by Guy d'Armen
The Paris Gun itself was surrounded by a battery of smaller guns for protection against any Allied raids—as well as by the flyers of Rittmeister Von Hammer’s squadron, who would fly over the site on regular patrols once it was light enough. Probably in less than an hour. It was a little incongruous in the depths of the woods to see the guns manned by sailors, but the Paris Gun was commanded by a German Admiral as it was technically a naval gun, even though they were far from the ocean. The Huns were sticklers for protocol. So the guns were all operated by men and officers of the Navy, while the patrols were regular Army.
Ardan and his companions moved slowly and stealthily through the enemy forces, skirting the guns as widely as possible. And their target came into all-too-clear sight.
Even though he had seen it from the air, Ardan was still startled by the sheer size of it. The barrel was almost 100 feet long, and had to be strongly braced lest it might bend even a fraction of an inch. It sat on a large flatbed, which stood itself upon a concrete base to take the weight, which had to be in excess of 200 tons. Shells for the gun were in smaller, separate trucks. The flatbed was placed on a turntable to allow it to be aimed, but it clearly would take a long time to reposition it.
He, Pamela and Roxton studied the gun from concealment, and then crawled away some distance before they discussed their options.
“What do you think?” he asked Roxton, softly.
“Well, there’s several points where we can destroy it,” the hunter replied. “The supports for the barrel, for one thing—shear them and its own weight will bring the blasted thing down. Even simply cracking the concrete supports or blowin’ up the railcar it’s on would do the trick. A few sticks of dynamite down the barrel...” He shrugged. “Plenty of possibilities, m’boy.”
“Not one of which will work,” Pamela stated firmly, echoing Ardan’s own fears. “Oh, they’d all do the job fine—provided we can get close enough to the gun to actually use one or all of them. But there’s over 200 men surrounding that gun.” She glared at her nephew. “I don’t care how quiet you are, or how stealthy—nobody could get through those men and plant any bombs unseen. Nobody.”
“I agree,” Ardan stated, and he saw the flash or surprise in her eyes. He cracked the smallest of smiles. “I don’t disagree with you purely as a matter of principal, you know.”
“I was beginning to wonder,” she murmured. “So, what do we do?”
“The two of you will destroy the gun,” Ardan said. “Any of Roxton’s suggestions sound fine to me. Or you could try this.” He pulled a small container from his clothing and handed it to Pamela. “A thermite paste of my own devising,” he explained. “Smear some of this on a few of the projectiles. The heat from firing the gun and the friction of the projectiles in the barrel will cause it to heat up and expand the projectile.”
“Trapping it in the barrel,” the young woman said gleefully. “I like it.” She took the container. “But we still can’t get close enough to use it.”
“I will create a diversion,” Ardan assured her. “As soon as it commences, the two of you head for the gun.”
“What are you plannin’?” Roxton asked curiously.
Ardan smiled. “There are a lot of men on the ground around the gun. But not one above it...”
Getting to the German airfield wasn’t too difficult now that he was on his own. Francis Ardan used all of his skills to slip silently through the woods, and avoided all of the patrols. At the edge of the field, he paused to reconnoiter. There was a fair amount of activity, with mechanics checking over various aircraft. Workers were fueling a few of the craft, so it looked like an aerial foray was being readied. With a smile, he spotted Von Hammer’s blood-red Fokker sitting alone. A worker was driving a fuel truck away from it, so it was clearly ready for flight, and merely awaiting the arrival of the aviator himself.
What better disguise could he employ? The young man moved from cover, and sauntered toward the craft. His long, dark coat looked sufficiently like a flying jacket that he aroused no suspicions. It was early and no one was expecting any intrusion at this remote, guarded field, and this played in his favor. As soon as there were no eyes upon him, he sprinted for the Fokker and swung into the cockpit.
He’d never been in a Fokker tri-wing before, but he knew that if Biggles were here, his friend would be saying, as ever: “If you can fly a Sopwith Camel, you can fly anything.” The controls were basically very similar, though Ardan was certain the Fokker would handle very differently once he was aloft. This should prove educational...
Once he had fired up the engine, he received some attention—especially since the ground crew knew that Von Hammer had not yet arrived. A handful of people started to move, puzzled, toward him, as he taxied and then began gunning the engine to gather speed. The ground had been cleared and roughly leveled, but the plane shook and bumped. Then he had sufficient speed to get aloft and he hauled back on the stick.
Mechanics flattened as he flew low over their heads. He was starting to get the feel of the controls as he maneuvered for height. It would be a while before anyone would be able to get aloft after him, but he couldn’t spare too much time to experiment. Instead, as soon as he was 200 feet up, he turned the plane and headed back toward the Paris gun.
He checked the craft’s Spandau’s, firing short bursts from both to be certain they were working properly, and smiled grimly. He was now ready.
The flight back was swift, and it was barely five minutes before he could see the huge barrel looming ahead of him. Men were working on it, and he realized that it was being readied to be fired. Paris would suffer another terrifying barrage if he and his companions didn’t succeed.
