Harry on the Run

by Steve Turnbull

  A final klaxon rang through the ship with five loud bursts. It indicated full gravity would return right about now. He staggered slightly as his weight increased. The novelty of reduced gravity had pleased him for about two hours. After that, he found it exhausting trying to maintain an appropriate posture when every movement had the tendency to launch you to the ceiling. He did not think he would ever become used to it. And hopefully he would never have to. The army stayed on the ground except when being deployed by the airships, and that’s the way he liked it.

  It had been a strange trip and he was not entirely sure why he was even on it. Apart from having orders to deploy to middle of the German Protectorate. The vessel could take at least fifty passengers—it was one of the smaller ones—but there were only five others aboard. And they were industrialists and nobility. Not the sort of people he was used to.

  And they landed at Mombasa when it was only a short hop from here to their destination. Well, he was not in a position to ask. The upper classes did as they pleased.

  He stepped to the window with the sword bumping awkwardly against his leg. His cabin looked east and the view was desolate. Scorched grass as far as the perimeter fence. He knew Mombasa was an island and from here he could see some of the surrounding water. It was like a moat. Very defensible but owned by the British.

  Supply trucks trundled across the grass to refuel the vessel. He frowned. What was that vehicle behind them? He did not recognise it though it was clearly steam-powered. The wheels were large and spindly, it wasn’t any sort of supply vehicle—it was so small it would barely hold a driver and stoker.

  As it approached it broke off from the others, and for one panicked moment he thought it might be anarchists. If it was loaded with explosives it could destroy the vessel and everyone aboard. Then it turned and came to a gentle stop just below him. He opened the porthole and poked his head out so he could see more clearly.

  When two young ladies got out he could not believe his eyes. The first was white-skinned with unruly red hair that she had tried, and failed, to control with a band. The second was a native—the first black woman he had ever seen—though she too was dressed as a European. She was probably a servant or companion. They appeared to be arguing but the motor above his cabin was still running and he couldn’t hear a word.

  As if on cue the engine puttered into silence.

  “We’re not causing trouble. We’re just looking.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t you want to fly?” snapped Harry.

  English, of course. His command of the language was competent and he was sure that ‘Harry’ was a male name. They moved further under the curve of the hull and out of view. He could still hear them talking but they were no longer shouting.

  He should probably do something about it. They were clearly not authorised to be in the vicinity of the vessel, and might be spies or even assassins. He moved back to the mirror and smoothed down one of his blond locks. From his suitcase, he removed his pistol and clipped it into the holster on his belt. He decided that, if he was going to be down in the depths of the vessel the sword would only be a hindrance so took the time to remove it.

  One more check in the long mirror. Yes, he looked the part and was ready for action.

  He left the room and headed to the end of the corridor where there was a service entrance, not for the use of passengers but this was a special case.

  At the end of a short passage he reached a flimsy wooden staircase that spiralled up and down. Their lightweight construction was deliberate—weight was a consideration even when you had a highly efficient and powerful reduzierter Schwerkraft, what the British called their Faraday device.

  He unclipped his gun and descended with care. He didn’t suffer with vertigo but these treads were so steep that despite feeling like a young child attempting stairs for the first time, he turned and began his descent backwards.

  It made sense to go to the lowest level. The two girls were clearly interested in the reduzierter Schwerkraft, which was located in the very bottom of the vessel.

  He followed the crew passage out towards the hull again. He was not sure of the exact layout of the ship and what entrances would be open now that they had landed. It was an oversight; next time he flew he would make sure he was fully familiar with the deck plans.

  The passage was barely wide enough for him to walk straight. He drew his gun and held it casually ahead of him. He had not, as yet, had to shoot a man but his training had been thorough. Chances were they would faint away at the sight of the weapon. He heard that English women did that a lot. Something to do with their corsets.

  Proper German ladies were a much tougher breed.

  Or so he supposed. His mother and sisters were certainly quite strong but then they assisted in his father’s brewery and carried barrels of beer on their shoulders. They probably were not typical. He had one elder brother who would take over from his father in the brewing business and that left him. He had chosen to join the army—the heavy artillery regiment, and since he could already read and write had been promoted as high as a non-commissioned officer could go.

  East Africa was his first posting.

  And here he was inching his way through a service corridor on a Zeppelin about to arrest two young women. They could be anarchists.

  The passageway ended in a door with sunlight spilling through the gaps and he stopped. The vessel was creaked as it accommodated the full weight of the Duke Frederich I, but he could hear the voices of the two young women. They were not arguing now.

  He turned the handle and let the door open towards him. The voices grew louder. He could not tell which voice belonged to which girl but he suspected the more strident of the two was the redhead.

  “I am hurrying, you just keep a look out.”

  “There’s nobody around.”

  “Oh this is just so clever...” She said something else as well but it was muffled.

  “Can you make one?”

  Muffled response, slightly annoyed.

