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

“Tell Polegate I shall go east of the field and make a turn and bring her in against the wind.”

He chose to head inland a little, hoping the wind would lessen, made a second long, slow turn, rising to a safe thousand feet and then pointing the nose down again, nursing the engine as he throttled up and down and prayed it would continue to fire reliably, that the plugs would not oil up. He crawled back to Polegate and Griffiths dropped the trailing rope, swore as it blew out almost horizontal and then began to pendulum. CPO Yarney ran forward and jumped, able to get one hand to the grapnel and swinging for a few seconds until a pair of ratings snatched his legs. Peter sighed in relief as a dozen men grabbed hold and heaved and brought her in. He let go of the rope leading up to the tear patch, glad he had not had to try an emergency deflation.

Ten minutes and they had her under control, were walking the ship carefully under cover.

Troughton was out on the field, waiting for them.

“Well done, Griffiths. Could have been a tight one.”

“I thought it was, sir. Don’t want one a lot tighter than that. Good thing we didn’t see a submarine, sir.”

Troughton nodded.

“Go up in a Force Five only for operational necessity, sir. Nothing more than a Four for routine patrolling. Engine failure would have been a disaster, sir. As it was, I debated ripping the patch to get in, sir.”

Deflating the balloon was a measure for absolute emergency, was not to be used except to save the lives of the crew. The envelope itself could be damaged in a hasty deflation, putting the blimp out of service for many days.

“Right. Standing Orders will include wind speed, Mr Naseby. Take the remainder of the day off. Go into Brighton or Shoreham or wherever to relax.”

“Thank you, sir. Shoreham, I think. Something for Yarney, sir? Brave to jump and grab that sharp grapnel – could have ripped his hands to shreds if he had become hooked up, sir.”

“I shall write him up in my report of the day, Naseby. Can’t do much else – not in the face of the enemy, so none of the gallantry awards are applicable. Can’t promote him – he’s got nowhere left to go.”

“An unofficial bottle of Scotch, sir?”

“Totally against all regulations. Bloody good idea! Don’t hand it over in person, give it to your servant to pass along to him – that way there’s less of a breach.”

Peter found his hands were shaking as he washed up and changed into his reporting uniform, good enough for walking out on a weekday with no particular engagement in mind.

There was a Crossley waiting for him, in defiance of regulations, Navy petrol being wasted on personal pleasures rather than duty. He was dropped off at the fishing harbour in Shoreham, the driver promising to be back for four o’clock. He leant on the railings, looking out over the river mouth, trying to make sense of his own feelings.

He had not been frightened when he was up; his belly had been churning when he had stepped out onto the turf, definitely acid and upset. Only when the danger was over had he felt scared by it.

‘Nothing to worry about there, old son’.

He stretched upright, turned away to wander up the main street and to pick up a midday snack. There was a figure waving to him, up the street. He waved back and stretched out toward her.

“Miss Hawes-Parker! How do you do?”

“Very well, Lieutenant Naseby… No, that is another curl of braid, is it not? Does that make you Lieutenant Commander?”

“It does indeed – unexpected and most pleasing! I am in charge of the flying at Polegate and have to have the additional rank to crush insubordinate pilots! I am off to find a bite to eat – are you free for lunch?”

She was indeed, very much so. She could recommend the Riviera Hotel – she ate there with her grandparents on occasion. It was a bare quarter of a mile distant.

“Too strong a wind for flying today, is it… What is the convention, do I call you Lieutenant Commander?”

“Far too formal – Peter will do.”

She blushed, wondering if that was not far too informal.

“I am Josephine.”

She was a tall girl, head almost level with his, strong as well, pacing easily at his side.

“As for flying, Josephine, I took my SS9 up for two hours this morning, trying to discover just how much wind was practical. We must fly whenever we can – a bit of a breeze won’t keep the submarines away. This Force Five and gusting is all of the wind a blimp can handle, we discovered. Not so very bad in flight but landing was not so easy. Luckily the Chief Petty Officer in charge of the field, Mr Yarney, is a very big man and he was able to grab hold of the grapnel as it swung past his head. We have to be hauled down to ground, you know, can only fly so low before we need to be manhandled. The problem is that our engine is just not sufficiently powerful. Not to worry – we know what we can do now. What have you been doing with yourself?”

Not a great deal, it transpired. Some knitting and sewing for soldiers’ comforts and an amount of work in the garden – it being patriotic to dig and grow one’s own food. Mostly, she had walked and read and talked with her friends in town. A quiet life, she feared.

Luncheon showed no signs of food shortage. The dining room was almost full, mostly of local professionals and businessmen taking their leisurely break. There were no signs of war, Peter displaying the sole uniform.

“All very quiet and peaceful here in Shoreham. What is happening at the field now?”

She had seen no activity since the balloons had flown out. The rumour had been that the camp was to become a training ground for sailors going out to fight with the Naval Brigade in Flanders, but she had seen no evidence of such.

They walked back to her grandparents’ house on the outskirts of the small town, a short enough distance. It was almost a mansion, at least a score of bedrooms and set in four or five acres of garden and lawns.

“My grandfather is worried that he cannot lay his hands on the gardeners he needs, Peter. There was used to be five of them, each with a boy, but the younger men have all gone off to war. He has been able to take on a pair of men who have come back wounded and unable to continue to serve. I suspect there will be more of them over the coming year.”

He feared she might be right.

“There is my grandfather, in the rose beds. Will you come across to meet him, Peter?”

Doing so implied an interest, even if she did not seem to notice it was so.

He had achieved a first necessary promotion and there was every chance of another inside the following two years – and she was an attractive young lady…

“I am Lieutenant Commander Naseby, RNAS, sir. With the blimps down at Polegate. Moved there from Shoreham a few days ago.”

“Hawes-Parker. Are you one of the banking Nasebys?”

“Second son, sir. My elder brother has joined my father in the hallowed halls of the City – and is far better suited than I am to that life. My function in life is to be the cadet, available against need, you know, but making an existence in the Navy – and thoroughly enjoying myself.”

“Piloting one of those balloons? Not for me, Naseby!”

“It is like sailing one’s own yacht, sir, free from the constraints of a great ship. I was in Calliope, light cruiser, last, sir, and that offered nothing like the sensation of command that a blimp gives. Add to that, of course, there are only a few of us in the RNAS so promotion is far the quicker. I have command of the five ships at Polegate. On Calliope, I was one of eight watch-keeping officers.”

“Much to say for that, Naseby. Likely to stay at Polegate, are you?”

“Unpredictable, sir! Where there are submarines, we may be sent to chase them away. I am far too junior to know what may be planned, sir. Some of us must be kept here on the Channel coast, of a certainty.”