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

Peter had heard of such families, few of them quite so rigid in their demands.

“What if you fail the entrance examination, Tubbs?”

Tubbs shuddered in horror at the prospect – it had been his fear for years as a little boy.

“God knows, sir. I doubt my father had ever considered the possibility. The sea is in our blood, sir, as far as he is concerned. I really do not know what he would have done… He was set ashore as a Rear, sir. Come back to the service now, of course, in wartime. Last I heard he was doing something in the West Indies, a shore station of some sort. My Uncle Vincent is a Vice, sir, in the Admiralty, and the youngest of the three is a post captain, has a predreadnought out in the Mediterranean, in the Dardanelles expedition.”

Reasonable careers for all three but not the most outstanding. Sufficient to make demands on the boy.

“Have you informed the family of your transfer to the RNAS?”

“Not yet, sir. I must write a letter. They may be surprised. Luckily, I have two elder brothers in the service, sir. Both lieutenants and aboard battlecruisers. They’ll add laurels to the family name.”

“Very good, Tubbs. Watch Wiggins and then myself as we go out and come back, get an idea of how to do three or four different things at once, which seems to be necessary in this piloting game.”

Wiggins was competent and Leburn needed to be shouted at for forgetting what to do next. Wiggins seemed to think that would be no great problem.

“Boy’s no genius, sir. Wartime entry, wouldn’t have passed into Dartmouth. Once he knows what to do, he will repeat it, I expect. Don’t know him well yet, obviously, but he’ll make a solid number two.”

The word solid seemed appropriate.

Finally, tired from his day, it was Peter’s turn, all of the crews watching him to discover exactly how to do it.

“Hop aboard, Griffiths. Let’s get the show on the road, as they say in the carnivals.”

Griffiths managed a smile, trying to disguise his nervousness. A day of waiting had done him no good.

Peter managed to show blasé, casual in his procedures, catching the engine and calling his commands to the ground crew in a clear, carrying voice, the benefit of years at sea. He made a show of stretching across to adjust the crab pot, placing it precisely to the setting he hoped might be right.

“Aerial, Griffiths.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The answer was shouted correctly, most junior of midshipmen to the commanding officer.

There was nothing in sight out in the Channel, fortunately as they were wholly unarmed, and Peter brought SS9 into her turn and back to Polegate, setting her into the angle to land and nodding to Griffiths as he wound in the aerial and readied himself at the trailing rope.

They landed and stepped out while the ground party walked the blimp into the hangar for the night.

“Well done, Griffiths. First of many flights!”

“Thank you, sir. I shall be pleased to be your crew, sir.”

Not too pleased, Peter hoped. Might be as well to switch the pairings around, make them used to working with other pilots and front men. They might be affected by illness, could have wounds on active service even, should be flexible.

After they had had a few weeks of experience would be better for any changes. He found Troughton in his office.

“They’ll do, sir – to my amaze. Even Tubbs. That one is a mathematician by inclination, by the way, sir. Got the setting of the crab pot spot on – said the numbers felt right. I have tasked him to speak to us all in two or three weeks and explain how it should be done, simply, I hope.”

“Unlikely to see that one taking a lead, Naseby. Good thing that he can. Do his confidence some good – which he needs.”

“So he does, sir. Quiet and self-effacing by nature and been trodden on for the whole of his career. What does his Dartmouth record show, sir? Top marks in the classroom, scraping by in everything else?”

Troughton searched out the records, pawed through Tubbs’ thin file.

“Yes, just that, Naseby. Highest marks ever in the mathematics exams and in the theory of navigation and setting a course. Very good in his general subjects. Barest of passes outside the classroom, mostly awarded for trying his hardest and never giving up. Recommended for specialist training and service ashore. Posted to a battleship, probably due to family influence – bloody fools!”

“Very much a naval family, he said, sir.”

“Met them, Naseby, in passing. Distinguished by having nothing between the ears, the current generation. Tubbs must be a throwback.”

“Useful to us, sir. Might be able to use his mathematics to advise us on what we can load and where and what sort of winds we can tolerate and such things. Might be interesting to know what difference temperature might make, sir. Will the blimps behave the same in hot sun as they do in midwinter cold?”

“Bloody good question, Naseby. I’ve got no idea. I’ll head over to Shoreham tomorrow, have a word with Fitzjames – if he don’t know, nobody will.”

Dinner was noisy – the first big hurdle had been overcome. They had flown and nobody had been killed and they had all made a successful return. All of the pilots had had visions of failing repeatedly to catch the engine, of staying put for half an hour trying and trying again to get underway. None had faced that humiliation. All had been told there was a good fifty per cent chance of failing, that they could not expect first time success every time. They had done better than average.

“What’s for tomorrow, Mr Naseby?”

“Horrocks and Griffiths will stand by the first blimp in and watch it through inflation and rigging. I shall decide who gets the next tomorrow.”

Bracegirdle, Tubbs and Wiggins looked at each other, wondering who would be the winner; Peter could see that Tubbs expected to be last.

A procession of lorries reached the field early in the morning, bringing in the great mass of rubberised fabric that made up the envelope of the balloon and the sets of cables that would tie all together and the fuselage with its engine.

Peter watched in between supervising the second flights.

“Why don’t they fly them down from Wormwood Scrubs, sir? There was word that we were to receive the assistance of experienced pilots as well.”

“Ah yes! That’s gone out the window. They are too busy with other things. Developing the Coastals, which will be the successors to the Sea Scouts, I think. As for flying them down… Good question! Makes a bloody sight more sense that tying up a dozen lorries, each with two men, for a night and a day… Add to that, if there’s anything wrong, they can fix it a damned sight better up at the Scrubs than we can here. I’m off to Shoreham now, Naseby. I’ll bend Fitzjames’ ear while I’m there.”

Troughton drove out and two lieutenants came in, finding Peter as the senior man to hand.

“I can give you five minutes, gentlemen. I am flying then. Let me guess – Gunnery Officer and OIC Hangars?”

“Handsworth, sir.”

“Pickles, sir.”

Sounded like a pair of music hall comedians, Peter thought. Irrelevant! Both were no more than his age and showed well – reporting uniforms smart and tidy, alert and looking about them.

“Good. Handsworth, you have a sub, Sargent, who has taken command in your absence. With luck, he will not have done much.”

Handsworth laughed appreciatively.

“I shall want a choice of bombs for when we become operational, which may well be tomorrow. I would welcome an opinion on which is better for our work. Lewis Guns for each blimp as it becomes ready. For the hangars, Pickles, you will want to ensure that the engines are worked over every night, I don’t doubt. Take a look at your domains and report to Commander Troughton, who is off field at the moment, on your needs and readiness. I must fly – literally.”