[rollei_list] [fcg-l] The Strange Trek of Zamboni the Wind-Plucker
I don't know that I've ever posted this here: it is a bit I drafted a decade or so back for the Lighter-Than-Air List. It hasn't a bit of relevance to photography, but, what the hey, it does involve Germans and British guys, and so it does have a most peripheral nexus with Franke & Heidecke. In any event, it is a bit of Yuletide cheer. 

Merry Christmas, all!
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The Strange Trek of Zamboni the Wind-Plucker: Recent Revelations on the
Voyage of L59
Holmes found that one wearisome reality of old age were the bladder problems which forced him to rise from his bed with increasing frequency throughout the night. And, when your companion is a certain John Watson, MD, late come from Afghanistan, who snored like one of those new-fangled tanks the Army was playing about with, well, it made sleep seem a lost and regretted attribute of one's younger years. And, to add worry and concern to these physical woes, trying to find a place to relieve oneself when one is a stowaway on a German Zeppelin, well, it almost got to be too much for one man, no matter how brilliant, to endure. Holmes, with a soft but heart-felt sigh, struggled manfully from the sleeping roll hidden artfully amidst the supplies the L59 was carrying to the fugitive German garrison in East Africa. He glared for a second at Watson, slumbering noisily but with obvious ease to the gentle rumble of the near-by engines, driving the airship south across the Egyptian desert through the clear night air. Holmes donned his cape and planted his deerstalker hat on his head, then quietly moved off to find an appropriate site for his necessary functions. Moving through the packaged stores, Holmes suddenly heard a quiet susurration on the keel ahead of him. Staying back in the dark shadows cast by the few night-lights in the cavernous interior of the ship, he silently moved forward towards the noise. Peering out past a crate of machine-gun ammunition, he found his way blocked by a group of the crew playing cards, a stack of crumpled Reichsmarks in their midst and a bottle of schnapps passing among their porcine and evil personages. Holmes pulled back in revulsion and disgust at yet one more revelation of Teutonic bestiality, and wended his way towards the rear, his hydraulic concerns beginning to equate to those which once threatened Atlantis. Moving through the sleeping area, he inadvertently kicked the supine Watson; the doctor bumbled awake, Holmes managing to fall on him and stifle his emerging and familiar, "I say, Holmes!" 
"Silence, Watson. The game is afoot. Go back to sleep."
"By Jove, Holmes. Surely you need my help!" Watson's voice sounded like a steam- whistle facing an incipient overload. Holmes urgently hushed his old friend. "Well, to be honest, Watson, I was looking for a place to relieve myself. The swinish louts have blocked my route to the loo with one of their crude gaming exercises. I must find an alternate site." "Heavens, Holmes. Clamber up to the roof of this thing. They have guards at the bow and stern but the middle of the ship is quite vacant at this hour. Perfect for your needs. I do believe I'll join you, if you don't mind." He arose and drew on his coat. Holmes allowed Watson to lead him to the nearest vertical ladder a dozen yards to the stern. The two men slowly ascended the narrow strip of slippery metal rungs, their aged muscles creaking with the unaccustomed exercise and their solid British shoes providing poor purchase on the grease-ridden metal surface. But true British pluck won through, and they reached the top of the tottery 60- foot climb. They worked their way onto the top cover of the Zeppelin and emerged into the 50 mile-per-hour slipstream on shaky legs. Holmes immediately excused himself and took care of his biological problems towards the rear of the airship. "You know, Holmes, this really is a magnificent view up here," Watson said. "The moon, the stars, the silvery sand. Quite disturbing to realize that the Huns were the first to view this scene." "Well, Watson, we can never underestimate the fiendish cleverness of the German mind. In its pursuit of evil, it must, on occasion, uncover beauty. We must ensure that our Empire learns to build even better airships than do the Jerries." The black calm of the night was broken by the soft hissing of gas escaping from the airship's gas-bags, designed as they were to the defective standard later to be used in HM Airship R101 and contributing to the demise of a small portion of HM Government some years later. Holmes quietly lit his pipe, then suddenly but quietly exclaimed, "Look there, Watson: whatever is that black mass up there?" He pointed at a vague shape pulsating some distance from the airship but seeming to rapidly approach them. 
"By Jove, Holmes. It doesn't look the least friendly, whatever it is."
