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

They watched as he trotted across to SS9 and ensconced himself in the armchair high above the cockpit while Bracegirdle took the blimp into its climb away from the field.

“Bloody crazy, Pickles! Have we strayed into Bedlam’s outdoor wing?”

“Certainly shows a sense of humour, Handsworth. Not one I share. Look, the bloody fool’s standing up!”

They could just see the figures on the balloon, wondered what was going on.

“Thank you, Norris!”

Peter took the cup of hot tea Norris had poured from his thermos flask, sipped at it still standing, holding onto the back of the chair with one hand, admiring the view out over the chalk cliffs and the South Downs, free for the first time to actually enjoy the scenery.

“Green in the English spring! A land worth fighting for, don’t you think?”

They didn’t, having never considered the question of why they were fighting. They were naval officers, did not need reasons as well.

Peter sat down before Bracegirdle entered the turn home, there being a limit to his desire to inspect the scenery.

“Very smooth! You are a pilot now. Join Horrocks with the new machine. Get an idea of the various bits and pieces and see how they fit together. Might be your only chance. They may be flown in from now on.”

Ten minutes in his office, glancing at the various bits of paper Payne had put on his desk, and then out to Tubbs and another hour in the air.

“Much better this time, Tubbs. Are you happy with your flying?”

“Yes, sir. A lot to learn, sir. I can do the basics sir.”

“Good. I agree. You can call yourself a pilot now, Tubbs. Keep your eyes open and think all the time – as I know you do – and you will soon be promoted. Check on the operation of the bomb release, and you, Woods, make sure you are happy with the Lewis. Your next flight will be operational.”

It was far too soon. There was no alternative.

Wiggins went through the procedure and was given the same response – he was operational after two hours in the air.

Peter took Griffiths up and ventured no more than five minutes from Polegate, turning as soon as he had made height.

“You know how to use your eyes and all you need to practice is landings. Get ready now.”

Troughton had returned and Peter joined him as seemed proper after flying.

“I shall take SS9 out on operational patrol tomorrow, sir, with your permission. Horrocks then Bracegirdle as soon as their blimps are ready. The others can all follow at soonest.”

“Good. Three more blimps will come down over the next two days, flying in, Fitzjames having accepted our arguments. Five patrols out on Saturday.”

“Far too early, sir. No choice. Can we arrange for the second hands to have lessons on the engines in the hangars when the weather forbids flying?”

“I shall speak to Pickles. He seems the right sort, should be amenable. Better than the last man we saw!”

“Most would be, sir.”

“I have the first scream of outrage on my desk, by the way. From the Admiralty – some junior clerk wanting to know why I have interfered in his postings. I shall ignore him, naturally. Let it wait until there is a post captain involved before I send back any reply. Wilshere has been let off his court martial, by the way, on condition that he went out to Flanders. As far as we are concerned, he was so upset by his dereliction of duty – an unprecedented lapse – that he could only volunteer in order to clear his name.”

“They will know that is untrue, sir.”

“Of course they will, Naseby. How do they come back to me? Tell me I am wrong because they know Wilshere to be a coward?”

Peter began to laugh.

“Just one simple lie, sir, that they know is a falsehood and dare not challenge. Is that how the Admiralty works, sir?”

“Too often, yes, Naseby. There are too many strings to be pulled and all sorts of influence working, commonly against the good of the Service. Tubbs is an example. He should be sat behind a desk working on the mathematics of something or the other that I don’t understand because it’s far beyond my intellect. Gunnery or something… Ballistics! That’s it. Or Meteorology, I am told – lots of sums in that, somehow. Instead, he will be piloting a blimp over the Channel, and doing it quite well before too long. Any ordinarily competent officer could do that. You can. I could. We couldn’t work out the ballistics of the newest guns or whatever it is he could be doing, and whoever is doing that job may well not be as good at it as him. All because Vice Admiral Tubbs wants his nephew to shine on a battleship, which he is totally unsuited for. A waste of a good brain, Naseby!”

There were too many such, it would seem. The system did not work but was very good at protecting itself.

“Look at Beatty, Naseby! There’s an example of a man who has been promoted far beyond his ability because he has discovered all of the right strings to pull. The newspapers think he is marvellous because he gives them dashing photographs. Royalty loves him for being their loyal hero. All the reports tell you what a wonderful chap he was in the Boxer Rebellion. Talk to the men who were actually there – a glory hunter who did not care how many of his own men he killed as long as he got to be photographed standing on a heap of Chinese corpses! There’s a lot wrong in this Navy of ours, Naseby! And if you repeat a word of this outside the office, I shall deny it all!”

“What of Jellicoe, sir?”

“Commander in Chief of the Grand Fleet – the most important single personage in the whole Navy. He is wholly aware of the responsibility he bears, Naseby. He is brave and fairly bright – and he will do nothing for being paralysed by the knowledge that he could lose the war if he makes the wrong decision. He is a planner and should never be in his current position. He should be in the Admiralty offering a set of appraisals of all of the possible courses of action – which he can do well, better than almost any. Then a more decisive, possibly less intelligent man than him, could choose one of those courses and follow it. He will do nothing until he is forced out of Scapa Flow by the Germans and then will fight on their terms and at best manage a draw.”

Peter accepted that as true. The Navy seemed to be reacting rather than initiating conflict in the North Sea. The fleet on the back foot was not the one that would win. It might not lose, either. Was that good enough for Nelson’s Navy?

“Bugger it, sir! Nelson’s dead. So will we be if we don’t get this flying right. How are we to organise ourselves, sir? Do we run our own little show or are we to take day-to-day orders from on high?”

Troughton was not entirely certain – he had been told that ‘it was all being worked out as a matter of urgency’.

“That means we shall certainly have an answer by this time next year, Naseby… With luck. For the while, get the lads in the air and out on their first long patrols while the weather holds. Out over the Channel to the French coast will be best. Send them up at fifteen minute intervals, out of sight of each other, I would suggest. Bombed up and fused as seems best to this new man in the magazine.”

“Handsworth? He seems competent, sir.”

“Talks well. Apparently there are new fuses designed to explode a bomb underwater. Something about a membrane that gives way under pressure so it can be set for a desired depth, or maybe not. There was definitely a membrane involved, but I’m not sure what one of those is. Has to be done in the magazine. The pilot can’t make a choice in the air.”

“Set for one hundred feet as a rule, sir? On the big bombs at least.”

“Subs won’t want to go much below that if they can avoid it, especially if they are chasing coasters in the Channel. What about the sixteen pounders?”