  Feldwebel-Leutnant Johannes Schönfeldt slipped into the corridor that ran the length of the hull with windows paced evenly throughout. The curved hull afforded him a gentle bend to hide in until he emerged. He could see a hatch open to the outside world in the direction from which the voices came, and on the grass beyond was their ... contraption.

  The word “Ostrich” was daubed crudely on the side. He frowned. Österreich spelt wrong? No, why would they call their machine ‘Austria’? Oh yes, the flightless bird of Africa. So, they had a sense of humour. Or perhaps it just meant their vehicle could go very fast. There were a lot of dead insects plastered across its front surfaces. Yes, it went fast. Very interesting.

  He would have preferred to slide along with his back to the inside wall of the corridor with his right hand out in front. Unfortunately they were in the wrong direction, so to keep the gun in his right hand he had to face the wall. He was of the opinion that this did not look as heroic.

  Just as well he had removed his sword, it would have been rattling around and bumping the wall he would not have been able to be quiet.

  He heard one of them speak. “What are you doing in there?”

  Indecipherable reply.

  “Well, all right. No need to get your bloomers in a twist.”

  Johannes moved more quickly. The second girl must be into the grid maintenance ducts, if they weren’t planning on blowing up the ship — and it would take a good deal more than disrupting a single grid to cause it to fall from the sky — then they must be spies stealing German technology.

  He caught sight of a skirt sticking out of a doorway ahead. Excellent, she had her back to him. Taking care to move without sound, he moved slightly away from the wall and approached until he was almost directly behind the sprawling mass of coarse red hair.

  “Good afternoon, Fräulein, please put your hands in the air and—”

  He had been about to tell her to raise her hands but he did not get the chance.


  She turned faster than a decent young lady had a right to do and he glimpsed a face that was a mass of freckles before an elbow he had not seen coming smashed into his cheek. His finger spasmed on the trigger but the gun only clicked, before another blow knocked it from his hand.

  Then a pain of excruciating agony exploded in his groin, and he crumpled.

  iv

  “Harry, you’ve assaulted a German officer.”

  “He surprised me. Besides he’s only a non-commissioned officer.”

  “You know what Dad says about causing international incidents.”

  “We’ve never done it before.”

  “What about when you urinated on the French ambassador.”

  “I was six months old and you weren’t even there! I really wish they would stop telling that story.”

  Johannes had heard enough and felt he ought to say something, so he groaned. But for the moment he chose to keep his eyes closed. The fire in his groin had diminished to the point where the ache in his jaw and cheek were noticeable once more.

  “At least he’s not dead.”

  There was the sound of metal scraping on metal.

  “Nice gun though. Mauser C94, very modern.”

  Johannes opened his eyes. The black girl was holding his gun and examining it.

  “Honestly, Harry,” she said, “just as well he had the safety on. He could have killed you.”

  “I had the safety on?” he said weakly. He would never be able to live this down, if he even got to his posting alive. He was not even sure if he was going to be able to walk again.

  The black girl crouched down so she was closer to his level. She smiled and her teeth flashed white. “It’s this lever here,” she said holding the gun up so he could see. She slipped it off and then back on again. “Like that.”

  He groaned again. “I know the functionality. It is my gun.”

  “Then I should thank you for being careful not to hurt my sister.”

  He could not imagine two young ladies, so completely different, being sisters. Then he realised something else. “You are speaking in German.”

  She shrugged. “Just practising. Was it good?”

  “Good enough, Miss...?”

  She now spoke in English again. “Edgbaston. Khuwelsa Edgbaston but most people call me Sellie, and your assailant is my sister, Harriet Edgbaston. Harry.”

  She offered him her hand. He took it and with her assistance he got into a sitting position.

  “Point is,” said Harriet Edgbaston. “What are we going to do with him?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He was trying to arrest us. He’ll try again if we let him go, and we’ll have that international incident and Dad will be really annoyed.”

  “Miss Harriet is quite correct,” said Johannes, “it is my duty.”

  Harriet raised her eyebrows at her sister. “See?” then she turned to him. “Duty is very important; I would have thought less of you if you had said anything else.”

  “Thank you.”

  Khuwelsa looked from one to the other of them. “Are you both completely insane?”

  Harriet’s frown matched Johannes’s own.

  “In what way?” he asked.

  “If you’re planning to arrest us then we have to lock you up somewhere, or shoot you, after all, at this moment, we do have the upper hand.” She waved the gun in his general direction. He reminded himself she had put the safety back on. “Or we give you the gun back and you arrest us. Either way we have the international incident and Dad will probably ground us for life.”

  The pain was slowly ebbing and Johannes thought of something he hadn’t asked. “Who is your father?”

  Harriet turned her freckled face towards him—he found it quite attractive and the red hair was impressive—and said quite seriously. “He’s the British Ambassador for East African affairs.”

  Johannes felt his world collapsing. If he had accidentally shot the daughter of the British Ambassador and started a war... He would certainly go down in the history books for that. Even arresting the Ambassador’s daughters (their lack of matching skin tone still confused him) would be bad enough.

