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

SS9 was waiting, the kitchen chair tied on – firmly, Peter trusted.

There was no gain to delay.

“Ready, Mr Bracegirdle? Let us mount our trusty steed!”

They laughed, entertained by the comparison to knights in armour.

Peter led the way, making a performance of draping the skirts of his leather flying coat about the chair, as much like a king taking his throne as he could manage. Bracegirdle and Norris followed.

“Ready, gentlemen?”

Both managed to say that they were.

“You have the command, Mr Bracegirdle.”

The young sub had memorised the orders and called them in a clear voice, his experience in the trenches enabling him to appear confident. He went through the procedure of starting the engine and of setting the fins to the angles he had learned in the classroom the day before and then called the ground crew to let go.

They rose in a clean line, the engine tugging the balloon forward properly and rising quickly but still in control.

“Aerial, Mr Norris.”

The boy wound the reel out and made his first report and received the acknowledgement, not too quickly, perhaps, but competently. He produced a small notebook and made a log of the calls. Peter noted that to be a sensible idea; he would indent for logbook and pencils to be placed in each blimp.

Norris was still short, could hardly see over the cockpit coaming. He stood for his lookout, unfastening his belt. Peter shouted for him to sit and do up the belt – any sudden manoeuvre, following the spotting of a submarine perhaps, could send the boy over the side and two thousand feet was a long way to fall. They might be able to work out some sort of leash or harness in place of the restrictive seatbelt; he did not want the boys to be in the habit of not wearing their safety gear, as little as it was.

Bracegirdle managed level flight and a competent turn back towards Polegate, Norris making his landing call as they approached. The trailing rope was almost too heavy for the boy to handle; it might be as wise to coil it in a lashing on the outside of the cockpit rather than have to actually lift the weight over the side.

They landed after their hour, all safe on the ground with no mishaps, Bracegirdle standing ten feet tall for having successfully piloted his own balloon.

“Do it again tomorrow, Bracegirdle. We shall practice at placing the crab pot for changing the attitude of the balloon for climbing and descending – that will take you months to pick up to your own satisfaction. For the while – if it came to an emergency, I would send you off on your own now, young man. You have a lot to learn, as do we all, of course. You are a highly competent pilot in the making.”

Bracegirdle managed not to swagger.

“Mr Norris, well done. We shall fit the Lewis tomorrow, give you the chance to fire off a few rounds.”

“Yes, sir. Beg pardon, sir, I won’t be able to change the pan without standing, sir. Need arms five feet long, sir.”

“So you would. We will have to look at that, see what can be done. For the while, remember the old sailing ships’ maxim – ‘one hand for the ship, one hand for yourself’. Don’t let go.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It was almost impossible to change the pan on a Lewis with just one hand. It would be necessary to use both twice at least, more unless one was unusually strong. A rope around the second hand’s waist, perhaps.

“Horrocks, you’re next. What did you do for a belt when you were flying?”

“Didn’t, sir. Can’t be tied down when there’s work to be done. Grab hold tight and watch what you’re doing, sir.”

“Bugger it. Give me five minutes and I will be with you, Horrocks. Get your mid settled in. Who is it?”

“Davies, sir. The Taffy. He’s got a bit of an accent, like me. We fit together, you might say.”

“Makes sense, in its way.”

Given the choice Peter would have split the pair up rather than risk having a crew who stood out as different. He had allowed them to decide who worked with which – he must live with it.

Horrocks, unsurprisingly, was totally competent, setting the crab pot without asking and adjusting the throttle precisely as he wanted it. Davies followed his example, doing the job without fuss.

“The first of our balloons should be arriving any time now. You two should stand with it, watch through the process of inflating and rigging and take it for your own. Horrocks, you can see to any training Davies needs. I shall inform Commander Troughton that you are a pilot, Horrocks.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And the next!” Peter tried to sound like a music hall chairman, calling the acts onto the stage.

Sublieutenant Tubbs stepped nervously forward, Woods at his side.

“I think I am next, sir.”

“So you are, Mr Tubbs. Hop aboard.”

Tubbs stumbled and fumbled climbing into the cockpit, Woods giving him a hand so that he did not fall over.

“Ready, Mr Tubbs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take command then.”

Tubbs licked his lips, made a quiet call to the ground crew, saw them respond uncertainly and managed a thin shout. He failed to catch the engine on its first spin, had to go through the process again, managing to open the throttle at the correct moment second time around and then nurse the engine up to full revs. He achieved the correct sequence of orders after that.

Woods released the aerial without command and made his report.

They levelled off too low and then fumbled for ten minutes before Tubbs was finally satisfied with his height. He gripped the yoke fiercely, frightened to let go in case it misbehaved.

“Relax, Mr Tubbs. We are at height and on course. Take it easy. Ten minutes and we shall make the turn to go back to Polegate. Are you happy with the crab pot?”

“Not quite, sir. I think it ought to move just a little around to starboard. Say five degrees.”

“You are the pilot…”

Tubbs seemed unconvinced of that. He leaned out and made a precise, finicky adjustment of the air intake, glanced up at the ballonets to see that they had taken the shape he thought best. He was able to throttle down a little as a result, the balloon holding the course and altitude he wanted with less power applied.

“That’s certainly better, Tubbs. How did you know?”

“It’s the mathematics of it, sir. The numbers weren’t right, sir, in my head.”

Peter did not understand the answer. He could not argue it.

“Turning in three minutes.”

Tubbs concentrated and achieved the turn without too many wobbles. He readjusted the throttle and twitched the crab pot again.

“To allow for the wind, sir.”

The landing was achieved without hitting trees or hangars. As such, it was successful if on the bouncy side.

“We shall do it again tomorrow, Tubbs. You have a bit to learn yet, on the practical side. Your command of the theory is better than mine. I will ask you to talk us all through the proper use of the ballonets and setting the crab pot so the intake of air is just right. I have problems with that but you seem to understand it fully.”

“Yes, sir. It’s just a matter of making sure that the numbers are right. It is an interesting example, in fact, sir. I am sure we could work out tables to give a setting in all conditions. I shall think about that, sir.”

“You do that, Tubbs. Why did you join the Navy, by the way? I would not have thought Dartmouth was the best place for you. Would you not have been better going up to a university and reading mathematics?”

Tubbs showed rueful. There was nothing he would have liked better.

“The family has always been Navy, sir. Eldest son remains at home to learn the estate he will inherit – he’s the unlucky one. The rest of us join as midshipmen at the earliest age. It has to be cadets at Dartmouth now, of course. No choice in the matter, sir. That’s the way it is done.”