The shape came closer and then, with a series of whooshings and thumps, settled ten feet away from them, and then the most of it flapped off into the darkness. A loin-clothed figure approached the intrepid Englishmen; Holmes gripped the handle of the pistol in his pocket, while Watson ensured he had a solid grip on his walking stick. "Lord Greystoke! Well met, indeed!" Holmes suddenly exclaimed. The other figure stood up to his regal 6-foot height and bowed. "At your service, Holmes. This is well-met! What brings you to this unlikely spot?" "Admiral Reginald-Plunknett-Drax-Perloo, of course. He asked me to accompany our German opponents to see what mischief they were attempting. And you?" "Well, the instrument of my arrival was Zamboni the Wind-Plucker, who gladly carried me as Tarzan, the beloved Lord of the Beasts. Zamboni is one of the flock of Pteranodons which yet survive in the far Mountains of the Moon. General Smuts asked me to use my unusual abilities to thwart this nefarious Teutonic scheme when our radio intercept station in Nairobi caught wind of it." He fell silent for a second, then suddenly spoke again, this time with some excitement in his voice. "I say, Holmes. Are you certain it's safe to be smoking that pipe of yours around all this leaking hydrogen?" "Quite safe, Greystoke, quite safe. It is a myth that hydrogen burns. It turns out the outer cover of airships is what causes them to explode into an incandescent ball of terrifying violence. There was a monograph on this published some years back in some obscure Yankee journal. Quite interesting." "I say, Greystoke, you must remember Holmes and his bloody monographs. Has a bedroom stuffed full of publications on everything from cigar ash to mud types. Makes living with him a bit of a bore at times." "How is your brother, Holmes?" Greystoke tried to change the subject as gracefully as Watson's caustic remark would allow. "Mycroft? Ah, I regret that Mycroft has disappeared from his Club some months back. The Admiral suspects he was carried off by Teutonic thugs to be put to the solution of certain technical problems which have haunted their war industries. There is no other way in which the sudden improvements in German airships and submarines and airplanes can be explained. His servitude to this evil end is why I volunteered to accompany this airship on its own foul expedition." "Well, gentlemen, how do we stymie these henchmen of the Kaiser?" Greystoke asked, the honest grey of his manly British eyes showing his fortitude and wisdom. "Ah! Therein lies the rub, Greystoke," Holmes laughed bitterly. "We had brought some carrier pigeons with us, marvelous creatures, crosses between regular pigeons and California Condors. We had six of them and hid them just under the top cover to escape the prying eyes of the swinish Hun crew. The gas leaking from these defective gas-bags — which I hope our great Empire is never foolish enough to copy! — suffocated all six of them, so we have no means of communicating with the outside world, and even Watson and I cannot overpower the 22 members of the crew of this behemoth." "Well, Holmes, what sage and salutary ploy did you intend? I can summons Zamboni with a supersonic whistle I learned in my adventures with the Tattooed Moles of The Lost Golden City, and he will carry me away, bearing whatever message you wish to the outside world." "Excellent, Greystoke, simply excellent. I underestimate you and deny you the credit for being the enterprising lad that you are. I want to get the word to our people to send a false radio message to the airship advising them that von Lettow-Vorbeck has been defeated and surrendered. Then they will turn back. But I haven't enough knowledge of German cyphers to pursue this idea further." "Have no fear, Holmes. I am certainly not a "techie" by any means, but our headquarters in Nairobi is chock-full of astute intelligence types who can accomplish your ends. Now, I must be off!" And standing rigidly upright like a jungle creature on the hunt, Tarzan put his hands to his mouth and, oddly, no audible sound emerged. Yet, a minute later, the swoop! of a black mass descended on him, and, with a muffled, "Good night, chaps!", he flew off to be carried by the tireless Zamboni to the very reaches of British power. Holmes saluted the departing creature, then spoke to his companion. "Wretched life he has had, Watson. We are fortunate he has stayed true to his blood and is fighting with his kin-folk in the Empire." 
"Oh, a solid fellow, indeed. We will see if he can reach civilization."
The two men achingly descended the slippery ladder and returned to their hovel, where Holmes realized his bladder was starting to function all too efficiently yet again. A day later, the airship reversed its course, having reached the latitude of Khartoum. The roles of Holmes and Watson and Tarzan — and of the intrepid Zamboni the Wind-Plucker — in this honest thwarting of yet another evil German plot were kept secret under the "We're Not Gonna Tell You Act of 1922" (XI Geo V caput. 489) for the requisite 82-year period and are only now being released. All efforts by authorities and media alike to contact these gentlemen to give them the public recognition for their services to King and Country have proven futile to date, but Scotland Yard is still scouring the bee-farms of the English Midlands in hopes of locating some trace of their present whereabouts. 

Marc


msmall@xxxxxxxxxxxx
Cha robh bàs fir gun ghràs fir!

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