Originally published in The Trident 'old series' Issue 1, April 2010. To be republished in The Trident 'new series' as "Saxon on Secret Service" Chapter 1 - On the Western Front The roar of huge explosions lifted tons of earth into the air, drifting smoke obscured a landscape scarred with craters, tangled wire and rotten dead bodies, the remains of gallant men whose lives had come to a sudden, pitiful end. In the blue sky above the occasional aircraft weaved about, machine-guns chattering. In quieter moments the screams of the wounded and the call for the stretcher-bearers could be heard. The hellish scene of mud, blood, misery and death was just another day on the western front of the First World War in 1916. Private Arthur Cooke shared a grim joke with his best friend, Ed Leslie. Even in this brutal situation the down-to-earth British "Tommy" found a way to keep morale as high as possible. There was special reason for celebration today, for the two men where due to be pulled back from the front line trenches to enjoy the relative safety and comfort of the rear lines. A heavier-than-usual German artillery barrage was raining in at that time, but soon lifted. Machine-gunners leapt to defensive positions along the trench in case of an enemy advance, tense moments followed, for even though the odds where heavily stacked on the side of the defender, a thrown grenade or sniper’s bullet meant even the trenches could be a dangerous place. However after a tense fifteen minutes no whistles and battle cries could be heard from the enemy trenches, and it became clear the barrage had just been routine. The two soldiers looked up as they heard the sound of a truck engine. The voice of their sergeant, Bill Sidaway rang out above the general noise. "’Urry up lads! It’s the second line special! Penny a ride, first stop the Ritz!" The two soldiers jogged over to a large sunken area behind their particular trench, which was built into a slight embankment and so allowed trucks to come right up to the front line in relative safety. The much depleted platoon which had arrived in that area six months ago were now all able to fit in the rear of one lorry, a wounded man from the recent shelling and two stretcher bearers amongst them. The man’s leg had been bandaged up as well as was possible, but it was clear he would have difficulty walking for the rest of his life. "Nice Blighty, mate" remarked one soldier. Giving the wound the nickname for what more soldiers than dared to admit it secretly hoped for – one severe enough to see them returned to Britain. "The man upstairs must be in a good mood today, eh lads?" the man tried to joke back, his voice weak. The truck arrived at a large camp about a mile from the main front lines. From there the smoke and noise of battle was still plainly obvious. As soon as the battered veterans arrived fresh soldiers began eagerly leaping into the truck. One turned to Arthur and cheerfully remarked "Been giving old Jerry a good seeing to, chum? Don’t worry, I’ll leave some for you!" Arthur turned away in silence. The man looked the same age as his own 19 years, but Arthur felt a whole lifetime older. He had been "over the top" twice already, and seen his friends mown down by the ceaseless firing of German machine-guns, and all to capture absolutely nothing. The Germans had made their own attacks- with the same result. The war seemed like it would go on forever, until either side simply ran out of people. Having eaten hot soup in "the Ritz", which was really just two large tents at the centre of the camp with benches and tables, Arthur snatched some sleep despite the fact it was mid-afternoon on that warm September day. He then felt a little better and went for a wander around the camp. Fresh soldiers milled around, thinking they where going into some great adventure, whilst veterans of earlier battles kept themselves to themselves, reflecting on the violence they had seen. Everywhere it was felt that the nature of war had changed, gone where the days of set battles and gallant cavalry charges deciding the outcome, nowadays ruthlessness and death on a huge scale where the way of things, and all for virtually no achievement. Still army life went on, sergeants bawled orders, quartermasters organised and catalogued huge piles of supplies and impromptu games of football and cricket where played on any area of level ground. The sound of a powerful engine echoing in the sky told it’s own story, this was the first war where the aeroplane had come into it’s own, first used only for taking photographs, by 1916 fighter planes battled each other in the skies across France. Falling from the sky in flames and making the war in the air every bit as terrifying as that on the ground. As the men on the ground looked up they realised it was a lone German aircraft. A few men ran for cover, others readied their rifles – the low flying and slow moving planes of the time still vulnerable to a lucky shot from such weapons. Arthur suspected the visitor would just be a reconnaissance ‘plane on an observation mission. He hardly gave the machine much attention, though caught remarks from a group of nearby soldiers, obviously men with a deep interest in flight, that suggested it was a new type, and previously unseen. Just as one of the men contemplated aloud the purpose of two racks of odd cylinders he could see on the plane’s lower wings, a loud hissing noise came to Arthur’s ear. It reminded him of watching fireworks on the fifth of November, he instinctively dived for cover, expecting the explosion to occur at ground level – and it did. Four huge blasts erupted all around him in quick succession. Shrapnel pinged around and loose earth rained down. An eerie silence followed in which the drone of the now-departing German aircraft was the only sound heard, but soon the screams of wounded and dying men came to Arthur’s ears. German artillery was not supposed to be able to reach as far as this, and certainly without such accuracy! So what had happened? Arthur turned to ask the aircraft enthusiasts he had heard talking before, but all that remained of them was a smoking crater and a few bits of tattered cloth. Half an hour later the camp had been more-or-less put back in order, there was still no obvious cause to the mysterious explosions, though many people agreed that the mysterious lone aeroplane had probably had something to do with it. Officers tended to disagree, pointing out that the craft was clearly a fighter and not a bomber, and besides it had never passed directly over the camp. However if the explosions had been down to artillery which the plane had been 'spotting' for, why where more shots not raining in? The whole thing was a mystery. As Arthur sat in a lonely corner thinking it over, he heard Sergeant Sidaway shouting for his platoon to form up for a roll call. As they lined up it was the first time Arthur realised his friend Ed was missing. Other soldiers in the platoon cheered when they heard they had been granted a week’s leave back in "blighty" in view of their having been in action for a long time without respite. Arthur on the other hand was concerned about his friend, and as soon as he was dismissed made his way to the medical tent. Before he had even given his friend’s full name the nurse shook her head, handing over a small bag of possessions and a letter to be returned to Ed’s parents. No words were needed.   Chapter 2 - Baker Street It was three days later, in Baker Street, London, that the great detective Sexton Blake looked up from his work as his youthful assistant, Tinker, showed in a young man, dressed in the formal uniform of the King’s army. "Ah, one of our brave men in khaki, have a seat please" the detective remarked cheerfully. He had a great respect for his country’s military forces, and had served alongside them in many battles, both against criminals and in war. He and his assistant would gladly have volunteered themselves for the fight against Germany, but Blake’s skill in detection and solving mysteries meant he was far too valuable to the home office to be sent into the front lines. Arthur felt uneasy as he sat in the plush chair offered him. The grand surroundings of Sexton Blake’s consulting room seemed a world away from his own lodgings, and even further from the canvas-covered dugouts of the western front, where rats and mud seemed inescapable. Still he had come to the great detective’s office with a purpose, and it was that which he explained now. "I, er, heard you where good with mysteries, sir" Arthur began. "I have been known to solve one or two on occasion" Blake remarked with a grin, putting the nervous soldier more at ease. "And am always ready to help out a King’s man, now what is your problem?" "Well it’s like this, sir, I’ve lost virtually all me old friends now, thanks to jerry. But I had this one mate called Eddie who stuck with me through a lot, even when we went over the top and he had to drag me back… but now…" Sexton Blake’s emotions became aroused by this humble private’s words. He had heard about, and seen first-hand, the terrible toll of the battles fought in the trenches. Already the young men sent into battle where being called "the lost generation". "Regrettable, most regrettable" Blake murmured, "but war and loss go together, I’m doing my part, just as you are doing yours, to bring the Kaiser and his thugs to justice, but I see little mystery in a death in battle" "You don’t understand, sir" Arthur spoke up, there was a mystery all right, and it was the story of his best friend’s death at the mysterious new German weapon which he related now. "So you see, sir, there is a bit of a mystery there, we really can’t work out the cause of it, and from what I heard none of the officers had the foggiest either." Sexton Blake sat back, a line of smoke curling from his pipe, which he often smoked whilst thinking hard. It was the first he had heard of this apparent new wonder-weapon. A way the Germans had discovered of placing powerful explosives exactly where they wanted in the British lines with terrible accuracy. It was a weapon that, if deployed on a widespread scale, would cost Britain the war. There was a moment of silence in that gloomy apartment, for evening was drawing in and London was partially blacked out to guard against zeppelin raids, when a smart knock came at the door. "Come in" Blake said, roused from his thoughts, and a man in a general’s uniform stepped in, causing Arthur to snap sharply to attention. "Ah, Blake, engaged on military matters already I see" the newcomer, a friend of Blake’s by the name of Sir Hiriam Gracefield, said as he handed his hat and stick to Tinker. "Though I’m afraid I must ask this young man to leave the room for the time being, the matter I have come to you about is of the utmost urgency and secrecy!" "Is it about the new German wonder-weapon?" Blake enquired much to the surprise of the officer. "How did you hear about that?" he wondered aloud. "This man has been on the receiving end of it already" Blake answered, quietly. "Ah, I see" said Sir Gracefield, feeling keenly for the horrors of war that the nation’s young men where experiencing. "Well to tell the truth, Blake, there is little to go on. I expect that this young soldier, having been witness to the new weapon, knows about as much about it as any of us" The two soldiers then compared notes, both stories agreeing on the arrival of a black aeroplane, sometimes escorted, sometimes alone. The mysterious hissing noise like a firework and then well-aimed explosions sowing death and destruction broadcast amongst vital British positions. Sexton Blake thought quietly for a moment, here was a mystery which needed solving. And a new weapon that needed either countering or copying to ensure the success of the allied forces. "If I may, Sir" Blake began, "I would like to take a trip to the front lines myself, in order to catch a glimpse of this new weapon in action." "That shouldn’t be too difficult" the General replied, "the attacks are more or less concentrated around a few towns on the Somme, where we have been fighting for some months now. I suppose I need not go into the terrors of the events there?" "I know well enough" Blake said, with a sympathetic look towards Arthur, who had remained silent, reflecting in his own thoughts. The General and the young soldier left Blake’s Baker St house, both going in opposite directions. The great detective and his assistant Tinker looked after them. "Rum deal for some, this war, ain’t it guv?" Tinker asked, feeling keenly the terrors the other young men of Britain where experiencing in battle. Tinker was a lot older than he looked, so was Sexton Blake in fact, but strange circumstances had conspired to give them a greatly extended life span whilst keeping their young energies and looks. "War is always best avoided" Blake replied, philosophically, "but sometimes no choice is left. Tensions have been escalating for so long… we knew that eventually the complicated treaties of the European powers would result in war. And the Kaiser’s men have been probing Britain’s defences for a long time, seeking to take our empire and prosperity from us. For one of our two powers the war shall end in disaster and ruin, and I for one intend that such a fate shall not be Britain’s!" Some days later, a troop ship left Dover for France. Amid cheers, waving flags and the strains of "Rule Britannia". Aboard the vessel sailed a Captain and his Batman, Captain Sexton Blake and Private Tinker, as the two had been commissioned for their stay in France. They sailed in an area set aside for officers aboard the ship, but every spare inch of the decks and below was packed with soldiers. Some veterans silently contemplating if they would ever return, others new recruit anxious to get "stuck in".   