by Gabriel Kron
‘Treasure hunting’, as he had put it, was indeed what I was going to do, only the treasure probably wasn’t what most would expect.
The treasures I hunted were old examples of machinery and electrical equipment, preferably military. It was an obsessional hobby that provided me with an escape from the stresses of work, and gave me a secondary income selling on what I didn’t want to keep. My treasure hunting trips across Europe, trawling antique markets and shops, allowed me to completely forget about working in an office block every day, with trading floor dealers shouting abuse whilst trying to fix their computers.
So, on a regular basis, I’d book out a Monday for annual leave and fly or drive to Germany for a long weekend to buy or even just see examples of some of the best engineering produced in the world. My Dad had always told me that the second language for all engineers was German because their engineering skills were second to none. He was always trying to learn it from a box-set of Lingua-phone cassette tapes.
I handed the guard a print out of a satellite image from Google Earth showing the Stuttgart region of southern Germany.
“Actually chasing down a lead this time.” I pointed to an area on the photo circled in pencil. “There’s a piece of equipment in an old antiques shop somewhere there that hasn’t been seen for over sixty years.” I took back the printout and put everything back inside the envelope.
“What’s that then, some sort of Enigma thing?” the guard said referring to the World War Two German cipher machine.
“No, but that would be a treat.” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to reveal exactly what it was I was hoping to find. In my opinion it was far more controversial and exciting than an Enigma. I decided on a vague description. “It’s an old generator the Germans produced between the wars, very rare now as no-one knew how to fix ‘em, so they mostly got scrapped. But this antique shop apparently has got one.”
This was all true, but I didn’t want to explain exactly why this generator was so special. Not yet anyway. I needed to verify the claims, claims that were so incredible that if accurate, would rock nations to their core.
Dulwich, London. Friday 7:25pm Day 1.
Number 32A, Westcote Avenue occupied the ground floor of a large Victorian detached house in Dulwich, South London. It was too expensive and had it not been for the basement, I would live somewhere cheaper. The Landlord had granted me permission to use the large basement as a workshop and as far as I was concerned, it was the best room in the house.
I hung my coat next to the front door, flicked the lights on and made my way to the kitchen past the old oak book cases I had managed to fill with an extensive technical library. On the top of the book cases were examples of the type of machinery and technology I collected. Often they were constructed in or on a hardwood chassis and featured plenty of brass. Be it a vintage vacuum tube radio, geological microscope or even old precision engineering tools. I thought of them as works of art.
The small galley kitchen overlooked the garden, which lay in darkness, so I pulled the blind down and turned the oven on for the rest of yesterday’s shepherd’s pie.
As I filled the kettle the phone rang. I checked the caller ID before answering. It was Clive Sinclair, one of a group of people I had come to know through my involvement with an on-line community of like-minded individuals interested and striving towards self-sufficiency.
“Daniel? Can you talk?”
“Yeah sure, what about?” I asked as I switched on a laptop I kept in the kitchen.
“Are you still going away tomorrow?” Clive asked. We spoke often and would usually have emails flying to and fro, so I didn’t expect any small talk.
“I am, early first thing. I’ll be online in a bit, why?”
“How do you plan on getting to the airport?”
“Taxi cab? Which I still need to book.”
“Well don’t, I’ll take you okay. It’ll save you a few quid and I’ve a couple of meters you might need should you happen to find, you know what. What time’s your flight?” Clive’s offer was too good to refuse.
“Thanks, that’s great, thank you. The flight’s at seven so I’ll need to leave here by about five to five thirty. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine, I’ll see you then. Bye,” Clive said and hung up. No doubt I’d find him on-line later.
Whilst the shepherd’s pie heated, I opened the door to the basement. Immediately I could smell something wasn’t right.
“Shit, shit, shit...” I shouted as I practically slid down the whole staircase in one bound.
The lights flickered on revealing a layer of smoke in the air which meant just one thing: last night’s experiment had gone wrong... again. On the central workbench in the middle of the large basement was a hand built prototype dynamo I had been experimenting with. Yet again, it appeared that the large power transistor had shorted out causing the large spool of enamelled copper wire to over-heat and melt. This was four days and nights of careful experimentation with data loggers and environmental controls in place. Now it was four days lost and another kilo of expensive wire.
The basement, my workshop-cum-laboratory, was fairly well equipped. At one end stood an old 1940’s Boxford precision lathe with a milling attachment, a large pillar drill, a band saw and a belt sander. The rest of the basement was a series of benches and shelves. Each bench had a different device on it. Some looked like rotary engines, others were just a box with wires extending to large lead acid batteries. The shelf above the benches held tools and component boxes along with an oscilloscope, function generators and various power supplies as well as a variety of thick reference books and catalogues.
The central bench was now a dark, gooey acrid mess. The old copper coil was still hot so it hadn’t happened too long ago.
I picked my way through the various burnt components of the device, but there wasn't anything worth salvaging. So I threw the burnt copper coil into a bucket at the base of the stairs that was becoming the ‘burnt copper wire recycling bucket’. This was the fifth coil in just under a month.
