The Magnetic Storm Page 272

A few kilometers north of Nancy, in the Department of Meurthe et Moselle, there is a little town by the name of Nomeny. It is a progressive, thrifty little French town of chief importance principally for the reason that here for four years during the great war the French army has been nearer to the German frontier than at any other point, with the exception of that small portion of Alsace actually in the hands of the French.

Nomeny in the military sense is in the Toul Sector, which sector early in 1918 was taken over by the Americans. If you happened to go up in a captive balloon near Nomeny you could see the spires of the Cathedral of Metz, the great German fortress, but 16 kilometers away, always presuming that the air was clear and you had a good glass.

On a recent warm summer morning there were queer doings at a certain point in the outskirts of Nomeny. All of a sudden this point seemed to have become the center of interest of the entire French, British and American armies. Since dawn the military autos of numerous high Allied officers had been arriving while the gray-blue uniforms of the French officers were forever mixing with the business-like khaki of the British and Americans.

The visitors first gave their attention to the camouflaged, odd-looking telegraph poles which looked like huge harps, with the difference that the many wires were running horizontally, the telegraph line stretching from one end of the horizon to the other. A few hundred yards back of this line there was an old brewery from which ran twenty thick wires, conecting the brewery with the telegraph poles. To this brewery the high officers next strolled. An inspection here revealed a ponderous 3,000 kilowatt generator purring almost silently. On its shining brass plate was the legend: “Made in U. S. A.” There was also a huge wheel with large queer, round zinc pieces. Attached to the axis of this wheel was a big electric motor, but it was not running now. There were also dozens of huge glass jars on wooden racks lined against the wall. Ponderous copper cables connected the jars with the huge wheel.

One of the French officers, who previous to the war had been an enthusiastic Wireless Amateur, was much interested in the huge wheel and the large glass bottles. “Aha”, said he, turning to his questioning American confrère, “l’ éclateur rotatif et les bouteilles de Leyde.”

There was little satisfaction in this, but just then a red-haired, tousled young man who seemed to be much at home in the brewery, came over and adjusted something on the huge wheel.

“What do you call all of these do-funnies?” our young officer asked of him, pointing at the mysterious objects.

“Rotary spark gap and Leyden jars,” was the laconic reply. The officer nodded. Just then there was a big commotion. The door flew open and a French officer standing at attention shouted impressively:

“Le Président de la République!”

Instantly every man stood erect at attention, hand at the cap. A few seconds later and President Poincaré walked in slowly, at his side General Pétain. It was then five minutes to 10.

President Poincaré was introduced to the red-haired, tousled young man whom he addrest as Monsieur Sparks. Monsieur Sparks speaking a much dilapidated French, managed, however, to explain to his excellence all of the important machinery, thanks to a sleepless night with a French dictionary.

Monsieur Poincaré was much imprest and visibly moved, when a French officer had gone over Sparks’ ground, and re-explained the finer details.