Chapter 3 - At the front An hour and a half later, the vessel steamed into Calais, everywhere our heroes looked they could see swarming men in Khaki. Great stacks of crates were piled high in every bit of available space. Parts of the new Tanks were being loaded into lorries to be driven to the front, and Sexton Blake and Tinker walked through the organised chaos, accompanied by General Gracefield. The sight of the general’s uniform causing soldiers to snap smartly to attention at every step. This pathway of rigid figures caused Tinker more than a little embarrassment, he had to admit. On the outskirts of the great dockyard lay a small, neat garage with the Union Jack fluttering from the roof. The General confidently walked in and came out five minutes later, having been assigned a large motorcar to drive the party of three to the front. Tinker did the driving, letting the fine Siddeley-Deasy out at a breathtaking rate. To begin with the journey could quite easily have been an ordinary country drive, albiet one in rather grey weather. However as the car neared the front the crump of shells could be heard, the smoke and dust giving the impression of the entire horizon being aflame. Closer still and shell-holes appeared, lucky strikes from longer-ranged artillery with the wind behind the shells. Tinker had to slow the car almost to a halt, and eventually the three left it at an overcrowded farmhouse hospital and walked the last mile towards the very same camp that Arthur Cooke had left a week before, having experienced the mysterious German wonder-weapon first hand. The unannounced arrival of a General at the camp caused no small amount of consternation amongst the officers present. But soon Sir Gracefield’s charming but firm manner, coupled with his announcement of Sexton Blake’s mission in the area, got the party a billet in a large tent with compartments for officers. After storing their various packages of clothes and equipment the three made their way to a concealed lookout post amongst trees that overlooked the lines. Sexton Blake raised a glass to his eye and swept the battlefield, seeing the debris and tattered bodies that littered the crater-scarred landscape. Sentries could be seen moving back and forth in either trench, in some places the lines separated by only a few yards. Shells occasionally fell, most often into no-man’s land but occasionally near a trench, sowing death around. One German soldier risked a look across the battlefield and fell to a sniper’s bullet. In this man-made hell the men on both sides faced sudden death on an almost constant basis, it was small wonder the newly-discovered nervous disease called "shell shock" was so widespread. "If you are staying, sir, an attack is due to be made at 9:00 sharp tomorrow", announced a Lieutenant who had been given charge of these three distinguished visitors. Sexton Blake felt dark feelings cloud his mind as he looked at the tangled German wire and machine-gun posts. An infantry charge would almost certainly meet with destruction. It was a sight the detective had no readiness to see. "I really came to see this mysterious German aeroplane. Reports suggest that this is the area in which it is most often seen, is it not?" "Yes sir, it was seen only yesterday, but struck an area further to the North. We are bringing up Tanks ready for the advance later today, I daresay those will make a tempting target for this mysterious flier. The RFC are preparing a trap for him, but I don’t expect them to have a great deal of luck." Blake, Tinker and Sir Gracefield walked back to the large field camp, where Tanks were now being kept under crude camouflaged cover, engineers swarming over them and crews being drilled. All around soldiers where readying their equipment in order to begin a march to the front-line trenches. Blake found himself wondering how many would return. The next day dawned with the thundering of a great barrage of artillery, explosive shells soaring overhead with a tremendous rushing noise and the almost constant thundering of their explosions forming a horrendous background noise. Sexton Blake braced himself as he stood in the observation post once again, looking down on the battlefield. Khaki-clad men with bayonets fixed crowded the British trench now. Just before nine the shelling stopped and the whistles blew. The detective could hardly watch as the men swarmed up ladders and into no-man’s land, the German machine-guns chattering and the gallant Tommies falling in ever-larger numbers. The tanks entered the fray now, their four-pounder guns belching flame. Months ago the first tanks had terrified the Germans and caused mass retreat. Now tarpaulins in the enemy trenches where pulled back and small field-guns run forwards. Well-drilled crews firing them at the advancing metal monsters. As Blake watched one tank came to a halt, the front wreathed in flame, the door opened and one man stumbled out, falling to machine-gun fire the next second. Second and third waves of infantry now rushed onto the field, being cut down just as quickly. There was silence in the observation tower as the attack eventually came to a halt, those that were able dragged themselves back to the British lines, sniped at all the way. One man, almost reaching the British trench, lifted himself to climb over a piece of broken wood. As he did do a sniper’s bullet passed right through him and he slumped forwards, lifeless. Sexton Blake, normally able to keep calm and collected under the most extraordinary of circumstances, felt a single tear run down his cheek. The atmosphere in that tiny lookout post was oppressive, all four occupants, for general Gracefield was still accompanying the two detectives, were rendered speechless by the horror of the scene. Maybe two thousand men had just charged to their deaths over the past few hours, countless more moaned and called for stretcher-bearers out in no-man’s land. The attack had achieved absolutely nothing. Blake heard the half-rotten planks making up the floor of the hide creak slightly as the general turned and left. The other three occupants of the tiny structure simply continued to stare at the scene of horror before them for a few moments more, before Sexton Blake overcame his own stupefaction. "I have to go down, help the wounded" he stammered. The nearby Lieutenant seemed about to reply, doubtless to refuse, for he was under orders to keep Blake out of danger, but thought the better of it. Sexton Blake had trained as a doctor in years past, and his medical knowledge remained second-to-none. Tinker accompanied him down to the front-line trench, carrying assorted medical supplies, and the two detectives turned their skills to the art of saving life with hardly a word spoken. For many more hours Blake tirelessly worked tending wounds. Some soldiers had merely been grazed by shrapnel or bullets and only required bandages, but many more had terrible wounds that would remain with them for life. Brave stretcher-bearers rushed back and forth, even venturing into the hellish mire of no-man’s land, to collect those with the most severe wounds and carry them to hospitals. In the midst of all this shells from the German guns rained down, the thunderous backdrop and choking smoke made Blake’s ears ring and his eyes water. Still, however, he continued his merciful work, his expert hands allowing many men to leave the trenches alive. Suddenly, and seemingly without the notice of many shell-shocked men in the British trench, the German barrage lifted. Seconds later a piercing sound bought all activity to a standstill – it was the most feared sound in the first world war, feared even more than the whizz of shells and clanging of the poison gas warning – the sound of the officer’s whistles indicating an advance! Roars and battle-cries from the German trench told their own story – a counter-attack! Blake immediately snatched up a wounded soldier’s rifle, Tinker was already fitting the bayonet to his. British Tommies climbed onto the firing-step of the trench and began to steadily discharge their rifles at the approaching horde. Blake, aware of his temporary rank, called out encouragement to the battle-weary troops. They needed little, having been involved in the disastrous British advance earlier in the day they were well aware that in a trench battle the defenders had all the advantages. The first German charge faltered as the British machine-guns came into action. As a second wave left their trenches Blake found himself directly in front of a German officer. Lifting his sights to just above the man’s right shoulder – for a steady wind would cause the bullet to curve – Blake fired just as the man began to charge. The shot was true and the officer tumbled forwards with a bullet in his heart, the other men around him hesitating and being cut down themselves. But now came a new terror. Some of the Germans appeared to be crawling from their trenches whilst others walked behind them. A shout of "Donkey-men!" went up, indicating that the men crawling had machine-guns resting on their backs. Seconds later a hail of bullets swept the British trench as those same guns were fired. Tommies on the firing-steps dropped backwards to the left and right of Sexton Blake as he took careful aim. Just as one of the donkey men faced the detective his rifle rang out and the German twisted with pain, the machine-gun on his back now firing wildly and cutting down the men of his own side. The next second Blake’s rifle was empty, and he dropped down into the trench in order to reload. A series of men behind the massed ranks of firing Tommies handed out rifle magazines. As Blake took cover Tinker leapt onto the firing step and began to shoot. The donkey men had done their job well, however, and soon a new massed charge of German infantry began. "There’s hundreds!" Tinker shouted above the din, Blake noting a slight element of fear in that brave youth’s voice. The next second a huge German dropped into the trench with a roar, knocking down the armourer in front of Blake and drawing a huge, jagged knife, that looked more like a sword. Sexton Blake’s own reaction was just as quick, though, and he drove the bayonet of his rifle into the man, who collapsed without a sound. Looking up Blake saw Tinker grappling with another German, whom Blake’s now-loaded rifle killed in the next instant. All along the trench the savage fighting went on at point-blank range. And so it was until the Germans gave up and retreated as sunset approached.   Chapter 4 - The Mysterious Plane Aside from occasional shell bursts, the western front was again silent after the brutal battles of the day. Sexton Blake had again turned his hand to saving the lives of the wounded, British and German alike. The sky was just beginning to redden as the sun went down when soldiers all around the detective sprang to attention. Blake reluctantly did so too, but only after assuring he had properly bound the leg of a grateful Tommy. General Gracefield and some members of his staff had came down to the trench to congratulate the troops on their valiant defence against the German charge. The comradeship of military service had already sunk into Sexton Blake and Tinker, and they both remained at attention as the General almost passed them by. Not realising he was also anxiously searching for the two of them. "Ah, Captain Blake, Private Carter" he finally said, after searching around. The two detectives only then realised that their faces had been covered in blood, mud and grime and they were hardly recognisable as the two men in fresh, clean uniforms who had rushed into the trenches only hours ago. "I’m sorry, sir, I quite forgot where I was" apologised Blake. The general looked satisfied "You especially have done a very good job, wounded men carried back along the line mentioned a captain, not part of the medical corps, who had nevertheless tended their wounds with great skill. I knew it could only be you". The inspection tour of the trench continued, and finally the battle-weary Blake and Tinker made their way back to the rearward camp. However before they reached it the sound of a lone aircraft came to their ears. Men near the road recognised the engine note at once and leapt into nearby shell-holes and ditches. "The black ‘plane! – save yourselves, sirs!" they called to the officers, Sexton Blake turned, this was the sight he had came to the western front to see! The black plane came on alone. As Blake looked up he realised it was similar to the deadly German Albatross fighters that had recently gained the upper hand against allied airmen. However as he looked more closely he realised it had triplane wings similar to a Fokker type. "The three wings for extra lift, indicating she is a lot heavier than the average Albatross" Blake observed to himself as he stood in the middle of the dusty road. "Take cover, man!" The shout again came, this time from General Gracefield, but Blake was unmoving, the black plane was clearly going to pass them by. "It’s OK sir, she’s going further on, and look! Here comes the RFC!" Three British biplanes of the latest type were indeed now facing down the German machine. "Perhaps I shall soon be investigating the wreckage of this new weapon" Blake added to himself. His optimism soon turned into shock, as one after another the three British aircraft exploded in mid-air. "Great scott!" somebody nearby exclaimed. Blake was now running and diving into a shell-hole with the others. Even as he pulled his tin helmet down to protect his face the terrible rushing sound that has spelled doom for many an allied soldier came to his ears. The projectiles were not directed at the crouching officers as yet, though. Loud explosions told of another attack on the huge allied camp. Tinker ventured a look at the camp seconds later, but he crouched back into the ditch in the same instant, for the black plane was returning to German lines, and ventured a burst of machine-gun fire at the crouching men. "Nobody injured?" General Gracefield ventured as the engine noise of the German machine faded into the distance. Neither Sexton Blake nor Tinker had been hit, but one of the men who they had been passing as the plane was sighted had been grazed by a bullet fragment, he bore the pain as he continued his grim work of grave-digging, however. Back at the camp, the scene of carnage was every bit as bad as that Blake had just left in the trenches. Once again he fell to the task of aiding the wounded, long into the night he toiled, cleaning and binding shrapnel wounds, making splints for broken bones and endless other medical tasks, until he was almost ready to collapse from exhaustion. Finally he allowed himself to go to bed, but he was up the next morning, making rounds with the doctors checking wounded men for infection. "You’re working yourself too hard, Blake. You can’t save every wounded man’s life alone" General Gracefield said when he put in an appearance at midday. "I merely see pain and suffering and seek to ease it" Blake replied. The horrors he had seen of this war had touched him, and made him all the more sympathetic for the ordinary men caught up in it, doing their duty without complaint. "Yes, well, what are we to do about this new German weapon?" the General reminded him. Satisfying himself that none of the wounded was in immediate danger, Blake turned his mind to that problem, and quickly resolved that there was only one possible course of action.   