He sent the Fokker into a downward spiral, and held his thumbs over the firing controls. Despite the fact that they were enemy soldiers down there, he was reluctant to actually take a life. After the war, he intended to train as a medical doctor, and he preferred to save life rather than kill. Accordingly, he sent his first burst slightly to the side of the gun.
Incredulous eyes glanced up, and obviously saw that their attacker seemed to be their own top ace. Accordingly, nobody moved initially. Ardan sprayed a second burst closer, and now saw realization and panic set it. Men threw themselves from the gun and ran for cover. It was a shame he had no bombs aboard the Fokker—he might have caused serious damage if he had—but he kept up a continual stream of fire as he passed over and over the gun. He saw the gun crews heading toward the anti-aircraft guns, having finally realized this was an enemy and not their defender. The sky would start getting uncomfortable for him very shortly.
Then he saw two figures running toward the gun—obviously Roxton and Pamela. He swooped in lower to provide them covering fire as they committed their act of sabotage.
The Huns had managed to get one of their ack-ack guns in operation, and started firing in his direction. Dodging the one gun wasn’t too difficult, but then a second and third came into operation, and the sky was starting to get very unpleasant. At this altitude it wouldn’t be long before he was hit. He strafed the emplacements as best he could, but they were dug in well, and impossible to hit. Glancing back at the Paris Gun, he saw that Roxton and Pamela were retreating back to the forest, their work presumably accomplished.
Now he could break off his attack and retreat. Stretching the Fokker to the limit of its endurance, he made a sharp left wheel. He could hear the fabric and wires groaning about him as he did so, but in moments he was out of the range of the enemy fire.
But only for seconds. Then a stream of bullets from above slammed into the right side of the plane. Ardan glanced about ands saw three more Fokkers—all metallic gray—swooping toward him. He tried to whirl out of their way, but he was still not an expert at the controls, and the plane was sluggish. More bullets tore through his wings and came dangerously close to hitting him.
Von Hammer had arrived...
His own guns were almost empty by now, so attempting to fight was impossible. The Rittm
eister knew these planes far better than he did, and this would be a fight Ardan would lose. He did the only thing he could in the circumstances—pointed the nose of his plane down, and aimed to land.
Von Hammer held his fire—he was not a brutal man, and there would be no glory for him in killing an opponent who was clearly surrendering. Besides, he probably wanted his own plane back.
As Ardan taxied to a halt, German soldiers surrounded him rapidly, their rifles raised. The young man cut the Fokker’s engine and clambered slowly out of the craft. A Captain, his Luger carefully aimed at Ardan’s head, came forward.
“I surrender,” the young man said calmly.
“A wise move. Your attempted attack has failed.” The German smiled. “Paris will be shortly under siege once more.” He gestured toward the big gun, where activity had commenced again. Men were loading a shell into the huge breach. There was no obvious signs of damage, and he could only trust that his companions had achieved their mission. His captors led him away.
There was a transport truck waiting on one of the roads away from the rail line, and the Captain gestured the young adventurer toward it. “You are not the first of today’s captives,” the German said with satisfaction. “You will join your companions.”
Ardan felt a momentary tightness. Had Pamela and Roxton been caught? He was prepared to suffer what he must, but the thought of his pretty aunt as a prisoner of the Boche was almost unbearable.
Then all Hell broke loose. There was a tremendous explosion, and a wave of fire. Ardan was completely deafened, and blown off his feet. He shook his head, attempting to clear it, and saw that the Paris gun was in flames. The barrel was shattered and twisted, and the rail car warped. Germans—some with their clothes aflame—were running for cover. They were probably screaming, but the young man could hear nothing.
His companions had performed their task well. For the first time in his life, Ardan realized that sometimes having people with him to aid him might not be such a bad idea. People like Roxton and Pamela, people he could trust and rely upon... Though it was rather academic at the moment. He was a prisoner still, and unlikely to be doing any more fighting for the foreseeable future.
His hearing gradually began to return, and he could hear feverish commands being yelled in German. People were attempting to quell the fire before it spread to the ammunition cars. Ardan staggered uncertainly to his feet, and checked himself over. There was a web of blood upon his forehead where a small piece of shrapnel must have struck him a glancing blow, but otherwise he was unharmed.
“Get those prisoners out of here,” someone called in German. His hearing was returning, thankfully. The Captain used his Luger to gesture the young man into the waiting truck. Two of the armed soldiers followed him to act as guards. As he stood ready to climb aboard, friendly hands reached out to help him clamber aboard. With great relief, Ardan realized that they belonged to two men he had never seen before. So Roxton and Pamela had made good their escape! That made him feel a lot better.
“Come on, you hairy ape,” one of the men grumbled. “Let’s get this hero aboard.” He was a tall, slender man with impeccable, unbelievably neat clothing.
His companion was shorter and stockier, and indeed looked almost more anthropoid than human. “I’m not the one slacking off, you over-dressed shyster,” he complained. Then he gave the young man a massive grin. “Nice work, partner. It’s good to see that gun out of action.”
