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

“The previous commander had in fact placed you in charge of the motorboat attached to your ship. That seems to be your sole qualification for a technical post. It is possible that your qualifications for the position of Hangars Officers were overstated.”

“I am sure I can tinker with an engine as well as any, sir. I had my own motorcar from the age of sixteen, you know, sir.”

“Bloody hell! Get out of my office and off this establishment, Wilshere! Report to HQ at Wormwood Scrubs for nine o’clock tomorrow. Failure will see you placed before a court martial. I shall recommend you for a position as assistant to the lavatory cleaner, Wilshere, on the grounds that you will be technically incompetent for the post without full training. You may, if you prefer, seek a court to clear your name of the many charges I shall place on your file. For now, just go away, Wilshere. Out of my sight!”

“I shall ensure that your unreasonable actions are brought under scrutiny, sir. My father knows Mr Lloyd George well, sir.”

Troughton was not one to be threatened.

“Oh, very well! Have it your own way, Wilshere. You are initially charged with being absent without leave from your post while on active service, Wilshere. You will also be charged with insubordination for threatening your commanding officer. Mr Naseby, please call CPO Biggs to take this officer away and hold him in the nearest set of naval cells until court martial.”

Peter marched out, formally, called Biggs to bring his escort and take Wilshere away to Dover where there were full facilities.

Wilshere was taken away, shaking in rage and calling down all sorts of revenge on their heads.

“I was not exaggerating when I said my father was close to Lloyd George, Naseby!”

“I did not mention that my esteemed parent is a close confidant of Mr Asquith, Wilshere. I think the two cancel each other out, don’t you?”

Troughton laughed at the response.

“I say, is that true, Naseby?”

“Near enough, sir. My father is a member of some sort of committee on wartime finance that meets every week in Number Ten. He is head of the bank, sir.”

“That will do me, Naseby. Why are you not gracing the bridge of a flagship with the other gentleman’s sons?”

“Never fancied the staff, sir. I like the Navy and always wanted to go to sea on the great ships. Too many staff lieutenants spend their days in London, never seeing the sea at all. Add to that, I’m an incompetent arse-kisser.”

Troughton maintained an admirable straight face

“In that case, you lack the prime requisite of a staff officer, Naseby. Quite right to join the working navy instead. What do we do for the hangars now?”

“Shout for help, sir. We cannot be left with no more than a PO in charge. The same as for the magazine, sir.”

The telephone was brought into use.

After half an hour promises had been made of replacements for the dead and the disgraced.

“Is this normal in your experience, sir? Two useless, rich idlers dumped before we could even start work – is that usual?”

“Not uncommon, Naseby. Not in this last year. The war has brought all sorts of bad hats into the service – idle youths who would otherwise have never put on a uniform, most of them, and unable to stay at home without raising comment but unwilling to risk their precious skins in anything resembling a fighting post. I must have seen a dozen this year who thought they would be able to find a ground post in the RNAS, safe in an office while they sent better men out to fly. Some of them I saw thrown out as medically unfit for the RNAS; having once volunteered, the Army snapped them up, much to my pleasure. Two I saw court-martialled and broken to the ranks and then posted as observers and gunners in our seaplanes. Three of them had strings they could pull and ended up in offices in the Admiralty, untouchable by a mere Commander. They account for a trivial minority, Naseby. The great bulk of youngsters have come in to fight and have shown more than willing. The few yellow-bellies are exceptions.”

“As it should be, sir. What was it Kipling said?”

“Some sort of nauseous, sentimental doggerel, I expect, Naseby. The epitome of English culture, my arse!”

Peter decided to forget his quotation.

“Do we know when the balloons are due in, sir?”

“Tomorrow at ten hundred hours, the first. They will then come in at twenty-four hour intervals, allowing us to inflate and rig each in turn. Without an experienced Hangars Officer, that may be fun. Best thing will be for you to walk SS9 out early and start your training with the subs and mids. We will release a ground party from the hangars each time you come in – say at hourly intervals. Thirty minutes to land, change pilot and front hand, allow you to come down from your chair for a cup of tea and a pee and get back up with the next victims. Have you thought how to assign crews?”

“At random unless they wish otherwise, sir. I will take the leftover mid as mine and make the last flight of the day with him.”

“Can you guess which one that will be?”

“Griffiths, at a bet, sir. Father is something in trade – West African plantations and probably earning a damned good living. The boy grew up in the bush and hardly saw a school. Bright lad, speaks well and capable of looking after himself – but he’s never picked up a cricket bat in his life and knows none of the right sort. Odds are that he will be the outsider.”

“Capable of doing the job, you would say.”

“He knows how to get his hands dirty. Might be the best of the bunch for us, sir.”

“Good, in some ways. Useful that he is no schoolboy, pity if he’s not one of the group. Far easier if all of the officers are friends as well as colleagues. Can’t be helped!”

The rain cleared and left patchy cloud above ten thousand feet, far higher than the blimps would consider. Breakfast was called for six o’clock, to the horror of all, including the cooks; Peter stood from his bacon and greasy eggs to inform those present of the order of the day.

“We shall all take our first flights in command today. Dress accordingly. In alphabetical order, gentlemen, Sublieutenants Bracegirdle, Horrocks, Tubbs and Wiggins and myself last of all. You will take a midshipman as crew, at your own choice or at random, as you prefer. At the field in fifteen minutes, all to observe the antics of those going before and after them. I shall fly with each of you. SS9 has been modified to allow for my presence – no bombload which will compensate for my additional weight. You will take off, achieve two thousand feet and fly for half an hour out over the Channel and then the same back again and land. We shall repeat the dose tomorrow. After that, I trust you will be on your own, in your own ships as they come in. Questions?”

Bracegirdle, his experience making him the most confident, suggested that it was all just a little hurried.

“It is, Mr Bracegirdle. Far more than I might wish. There are submarines out there and ships at risk. The sooner we fly, the fewer sailors will die. It’s as simple as that.”

“Then I must learn quickly, sir.”

“So must we all. I would recommend you to talk about your experiences, at length. Share the knowledge you glean. Don’t concern yourself about this nonsense of ‘no shop in the wardroom’ – we must become the best and as quickly as possible.”

Peter left them to talk among themselves for a few minutes. He was not used to this business of making speeches, of jollying the troops along – it was not the way the Navy worked, not as a general rule.

Troughton joined him as he went for his flying gear.

“Well said, just then, Naseby. They are all keen lads, but they need to know what they are doing and why. Keep it up – a few words of explanation and encouragement will do no end of good. They are none of them more than boys and need to be told they are doing well.”