Chapter 5 - Castle Hopenstien The imperial German war flag of black, white and red, with an iron cross at it’s centre, fluttered gently in the breeze over castle Hopenstien. A large and impenetrable fortress set high in the Bavarian Alps. It was here that some of Germany’s top physicists worked on new projectile weapons, and studied shells and aerodynamics. The castle was perched upon a tall, sheer-sided column of rock, partly a natural formation and partly blasted into shape some time in the seventeenth century, when the baron of the castle sought to use gunpowder to strengthen his defences. Only one road approached the castle, and this ended in a hundred-foot cliff, the only way to enter the castle was by drawbridge, and when this was pulled up the most skilled mountaineer would have had a great deal of trouble gaining access to the imposing fortress. Today, a week after the attack on the allied camp on the Somme in which Sexton Blake had been caught up, a bus full of newly recruited scientists arrived at the castle. These men of learning saw the war as barbaric and wanted no part in it, but increasing propaganda, or outright intimidation, had finally forced them to come to Germany’s aid. The officer in charge, and owner of the bleak fortress, Baron Von Burkhard, welcomed his new arrivals. He was a large, fat man with short, dark brown hair and a dignified moustache, in a similar style to the Kaiser's. He wore a gaudy dress uniform but was clearly not a fighting man, the soldiers flanking him shrewdly suspected he had been posted back to his castle, and ordered to turn it into a laboratory, to keep him out of the way. "Today, you join in the great struggle to forge a new Europe!" he began, "for too long Britain and her friends such as France and Russia have looked down on us, as between them they have carved up the world for themselves. Well we have said ‘No More!’, and under the leadership of our great Kaiser, are even now taking the fight to them!" One despondent scientist, Doctor Kubel, was in the crowd. Muttering to himself "he does like to go on a bit". "Be quiet, you rabble! You should be honoured to serve your country in her hour of need!" barked another scientist, Doctor Emil. Emil was a tall, stern-faced Prussian with short cropped blonde hair and a long, thin scar down the left hand side of his face – a relic from his days at one of Germany's top universities, where he had fought a duel with a fellow student over a trivial matter. Another nearby scientist, Doctor Kaspar, had been Emil's contemporary, and suspected that he had forced the duel upon the other student as a means of gaining the scar, to appear more intimidating. He kept these thoughts to himself. Towards the back of the small crowd were three more men, standing somewhat apart from the others. The first was a distinguished but reclusive figure of German society, the brilliant physicist Lukas Fischer, the second was his young assistant Hans. The tall, athletic Fischer was a mystery to several of the people in the courtyard, he had lived alone in a remote area, carrying on his research and only submitting articles to scientific journals once he had whittled a problem down and found a definite solution. His papers were avidly read by the rest of the scientific community, often caused sensation – and were always proven to be correct. He had been thought to be an ardent pacifist, but lately had claimed a mysterious change of heart, and so found himself at castle Hopenstien. The final figure was very mysterious indeed. He claimed to be a Doctor Hein, but beyond that he let very little detail about himself slip. Even inquiries into where exactly he gained his doctorate had so far been baffled – but all the same Von Burkhard seemed to place a great trust in him. The Baron's speech came to a grandiose end, and the small knot of scientists and assistants dispersed. Many of them had still not unpacked their belongings, so made their way through narrow, winding hallways and staircases to the small apartments assigned them. Many inquiries as to directions were made along the way, as some of the more obscure areas of the castle were a perfect maze. At dinner that evening, the scientists all met in the grand dining-hall of the castle and began to get to know one another better. They were to live a rather reclusive life, as their work was to be top secret. Aside from them and a detachment of soldiers to keep guard (to keep spies out, or them in, some of the more despondent professors wondered) there was no living person for miles around. Despite the grand nature of the surroundings servants were unknown in these desperate times of war, so the food was served in a manner rather more suited to a labourer’s canteen. A surly cook deposited lumps of porridge into the bowls of queuing men, whilst a young boy ran about the kitchen preparing more – the only reward he received for this labour was the odd clip around the ear. Doctor Kubel weaved through the milling room and sat with the other scientists. He was not surprised to find Emil in full flow – the man had already gained the reputation of being a ruthless fanatic, not caring about the loss in lives on either side, so long as German will was done. He was currently sneering down criticisms made by Professor Fischer, who was trying to put the cost of even one lost life into perspective. "But think of the suffering of their families, every man killed in the trenches is somebody's son, think of your own mother and the grief she would feel at your loss…" "Quiet you snivelling fool!" grunted Emil, "any true German woman would feel pride at the knowledge her son died doing his duty to our fatherland, the other nations of Europe were laughing at us. Now they will feel the military might that a united Germany can bring to bear, we'll have them on their knees before long – and their empires shall be ours!" "You expect the war to be over by Christmas, then? Only I've hard that somewhere before…" Doctor Kubel dryly remarked, all he earned was a hard glare from Emil and decided not to risk any further words, lest swords be drawn. Emil looked around for an ally in his nationalistic tirade. He turned to the mysterious figure, Doctor Hein. "And what about you, herr Hein?, I suppose you are on the side of these imbeciles too?" "War is a horrific thing, mein herr, but as you say, when a nation has no option but to fight it must do so with all it's strength. I am firmly dedicated to our efforts to win this war, though unlike you I do lament the human cost… it seems such a waste of young men who could go on to achieve greater things than to fall in the mud of Belgium and France". Emil merely grunted as he sat back and ate, a half-agreement was, he felt, the best he was going to get.   Chapter 6 - Terror Weapons The scientists were divided up into two teams the following day and began work on their respective projects. One team were assigned to designing a lightweight but aerodynamic shell that could be fired from ordinary field guns. This would give the German army an advantage in long range guns that would allow them to destroy British artillery and pave the way for a safer advance across no man's land. The second team was assigned to developing and improving the weapon that wrought terror and destruction at the opening of our story. It proved to be a kind of rocket, tipped with a percussion cap warhead and high explosives, but light enough to be dropped and fired from the flimsy wood-and-canvas aircraft of the era. Improving it's design took expertise in both physics, to increase it's aerodynamics and therefore it's accuracy, and chemistry, to develop a lightweight but powerful fuel to propel it. Rockets were, of course, nothing new in warfare – they had been used by the British against Napoleon over 100 years before, and by the Arabs and Chinese centuries before that. However rockets fired from the air were something new entirely – as were rockets with this degree of accuracy and power. They allowed the aircraft armed with them to destroy opponents from huge distances, further than the range of machine-guns. They also allowed for pinpoint attacks on trenches, command posts and campsites, all from the relative safety of high in the sky. Doctor Emil and Doctor Kubel were both assigned to the rocket project, Emil in chemistry and Kubel in physics. They initially lost little time in baiting the other into arguments over the rights and wrongs of the situation. But as with most brilliant minds, as they turned to their work it became their sole focus. Neither of them even considered the fact that the weapon they were creating would be used to end or forever alter people's lives. For two weeks the two teams were absorbed in their work, their time broken up only by eating the meagre food they were allowed, and sleep. Members of either team were forbidden from speaking to each other about the exact nature of their work, though the overall idea of each other's projects soon became generally known. Then, on a Monday, a demonstration of the improved rocket was arranged. It was to be fired from the castle at a distant mountain, over an unpopulated valley. All of the occupants of the castle were called upon to watch the demonstration of the much-improved rocket. Doctor Kubel's work on the design of the missile had worked wonders. What had before been a crude object, little different to the fireworks set off on the fifth of November, now sported short, stubby wings and four rocket nozzles pointed outwards at slight angles – all designed to keep it stable in flight. As the demonstration was being set up a suggestion was suddenly voiced by Lukas Fischer, the reclusive and often quiet man who was working on the shell project. He ventured to suggest that the rocket should be fired from a tube, not a rod – this would give the thrust of the nozzles greater impetus as the projectile was fired, steadying it in the all-important phase where it built up power. Doctor Kubel agreed on this suggestion and a tube was set up accordingly. On the far side of the valley a wooden cut-out, the shape and size of a British mk2 tank, was set up. All eyes were turned upon this target as the rocket was fired by electronic means – a way of firing it at the exact moment the target was in the crosshair, rather than using an unpredictable fuse. The result of the test was better than any had dared to hope – the projectile streaked across the valley with a deafening whoosh, and obliterated the wooden target, despite the fact it could only just be seen with the naked eye at such a distance. The best artillerymen would have had trouble pulling off such a shot first time, even with their proven technology. "Magnificent!" exclaimed Baron Von Kravitz, evidently pleased at this success. "You have worked wonders, Kubel" "Wondrous indeed" muttered Fischer under his breath, "for all but those in the tank!" After standing around a little longer, contemplating the potential of this weapon, the scientists returned to work. Fischer was working with Doctor Hein on improving the design of artillery shells. However they had made very little progress in comparison to the other team. Despite Fischer's pacifism he treated his work as a purely scientific challenge. He had thought of several improvements to the rocket design as soon as he saw it, and considered asking to be transferred to the rocket project. He let this slip to Hein as they puzzled over a small detail. "I would be careful, mein herr" Hein warned, "to look too interested may be seen as suspicious. There are enough worries about spies on this project already". "Spies?" asked Fischer, "surely everybody here can be trusted?" "In theory, yes. But as we know theories can be different from realities…" Fischer continued his work, but his thoughts turned to the possibilities of spies. He especially mused on the identity of his companion Hein. Was this man not the most mysterious of all those in the castle?   Chapter 7 - The Scream at Midnight Professor Fischer nonetheless asked the baron if he could be transferred to the rocket project the next day. The baron had seemed in a bad mood as soon as the brief meeting began – he was expecting a complaint about the quality of the food. His mood wasn't improved by Fischer's request, and it was denied flatly. Fischer returned to his work on the shell, finding in his absence that his bumbling assistant Hans had managed to knock a large chunk out of the laboratory wall whilst playing about with a detonator. Doctor Hein still complained of ringing ears, and Doctor Kaspar, also on the rocket project but working in a separate room next door, complained of limestone in the acid of the batteries he was attempting to redesign. For his work was on the electric firing mechanism for the rockets. Hein's warnings had been accurate – and the request to be transferred to the rocket project appeared to arouse suspicions that he was a little too interested in it. Not the least of those made suspicious was Doctor Emil, who suggested as much at lunch that day. Though the others around his table suspected it was really because his own work – that of improving the rocket propellant, was not progressing at any appreciable speed. Fischer was primarily a physicist, but he had published papers on chemistry too and might have been able to improve the rocket's fuel if he had been moved to that project. It was a bitterly cold, but clear night when Emil, unable to sleep, wandered up to the highest battlements of the castle to smoke. Smoking was sensibly forbidden in the lower parts of the castle, as explosive materials were being used in the various experiments and a fire could be disastrous. The grim-faced Prussian paced along the battlements, racking his brains for solutions to a problem with the fuel mixture he was working on. Suddenly he pulled up and slipped into a nearby shadow. He was close to one of the towers at the corner of the castle, and he had seen a flash of the bright moonlight reflecting on something in the shadows of the tower opposite. For some time he watched in silence, his eyes unable to penetrate the darkness. Then the flash of light came again, he quickly realised what it was – the lens of a small telescope. He turned and faced the direction the hidden watcher was looking in, and could just discern a distant Zeppelin coming in to land. "Of course!" he murmured to