  But it focused his mind. He climbed to his feet, taking care not to strain anything.

  “Miss Harriet, Miss Khuselwa—”

  “Khu-wel-sa,” said Khuwelsa.

  “I am sorry—”

  “Everybody does it,” said Harriet.

  “Yes, please, do not interrupt me again—”

  “Sorry,” they said together and then giggled.

  Johannes frowned and started again. “Given your rank and the awkwardness of the situation, I have decided not to arrest you.”

  “Excellent,” said Harriet.

  “May I have my gun back?”

  Khuwelsa handed it over and smiled again. Her face was remarkable, he thought, smiling transformed her serious face to one of joy. As his fingers brushed against hers, he noted how cool they felt. And slippery.

  A slick oily substance transferred from her hand to his.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said and pulled a large rag from somewhere, wiped her fingers and then wiped the spot from him. “Grease.”

  He holstered his gun and clipped it in place. “Now, Miss Harriet, Miss Khuwelsa, may I ask what you are doing here?”

  “You said you weren’t going to arrest us,” said Harriet.

  “I am not arresting you. I am asking you to explain,” he glanced out of the window. “I must admit to some curiosity about your Ostrich, also.”

  “Ostriches can’t fly,” said Harriet as if she was explaining.

  Johannes waited for her to continue but nothing further was offered.

  “I understand that ostriches are a bird that cannot fly.”

  “Your English is very good,” said Khuwelsa.

  “Thank you, but that is not relevant. I believe you are avoiding the question.”

  Khuwelsa looked guilty while Harriet was defiant. He pitied the men who would marry these volatile and strange young women. They glanced at each other.

  Harriet spoke. “We need a Faraday grid for our Ostrich and, since we were waiting for the post office to open, we decided to see what we could pick up here.”

  “You were going to steal one of our grids?”

  “Of course not,” said Khuwelsa. “That would be impossible, but Harry thought perhaps you might have some ideas we could borrow.”

  “That is spying.”

  “I need to fly!” said Harriet with sudden emotion. “Nobody understands, not even Sellie really.”

  “It’s true, I don’t,” agreed her sister. “But I have my own interests.”

  Johannes found himself shaking his head again, these two were quite strange. He had never encountered anyone like them. His own sisters just argued, when they weren’t working. And Johannes had never really got on with his brother, they were too dissimilar.

  But these two were completely different from one another and yet fitted so perfectly.

  It was at that moment a gunshot echoed through the vessel from not very far away.

  v

  “You must stay here,” said Johannes. “Or, better, climb into your Ostrich and fly away now.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow. “Was that intended to be funny?”

  Johannes hesitated. “What, Miss Harriet?”

  “The ‘fly away’ comment.”

  “I only meant you should fly—is that not a correct word for run away?”

  Harry shook her head. “Never mind. Off you go and be a hero. We’ll be fine.”

  “You will run away.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “You will not examine the grids any further.”

  “Your countrymen need you,” said Harry and pointed back the way Johannes had come. “Gun shot, remember.”

  “You will leave immediately?”

  “I’m not going to promise to do that.” There was a distant scream. In other circumstances Harry
would have enjoyed the look of tortured indecision on the young lieutenant’s face but, as it was, she was as keen to investigate as he was. “Oh come on!” she said and headed along the passageway. She heard his boots following.

  “I’ll just stay here then, shall I?” called Sellie after them.

  “You can come if you want,” shouted Harry.

  “In here,” hissed Johannes. Harry turned to see Johannes gesturing at a hatch. He pushed it open and entered. Harry stuck her head in and saw the maintenance tunnel. Raised angry voices could be heard above. And someone crying.

  “What’s up there?” said Harry pointing in the general direction of where the sound had come from.

  “Staterooms, the passenger lounge, dining room.”

  “Can I get to them going this way?” She pointed the way she had been going.

  “There is a flight of stairs that ascend to the lounge.” He frowned, he did that a lot, like her father. “Why is it that you ask, Miss Harriet?”

  “Pincer movement,” she said. “I’ll go up and distract them. You come in from the other side.”

  “We have no idea of their numbers, armament or deployment,” he said. “You cannot make a plan from a position of such ignorance.”

  “What would you suggest? Go in with all guns blazing like an American? And be cut down in a glorious act of foolishness?”

  He considered. “I admit your plan is somewhat less rash than mine,” he said. “But it will be extremely hazardous for you.”

  “They won’t dare shoot me, daughter of a diplomat.”

  “They will consider you an excellent hostage.”

  “Then they will be wrong in that assessment.”

  Johannes smiled.

  “You have a nice smile,” she said, and it vanished from his face. “You should really let it out more often.”

  “Let us deal with whatever this is, then I will invite you to a ball and you will see whether I smile.”

  She held out her hand. He looked slightly taken aback but then shook it in a perfunctory way—but she did not let go. “I will hold you to that Feldwebel-Leutnant Johannes Schönfeldt.”