This certainly wasn’t something to worry about now; it could wait until after my German excursion.
32a Westcote Avenue. Saturday morning Day 2.
Clive arrived shortly after 5:00am. It was still dark and he was far more awake than I was. His hybrid Toyota Prius felt nice and warm as I slid into the passenger seat with my luggage, a Berghaus rucksack.
“Is that all you’re taking?” Clive asked as he pulled out onto the empty road.
“It’s all I need. I’m only going for the weekend.”
“I’ve got those meters for you. Hope you can fit them in? They’re on the back seat.” Clive gestured over his shoulder.
Reaching over and pulling forward a plastic bag, I opened it and peered inside.
“There’s a true RMS meter and the other is a Peak meter. If you find something worth measuring then I thought you’d better be properly equipped.”
“Thank you. You must think that there’s a possibility of actually finding the Lockridge then?”
Clive was an electronics engineer who now lectured for The Imperial College of Science, Technology and Medicine. He was, quite simply, an electronics genius and a surprising member of the online free energy community. Clive had at his disposal huge research reference facilities, far better than any internet search engine.
The Imperial College, is key to an area of central London known as ‘Albertopolis’. Home to: the Victoria & Albert, Natural History, and Science Museums, as well as Royal colleges, societies and Institutes. Each containing extensive collections, libraries, experts, and curators. And all are within walking distance of Clive’s own office.
“I know the guys on the forum think of me as an electronics hardliner, but you know I’m open-minded. If this is real and you manage to find it, it would really rattle some cages around the faculty.”
I opened the top of my rucksack and squeezed the digital multi-meters in.
“You’d better decl
are those when going through the security gate,” Clive said.
“True, don’t want to be mistaken for a terrorist,” I said and peered out of the car’s window. I hadn’t been paying attention to the route Clive was taking. We weren’t on the motorway yet, but we were hurtling along some dual carriageway.
At this hour of the morning, there wasn’t any real traffic to contend with. We casually chatted about work and family and soon enough we pulled in to the airport.
“If I find anything I’ll be in touch, either on the group or by phone depending on what it is,” I said as I slid my rucksack onto one shoulder. “And thanks again for the meters. I hope I get to use them.”
Clive wished me luck as I shut the door and he drove off. I hoped that luck was on my side. To actually discover a device like the Lockridge could really start to change things. Like Clive had said, “It would rattle some cages.”
The airport was starting to wake up but it was nicer with fewer people around. Armed police patrolled in pairs, their MP5A sub-machine guns slung across their chests. They certainly looked ready for whatever an extremist nut-case might try.
Passengers for flight BA0918 hadn’t been called yet so I bought myself a coffee and found somewhere to sit. As most travellers do, I checked the whereabouts of my tickets and passport again. It was no surprise they were still in the jacket pocket they were in five minutes earlier. I decided to write up some notes in a small moleskin notebook I always carried with me.
I flicked back through my notebook to the notes of my meeting with Percy Welch, a retired WWII veteran, and the source of the information that was guiding me.
Owlbeech Lodge Care Home. Four weeks earlier.
Percy Welch looked good for his eighty-four years. It was, however, obvious he did not like the nursing home he existed in. “Barely existed in,” according to him. He had only been a resident for nearly fourteen months, but in that time Percy Welch said that he had “caught up with his years.” He particularly hated the semi-circle of chairs in the “so-called” lounge where they were expected to sit and watch TV all day.
“How can they do this to us, huh?” he said to me as we walked through the lounge to a very institutional looking door that led to their private bedrooms. “Welcome to death row, boy.”
Being called a “boy” when in your mid-forties wasn’t really appropriate, but when someone of eighty-four says it, the forty year difference puts it into perspective. We were walking down a corridor, but this was a far cry from a homey place. The corridor was almost clinical, more office-like. In fact, it reminded me of the offices I worked in and despite going home every day, I still felt the need to escape them even further.
Percy Welch showed me into his private quarters.
“Please come in.” Percy led the way into his living room-cum-bedroom. He switched on a wall light and opened his wardrobe. “Would you like a coffee? They don’t let us have kettles in our rooms, so I have to keep this hidden.” He held up a small white kettle which had been concealed inside a suitcase.
“Yes please, P— Can I call you Percy?” I asked.
“No you bloody can’t!” he snapped back. “You can call me Jack, like I’ve been called all my life until I came here. Back then I’d chin anyone who called me Percy or Perce.”
“Jack it is then. Yes please Jack, coffee would be nice.”
The room was cosier than the communal areas, but only because of the framed photographs on the walls and the provision of an armchair with a small wooden table. The window had curtains at least. I half expected office blinds. The photographs showed a full life; from old black and white pictures of WWII group shots of GI’s, to wedding days, children and possibly grand and great-grandchildren. There were several medals, also carefully framed. Percy “Jack” Welch had been a military man with a long distinguished service. There were a few colour photographs of an older US Army uniformed officer and a certificate, the name clearly printed across the middle, Captain Jack Welch retired.