himself, Helbern airfield, a few miles distant from the castle and just as remote and secretive, was now a Zeppelin base. It was now clear there was a spy in the castle, and not only was he attempting to gain knowledge of the secret weapons, he was also keeping an eye on Zeppelin movements. Perhaps he intended to get aboard one and escape back to Britain in it. Emil decided he would put an immediate stop to that, and slowly drew out a vicious-looking knife. Keeping to the inky shadows he advanced on the spy. The spy, meanwhile, continued his observations unaware, Emil could move surprisingly quietly when he needed to. As he got closer he recognised the spy, and revealed himself with a snarl. "So, it's you is it?", he raised the knife, prepared to strike. The reaction of the spy took him utterly by surprise, the man was fast! Emil suffered a powerful kick to the ribs that knocked the wind out of him, he dropped to his knees but quickly sprang forwards and wrapped his arms around the spy's legs, bringing the man down to the floor. The knife clattered away and both men reached for it. The spy had the knife, but Emil squeezed his wrist with great force and the knife dropped from the Spy's numbed fingers. Emil could have shouted for help, and bought the castle guards to his aid, but his arrogant pride wouldn't allow it. He wished to claim the glory for capturing or killing the spy single-handedly. He pinned the man down, but in the next second suffered a brutal blow to the kidney, the spy had got his knee free and used it to stunning effect. Now the two men were on their feet again, and lurched back and forth. The knife glimmered in the moonight. Both men dropped to the ground again, the knife was snatched up and plunged, with a flash of light, downwards. It was upraised again, glistening red. There was a gasp and then a loud scream that awoke the echoes, the same instant the clocks struck midnight. The guards were awake now, running to and fro, nobody could tell exactly where the horrible scream had come from. Then, the body was found. Doctor Emil lay at the foot of the castle wall, slightly further out and he would have dropped far further, down the sheer precipice on which the castle stood and deep into the valley. As it was he had clearly fallen from the very top of the castle and his neck was twisted at a horrible angle, he had died instantly. A small crowd gathered, nobody knew quite what to say. Professor Fischer looked on with sadness in his eyes, he and Emil had never got on, but Fischer could not bear to see people killed before their time. It was Hein who spoke first, as he bent to examine the body. "It appears the fall killed him, but look here" he pointed to a crimson stain on the dead man's shirt, a stain with a small, thin cut in the middle. "This was no accident!" "I see… this was murder!" barked the Baron, who had arrived on the scene late and now shoved his way to the front of the crowd and looked over the body. "Who could do such a thing?" wondered Fischer aloud. "Isn't it obvious?" asked Hein, "a spy!" Spy? The gasp from the assembled company broke the silence. The research going on at this castle was amongst Germany's most jealously guarded secrets. For a spy to have access to the information here was a terrible breach of security. "He has to be stopped!" the Baron began to rant "I'll order out the guard! We'll interrogate everybody! Search all the rooms…" "Nein!" Hein broke in. "With respect sir, it is possible the spy thinks the body has fallen right into the valley. I'd go so far as to say that was his aim. There's no way for him to post or transmit information out of the castle – he evidently intends to collect all he can then escape Germany and return to Paris or London. "I see, so we allow him to think this assassination succeeded, and then he will become over-confident, and possibly make a mistake!" the Baron agreed. "Yes, it is a good plan." "Good up to a point, sir. There is always the possibility that the spy… is standing amongst us!" Hein's words produced another gasp. Sidelong glances were thrown with suspicion around the small crowd. Now others were appearing on the scene. The baron ordered two guards to stand over the body and all the others to only mention 'the accident' and not let the suspicion of spies to become commonly known amongst all the other occupants of the castle. Doctor Hein returned to his room, but shortly was disturbed by a quiet tap on the door. Cautiously he opened the door, to find Hans, Professor Fischer's young assistant, and the cook's boy Friedrich, standing in the doorway. "Please sir" began the cook's boy hesitantly, "we're big fans of detective stories, and we thought your reasoning over the murder of Doctor Emil was brilliant… worthy of Johan Milzinger himself!" Doctor Hein chuckled slightly and moved back into the room, lowering his voice. "I suppose you boys can't do any harm, come into the room and let me tell you something" he said, in almost a whisper. The intrigued lads complied, after a pause to make sure there was nobody in the nearby rooms who may overhear, Doctor Hein startled the lads with the words "I am Johan Milzinger!" "Johan Milzinger!" Friedrich gasped, "they say he's the German Sexton Blake!" "Pah!" Milzinger waved his hand and grinned, assuming an air of theatrical pomposity "I say Sexton Blake is the British Johan Milzinger!" The youngsters laughed softly "of course, sir! Besides Sexton Blake has stories about himself published in all those papers in Britain, he probably has them re-written to make himself look good". "Exactly!" Milzinger agreed readily. "I helped the Kaiser formulate a plan to capture Gibraltar several years ago, which that accursed Blake foiled – but let me tell you, he made it sound easy, our plan very nearly worked, he only stepped in at the last second. But reading the story you'd think he ran rings around us." "It's the same with all the British, sir! We shall win this war and show them a thing or two!" said Friedrich, with boyish enthusiasm "Well… I hope so" Milzinger replied, suddenly looking distracted as he reflected on the horrors, no less terrible for the Germans, of the Western front. "But enough talking. I need not tell you youngsters not to repeat what you have heard here do I?" "You can trust us, sir!" Hans assured him. For all his blundering Hans was loyal and well meaning. Milzinger knew he could be trusted. He was not too sure about Freidrich, the boy seemed too over-excited about things, despite having to put up with his surly, bad-tempered guardian. "If it comes to the worst and my secret does get out, I can always say the boy has an over-active imagination" Milzinger muttered to himself as he retired to bed. The slumbers of Castle Hopenstien were not disturbed any more that night, and Milzinger emerged from his room as Doctor Hein once more. Like his British counterpart, Sexton Blake, Johan Milzinger kept himself up to date with advances in science. He was mainly interested in the scientific detection of crime, a field that would expand hugely within the 20th century, but applied his studies to physics well enough to blend in with the other researchers in the castle. His mission here was, of course, to hunt out spies within the German weapons research team – at first he had assumed it would be an easy assignment, as he suspected nobody in the castle. This had now changed, and he realised he was facing one of the toughest challenges of his life!   Chapter 8 - Hunting the Killer "That cook gets more grumpy by the day" muttered Doctor Kaspar as he took his seat with the other scientists at lunch-time a few days later. "It's his boy I feel sorry for" replied Doctor Hein, who had grown to like the lad a little more since their interview on the night of the murder. "Still the recent accident has left everybody on edge, and it's slowed the research on the new shell down to a crawl – Fischer is still at it I think." "No, he was called in to see the Baron just as we were leaving the laboratory" replied Kaspar. Doctor Hein didn't reply, he knew full well what was up, for he had seen the Baron beforehand. His suspicions were beginning to fall on Fischer, now that there was definitely a spy in the camp. He had asked the Baron to have Fischer transferred to the rocket project to replace Emil. The Baron had agreed, and said he was considering closing the shell project, which was making little progress, and dedicating all efforts to the rocket. In the next few minutes Fischer walked in and told Hein this, who of course pretended to be surprised. After lunch the scientists went to work anew on the rocket. Fischer, now working on improvements to the rocket propellant, looked over Doctor Emil's notes. They were rather messy and disorganised, and this job took some time. However towards the end he came upon a sheet of note-paper tucked in the back of a book which looked promising, however it had been roughly crossed out. Evidently an idea Emil had had which he had rejected as unworkable. However to Fischer's brilliant mind the idea looked genius, and rather simple too. He spent the next few hours making a sample of the rocket fuel Emil had written about, as well as a small model rocket to test it with. "Hans, help me to launch this model in the courtyard" he called to his assistant finally, as the day was coming to an end outside. The two men walked out into the castle yard and, taking care to set up their miniature launching platform well away from the walls, prepared to test-launch the model rocket. "If I am right, this new fuel ought to make the rocket travel a lot faster, allowing for even greater accuracy" Fischer murmured to himself as he lit a long length of fuse. Hans stood beside him, staring up at the sky and down at the rocket repeatedly. The fuse burned down and Hans became visibly more excited, but his face dropped when the fuse burned inside the rocket and nothing seemed to happen. "It's gone out!" he blurted, and started towards the rocket. "Nein! Nein! Come back!" Fischer shouted in dismay, his assistant was about to put his foot in it, as the English saying went, once again. Hans did put his foot in it, literally. As he reached the launching platform he stumbled upon a loose stone and kicked the platform, knocking it up at an angle. At the same second the rocket, delayed by a coil of fuse Fischer had placed inside, finally took off. It could not have been aimed better if Hans had tried, for it sped directly into an open window of the Baron's study, where he was at that time having soup for supper. The explosion as the pocket of compacted fuel Fischer had placed into the end of the rocket, so that it would produce a flash he could see in the sky, detonated was extremely loud. However the bellow of fury from the Baron exceeded even this, Fischer ushered Hans away rapidly as the guards again rushed out of their garrison to see what had happened. This time, however, they had to suppress a roar of laughter as the Baron emerged, with soup splattered all over his face. They later learned some crazed fool had launched a toy rocket that had come to rest in his bowl before exploding. Of course those responsible laid low. Doctor Hein, on the other hand, did not take such an amused view of the incident – had it been an attempted assassination? Whilst everybody else satisfied themselves no serious incident had occurred, the scientist-detective carried away the crude launching platform, which he discovered had been thrown hastily into a dark corner. After this incident, Fischer kept his head down and concentrated on his work. The Baron had calmed down by this time, and was greatly satisfied that the work on the rocket was progressing so rapidly. Hans too seemed subdued and managed not to cause any more accidents. Both men, however, did not know what had become of their launching platform. It was only the work of half an hour to create a new one for testing model rockets on that they did not give the matter a great deal of thought. Doctor Hein, on the other hand, gave the launching platform a great deal of thought. After taking it to his room he set to work with a case of materials he had bought specially – his detective materials. He dusted the platform for fingerprints and quickly identified two distinct sets. It quickly became clear to him that Fischer and Hans had launched the rocket into the Baron's room. Hein now simply needed to prove this had been deliberate and he would have captured his spies. His chance came several days after the incident, when the castle had again settled into a daily routine. Hans had gone down to the nearest down, a journey of some distance, and Fischer was waiting near the entrance of the castle courtyard for his return. The drawbridge would have to be lowered, and Fischer did not trust the bumbling Hans to remember his papers and passwords correctly. Whilst the scientist waited Doctor Hein silently crept up the narrow stairway to the room the two shared. It was a large, vaulted chamber with two narrow beds built into either side, underneath sloping ceilings. The end of the room facing the door was dominated by a large, ornate window. Hein grunted as he saw this window looked in the direction of the nearby Zeppelin field at Helbern. It was the spy's observation of this that had, of course, aroused Emil's suspicions at first. Hein, using the skills he had learned as a first-rate consulting detective, moved around the room methodically, searching everything and placing items back exactly as they had been. All the time he formulated reasons for searching whatever it was he was searching in his mind, so that if Fischer should walk in for any reason Hein would have a legitimate-sounding excuse on his lips immediately. But Fischer's possessions produced no proof of his being a spy. Hein turned to Hans' cases and furniture next – well aware, of course, that he had revealed his secret identity to the boy. Inwardly the great detective cursed himself for his carelessness. Spies, after all, had to make themselves into the people the people that would be least suspected. Hans looked like a teenager but could easily be disguised. The next second Hein cursed himself more loudly. For in his hands was proof – Hans and Fischer were the spies! Hein had uncovered a small case, packed away securely at the back of a cupboard, containing various articles used for creating disguises – theatrical gum, make-up and such. Also scattered around this case were several cigarette cards, clearly originating in Britain. Hein, still fuming at his having been caught out so easily, placed everything back as he had found it and left the room, he considered confronting Fischer with the information immediately. However he remembered that Hans was out of the castle, and would perhaps make his escape if he suspected something was wrong. Hein instead went to see the Baron. This man was the only other in the castle, aside from the two boys he had taken into his confidence, who knew of his real identity.   