Andrew Wareham - The Balloonatics - A Tale of the Great War

“We can expect four or five pilots to be posted in to assist for a few days, Chief. Men coming down from headquarters at Wormwood Scrubs, staying a couple of nights while they train our men and then returning to their home base.”

Transient officers could be a nuisance, having no allegiance to the field, too often drunk and noisy on holiday.

“Do you know if the senior officers are here yet, Chief?”

“Not yet, sir. Don’t expect them today. Word I have is that there will be one Commander, sir. Nobody else.”

That might be a nuisance, leaving administration for Peter to do.

“If that’s how it is, then there’s nothing to do about it. What about the hangars, Chief?”

“Completed as of yesterday, sir, the buildings. Still smell of wet cement. Complement arrived yesterday, sir. Four petty officer mechanics and a number of leading and able seamen mechanics, sir. Not using engineroom ranks, sir.”

Yarney did not approve. Mechanics were greasy-handed individuals and should therefore belong to the black gang. The RNAS was part of the Navy and should conform to established practice. There was no sense to having proper ways if they were not to be followed in all circumstances.

“Ours is not to reason why, Chief. If that’s the way the Admiral wants it…”

“That’s the way the Admiral gets it, sir.”

The old naval saw seemed to satisfy Yarney – it was the way things were.

“No officer-in-charge of the hangars?”

“Not yet, sir. Word is that a lieutenant is due at any time, sir. Might have been due last Friday, in fact. Could well be described as overdue, sir.”

That was bad news.

There could be any number of reasons for a man being late to take up his posting. Few of them would be acceptable. In time of war, being absent from one’s place of duty carried the spectre of an unsympathetic court martial, of unthinkingly severe punishment rather than any consideration of special circumstances.

Peter thanked the Chief – always wise with a senior man – and found his office, cabin, that was, he reminded himself. It contained a desk and a comfortable chair, much too good for the ordinary run of lieutenants, and several filing cabinets, as yet empty but threatening him with mounds of paperwork to fill them. It was a good twelve feet by twenty – vast for a single lieutenant. Much glory and the certainty of hours of hard labour. Piloting SS9 for most of the day and then chasing pieces of paper all night; not a wonderful prospect.

A slightly smaller office next door contained a leading seaman and three ratings, all Paymaster branch, two bespectacled, one old and the fourth pallid and ill-seeming. Normal for the branch – men who wanted to serve yet were not physically capable of holding a deck commonly ended up there. A few of the less-enthusiastic heroes also worked their ticket into the Paymasters, more commonly among the officers, or so it was said.

“Leading Writer Payne, sir.”

The ill-seeming rating, in his mid-twenties, clearly spoken and alert.

“Lieutenant Naseby, in command on the flying side.”

“Yes, sir. A signal waiting for you, sir, which you should read first.”

Never argue with a man who knew what he was doing. Peter picked up the message slip.

“Acting rank of Lieutenant Commander with immediate effect?”

“Yes, sir. Signal has been in since first thing this morning, sir. You have been assigned a servant, sir. I believe he has already modified the working uniforms sent over in advance in your suitcase, sir.”

“Thank you, Payne. Highly efficient!”

Payne smiled. He had been worried that they were getting a young pusher, a man who had made one quick promotion and would happily tread on everybody in pursuit of another. It looked as if this one would be a gentleman, as his servant had said.

“Where is my cabin, Payne? If I have a uniform, best I should change into it.”

Payne stood, showed a limp.

“Wounded?”

“Cressy, sir. Leg cut open and lucky to be put onto a raft. Healing, sir, but it was messy and had to have splinters pulled out and the calf muscle isn’t what it was. Chest is a bit painful, too – swallowed a bit of oil as well as seawater. Don’t like submarines now, sir, and asked to transfer to the Paymasters and come here to help in thumping them as I won’t be going to sea again.”

Peter nodded, having nothing sensible to say. Three big old cruisers destroyed in the same hour by a single submarine, two thousand men and boys dead – far too many boys, the numbers of the reserve cruisers having been made up from the training ships. The Navy had learned about submarines in that hour, though the reaction of many admirals had been to announce that they were ‘unfair’, as if that meant anything.

“Wardroom is in the Cottage, sir. Is the Cottage, in fact.”

A big old farmhouse was Peter’s first thought, rooms for a dozen officers and wooden huts out the back for midshipmen to share. Comfortable, especially when he saw downstairs where there were a pair of unnaturally large reception rooms.

“More of a dower house than a working farmhouse, Payne?”

“Gentry, sir, certainly. Left is the dining room, right is the anteroom, sir. There is a small bar, tacked on at the side. Large kitchens to the rear, sir.”

“Good. Just right for a small, self-contained base. If we have more than a dozen officers, the subs can double up. Plenty of accommodation.”

“Yes, sir. Your servant has taken a room for you, sir.”

Payne pointed across to a familiar figure waiting outside the anteroom.

“Oadby? What are you doing here?”

“Posted, sir. Volunteered across to the RNAS, sir.”

“Glad to see you. A known face is always welcome.”

“What I thought, sir. Got your gear hanging up, sir. Need to change you into proper dress, sir.”

Peter obeyed, knowing the unwritten rules that said the officer always fell in with his servant’s commands.

“You have been quick getting the half-stripe up on my coats, Oadby.”

“Forewarned, you might say, sir. Came through Shoreham yesterday, sir, and the commanding officer there spoke to me, gave me the braid to set you up, sir.”

“Nothing said to me…”

“Promotion comes with the job, sir. Can’t tell you until you take over.”

It was the Navy way.

“Can’t say I have any objections, Oadby. Lieutenant Commander at twenty-four and a good chance of another promotion if the war lasts two more years – which it could well do. Ten years as a commander sees me to post captain before I’m forty. That says a battleship command by forty-five and rear admiral three years later in the normal way of things. Good for the career! Except that, thinking on it, the RNAS don’t exactly have a lot of battleships.”

“Command of a flotilla of balloons, sir. Going into battle leading twenty blimps behind you, sir!”

A servant was privileged, was allowed to joke.

“We’ll see, Oadby. For the while, let us be content with what we have. You’ll need some cash to get us set up. Here!”

Peter pulled out his wallet, extracted a big white fiver which disappeared into Oadby’s pockets. Most of it would go to comforts for the cabin; an amount would keep Oadby lubricated in the nearest pub in the surrounding villages.

The Navy was old and many of its traditions were outdated. The relationship between officer and servant still worked well.

Peter changed coats, admiring the two and a half stripes around his cuffs. In peacetime a lieutenant had normally waited seven years for the first promotion. There was much to be said for the war. A chance of dying balanced against the opportunity for rapid promotion…

“Every swing has its roundabout – and there’s a bloody stupid concept, Oadby.”