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

He called Payne to him.

“What have you got for me as yet, Payne?”

“All of the specifications for the blimps, sir, together with schedules of their equipment, all of which documents are to be signed for as received in good condition, sir. As well, there are the first requisitions for stores and Gunnery, sir, which come under your purview. Engineering will not be yours, luckily, sir – there is ten times as much for them in the way of lists of spares and consumable stores. You need to sign forty-one receipts immediately, sir, as having taken them over. You can read them if you wish, sir. I have personally checked them as good.”

If Payne was on the fiddle, then Peter was covering for him if he signed unseen. Did he trust Payne?

He picked up his pen and signed his career away if Payne was dishonest and so careless as to be caught.

Payne was aware of the calculations, accepted that he was being offered trust. He would keep faith.

“Wardroom senior steward wishes to speak with you, sir.”

Too important a figure to their comfort to be ignored – he had to be indulged with a meeting.

“Send him along, Payne. What’s his background, do you know?”

“Battleship, sir. Prince George for the better part of fifteen years. All service in home waters, sir. More time tied up in Portsmouth and Plymouth than at sea. She’s too old for much now – almost the oldest of the predreadnoughts still in service – and is on harbour duty, sir, with a reduced crew. They won’t write her off in case they need to put her twelve inch guns to use in the Channel, but the probability is she’ll only leave harbour to go to the breakers yards. He was posted out and we got him – luck of the draw, sir.”

“All we need! What’s his name, Payne?”

“Harris, sir. Roderick Harris, he informs us – I suspect Rodney was beneath his touch. Petty Officer – he never made Chief in Prince George.”

“He won’t with us. Wheel him in.”

Harris was predictable – very smart, very stiff in the back, excessively respectful.

“I have the dinner menus for the coming week, sir, for your approval. I have pencilled in Wednesday for Dining In, sir, being a shore station. I presume you will wish for a Guest Night as well, each week, sir. I noticed, sir, that many of the officers did not wear proper dress to luncheon.”

“They did not and will not, Harris. Officers will wear working uniforms throughout the working day. We are on a wartime footing and will be flying war patrols from the earliest possible day. As the evenings grow lighter, those patrols will become longer. You must make arrangements for officers to be fed a good dinner at whatever time they return to base. It will not be uncommon for some balloons to take off at six in the morning and others to return as late as ten at night, Harris. In effect, we shall be at action stations as a permanence. Forget about Dining In and Guest Nights for the next few months, certainly for all flying staff. The Commanding Officer, when he arrives, will make his wishes clear, naturally. While I think of it, never wine with lunch for flying officers and the bar to be locked until a reasonable hour.”

Harris did not approve.

“What of Wardroom Fees, sir? We will need a substantial addition, sir, having a wine cellar to stock.”

“They will be kept to the standard deduction from officers’ pay, Harris. I believe that few of the officers possess private incomes. The bulk will be wartime officers and living on their pay for the duration. We must make allowance for that.”

“But, what of the wardroom cellar, sir?”

“Navy issue only, Harris. Do ensure there is beer at the bar – to be paid for, naturally. Keep an eye on officers’ accounts and bring to me any that are excessive. Normal procedure there.”

That was a part of his job that Harris had always relished – watching the officers for excessive drinking and informing the Commander of their fall from grace.

“Aye aye, sir. It does sound as if we shall have a rather poor wardroom, sir. More suitable to a destroyer than to a shore station such as we are.”

“We will be an active station, Harris. It will be your function to ensure that all officers are well fed. Nothing else is of importance. We shall fly four or five, possibly six blimps every day of the week, out submarine chasing. That will demand many hours of painstaking patrolling, often in dangerous weather. The wardroom must reflect operational necessities, Harris. It is not to be a place for idlers from High Society to sip port and discuss hunting!”

Harris had never known of a wardroom that had any function other than to entertain the upper classes, who included the ship’s officers. A battleship was not the place to find poverty-stricken or career-minded lieutenants – they were kept for lesser vessels, preferably overseas in the grubbier postings. Shore establishments also were playgrounds for the fashionable far more than places of work. He did not know how to respond, fell back on tradition.

“We must Dine In, sir – that is de rigeur for all ships in port and shore establishments. Guest Nights are also to be expected. The local gentry will be most disappointed not to receive early invitations, sir.”

“We are at war, Harris. Operational necessity overrides all other considerations. We have no purpose other than to keep blimps in the air and on patrol. You will cooperate with that necessity, Harris. If you prefer not to, you will have heard that one sublieutenant was transferred to the Naval Brigade in Flanders yesterday. There will be a place in the trenches for a petty officer – if you prefer to take service there.”

It was not desirable to open one’s tenure in a posting by threatening the senior steward. It was generally a method of ensuring extreme discomfort, in fact. Peter decided he did not care. If needs be, he could break any petty officer, now having just sufficient rank for the purpose. Provided the CO was not a social butterfly, the wardroom would become effective for his needs – providing hot food at inconvenient times for flying officers.

Harris accepted defeat, bitterly.

“More like an other rank’s canteen such as one sees at Victoria Station than a naval wardroom, sir!”

“An excellent comparison, Harris. Tea and a wad at any time of day or night for tuppence? Try for slightly better quality than that, there’s a good fellow!”

Harris left in near despair, debating the courses open to him. He found he had a choice of volunteering for hazardous service, suicide or obeying the upstart lieutenant commander’s orders. The three options were almost equally undesirable. He was, he decided, too old for hazardous service and too young for suicide. That left obedience to command. He slouched into the kitchens and gave the orders for the week.

“Feed the bastards! As well as we can with the standard issue. Make sure there’s the makings of a hot dinner for any pilot flying late. Forget about anything fancy. Where’s the bloody cooking brandy?”

The cooks listened and obeyed – it mattered very little to them what they sent out, as long as the quality was good enough that they would not be posted out to a less comfortable number. None of them wanted to end up in the kitchens at the depots at Scapa Flow or in the galley of a destroyer. They were comfortable where they were.

Peter sat at the head of the table as senior officer aboard that evening. It was a new experience – he did not find it very exciting. The food was adequate, he thought, perhaps not up to Calliope’s standards – he was not sure and did not care, he was not an epicure. As for the wine – there was white with the fish and red with the meat and that was all he knew or cared about.