Chapter 9 - Revelations Doctor Hein whispered a few words to the guards at the door of the Baron's study. The guard he spoke to entered the room without a word, returning seconds later and holding the door open for Hein to enter. The detective felt a chill as he passed these stoic sentries, but mastered himself as he came into the presence of the Baron. "You have found something, Milzinger?" the officer asked, using Hein's real name. The detective liked the man even less than his guards, but his duty was, of course, to Germany. "Yes, mein herr. I have discovered the identity of the spies within the castle, but hold!" he quickly added, for the Baron had risen to his feet, ready to give decisive orders "but, sir, I have also been a fool. The spies are Fischer and his assistant, Hans. However I took the youngster into confidence and told him my real identity!" "You… idiot!" gasped the Baron, red with fury but aware he must not shout, for echoes carried far in the castle. "It was a grave error, I admit, sir. But I think it can be worked to our advantage. For if Hans still trusts me he'll have less reason to suspect that I have worked out his and his master's real identities" "Their real identities? Surely the fact they are spies is enough to hang them?" the Baron asked. "For ordinary spies, yes. However all the evidence I have seen, coupled with rumours that have reached me through other channels, suggests that these two are not ordinary spies – they are Great Britain's greatest heroes – Sexton Blake and Tinker!" Milzinger produced this information with a deal of theatrical flourish. Some people would have taken such behaviour as subtle mockery, but such subtleties were lost on the Baron. "Sexton Blake!" the Baron echoed, half in awe "if we could eliminate him we should become Germany's greatest heroes! The Kaiser himself shall bestow high honours upon us both!" "We have not eliminated them yet sir, and they are as cunning a foe as we shall ever face! I suggest we have guards moved into position to secure the exits to the castle, and then await the arrival of Hans. That way we can capture both at once and bring them to trial quickly." "Of course. My motor-car is always prepared. They can be taken to the nearest police station and handed over directly". The Baron was already allowing himself to believe the whole plan had been his idea in the first place. Milzinger said nothing, but inwardly laughed at the pompous man. "It will be done, sir, if you can give me orders to carry to the guards…" Hans rattled up to the imposing castle on his old bicycle. He whistled softly as he went, for he had picked up some fresh bread in the town. The rations at the castle were miserable, and he looked forward to a "feed" that would, for once, satisfy him. Had be been more observant he would have noticed the extra guards hanging around outside the drawbridge. Nodding to Friedrich, who was admiring the Baron’s motor-car, Hans crossed the bridge and entered the castle. For once, to the satisfaction of Doctor Fischer, remembering the correct password for the day. "Her Doctor, I made it in time to get fresh bread today" the boy started, then he stopped and stood at attention, as he saw the Baron, Milzinger and several soldiers approaching. Doctor Fischer turned and then snapped to attention also, despite the scientist’s status as civilians they had been gradually drilled more and more into military ways whilst in the castle, something causing much resentment amongst them, especially Fischer, who had a hard time concealing a sneer. It was this attitude that helped his downfall, as Milzinger next pulled a gun and pointed it at him. "What is the meaning of this?" jerked Fischer, paling as the soldiers surrounded him. "Doctor Fischer, alias Sexton Blake, you are under arrest!" Milzinger stated, an air of triumph in his voice. He was enjoying this – a grand feather in his cap, a reward from the Kaiser and a passport out of this depressing castle, and away from the reach of the arrogant Baron Von Burkhard. "S-Sexton Blake? The English detective? You think I am him?" Fischer stammered, visibly terrified. To the Baron this fear was simply further proof of his identity, however it caused Milzinger some doubt, could he have been wrong? Johan Milzinger did not have much time to wonder, for the next moment the castle was rocked by a huge explosion. It came from the direction of the now-disused shell laboratory, rubble tumbled through the air and several guards were flung to the ground, others ran towards the scene of the blast when a further explosion showered rubble down onto them. This one had been from a bomb planted in a small upstairs room. Wounded men rolled on the ground, the scientists dropped their work and ran to help. "This is your doing!" barked the Baron at Doctor Fischer, the man visibly shrank back, utterly afraid. Hans lay on the ground covering his head, the situation was confusing and terrifying. Milzinger meanwhile had kept his head and looked towards the wounded. He automatically nodded at the chef and waved him past as the man ran to the gate, saying he would run into the town to fetch a doctor. "Deliberate sabotage! I’ll deal with you here and now!" the Baron was barking, drawing a pistol and aiming it at Fischer’s head. Milzinger snapped back to reality. "Nein, mein herr! Not in cold blood!" he exclaimed. The Baron shot back a look of fury, but lowered the gun. "Fine! But this ends here and now. Nobody enters or leaves until we have found the perpetrator of this act of sabotage!" The Baron was in his element – barking orders and threatening violence. In response the drawbridge began to lift, suddenly an icy grip of fear encircled Milzinger’s heart. The cook! "Wait, stop the bridge!" he yelled at the operators. The mechanism stopped halfway, Milzinger ran up the slippery wooden surface and looked down, sure enough the cook and his boy were busily starting up the Baron’s motor-car. "Halt!" screamed Milzinger, feeling for his pistol, it had been dropped in the confusion of the blast. "Complements of the King, Milzinger old chap!" shouted back the cook, for he was really Sexton Blake, and his assistant Friedrich was Tinker. Milzinger wondered for a second what Blake meant, then a third explosion echoed from above his head, the winch room controlling the drawbridge had been blown up, jamming the Bridge in position, a yawning grey chasm separating the castle from the road. Sexton Blake gave a cheery wave at Milzinger as he leapt aboard the car and pulled away. Milzinger could only look on in fury – England’s greatest detective, escaping with Germany’s greatest secret, and him powerless to stop it! The baron had by now joined Milzinger, and looked on speechless. His dreams of iron crosses and millions of marks evaporating. Part of his castle crumbled away, but all he had eyes for was the rapidly disappearing car and it’s audacious occupants.   Chapter 10 - Escape By Air Tinker, in the rear of the car, chucked to himself as the castle was quickly left behind. "Cor, guv'nor, the look on Milzinger's face! I wish I'd had a 'brownie' with me!" Blake glanced back, "yes, I should think we rather put him out. Still I had always wished to meet him, and imagined I would do it as a friend, not as a bitter enemy – but certain gentlemen in Berlin and London have decided on the latter" "Aw cheer up guv, this war can't go on forever you know. I reckon you'll get to work together one day – there will always be crooks to catch!" Tinker replied. "Yes" Blake said over his shoulder, before turning back and adding to himself "of course, we both have to live to the end of the war for that to happen." The car purred onwards at a steady 30mph, which was quite fast enough on the narrow, bumpy and muddy forest road. Blake had studied maps of the area in great detail, both before and during the assignment, he knew exactly where he was at all times, and where to find a quick way back to England with the vital plans. Tinker kept watch on the road behind, his ears picking up the sound of other engines coming from behind. He recognised the loud, hollow exhaust note and shouted over his shoulder. "Motorbikes behind us, guv, coming up fast!" Two guards from the castle had indeed been able to use the half-closed drawbridge as a ramp, and had jumped the gap on bikes kept within the castle grounds. Promised riches beyond their wildest dreams by Von Burkhard if they could only capture Sexton Blake, they took up the pursuit with enthusiasm. "There's a luger in the box on your left!" Blake shouted over to Tinker as he, too, heard the pursuers. He pushed the accelerator further down and sent the car racing through the forest at ever-increasing speed. Rocks and trees raced by mere inches away to left and right, corners were taken at dizzying angles and gravel and dirt flew in all directions. Tinker braced the Luger against the back of the seat as the two powerful DKW bikes appeared round a corner behind the car. They had all the advantages on this road and quickly closed the gap, one rider opening fire with a revolver. A few rounds thudded into the woodwork of the car, but most went wide – it was very hard to ride and shoot on such a road. Tinker waited until the first biker closed the gap to mere feet and then let off three shots in close succession, only slightly varying his aim. One shot hit the rider squarely in the chest, he fell back, wheelying the bike as we went. The bike and rider hit a large tree and were lost to view behind. The second rider still came on, hanging back just out of Tinker's effective range, from where he fired shot after shot, seemingly able to reload on the move. "This chap would have a great future doing trick-riding in the circus" thought Tinker as one bullet grazed the top of the car's bodywork close to his face, showering splinters and thudding into the front passenger seat. "It's getting a little uncomfortable here, old man!" Blake shouted back, noticing a stretch of straight and relatively smooth road ahead, which would give the biker a clear shot. Tinker understood – he would have to make his shots in the next few seconds count! Aiming just above the bike's tyre, the lad waited until the car hit the smoother road and fired once. His aim was dead-on, the front tyre of the bike was ripped to shreds instantly, it swerved to the left, out of control, and hit a log, flinging the rider headlong into the undergrowth. "Got 'em!" Tinker dispassionately reported. He, too, had recognised the long smooth road as being close to a small unused log cabin where he and Blake had hidden important disguises. It was these that would allow them to escape from Germany, but it would require serious dedication – just as dedicated as their disguises in the castle. It had been remarked on more than one occasion that both Blake and Tinker would have a great career in the theatre if they ever got tired of detection, their acting talents could be extraordinary at times. Blake slowed the car and pulled off the road, Tinker leaping out to open and close a gate, allowing the car through. Blake then drove slowly down a winding, overgrown pathway and up to the tumbledown cabin. The interior was still rather clean and cosy despite the ill-maintained exterior. The pair judged the cabin to be the summer retreat of some wealthy German officer who would unfortunately never see a summer again. A bulky cook and his boy entered the cabin, and an hour or so later two officers in the Imperial German Navy left it. Concealing the car in a small outbuilding, the two walked in the direction of the nearby Zeppelin base, now speaking entirely in German, though in an undertone, as the content of their conversation would still prove fatal if overheard by the wrong person. "Let's hope there's a flight tonight, or we're done for – once they get out of the castle the Baron will stop at nothing to track us down" Blake muttered. This was one of the most tricky parts of the operation – to escape directly back to London by air aboard a Zeppelin attempting to bomb the city! With such vital papers in their possession Blake and Tinker would stand little chance of escaping by road, rail or sea, no matter how good their disguises. So it had to be an escape by air, still an extremely risky prospect. A light wind rustled through the trees, the chilly weather meant there was little birdsong. Far away a wolf howled in the growing darkness, and heaps of damp, rotting leaves gave off an earthy smell. The forest was an intimidating place to even the most hardened nerves, and the two detectives were rather glad to come up against the perimeter fence of the vast Zeppelin field. Wire-cutters made short work of a small section, and the two wriggled through the gap. Blake replaced the cut-away section against the fence, it would hardly bear close scrutiny, but from a distance looked like the fence was undamaged. Sentries seemed few and far between, this was after all a remote site. The scattered buildings blazed with light – the allies had few aircraft with the range to reach this place and bomb it, so the great airships were prepared for their murderous missions in perfect safety. That they were being prepared for a flight tonight was clear, three ships were being gently manoeuvred out of their giant hangars by gangs of men with ropes. The crews milled around, but of officers there was little sign. "They won't be tiring themselves out, let's try their quarters, it looks like that building over there" Blake said in an undertone. The two confidently strolled to a well-built, warm-looking barracks block as if they walked this way every single day. They entered the building and quickly took refuge in a small bedroom – this was indeed the officer's quarters, each of the small bedrooms had two beds, with clean and pressed uniforms spread out upon them. "We couldn't have timed this better if we tried" Tinker whispered. "Out with the light, quick!" Blake urgently hissed back, the two taking up positions on either side of the door. Footsteps echoed along the corridor outside the room, coming closer and closer. Tinker wondered to