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

Peter took off first, so as to be able to ground the others if conditions were too dangerous.

The wind was an annoyance, no more, demanding that he set the rudder to turn against it. He still made leeway but was able to hold his course reasonably closely. The cloud was at fifteen hundred feet and he levelled off a couple of hundred feet beneath it.

“Griffiths, confirm to Polegate that flying conditions are practical.”

He set course along the coast to Dover, staring out over the sea, using the binoculars every couple of minutes to take a distant sweep. It was a long, tedious day, the first of many he suspected. It was valuable, he was certain, making himself visible to any submarine peering through its tiny periscope and keeping it underwater and far less effective as a weapon of war.

“Inform base that we are off Dover, turning out to mid-Channel, Griffiths. Also inform them that we have just passed over a pair of destroyers and that some twat is firing a rifle at us. Can’t tell a blimp from a Zeppelin!”

Peter leant out with the flare pistol, fired a pair of greens, turned SS9 so that the roundels on the rudder were more clearly visible.

The rifleman ceased his hopeful activity.

“Carry on, Griffiths. Let us hope that all other naval gentlemen are equally poor shots.”

“And more able to tell a blimp from a Zeppelin, sir.”

“Almost like the old joke, that, Griffiths. The Scotsman who couldn’t tell Madras from Elba? No? Perhaps they didn’t tell that one in West Africa.”

The wind was stronger the following morning, clouds driven before it, the Union flag crackling and flapping. Troughton stood outside the offices with Peter, staring out to sea.

“Beaufort Scale Five, I would say, Naseby. Moderate to fresh breeze. Ideal for a sailing frigate, they always said at Dartmouth. Spent a lot of time teaching us how a frigate should be sailed, and how to defeat the big Americans…”

Peter showed blank.

“The War of 1812, you know, Naseby? Captain in my time there was sure he could have done better, spent hours in the classroom explaining it. Fifteen years ago and not a sailing ship left in the Navy, but he did not seem to have noticed that. What he would have said to our blimps, I’m damned if I know!”

Peter smiled and looked out to sea, trying to decide on the size of the whitecaps and exactly what strength the wind might be described as.

Troughton thought it might be a strong Force Five, definitely not a Six, yet.

“Not so sure it will do a blimp any favours, Naseby. Borderline, sort of thing. Sou’westerly, which is normal enough for the Channel at this time of year.”

Commander Troughton was studiously noncommittal, making no attempt to push Peter to fly or stay on the ground.

“Could get on the telephone to Shoreham or Capel, if you want, Naseby. Not sure that Fitzjames will be up to giving an answer. What about Fraser at Capel?”

“Whistling Rufus? He’s got a month in on me, sir. His advice would be honest – but I don’t know that it would be valuable. Only one way of finding out, sir. I’ll go up with Griffiths. The rest are grounded until I send a wireless message. I’ll head down Channel, into the wind, for a distance and then turn as is practical and come on back. All men out on the field for landing, sir?”

“More than just the normal party. I’ll see to that, Naseby.”

They walked SS9 out of the hangar, slowly, holding her rigidly on line so as not to collide with the hangar doors.

“Tubbs! What do you recommend for the crab pot?”

“Oblique to the wind, sir, keep the air pressure high in the ballonets, nose up in flight. Compensate on the horizontal fins, sir, to keep her at her height. Adjust the crab pot when turning, sir. Watch for downward gusts, sir. From what I have read, the wind does not always flow in level, horizontal layers. It might be better if I took this flight, sir…”

“Kind offer, Tubbs. You know what they say about volunteers?”

Tubbs did not.

“Go and find out, young man. A generous offer but you should compare our cuffs.”

“Cuffs, sir?”

Tubbs did not fully understand.

“I’ve got two and a half rings. You’ve got one. That means that when in doubt, I go first, whether or not I am better qualified. Watch and tell me what I should have done differently. If I don’t come back, you are officially permitted to say ‘I told you so’.”

Tubbs thought that might be a joke.

Peter hoped it was.

Troughton disappeared into his office, came out ten minutes later as they were preparing to board the nacelle.

“Spoke to Wormwood Scrubs, Naseby. They say definitely not to fly in a Force Six or worse. Shouldn’t be any problems in a Four or less. If a Five is gusty then it might be as well not to go up in it.”

“Is this a gusty Five, sir?”

Both were experienced seamen, used to assessing wind conditions and their effect on a ship.

“Not too much so, I would say.”

“So would I, sir. We should fly if we possibly can. Can’t protect against submarines if we’re on the ground. In you get, Mr Griffiths!”

Peter ordered the ground party to tug them almost to the edge of the field, well clear of the hangars. He started the engine and built up the revs until he could feel the blimp snatching against the handling party.

“Let go!”

The blimp soared, bouncing and bumping under the wind, the nacelle swaying underneath the balloon. They achieved forward motion into the wind, full throttle giving little more than ten miles an hour over the ground.

“Take a look over the cables, Griffiths. Nothing working loose?”

Five minutes and they were still in sight of the field, angling gently out to sea and rising slowly. Rain showers came down the wind, almost blinding them and freezing cold.

“Ships, sir!”

Peter picked up his binoculars, identified a gaggle of colliers, six of them in a bunch, running empty to the east to enter the North Sea and return to Sunderland or Newcastle to load again. They had no naval escort, presumably of too little value to bother with.

Unladen, the colliers would be of shallow draught, difficult targets for a torpedo and not all submarines carried a deck gun. They could expect to be fairly safe unless a minefield had been laid overnight, which was highly unlikely west of the Straits of Dover. The colliers could be ignored.

SS9 bounced out into the Channel, holding two to three miles off the coast to cover the inshore shipping lane. Looking at the sea, the amount of white water seemed to be increasing, suggesting the wind was slowly strengthening. The forecast had suggested a decrease in wind speed over the next twenty-four hours; the forecasters talked of averages, not absolute figures.

Peter wanted to be two hours out before he attempted to cross the wind, to turn for home. With a tail wind his speed would increase to a probable fifty perhaps even sixty mph – two hours out might be less than half an hour back, barely time to complete the turn and lose height and prepare to land.

“Griffiths. Inform Polegate that I am about to turn in a slowly strengthening wind. Arriving at base in twenty to thirty minutes. Maybe.”

SS9 did not want to turn across the wind, the equivalent of making a tack. He was forced to swing her through nearly three hundred degrees in a great, wide curve to bring her round.

“Wearing ship, Mr Griffiths!”

Griffiths did not have Dartmouth behind him, knew very little of the theory of working a sailing ship. He hung on tight and smiled.

They bucketed and bounced and lost height and came in sight of Polegate at a furious fifty miles an hour and with no prospect of slowing down. Their cockpits were swinging from side to side, a good thirty degrees up and back again, unevenly, no sort of rhythm. Each time the fuselage reached its apogee it snatched on the cables, a great jerk that threw them back again. They wondered just how strong the ETA patches were that connected them to the balloon.