“Now, why do you want to talk with me? Young nurse Taylor said we should talk,” Jack asked.
Nurse Rebecca Taylor was the reason I was here talking to Jack. We sort of had something going between us, but it was quite casual, not serious, more because we both worked different shift patterns. Rebecca was thirty something, looked good in her uniform — well I always thought so — and was damned good at her job.
Rebecca had started working at the Owlbeech Lodge care home on the same day Jack Welch became its latest resident. Maybe because of this they got on better than they usually would. Jack just wanted someone to share his war stories with and Rebecca needed an easy start into a new workplace. Over the months, she listened to all of Jack’s stories. Some of them she thought were probably exaggerations, especially the bits about having worked for the CIA in its early days after the end of the war.
One story Jack told caught Rebecca’s attention because she had already heard it before. Not from Jack though, but from me.
Jack handed me a hot mug of strong coffee and sat down. “I enjoyed my job, didn’t want to retire but in the end they made me. This is not how I imagined spending my retirement.” Jack looked around his small quarters.
“Jack, how come you wound up here? In Britain I mean.” I said, but also meant in this dump that shamefully called itself a care home. I couldn’t work out how a distinguished veteran of the US Army was here.
“Most of my career I worked across Europe, mostly around the Stuttgart area where I was based at Patch Barracks. Back in 1990, they insisted I retire. My second wife Jane wanted to move back to England for the grand-children so I ended up settling down in West Sussex. Jane then passed away in two thousand. We’d pensioned the house which we had to use for care home fees before the government would help, and I guess this is what they call government help.”
Jack explained that once he had retired and moved to the south east of England, he had applied for and been granted UK citizenship. As he spoke Jack would look at the photographs on the wall. It was obvious they were special to him.
“I really did enjoy doing what I did, driving big trucks. I was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time and started driving special assignments. I continued with that until the day I retired. But you don’t want to know about my driving the old Deuce and a half, do you?”
I put down my coffee mug and sat forward in the chair. “Jack, I think what you are telling me is absolutely fascinating, and I’m not just saying that. But you are right. Rebecca told me that you used to deliver items of special interest into safe storage?”
“Hmm, did she now? I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”
I pressed a bit further. “There’s one particular item of interest you spoke of. A generator of sorts. One that didn't need any fuel?”
“What about it?” Jack asked looking over the top of his glasses at me.
“You do remember such a device then?”
“Oh yes, I remember them.”
“You saw more than one?” I asked feeling the excitement rise inside.
“I saw a lot of machinery over the years. Have you heard of Operation Paper-clip?”
I knew the bare basics about ‘Operation Paper-clip’. It had been a top secret US operation during the latter stages of the war to recruit German engineers and scientists before anyone else did.
Jack explained that it was originally called ‘Operation Overcast’ but was changed when the camp where the scientists were secretly being held and interviewed was being openly called ‘Camp Overcast’, so the operation was renamed Paper-clip.
“It wasn’t only the scientists everyone was interested in, but the equipment and documents. There were caverns full of paperwork, where they probably still are. The equipment that was found was transported to our bases and I dare say back home for testing and redevelopment. At the time, I didn’t really understand or even try to understand what it was I had been transporting. I just enjoyed driving.”
I scribbled n
otes as Jack spoke. “And this generator was part of this operation Overcast?” I asked.
I explained to Jack about the internet stories of a self-running generator shipped back to the States by a couple of GIs. It had been called the Lockridge device, but no-one understood how it worked.
“It wasn’t called a Lockridge device, well, not by anyone I knew. The machine did have a brass plate, but I’ll be damned if I can remember what was on it. I do know it was in German. Most of the seized equipment and vehicles were from military installations, but not these generators, they came from the surrounding villages and towns. The GIs were clearing up through every town and village trying to salvage as much metal as possible. That’s when they were coming across these generators running lights in the houses, barns and outhouses. They couldn’t work out how to stop them easily so they’d just take them as they were because things like generators and motors were rich in copper.”
“Jack, this is incredible. Did Rebecca, Nurse Taylor, tell you why I wanted to talk with you?” Jack was verifying what I had read before on the internet but had taken with a pinch of salt along with dozens of other so-called free energy inventions, myths and stories.
“She said you invented stuff so you could try and save the world. She also said you were very clever,” he said, then laughed, which turned into a cough and then back into a laugh. “She obviously likes you. Are you two together?”
“Well, no, we’re not any more. And I’m not trying to save the world, just want to provide alternative power for the home or small business. It would help society. The device you describe would go a long way towards helping people help themselves. And I think it’s important that if this technology does exist, it should belong to the people and not be monopolised or suppressed.”
“You mean by our governments and the oil industries?” Jack added. “But, but why hasn’t anyone else invented one yet? It’s been over sixty years since I saw these generators, so why hasn’t anyone worked it out yet, why’re they not on sale already is what I ask myself these days?”