himself, the footsteps seemed strangely irregular. Suddenly the room was flooded with light as the door was crashed open. A strident voice exclaimed "Really, Schmidt, you...you must get the electric s...supply looked into". Two men reeled into the room, with a grin Tinker realised they were drunk. But still he and Blake moved forwards with the timing of a clockwork machine and struck the two unfortunate drinkers with lead-filled coshes. The men collapsed with equally synchronised precision. "Well that was a turn up for the books..." Tinker began, Blake was already sliding one of the unconscious men under the bed. "What rank are they? Midshipmen? Well my false papers make me a lieutenant, but I'm sure we can take these chap's places" Blake said, half to himself as he checked the men's identity papers. Noting with satisfaction that they were assigned to the same ship. "The ZL-11, come on, let's introduce ourselves to the captain... got that letter?" Blake asked, referring to a forged letter the two carried, purporting to be written by a high-ranking officer of the German Navy, presenting these two men as replacements for other crew-members who were suddenly unable to fly for health reasons. Captain Fuhrmann of the ZL-11 looked out across the chilly airfield and contemplated his chances of seeing Germany again. The British had developed new incendiary bullets and high-altitude fighters which had eroded the former near-invincibility of the Zeppelins. Now he saw them as flying bombs, ready to burst into flames from the slighest spark, for they were held aloft by bags of hydrogen, a highly flammable gas. He had already been witness to several other Zeppelins being shot down, huge firey pyres seen from a distance. He wondered if tonight would be the night it would happen to him. He knew the British would have no mercy, the Zeppelin bombers had earned the nickname of "the baby killers", due to their indiscriminate bombing causing as much harm to women and children as to the enemy's war machine. Though Fuhrmann always tried his best to aim for industrial targets – factories and warehouses – he knew as well as any Zeppelin captain that these giants of the air could be blown erratically by the wind. At this time accurate bombing was almost impossible from a great altitude in the dark. "Herr Kapitan?" Fuhrmann turned and found himself faced by two unfamiliar officers, the senior of the two, a tall bulky man with a full beard, handed him a letter. Fuhrmann gave it the briefest of glances, the general in charge of Zeppelin operations had sent him these two officers to replace two crewmembers who had been temporarily suspended from flying. If Fuhrmann had been concetrating more closely he may have been made suspicious by the vague wording of the letter – the two officers being replaced were not named, for instance. "Those drunk fools Keller and Ruhrheim, I suppose" the captain muttered, for these were the men Blake and Tinker had attacked minutes before, who now lay bound and silent under their beds. "I must advise you, herr lieutenant, that you will be required to act as subordinate to my usual lieutenant, herr Schwartz, on this flight". The lieutenant nodded, and Captain Fuhrmann waved the two men aboard the ship. Other crew members were now arriving and climbing the narrow ladder, first into the control room and then up into the body of the ship, along which a catwalk ran to the crew's stations – the bomb racks, power cars etc. Blake and Tinker quickly found they were assigned to the bomb racks, and thus had little to do until the ship reached London – not that they had any intention of seeing the bombs dropped on that city, of course.   Chapter 11 - Among the Clouds The silver light of the waning moon reflected beautifully from the calm North sea as the huge ZL-11 droned her way across that expanse of water towards England. The crew on board with nothing to do for the time being admired the view out of the windows, however Sexton Blake had another job in mind. The ship carried a wireless set, and it was inevitable that the trouble he and Tinker had left behind in Germany, the crumbling Castle Hopenstien and the unconscious naval officers would be discovered eventually. When this happened it was likely that a message would be transmitted to the airships currently aloft, and two unknown officers aboard one of them would arouse the greatest suspicion. The wireless room was immediately behind the control room, in the forward gondola of the great ship. To get to this Blake had to climb down a ladder from the body of the ship, the cold was biting and numbing at this high altitude over the sea. The control room itself was barely any warmer. The captain and first lieutenant, who had been put out slightly at finding another of his rank aboard, eyed Blake quizzically as he descended through the hatch. "I knocked the wireless cable accidentally, I just want to ask the operator how reception is" Blake off-handedly explained as he turned aft. The bridge crew seemed satisfied with this. They, like their captain, had seen the tide of the air war turn against Zeppelins, and nerves were on edge as they neared Britain – and her searchlights and defending fighter planes. Blake moved silently down the short corridor behind the control room, and entered the wireless room noiselessly. This was a tiny, cramped room, the operator at at his desk wearing large earphones, his back to the detective. Blake slipped his lead-filled cosh out of his sleeve and raised it, in preparation to strike. But at the last second the wireless operator turned around, then snapped to attention as he saw the man in lieutenant's uniform behind him. Blake, seeing the man's movement, had placed the cosh quickly on a shelf and pretended to be yawning as he was spotted. "At ease, mein herr" Blake began, his lightning-fast thoughts already conjuring up a way for him to talk his way through this situation. What if the man had already been told to look out for suspicious new crew members? The wireless operator's face betrayed nothing. "Can I help you, sir?"the man asked, clearly still ignorant of the new lieutenant's purpose aboard the ship. Blake inwardly sighed with releif. "I just tripped over one of the wireless cables above, and wondered if reception had been affected?" Blake asked him, repeating the same story he had told the captain, it was as good as any. "I haven't noticed any difference, sir. However you are welcome to listen yourself" the man replied. "Yes, I have had experience with such a set before" Blake said, putting on the earphones as the man stood behind him. In the narrow confines of the room it was going to be difficult to manoeuvre. Blake closely scrutinised the valves on top of the wireless set, but in reality was using the reflections in the glass to observe the man behind him. The man looked on for a few seconds, and then turned around and reached for the door handle, clearly he wanted to stretch his legs with a short walk in the control cabin whilst Blake adjusted the wireless. He never got to open the door, for as soon as his back was turned Blake's snake-like reactions came into play. The cosh was lifted from the small shelf and bought down on the man's head with great force. The man sank to the floor of the room – the sound of the blow had been drowned out by the low drone of the airship's engines. Blake acted quickly, picking up the insensible man and putting him back in the seat. Leaned forwards against the desk, and with the earphones on, he looked for all the world as if he was still listening for messages. Blake hoped that he would not recover consciousness too quickly, though to prevent any further danger from the wireless, he removed one of the smaller valves from the set and dropped it out of the small window in the cabin. Blake then left the wireless room, and quietly closed the door behind him. Looking forwards, he saw the bridge crew anxiously scanning the skyline for searchlights. Time was running short! The detective slipped silently into the captain's cabin, a larger room at the rear of the control car. This was a largely unused room, as the captain needed to stay in the control room for the entire trip. These ZL series airships had clearly been designed with pleasure use for the post-war period in mind, when captains would not be quite so hard-pressed. Blake crossed the room quietly and opened the window at the rear, noting with satisfaction Tinker's face in the bomb-bay, looking down at him. The lad saw Blake looking up and lowered a long rope with a large spanner tied to the end. This he swung back and forth until Blake was able to catch it. The detective then fastened the rope to a leg of the captain's bed – which was actually bolted into the structure of the ship. This was to be Blake and Tinker's route into the control cabin when the fast-approaching time for them to take control of the ship arrived. Leaving the captain's cabin, Blake walked past the wireless room again, opening the door and then slamming it shut, at the same time quickly locking it and pocketing the key. The operator was still unconscious, but if he recovered he would be prevented from raising the alarm for a few moments more by the locked door – moments that may be vital. "Reception's OK now, weather reports are fine, he will advise you of any updates" Blake stated matter-of-factly to the captain as he returned to the control cabin. Captain Fuhrmann hardly noticed now, below the twinkling lights of British towns and villages were visible – here the racing headlamps of a motor car, there the windows of a train. Blake took in the view for himself for a few moments. Here and there over to the north-east searchlights swung around the sky. As the crew watched they suddenly fixated on a shining silvery object – one of the other Zeppelins on the raid! "Cut engines!" the captain snapped, his order was instantly obeyed and the ship slowed to a halt in the sky, the whistling breeze through the hatch in the roof of the control car was the only sound. Fuhrmann lifted binoculars to his eyes and stared intently at the airship in the lights. She was rising slowly but was now in the focus of several searchlights and could not escape them. "The ZL12" he whispered as he watched. The rest of the crew were silent. The ZL12 had clearly been picked up by the numerous ingenious listening devices invented by the British to monitor the skies for the sound of Zeppelin engines. None of the crew were aware of how sensitive these devices were, so they remained completely silent, not taking any chances. As they watched other shining objects could be seen looping in and out of the searchlights – fighter planes spiralling up to intercept the helpless ship. Flashes were visible on the ground now as she jettisoned her bombs in an attempt to shed weight and rise beyond the range of these deadly machines. It didn't help, still the fighters rose, the gunners in the rear spitting fire at the huge bulk of the airship. Gunners aboard the Zeppelin returned fire and one of the fighters burst into flames, tumbling back towards the ground. As Sexton Blake watched he subconsciously wished the fighter pilots luck. They continued to spiral upwards towards the hated 'baby killer' ship, still high above them. Their pilots expertly weaving to avoid the intense fire from the gunners aboard. "She is doomed!" gasped one of the crew standing close to Blake. Nobody else moved as suddenly they saw an orange glow burst forth from the hull of the aerial giant. The incendiary bullets fired by the British fighters had struck home in the ZL12's hydrogen gas cells – and now nothing could save her! The great vessel began to buckle in the middle as the fire rapidly took hold, spreading through the canvas cells and igniting more and more of the hydrogen, which rapidly burned. Pieces of blazing debris dropped from the ship, the two ends of the giant were still filled with gas and held their altitude, whilst the middle sagged and allowed the fire to spread upwards. As Blake watched some more debris suddenly tumbled from the stricken vessel, seemingly distorting into weird shapes as it fell... he suddenly realised what it was... the crew! Only moments before Blake had wished destruction on the ship, but now as he watched her blaze in the sky like a huge funeral pyre he felt horrified by the terrible end the crew had met, choosing between the certain death of jumping or the certain death of staying aboard. The dying light of the aerial blaze showed the fighter aircraft in sharp detail... to the relief of all on board they were turning to fly further away from the ZL11. "Slow ahead" said the captain dispassionately. The crew did not respond so quickly this time. They returned to their duties as if awaking from a nightmare. The distant glow was fading now and no searchlights were evident in the immediate area. The speed of the engines was gradually increased and soon the ZL11 was again travelling at her maximum speed. Sexton Blake mounted the ladder to return to the main hull of the ship. There had been no further sound from the wireless room, and time was running short. In the distance could be seen the dull glow of London, the huge metropolis that was the target of this silvery ship of death. The sight of it gave Blake a thrill of emotion, he was so close to the completion of his deadly mission. But there was still the hardest part of the operation to go, he and Tinker had to seize control of the ship and then land it safely somehow. "Approaching target, ready the bomb racks" Captain Fuhrmann spoke, mechanically in the cabin. The lieutenant nodded to Blake, who climbed up into the main body of the ship. A narrow catwalk ran through the gloomy framework, amongst which were huge bags of hydrogen – the gas which kept the ship aloft, but which was also highly flammable, and could turn the ship into a gigantic funeral pyre. Many precautions had to be observed, the crew had no metal buttons or badges, for instance, should an accidental spark start a fire. Blake walked towards the rear, other crew members were scanning the skies around for fighter planes, the machine guns at the ready and their operators tense after the horrific scene they had witnessed earlier. "Ready?" Blake asked Tinker, as he climbed down a short flight of steps to the bomb rack, they had planned this moment long before setting out to Germany. Unthinking, Blake and Tinker grasped the rope that had been tied to the captain's bed, it had been tightly secured at both ends, but swung and bounced as they went