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

They needed an administration above them, a setup that would organise men and materials to keep the show running. It would help if there was a senior man standing between them and the top brass. It would be even more useful if the post captain appointed actually knew what was happening down on the Channel coast – men from the Admiralty generally knew what should be going on far better than actually was the case.

Lunch came, haphazardly, the cooks with much better things to do.

The four blimps made their early returns, all given the news as they landed and were towed to holding positions around the field, CPO Yarney personally driving home the iron corkscrew stakes they were tied to, fixing them deep into the soil, down into the chalk itself.

“If the bloody wind gets up, sir, they’re going indoors where they belong, Admiral or no Admiral!”

“Forecast is for a calm day, Chief.”

“And you know just how reliable the forecasters are, sir.”

“They get it right more often than not, Chief.”

“Yes, sir. Let’s hope it’s one of their good days.”

A car drove in at two o’clock, disgorged four staff officers fresh from the Admiralty who inspected everything and were sure they had done their jolly best. Their actual function seemed unclear, particularly to them.

Crawley came back and supervised the careful unloading of crate after crate into the rear of the Cottage.

“Half a dozen crates, Crawley?”

“Well, sir, when we got down to it, the merchant had some remarkable stuff tucked away in his back store, too good for everyday customers, he said, but when I told him we were expecting Royalty he dug out his very best. Bit of a crawler, actually, almost dribbled at the thought of Royalty drinking his bottles. Fellow by the name of Wheatley. He asked me to send him a photograph of the occasion if I could. In the end, sir, he was truly open-handed. I only paid seventy pounds in total for some of the best wines I have ever come across. Included a half-case of Imperial Tokay, would you believe! Almost impossible to get hold of! Far too good to waste on a Prince or whatever – they say he’s got no taste at all for a good wine. Sort of thing we can get out for our own celebrations, on special days and whatever.”

Peter was in a state of shock again – he had no particular use for the seventy pounds in question, admittedly, but to spend it on wine seemed excessive. Crawley had no doubt it was money well used.

“If any of them know their wines, they will leave us happy people, sir. By the way, do we know who they are?”

They asked the staff officers, found they knew very little except that they had been told to come down to Polegate and make sure all was ready.

“Bound to be something interesting, sir! Can’t imagine they would have sent us out into the sticks for nothing. Time for the bar to open yet, sir?”

Troughton nodded across to the stewards. Dry staff officers were a menace to the whole of humanity.

A rating was stood on the front steps of the Cottage, his function to watch the gate for visitors.

“Commander, sir! Five cars at the gate. Leading two at least Rolls Royces. Gate guard offering full honours, sir.”

“Coxswain!”

Biggs shouted acknowledgement and the routine of honours swung into play.

Ten minutes saw a Vice-Admiral and three post captains and their assorted entourages, all fawning around the young Prince of Wales, dressed up as an Admiral of the Fleet for the occasion.

A second convoy had disgorged photographers and reporters from all of the national newspapers, all scurrying obsequiously to get their ‘shots’ and identify who was who among the insignificant underlings who were to be honoured that day.

“Lieutenant Commander Naseby, Your Highness, pilot of Sea Scout SS9 which performed the successful attack this morning.”

The Royal smile was awarded, cameras clicking and flash powder flaring.

“A fine piece of work, Naseby. The submarines are a menace to civilised existence and you have done well to destroy one single-handed. One of the banking Nasebys, as well! Jolly good show!”

A hook had been attached to the breast of Peter’s uniform and the Royal Personage hung a medal to it, all very efficiently.

“The Distinguished Service Order, Naseby and well-earned. You are also promoted Commander I understand. Substantive Lieutenant Commander and acting in the senior rank. No doubt you will soon earn the full promotion, sir.”

Peter saluted and stepped back, as previously instructed.

Griffiths stepped forward and was made full lieutenant, rather than sub, and awarded the DSC. He retreated almost in a daze.

“Two stripes, sir, not one!”

“Not unheard of in wartime, Griffiths. It means you can take over your own balloon at an early stage. Add to that, it’s tidier – can’t have subs running about with DSCs, you know!”

They were herded to one side and exposed to the reporters and their questions, few of which made sense. They agreed that they were glad to have done their duty and struck a blow against the Hun. That seemed to be a very good thing and was written down in the reporters’ notepads.

Had Peter a young lady whose heart would be gladdened by his valour?

“I hope I may, sir. Early days to tell yet but I hope…”

That was more than sufficient for the Press. Pencils came into play again.

“Naseby, sir, is that the City family?”

“Well, yes, my father is a banker.”

Wise looks came across the reporters’ faces and they mentally struck out the more lurid phrases – sensible men did not offend that particular family.

Wine bottles were opened for the Royal party and the reporters were given gin, both sets seeming satisfied.

An hour and they were all decanted back into their cars and were saluted ashore, all as it should be.

“Jolly good show, Naseby!”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Not sir, Naseby – not no more!”

“Neither it is, Troughton – I shall have to get used to that.”

“So will I, old chap. The Admiral said that Fitzjames is done for and they must tidy up. For the moment, no change, be ready for anything to happen in the next couple of days. Flying again tomorrow, of course.”

“Commander with a DSO at twenty-four – does a bit of good to my career, I think, Troughton.”

“A lot, I would suggest, old chap. Sets you up as a civilian, too, if you would prefer that when the war comes to an end. Lots to think about. Free to consider a wife as well – commonplace for a commander to marry. Much to be said in favour, in fact. As well, leaves you a degree of freedom in your future – I suspect you will not be restricted to the RNAS. Much to think about. Young Griffiths as well. Train him up as a pilot and see what he can make of himself in the service.”

Five minutes of excitement had effectively changed the whole of his life, and Griffiths’ as well, probably. His future had seemed simply laid out; now there were literally hundreds of possibilities.

“You should read this, Josie. Ought to be of interest to you.”

Her grandfather passed the Daily Telegraph across.

The headlines were in the normal bold type, flaring across the front page.

“’Submarine sunk off Brighton. Daring attack by British balloon’, Grandpa? Oh! Was it…”

She left the question unfinished, eyes fixing on the photographs, Peter with a medal on his chest, an unknown lieutenant as well. A larger picture of the Prince of Wales, boldly present at a base on active service, the balloons visible behind him, bombs and Lewises prominent due to a little of artistic touching-up.

“Oh! ‘Machine gunned the conning tower and made a daring diving attack and released his bomb from a bare one hundred feet, striking the pressure hull and blowing a hole through it, sinking the submarine instantly’. Four bodies recovered and to be buried with honours, poor men! I wonder how many others there were aboard, Grandpa?”