“Much as it pains me to ever agree with you,” his companion said, “in this case, I concur.”
Ardan settled onto the floor of the truck with the two of them. The guards sat on small benches, keeping an alert eye upon the captives. The van started up with a jerk, and then rumbled away. The other two prisoners had started up some argument about who it was of them that had managed to get them both captured. The young man ignored them as best he could, instead watching with considerable satisfaction as the Germans strove to save what they could from the disaster. Then the van turned away, and he could see the destruction no more.
Yes, indeed—having people he could trust and work with had been a great advantage here, and might well be again. It all depended upon him finding the right people, of course.
“You monkey-brained, prehistoric remnant!” the natty dresser yelled at his companion.
“Yeah? What do you know, you fashion plate?”
It was going to be a long trip...
As we mentioned in our introduction, during the 1920s, Doc Ardan was often encouraged by his father and by Dr. de Grandin to take breaks and go on exploratory journeys to remote locations. Here is one of his adventures, previously published in Tales of the Shadowmen 2...
Jean-Marc Lofficier: The Star Prince
Moroccan Desert, The Early 1920s
“If you please, draw me a dinosaur!”
Francis Ardan looked at the golden-haired boy. He was dressed in an operetta-style costume, wearing a long blue coat, white shirt, pants and shiny boots. The aviator had been forced to make an emergency landing in this deserted part of the Western Sahara and was busy repairing the engine when, suddenly, the boy had appeared out of nowhere.
“What are you doing here?” asked Ardan.
“If you please, draw me a dinosaur,” asked the boy.
It seemed churlish to refuse. Ardan took out his logbook and pencil and began drawing.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I come from above,” said the boy, pointing at the starry sky. “I am so bored up there.”
“How did you come here?”
“It is difficult. And very painful. When I leave, I die a little. So I only come when someone is around. I can only come here because that’s where they are. The machines.”
“The machines?”
“They’re buried deep in the sand. There used to be a sea here, and dinosaurs and other children with whom I could play. But everything is gone now. And I am all alone.”
Ardan had finished the drawing. He gave it to the boy.
“It is very beautiful,” he said. “Just as I remember them. Thank you. I will treasure it forever. It was worth it.”
“Can’t you come more often? Reach other people?” asked Ardan. “There is so much we could learn from you.”
“I don’t have enough power. I’m sorry. I’m only a very little star,” said the boy, as his made-up body slowly began to crumble into dust, mingling with the sand that covered the ancient machines.
Vincent Jounieaux’ tale as written for another anthology, The Shadow of Judex, devoted to the black-cloaked French Avenger. Here, Doc Ardan, almost out of medical school, and ably assisted by Inspector Ménardier, last seen in the classic novel Belphegor, faces a terrible conspiracy…
Vincent Jounieaux: The Dreadful Conspiracy
Paris, 1925
Inspector Ménardier wrinkled his nose when he stepped into the interview room at the Quai des Orfèvres. A strong smell of mildew permeated the small room because of its peeling wall paper. On the ceiling, only two bulbs out of four were working.
It seems President Doumergue is still powerless to change the mind of the Banque de France, he thought. Times are tough for public services. I think we’ll still have a long wait before they fix the ventilation or replace the lights...
He sat down in front of a metal table, across from the empty seat that would soon welcome his suspect. Ménardier thought that the modern psychological theories that encouraged the police to put the perpetrator in a position of inferiority were absurd; he didn’t care in which chair the suspect sat. He glanced at the one-way mirror, behind which stood one of the faceless minions of the Préfecture de Police. The interview would be recorded for later analysis.
“Bring him in.”
Someone heard his command and the door creaked open. A tall, young man with a light bronze complexion was ushered into the room. His hands were cuffed behind his back. Because of his size, he had to bend a little to cross the threshold. His powerful muscles stood out under hi
s khaki-colored shirt.
“You may leave us,” Antoine said to the policeman who was escorting the suspect.
The man gave a brief salute, complied, and closed the door on the two men. The inspector began the interrogation:
“Are you Monsieur Francis Ardan? Or do you prefer to be called Clark Savage Jr.?”
“I’m the only one here, am I not?” replied the young man, still standing up. He eyed the policeman suspiciously, hostility burning deep inside his golden eyes.
“Whom have I the honor of addressing?” he then asked.
“I’m Inspector Ménardier of the Police Judiciaire.”
“I wish I could say I was pleased to meet you, Inspector, but I’m not.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Monsieur Ardan. I know it’s always painful to be brought before the police...”
“Only if you’ve done something wrong—which I didn’t.”
“That is for me to determine.”
“I fear that this conversation is starting out on the wrong track, Inspector. As an American citizen, I have rights. I demand that you contact my attorney, Mr. Theodore Marley Brooks of New York.”
“Calm down, Monsieur Ardan. You’re not in America here! You’re in Paris, at the Quai des Orfèvres. Right now, the only person who can say what rights you have is me, and I’m telling you to sit down!”
“For a policeman, you seem to be singularly disrespectful of the Law.”
“And for a student of medicine, you look like a fairground Hercules.”