hand-over-hand towards the rear of the control cabin. The biting cold numbed their hands, and Blake, allowing himself a glance down, felt a rush of fear at seeing the tiny, twinkling lights far below, the land laid out like a map. One slip, or the snapping of the rope, would see him hurtling to his death thousands of feet below. He gulped down his fear and carried on – he had been in many terrifying, dangerous situations before, and this time the fate of hundreds of people and even his country depended on him reaching the far end of the rope. Tinker experienced similar feelings as he worked his way to the rear window of the Captain's cabin and climbed in. Blake joined him after a few seconds, for a moment neither spoke, they both breathed heavily with relief at feeling a solid floor beneath them once more. The ship was just now coming over the outskirts of London, in the centre of the great city warehouses and factories were clustered. They had only a short time before the captain ordered the bombs dropped. Without a word spoken the pair pulled German Luger pistols from their holsters and stepped out of the captain's cabin. The control room was just as Blake had left it, the wireless operator still dead to the world, locked in his room. The captain and lieutenant both looked around upon hearing footsteps behind them, believing it to be the wireless operator. They shrank back as they found the two unwavering guns pointed at them. "Hands up, step back from the controls" Blake ordered, in a stern tone of command that the shocked Germans, tense as they were from the searchlights, dumbly obeyed. At that moment another man climbed down the ladder to report the bomb rack crew missing, he too was motioned to join the bridge crew by Blake, whilst tinker covered the others. "We're taking command of this ship" Blake continued, matter-of-factly "we're going to land in the first big park we see". The captain now spoke, his mouth dry, the words breathed out in English. "T-then you're British?" he asked. Blake realised his perfect German had momentarily confused the crew, who still thought he was a German. He answered in his normal voice now. "Correct sir. We have been enjoying the company of Von Burkhard for the past fortnight, but now we must return home, duty calls and all that". As he joked the two detectives kept their guns unwaveringly on the crew. However in the gloom the lieutenant was able to reach for his own pistol, he bought it up suddenly, shouting to the captain to duck. It was over in an instant, the two detective's guns barked as one and the lieutenant was thrown back against the wheel. He fired in turn with a dying convulsion, the shot caught the captain and passed through his lower body on the right side. He doubled up in pain and sank to the floor with a groan. The shock of the sudden action scotched any ideas the other crew member may have had of trying to tackle the Britons. Blake was on his knees, seeing to the captain's wounds. The man gasped out an order, a surprising one. "Do as they say, land the ship!" he pleaded. Tinker motioned to two other members of the crew, who took up their stations and began to operate the controls. The cabin pitched forwards perceptibly, the drone increased as the big Maybach engines began to overcome the lifting power of the hydrogen. Blake had finished looking at the captain's wound. "Painful, but survivable" he observed. He then stood up and continued to cover the rest of the crew with his gun. "Tinker, go in the back and fly the white bed-sheet out of the cabin window, to show the ship is surrendering. Then keep the ladder covered." Tinker vanished on his errand. It was the work of a moment to fasten the white 'flag' to the rope and rush back to the control room. It was as well he did as men were now sliding down the ladder to ask what was wrong with the ship. Blake herded all but the two piloting the vessel and the captain into the corridor at the back of the cabin. The captain was sitting up now, philosophical. "Perhaps it is for the best we go to a prison camp, this war bears little relation to the gallant battles of old. Look at us, bombing women and children, depriving people of their homes... even making war on the sick in hospitals! Yes, we should be glad to be delivered in this way." Blake looked at the faces of the crew. They seemed cowed and subdued, they too had seen the horrors of burning Zeppelins plunging from the sky with no escape for the men aboard – for parachutes were not in wide use in military aircraft at this time – and were glad of the escape. They were not cowards and would not have surrendered themselves by desertion, but now that they had an excuse, the English spies capturing their ship, they almost felt relief. Of course if they had known of the vital plans Blake carried things may have been very different.   Chapter 12 - Return to London The Zeppelin was flying lower and lower now, the green expanse of a park could be made out below. Tinker saw people racing to the spot, and policemen ahead of them. The "baby killers" were despised throughout Britain more than any others, except perhaps the Kaiser himself. The mob would have torn the crew of the ship apart. However the police were finally able to hold the mob in check, forming a ring around the clear landing site of the huge vessel. The conspicuous white flag was fluttering in the moonlight, and now searchlights were turned upon the ship, lighting her up clearly. Gas was now being released from the ship slowly by means of mechanically-controlled valves, and she gently came to rest, her engines switched off. The hum of the wondering crowd became the pervasive sound. On the bridge all was silent. A megaphone boomed out from within the police cordon. Tinker could now see soldiers arriving, arranged in ranks, their rifles at the ready. "Attention! Step out of your ship and surrender at once!". Blake recognised the voice – it was none other than Detective Inspector Harker, a high-up at Scotland Yard with whom he had worked in the past on more conventional cases. Blake, backing towards the door, motioned the remaining two crew members, they who had landed the ship, to join the crowd in the back of the cabin. Now joined by the groggy wireless operator who had been allowed out of his tiny cabin. The detective then left Tinker to cover the crew whilst he opened the door and lowered the small ladder to the ground. "Keep your hands up!" barked a soldier. The crowd roared now, abuse of all kinds was directed at Blake and the file of prisoners who now stepped out of the ship. Of course all the crowd saw was German officers, for Blake and Tinker were still disguised. Inspector Harker walked over to them, presenting himself to Blake, whom he saw was wearing the highest rank of all the men that had emerged from the ship. The inspector spoke in slow, loud and clear English, to Blake's amusement. "Why have you landed here? Where is your captain?" he asked, looking directly at Blake. The detective's answer, given in his own voice, almost floored the Scotland Yard man. "Evening harker, i've just come back from my holidays, Germany you know. Not very pleasant I must say, but the journey back was glorious. Marvellous things, these flying machines!" "Good lord!" gasped Harker. "Blake?!?" "The very same, and Tinker is here covering our German friends. If you please, they may need a strong escort through the crowd, the mob don't look too friendly" "It will be done, more constables have been sent for" Harker answered. But where is the captain of this ship? "Wounded, there's also one dead. I'll fetch the captain" Blake replied, walking back to the ship. Aboard the Zeppelin Captain Fuhrmann was sitting dejected as his crew surrendered outside, and the British spies handed over his vessel to the authorities. He should have been happy, for he was safe now, he would be taken to a cosy prison camp for officers and would no longer have to fear being burned to death in a blazing aerial wreck. Then why, he asked himself, did he feel so low? The more he thought,the more he realised that the story of his easy surrender of the ship would get out and reach Germany. When she won this war – as she would, of course – there would be no honours for him. He would never be able to return to his home town. The story would soon be spread around, "the coward who gave up his ship to save himself!". The pain of his wound was almost forgotten as he climbed to his feet and mounted the ladder. With a grim resolve he had decided what he must do. He would still carry out his duty to the fatherland and die with dignity and honour. He was unnoticed as he climbed into the great body of the ship in the shadow of her great bulk. Below the two British men joked with a high-ranking policeman, an unusual sight as they were still dressed in German uniform. Captain Fuhrmann was on the main catwalk now. He walked towards the bomb racks, but suddenly a wave of tiredness swept over him. He had over-exerted himself with his wound. Now he crawled, now he dragged himself. He was only inches from the nearest of the bombs... he reached for the tamper-proof fuses, designed to set the bomb off if somebody tried to disarm it... Sexton Blake stepped up into the control cabin, remarking to the captain that he would be well-treated and that his wound would be seen to. Hoever he found no sign of the captain, save for a blood trail leading to the ladder... and up it. Blake backed away, then rushed over to to the inspector, his face a mask of horror. "Quick! Get the people back... back, for your lives!" The next second, a tremendous explosion shattered the airship, the hydrogen gas ignited and a huge cloud of orange flame erupted into the air. The heat was tremendous, tumbling debris clattered to the ground and the huge, dignified ship was reduced to a twisted, blazing hulk within seconds. Crowd, soldiers, crew and police alike were for a second all too stunned to do anything. Blake picked himself up, turned and saluted the blazing wreckage, to the confusion of the inspector. Blake explained: "a captain going down with his ship... he must have set off the bombs". More police arrived shortly afterwards, and the Germans were taken away, safe from the fury of the mob. They would spend the rest of the war in harsh confinement, but they would at least be safe from the bullets and bombs. Blake and Tinker had by now removed their disguises. Rumours spread throughout the remaining members of the crowd, and cheers were raised to the echo praising Sexton Blake for defeating one of the hated "baby killer" ships. Of course, he had a much more important reason for having travelled to Germany, but he had to keep this a secret until he could reach the headquarters of the army's secret service. It was a few hours later when a police car bought the two weary detectives to their cosy home in Baker street. They had only been away for around two weeks but it felt a lot longer after all they had been through. Tinker looked up at the grand edifice, noting a light was burning dimly in one of the windows. "The consulting room, guv. I bet Mrs Bardell has got word of us returning and is making tea for us... she's like the mother I never 'ad" "I don't think that's quite right, lad" Blake replied. "No mother would encourage such over-eating!". The two laughed as they entered the cosy hall and climbed the stairs to the consulting room. The house seemed oddly quiet, Blake gathered Mrs Bardell was in the kitchen in the cellar, however even his acute powers of observation failed him at this moment, he was still too happy at a mission completed to notice the stairway to the cellar had been in darkness. However he was jolted back into reality as he breezed into the consulting room and stopped dead in his tracks. Tinker almost collided with him then he, too, was paralysed to the spot. The two detectives stared in shock... started into the face of Johan Milzinger! The German sat in Blake's usual chair, by the fire and facing the door. A revolver in his hand was pointed directly at Blake's heart, the detective knew he would not hesitate to use it. "Mr Blake, i must congratulate you" he began in an icy tone, "your plan was executed with a level of precision that any German agent would be proud of. And into the bargain you have wrecked one of our Zeppelins... a shame, then, that it was all for nothing! The plans, if you please" Sexton Blake made no move, for a moment this unexpected reverse meant nothing to him, he had something far more important to consider. "Where's Mrs Bardell? What have you done with her?" he barked. "Your housekeeper?" Milzinger asked, taken aback "she is merely... detained. Wonderfully strong locks on your doors i must say... and it's very careless of you to keep chloroform just laying about in your laboratory. But surely you do not suggest i would stoop to cold-blooded murder, Mr Blake? I do not make war on women and children!" "It's a shame your countrymen don't think the same... the bombardment of Yarmouth... the Zeppelin raids..." "I am not my countrymen, Mr Blake" Milzinger continued in the same even tone "I don't like this war any more than you do! So many young men, the best and brightest of our two nations... swept away by the machine-guns and shells. But still i must do my duty as you must do yours! The plans, Mr Blake, and i won't hesitate to shoot. Your possesion of those plans puts German lives in harm's way, lives i intend to save!" "It appears you have the whip hand, Milzinger. Unfortunately i do not have the plans with me, they are stored at Scotland Yard and only I may retrieve them. Tinker, fetch the Morris from around the back" as Blake said these words he made an almost imperceptible signal with a finger of his raised hands. If Tinker noticed the signal he made no word, but left the room. Blake felt confident that the lad had done so, but on the other hand he could not be sure. "A wise man" Milzinger said, relaxing his guard slightly. "We shall all drive to Scotland Yard together in your Morris, you will leave the youngster with me whilst you retrieve the plans... and no tricks! I can pass for a Briton as well as you can for a German, and have a full set of identity documents, so no signalling to the police either." The room was silent for a few moments whilst tinker 'fetched the Morris'. An unusual circumstance, as Blake did not own a Morris car. Outside the building Tinker strolled around to the mews at the rear and climbed the wall into the back yard. It was here that His and Blake's other cars were stored, a Marlin