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

The old man – well past seventy at a guess – straightened with a hand to his aching back.

“You will be welcome here whenever you wish to drop in, Naseby. Time I got back to these roses.”

Peter accepted his dismissal, turned to Josephine hoping that he might see her again in the next week or two. She smiled and trusted that he would – she had few friends in Shoreham.

He walked back to the town, wondering just how soon he would be able to arrange a visit.

Josephine entered the house, finding her grandmother in her workroom, as she had expected.

“Embroidery again, Nanna?”

“Tapestry, my dear. Who is the handsome young man?” She glanced out of the window.

“He is, isn’t he, Nanna? Lieutenant Commander Peter Naseby, in charge of flying at Polegate and with his own balloon as well. I think it very likely he will be promoted again soon.”

“And able to take a wife?”

Josephine’s cheeks flamed scarlet – she had not suggested such a thing.

“Well, my dear?”

“Well, yes, Nanna, but he has been nothing but a gentleman – he ran into me in town and we took a luncheon together. I have met him twice before and I am sure it was nothing more than politeness on his part.”

“Young men do not give up hours of their time for politeness, Josephine. He remained in your company because he wanted to.”

The colour flared again.

“He is of a good family, if he is of the Nasebys I know.”

“Grandfather asked if they were bankers and he said they were.”

“That’s them. Even a second son of theirs is worth getting your hooks into, my dear.”

“But, Nanna, I am doing no such thing!”

“Not intentionally, perhaps, my dear. No need for you to worry about a husband this next year or two in any case. If you fancy this one, you could do far worse. What did your father say in his last letter from Washington?”

She was surprised by the apparent change of topic.

“Just that he is busy there. Much to do with wartime purchasing and such but he has time for a social life. Not a town for balls, it would seem, but frequent dinner parties and musical evenings and such. He mentioned a Mrs Mortlake, a widowed lady, who commonly acts as his partner to make up the numbers at dinner.”

“I suspect she may be more than that to him, my dear. He might well be considering marrying again. His last letter to us hinted at the possibility. That could be awkward for you.”

“I had thought to join him in Washington, Nanna. It is possible to cross to Boulogne – there are supposed to be no civilian passengers but that can be overcome – and then take a train to the south of France and another along the coast to Barcelona. Then a neutral ship from Cadiz to New York is said to be perfectly safe. A long journey but not too difficult for us to arrange. I spoke to Cecelia Parker and she told me her brother and his wife had done the same only recently.”

“Oh! Did she perhaps explain why?”

It had not occurred to Josephine to ask.

“I wonder why a young man might choose to leave his country in time of war, Josephine.”

Josephine was silent a few seconds, was forced to answer.

“It sounds rather discreditable, does it not, Nanna. I do not know the family has business interests in America. They are very comfortable, I know, owning a deal of land locally. I remember Cecelia saying they possessed a ranch in Texas as well. Perhaps they have gone there.”

The old lady snorted, said no more on the topic.

“If my father is considering another wife in Washington, then a grown-up daughter joining him might be by way of a hindrance, do not you think, Nanna?”

“I fear so, my dear. Better you should stay in England. You can remain with us until you are of age, that will be no problem. After that, you inherit from your mother – not a lot, a small house and farm in the country behind Petersfield, not so far from Portsmouth, and an income sufficient to live on. You can be comfortable there with a horse or two and a quiet way of life. You do not have to hunt for a husband. That is not to say you should turn one down if a proper man comes your way.”

“Such as Peter Naseby?”

“He is one of many who will cross your path, my dear. If you feel you can love him, then he has much to recommend him. If not, send him on his way!”

She was left with much to think about, spent an hour in her room, pondering, came down to dinner with no decision taken other than that it was far too soon to send Peter Naseby on his way. She was quite upset at the prospect of doing so, she discovered, and chose not to pursue that line of thought any further.

The wind eased, as had been predicted and the five blimps entered into a regime of patrolling, busy in their stretch of the Channel.

At the end of ten long days none had seen anything other than the ships they had convoyed.

Troughton addressed them before dinner, bright and fresh in front of their tired faces.

“We have logged up just over four hundred hours of patrolling, gentlemen – which is good going in so few days. In that time, there have been no losses of ships in our sector. Not one of the ships we have convoyed has been hit. As well, there has been little submarine activity reported to our east, due, certainly, to you forcing them to remain underwater for the whole of their days. The submarines have been spotted out in the Western Approaches. They have not managed to penetrate the Channel. Dover and Harwich patrols both report the normal level of activity in the North Sea, so they are not staying home – they are simply keeping clear of us. Total success, gentlemen! In a normal week, one ship at least would have been lost in our part of the Channel and two or three might have reported sightings or unsuccessful attacks. Nothing!”

They thought that was wonderful news, had hoped he was announcing the onset of an Atlantic gale that would close them down for flying for a couple of days.

Dinner was a quiet meal and the majority had turned in before ten o’clock, needing sleep, not always finding it.

“The strain is getting to some of the boys already, Naseby.”

“Woods and Davies are showing some signs, sir. Insufficient to ground them, however. Of the pilots, Wiggins is showing worried by the responsibility. Horrocks is imperturbable; Bracegirdle rock-hard; Tubbs, surprisingly, seems more confident by the day. I had not expected that youngster to grow in such a fashion, I will admit, sir.”

“Nor me. First time in his life he has been set free to sink or swim, I should imagine. He is showing well under the pressure. Early promotion for that one. About Wiggins? I don’t know. Nothing wrong with a man being worried by his job, so long as it does not stop him doing it. Let it go for the while.”

Low, broken cloud and light wind next morning and Peter took SS9 up to two thousand feet, just high enough to tuck the balloon into the bottom of the clouds, her grey paint almost invisible. The nacelle was so small that there was a good chance that the blimp would remain unseen.

“Westbound convoy at three miles, sir. SS14 escorting.”

“Got them, Griffiths. I’ll go another five miles seaward of them and head west.”

Ten minutes had them in position, still hidden against the clouds, headreaching on the convoy and about ten miles offshore, south of Brighton in deep water.

Griffiths gave a sudden yell.

“Port bow, sir. Ten o’clock, at two miles. Submarine, sir.”

“Make sighting report, Griffiths. Submarine heading up-Channel, making perhaps six knots? Can’t really tell from her wake. Banking to port, Griffiths. Ready that rifle of yours.”

Peter opened the throttle, took the blimp from cruising towards her limited full speed.