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

The bugle blew, signifying the end of the ten minutes standdown. They snapped to their feet and marched to their places of duty, the epitome of smartness. The Captain might be watching and they knew he was in a bad temper, more than usually so, that was.

Peter approached the Port Captain’s office with the feeling that he was off to his execution. The end of his ambitions lay beyond that grey-painted door.

He had been happy as a twelve year old to pass the entry examination into Dartmouth, had wanted to go to sea, to join the great ships of the Royal Navy. The family lived in London, had a summer house near Ryde on the Isle of Wight, within sight of the ships passing up and down Spithead. They had fascinated him since his earliest memories, tall and powerful with their massive guns and four huge funnels throwing out masses of black smoke. He had wanted nothing more from his life than the chance to serve on a battleship.

His father was something in the City, as a director and owner of some sort of bank, what exactly he had never found out. His elder brother had joined the Old Man a few years before, preferring banking to going up to Oxford. Peter knew they were rich, had pots of money. Even as a second son he had a considerable allowance, a thousand a year as soon as he had made lieutenant; that was his for life under some sort of trust and he had the promise of a substantial inheritance – the family could afford it. He was much in favour of his wealth, compared to most naval officers, though he had made a point of never flaunting his money – flashing the cash – it would only buy him the wrong sort of friends.

He had wanted to make a life as a successful naval officer. Now, through no fault of his own, that had been taken away from him.

He fished out a florin piece, dropped the two shillings in the rating’s hand.

“Leave the case in the office, Rogers. Don’t hang about, cut off back to the ship quick time.”

Rogers saluted and ran, knowing he must not be seen to be doing favours for the pariah.

Peter turned to the petty officer at the Desk.

“Lieutenant Naseby reporting, PO.”

The man behind the desk had been there for years, knew what he could get away with, took the chance to humiliate an officer.

“Yes, sir. What ship, sir?”

“Recently HMS Calliope, PO. Dismissed with effect from this morning.”

“Oh, yes, sir. That officer. Very good. If you will just wait there, sir, I will inform the Captain of your presence.”

The PO made no attempt to offer a chair, left him standing in front of the desk.

Peter knew the game – it still hurt.

He waited less than a minute.

“Go in, sir. Captain Holder will see you immediately, sir.”

The Port Captain was old, would have retired had it not been for the war, might possibly have been called back from pension and fireside. He stood and exchanged salutes.

“Sit down, Naseby. First thing, young man, I was looking out of my window this morning, wondering where the Admiral was as he was late for a meeting with me. I saw what happened. I saw the action you took. In my opinion, and I would stand witness at a court martial, your actions were correct and rapidly taken. You were in no way culpable. I will tell your captain that when he tries to send you to a court, which I do not doubt he will, lout that he is! I cannot save your posting – and you would not want to stay if I could, with your captain breathing down your neck and picking fault with everything you did. So, that said, accepting you are blameless, you still have been dismissed your ship, unless…”

It sounded as if there was a way out, some method of saving his career.

“Yes, sir?”

“Unless you put your name down for a hazardous posting for which volunteers have been requested. In that case, you are merely leaving your ship far earlier than would normally be expected.”

“I volunteer, sir.”

“Excellent! I was sure you would. You have three choices, in fact, Mr Naseby – lucky you!”

The old man had an infectious grin. Peter chuckled.

“Lay them out for me, sir, with your advice as well, if you would be so good.”

“Right! There are actually four – but one is so crazy no sane man would take it. Intelligence, of course, wanting small-boat men to sail dinghies to the Belgian coast for them, putting their people ashore and picking others up. This is the fourth time they have put out a call since Christmas!”

That suggested they had lost three boats and their officers.

“No thank’ee, sir.”

“Nor me! Let’s look at the others. The Naval Brigade in Belgium wants officers for the frontline companies. One hundred and eighty days, initially, with a strong probability of promotion for survivors, that promotion being conditional on remaining for another year.”

“Soldiering. In the Trenches. What are the others, sir?”

“Submarines. New boats coming out of the yards and extra hands needed. Not my idea of fun.”

“Nor mine, sir. Screwing down a hatch and deliberately going under the water – bloody hell, sir!”

“Agreed. The last is the very opposite, the Royal Naval Air Service lighter-than-air division needs balloonatics – officers and men to crew the things they operate. There are dozens – literally – of small blimps coming into service this year. A lieutenant in command, sometimes a sub, and one, two or three midshipmen or ratings depending on which sort you end up with; details are unclear as they are still inventing the bloody things! Coastal patrol, submarine bashing. A Lewis Gun and some bombs and a wireless to call up a destroyer for help. Long hours of patrol in a tiny open cockpit underneath a bloody great gasbag. On your own, most of the time, watching over convoys, pottering along at fifty miles an hour, your own master. If I was thirty years younger, I’d be into that myself.”

“It sounds good, sir. I might well like that.”

“The RNAS is set to expand over the years. A young officer with good wartime experience…”

“Could go places, sir. If you would be so good, sir, I would like you to forward my name to the RNAS. What is their selection process, sir?”

Captain Holder laughed.

“You have just been through it. They are having hell’s own job attracting regular navy officers to their ranks in the balloons. They can get pilots for their heavier-than-air craft, easily. The balloons are simply not liked, for some reason. If you are sure you want to go this route, you can be there today. If you want to change your mind, you can take your pick of three predreadnoughts in harbour at the moment and trying to fill their wardrooms with at least some experienced officers.”

“A fate worse than death, sir! No thanks. I shall become a balloonatic.”

“As I say, I think you are wise, Naseby. This is an opportunity. Your record of service will show that you volunteered to the RNAS. Nothing else. There will be the odd question from clerks in the Admiralty because of your short time aboard Calliope. I shall tell them, verbally, nothing in writing, that you could not stand your bad-tempered and ill-mannered captain – you are a gentleman and he is not, which happens to be correct and will serve as all the explanation they need. It will also do you some good – and him some bad – with Their Lordships, who will inevitably hear the gossip my comments will create.”

“You are very good, sir. Thank you.”

“Not at all, Naseby. I am past a career now – I have had my time in. I had an armoured cruiser before I slung my hook, so I have scaled the heights. Now I can act for the good of the service – and I think saving your career might be just that. You showed quick and correct thinking this morning. Now then.”

He sorted through the papers on his desk, came up with a single folded sheet.