racer and an old Mors. Tinker walked straight past these,though, and mounted the drainpipe at the rear of the house – after switching off the electric current that flowed through it of course – and climbed to the roof of a lean-to. Here he began to open the window silently on it's oiled runners. For he had understood Blake's signal perfectly. "Go to the rear of the house, come through the waiting room and surprise Milzinger", the merest circling of one finger had told Tinker this as plainly as if Blake had said it aloud. The two had shared in so many adventures together their system of imperceptible signals to one another could almost be mistaken for telepathy by the uninitiated. Creeping through the waiting room, Tinker heard the voices of the two great detectives talking. Blake was keeping Milzinger occupied, keeping his attention from the waiting room door which was right behind him. "Well you can't argue that it was Germany who used poison gas first..." Blake was saying, when suddenly Tinker thrust his way into the room and aimed a revolved squarely at Milzinger. "Stick 'em up!" Tinker ordered, feeling for a second like the hero of some cowboy adventure story. Milzinger turned to face Tinker automatically, his gun wavered. In the short fraction of a second he took his eyes off Sexton Blake the detective drew his own gun, still in his possession after landing the Zeppelin, and pointed it at Milzinger. "Fooled by that old trick!" Milzinger sighed as he laid down his revolver. "I underestimated you, Blake" "And I you" Blake admitted "I had always hoped that we would meet as allies in the fight against crime, not as enemies in our countries power games, but here we are, all the same. I must confess you gave me the greatest surprise when i walked into this room. It is a rare occurrence indeed when an enemy can get ahead of me." "And the plans? What of them?" Milzinger asked. In response, Blake drew a packet of folded papers from his pocket. "A terrifying weapon, you know..." Blake said, looking at the few folded papers which could spell sudden death for many thousands of people if the designs within them were unleashed on a large scale. He turned as if to put them on the mantel, then before Milzinger or Tinker could react, consigned them to the grate. The flames devoured them rapidly and in seconds all that was left was a few shrivelled grey ashes. The room was silent for a moment, now no country would have access to the plans for the deadly rocket weapons. Milzinger recovered from his shock quickly, in reality Blake's action had not greatly surprised him, and indeed he had considered destroying the plans himself. "You leave me unable to do my duty, Blake" he said, after a pause. "Now the only remaining question is what you are going to do with me." "You are one of Germany's greatest agents" Blake immediately replied. "I can't allow you to return home and continue to work against Britain... but on the other hand we shoot spies, and i cannot allow somebody who has scored such success in the ceaseless war on criminals to be killed". "A dilemma indeed, Mr Blake" Milzinger was enjoying the discomfort of his enemy. "However" Blake continued "I know all German agents dropped into Britain do so in uniform, so that if they are immediately captured they are not shot, as they can pretend to be aviators who have parachuted from a stricken plane. Therefore you will take me to where your uniform is concealed and i'll hand you over to the authorities as a captured pilot". Milzinger sank back in the chair, defeated. He had not expected this! The rest of the war spent in a prison camp... he was intelligent enough to know the war was unlikely to be over any time soon, and that the victor was hardly certain at this stage.   Chapter 13 - Milzinger Foiled They took the Mors. Blake and Milzinger in the front and Tinker in the back, his revolver discreetly pressed into the German's back. Milzinger, with little fight left in him, directed them straight to his landing site, on a common just outside London. With his grimy uniform on he was returned to London and handed over to Scotland Yard. Harker was surprised to see them. "Good lord Blake... are you trying to win this war by arresting the entire German army?" he joked. "Never mind their army... it's their Kaiser who needs his collar felt" Blake returned. He was in a good mood now that Milzinger was safe, safe from the firing squad yet also safely locked away where he could not turn his genius against Britain any longer. Many good British agents had vanished in Germany, the flow of secret information they were sending back abruptly stopped. Blake suspected Milzinger had been behind it and the German had confirmed it during their drive. New agents were being sent in who, it was hoped, would be somewhat safer now. "All's well that ends well, eh guv?" Tinker asked. One thing still puzzled him, though. "Mind you, won't the Germans be able to dismantle and rebuild the rockets they have already, in order to learn how to make them?" "That's taken care of too, Lad" Blake replied. "I took the liberty of modifying a few of the rockets which were being sent out to the front. they ought to be surprising the pilot of the black 'plane any day now". *** Arthur Cooke was back at the front line, and in the thick of another attack on the German trenches. This time the high command had been persuaded to experiment with a slightly different strategy, and the soldiers were marching in columns behind the tanks. This gave them protection from the flying bullets and allowed the four-pounder guns mounted in these brand-new Mk2 tanks to blast German machine gun posts as they advanced. Despite these tactics the defenders still took a terrible toll of British lives. Men attempted to advance beyond the tanks, believing themselves to be safe from destroyed machine guns, only to be cut down by others once they showed themselves. Sporadic shells dropped amongst the advancing troops too, tanks erupted in flames and men were blown in all directions as the more accurate shots landed. Above it all, as Arthur advanced, he cast uneasy glances at the sky. He and many others knew that this new tactic would be easily defeated by the dreaded black plane, with it's wonder-weapons it would be able to destroy the advancing tanks with ease. The progress of the advance was slow enough already, on level ground the tanks had a top speed of no more than 5 mph, and the shell-scarred landscape of no-man's land reduced them to a crawl. Many had broken down or been hit by field guns and shells and stood helpless. The men behind them forced onwards only to be cut down by relentless enemy fire. Even the drifting smoke of the burning wrecks and shells was no protection – the sheer amount of incoming bullets rendered any open area a death zone. Suddenly the dread shout went up - "The Black Plane!". Arthur looked up to see the sinister triplane shape heading directly towards the tank he was advancing behind. Men around him broke and ran, some falling as they, in their terror, ran beyond the protection of the iron monster's hull. Up in the sky the pilot of the black plane, the German ace Otto Hammen expertly lined up the tank below in his gunsights. He, and many other Germans, considered the British "atrocity machines" to be the creation of cowards who were too scared to face the enemy on foot, and so only did so inside a contraption made of armour-plating. He enjoyed destroying tanks more than anything else. Below one of the tank's guns made a direct hit on a machine-gun post, as he saw the limp bodies of the German soldiers flying away Hammen boiled with rage and increased the speed of his dive. Below he saw men panic and run, but the tank had no means of avoiding his rockets. As the first defiant bullets from those below flew up at him he touched the electric firing button. It was the last thing he ever did. As Arthur Cooke looked up he saw the black plane vanish in a flash of orange. The force of the blast that destroyed it was tremendous – far more than would have been the effect if any of the few men firing at it with their rifles had hit it. The heavy engine block plummeted earthwards trailing a thin line of smoke. All that remained of the rest of the plane's wood and canvas fuselage was a few tiny smouldering pieces that rained down on the battlefield below. Despite the horrific surroundings, the British soldiers below were jubilant, the destruction of the black plane was a major morale victory if hardly a major blow to Germany's actual war machine. The effect on the German soldiers was every bit the reverse, they were well aware of the terror the black plane spread in the British lines, and now it had been blown to fragments before their eyes. As the tanks continued their steady advance the Germans broke and ran, and that night Arthur enjoyed his saved-up chocolate ration – such small luxuries were worth their weight in gold at the front – in a German trench. To capture one was a small gain, it is true, but any gain was significant in a war that was otherwise stationary. *** A few days later, an elderly-looking gentleman on a bicycle rattled down a peaceful country lane. It was an unseasonably warm day and the twitter of a few birds who had not yet flown to warmer climes could be heard here and there. The gentleman was evidently in no hurry, and was appeared to be unfamiliar with the district as he looked left and right constantly as if searching for something. Presently he saw what he was looking for, a small and slightly run-down looking cottage located slightly back from the road. It's garden was a jumble of many different, colourful plants around a narrow, uneven pathway after the fashion of the times. The thatched roof looked faded and was tatty and sagging in places, with a war on there were few men available to repair it. The elderly man, despite his seeming unfamiliarity with the area, walked straight up to the door and knocked confidently. Another old, bearded man opened the door and the pair exchanged a few quiet words. The cyclist was then shown inside and the door shut. At midnight that night, in a certain area in the north sea unfrequented by British patrol boats, a sinister black shape broke the surface and an aerial was erected hastily on top of it, It was a German U-boat and at a certain hour at certain days of the month she would surface and listen out for secret wireless broadcasts. Often nothing would be received, but tonight something was, three short pulses. The wireless operator aboard the vessel replied with one long pulse, then all communications ceased and the submarine sank beneath the waves again. The signals had only taken seconds but their pre-arranged meaning had been clear. The submarine moved in towards the imposing bulk of Britain's north eastern coast and surfaced again. A light was flashed once, twice. Another light flashed from the shore. Members of the crew at once took to a small, fold-down boat and rowed inshore. They lingered for a moment whilst another man climbed aboard, then rowed back to the submarine. A tense moment as a ship passed close by ... she was a merchant vessel, not a patrol boat. The boat crew and their passenger linked up with the submarine again. With quiet efficiency the small boat was folded and those aboard vanished into hatches on the submarine's hull. She sank beneath the waves and began her perilous journey back to Germany... *** The next morning Sexton Blake was breakfasting late. He had had a long and stormy interview with a man from the intelligence department. To the effect that he had studied the plans for the German rocket weapon and decided it was dangerously unstable and liable to do more harm to it's own side. The ministry man knew, but could not prove, the real truth. However Blake was able to convince him when reports were bought in concerning the virtual collapse of Castle Hopenstien, the sudden explosion of the black plane and, for good measure, the unexplained destruction of a large part of the airfield where that aircraft had been based. Mrs Bardell bustled into the room, carrying a tray overloaded with tea things and small cakes. "That extinguished gentleman sir Gracefield is on his way hup, sir" she said as she set down the tray on the overloaded, creaking table. "Hallo Blake, don't go getting fat" joked Gracefield as he walked into the room. "You might have to chase somebody down, you know". Blake virtually read his mind. "Milzinger?" "The very same" the officer replied. "I expected this" Blake replied. He had fought enough criminal masterminds to know that stone walls, let alone wire fences, seldom held them for long. And Milzinger had been as successful in the German empire as Blake in the British, he was more clever than the greatest criminals by far. "Patrols have been set up around the area and at ports and aerodromes, i take it?" he asked, already knowing the answer. "Of course... and nothing!" "He doubtless has already left the country already by submarine. That's how they have been getting spies out recently..." Blake speculated, correctly as it turned out. "The only way he will be caught now is if a patrol boat is able to catch the sub". "That may have already happened, the destroyer Phobos, on patrol in the Newcastle area, sank a U-boat last night, with no survivors reported. We must hope Milzinger was on board" the general reported. Blake was torn, part of him hoped Milzinger's escsape had been thwarted and that he could no longer work against Britain, but another part of him thought that such as ignominious end wasn't really fitting for such a rival, and that the death of Milzinger would be a gift to German criminals in peace time. It was two days after this, when Blake was heavily engaged upon another case, that he happened to glance at the personal messages section of the Globe newspaper. "The cheek of it!" he muttered, half to himself. "What's that, guvnor?" Tinker asked, looking up from his work on the Baker St Index, Blake's huge crime reference library. Without a word Blake passed over the newspaper, pointing out a small message near the bottom of the column. "The battle is won, B, but the war is not over – M" was the short missive written there. So Milzinger had survived, and was even now in Germany plotting to cause further confusion to his enemies! Blake momentarily forgot the job in hand and looked to the sky, he wondered when next he would match wits with his great counterpart. Part of him hoped it would not be long...

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