The Zeppelin Destroyer: Being Some Chapters of Secret History
William le Queux
Library of Alexandria · AI-narrated by Ava (from Google)
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ÒTo-morrow? To-morrow, my dear Claude! Why, there may not be a to-morrow for youÑor for me, when it comes to thatÑeh?Ó ÒYes. YouÕre quite right, old son,Ó was my cheerful reply. ÒIÕm quite aware that these experiments are confoundedly dangerousÑand, besides, there are nasty wind-pockets about just now. I got into a deadly one yesterday afternoon, just across the line at Mill Hill.Ó ÒI saw you,Ó replied my friend Teddy Ashton, a fellow-aviator and chum at Hendon. ÒIt gave me a nasty moment. You had engine-trouble at the same time.Ó ÒYes,Ó I replied. ÒI was up over eight thousand feet when, without a secondÕs warning, I found myself in a pocket spinning over. Phew! If ever I nearly came to grief, it was at that moment!Ó ÒI was on the lawn, having tea with Betty, and we were watching you. I quite expected to see you come plumb down,Ó Teddy said. ÒYou righted your old bus splendidly.Ó ÒSheÕll have to have a new dope, I think,Ó was my reply, endeavouring to turn the conversation into another channel, for I did not care to discuss my narrow escape from death over the mishap which was certainly my own fault. I was standing with Teddy in one of the long work-sheds of the Barwick Aeroplane Factory at Hendon on that bright morning early in October, 1915. The wind was light, the barometer high, and both of us had been up, as we had been testing our monoplanes. As he stood leaning against a half-finished machine idly smoking a ÒgasperÓÑa cigarette in the airman jargonÑhe presented a fine picture of the clean-limbed young Englishman in his wind-proof aviation suit, with leather cap and ear-pieces, while his goggles had been pushed upon his brow. Both of us, Òas quirks,Ó had learned to fly at the same school at Brooklands before the outbreak of war, and both of us were enthusiastic airmen. In introducing myself to the reader of this chronicle of fact I suppose I oughtÑat the risk of using the first person singular a little too muchÑto explain that I, Claude Munro, aged twenty-five, am son of Sir Reginald Munro, a man well-known as a physician, a prominent prescriber of pills and powders in Wimpole Street. On coming down from Cambridge I had read for the bar a short time, but finding that my inclination was more in the direction of electricity and mechanics, my indulgent father allowed me to take a course of study at a Wireless School, where I was not long in learning most of the recent discoveries in the field of radio-telegraphy.
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