since her marriage, Sara had attempted to foster a special relationship with her stepson; now there was true opportunity and she even discussed the whole business of flying with him.

In the end, of course, everything had to come out, including the private money The General had put away for James. John Railton was anxious to get in touch with the man Farthing to
see what expense had been incurred through the accident. James’ inheritance, and the five hundred in Coutts’ Bank, would, he said, have to go towards defraying the cost.

John also made it plain that
until his son was fully commissioned and out of Sandhurst, all holidays or leave must be spent either at Redhill, or at the London house. James would be seeing much more of his stepmother. ‘If you have to fly, then you’d best do the thing properly, James.’

James was quick to point out his beliefs.
‘It’s the future, Father. It will eventually have great military bearing, and I want to be ahead – or at least out there with the leaders.’

John Railton smiled to himself. He admired the young man
’s enthusiasm, but could not for the life of him see how these motorized kites could possibly be of military value.

*

Steinhauer was coming under increasing pressure. The Military were, as the Kaiser had predicted, taking over. They had even privately announced their nominee as Head of Intelligence, and informed Steinhauer that he would be working directly under him.

An emissary spent several
hours with Steinhauer, questioning him about the state of spies and agents in other European countries; police informers used by the Foreign Ministry’s secret department; networks; communications and all the paraphernalia of espionage.

They were cleaning his cupboard bare, and, quite possibly, opening his correspondence into the bargain.

He started to take greater care, making his journeys out to Neuweissensee at irregular intervals, changing trains at odd stations, watching to see if he was being trailed.

Of one thing he was confident: if he could get Ulhurt trained, disciplined and out into Britain, he would be able to keep him as a private agent, away from those who already existed. The way the military was going about the business could, he concluded, only lead to disaster, with the current
agents detected, arrested and thrown out of the countries in which they operated.

As the military take-over became more apparent, Steinhauer visited two old contacts. One was an expert in explosives and weapons, who had long since retired from the army to earn a more dubious living among the criminal classes. The other, Steinhauer had used privately before
– an ordinary-looking fellow with simple tastes, but in a trade which was expensive, and only occasionally used by governments. The man was called Wachtel, and his vocation in life was that of an assassin. He had travelled the world, and knew more ways of bringing silent, and instant, death upon the unsuspecting than any professional soldier. He was credited with over a hundred politically inspired killings, half of which had gone down as common murders. Never once had he been detected.

These two men would be well paid for training Ulhurt. They could also be trusted to remain silent.

Hans-Helmut Ulhurt progressed with speed. Where, at the start of it all, the bad surgery in Kiel had left him weak, and somewhat diffident, the big sailor now seemed to have been given an almighty push forward.

When Steinhauer came to see him they always conversed in English, and Ulhurt
’s command of the language was even better than before. Also, the experts reported that he responded to their specialist training with skill and enthusiasm.

Now he knew exactly how much explosive was needed to do great damage even to the most sophisticated warship; he was able to assemble bombs; set simple timers and detonators; he could also kill, quickly and silently.

The assassin said it came naturally to the sailor. ‘Already he has a good knowledge of close fighting; he can handle the gun and knife with no problems, but what impressed me most is how the fellow handles himself when unarmed,’ he told Steinhauer. ‘He can kill with one blow – and do it quietly. I have to say that he’s particularly good with the garrotte, and the great thing is that he has a talent for improvization.’