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

“Twenty or thirty, I should imagine. Submarines are small ships.”

“Yet doing a huge amount of damage for their size.”

“Exactly. They must be driven out of the Channel. If they were able to target the troopships crossing from Dover to Calais, that would be a disaster.”

Thousands of soldiers would be killed, she realised.

She turned to the inside pages which showed more photographs of the heroic naval officers and of their balloons resting on the field with bombs prominent. It would seem that the cowardly German nation must shudder in terror at the power that had been unleashed upon them.

“Are the Germans cowards, Grandpa?”

“No. Or no more than any of the rest of us. Why should they be? You can ignore that tosh in the newspapers – it is for the benefit of the foolishly unintelligent, who seem to include the great bulk of our politicians and generals.”

“I see. It does suggest that Commander Naseby was brave to make his attack in the way he did.”

“No doubt of that, Josie. To dive on an enemy vessel underneath a gasbag containing tens of thousands of cubic feet of hydrogen – that shows courage enough for any man!”

She had attended science lessons at school, and had stayed awake in some few, sufficient to have a recollection that hydrogen burned easily.

“They are only very small, their cockpits, as well. It must be cold out in the open, sat up with only their legs and hips covered, the rest exposed to the wind. I know they have leather flying coats but I am sure they are not especially warm.”

“Freezing cold, up at any height. I remember, years back, going to Switzerland and being taken halfway up a mountain there. That was cold even in summer.”

“I suppose I could knit a scarf…”

Her grandmother suggested it were better to buy one.

“You have not really developed the knack of knitting, my dear. Winter might be long past when you finally finished it.”

She was inclined to be indignant, decided the old lady was far more than her match, smiled weakly.

“What else does it say… ‘Commander Naseby hoped his young lady in Shoreham would be pleased at his prowess. This reporter ventures to suggest that any young miss might be proud of such a swain.’”

“How very vulgar, my dear. You may be assured that Commander Naseby said no more than that he has a lady friend in Shoreham, responding to a direct question and unable to deny your existence.”

“Mine?”

“Who else could he be referring to?”

She took refuge in her teacup, avoiding the question.

“Are the newspapers always so disgustingly intrusive?”

Her grandfather answered, his contempt overt.

“Unfailingly, my dear. They exist to pander to the vulgarity of the masses in order to sell their advertising. The so-called ‘free press’ hopes to make a profit each year, and that will be better achieved by offering titivation than cultured good taste. In time of war, their ability to cultivate the basest instincts of the mob goes untrammelled by any consideration of decency or honesty. Germany – the home to Beethoven and Goethe, and a vast number of other titans of the arts – is the land of the Hun, a cowardly race of back-stabbing barbarians, according to our wonderful newspapers. They devalue everything that is decent in England.”

Josephine could not disagree – she had no knowledge of the press. She wondered just why her grandfather was so bitter. She caught her grandmother’s eye and saw the minute shake of her head.

“Do you think I should address a letter to Commander Naseby, offering my congratulations, Grandpapa?”

“If he is one half of the man I think he is, he will be knocking on our door just as soon as he is free, probably before a letter could reach him. What is the weather like?”

“Windy and with low cloud. Rain on the wind, I would think.”

“Not flying weather.”

Commander Troughton agreed.

“Grounded today, Naseby. Westerly wind. Just been on the telephone to the Port Captain’s office at Pompey. Heavy rain showers there. Squally. It will reach us within the next hour or two. Damned good invention, the telephone, you know!”

Peter thought that to be true.

“Time to get ahead of the paperwork, Troughton. Piling up on my desk.”

Troughton shook his head in the most superior fashion.

“That will never do, old fellow! Have a word with Payne… Tell you what, we can do it together.”

He yelled for Payne.

“There you are, Leading Seaman. How long have you in the rank, Payne?”

“Just over a year, sir. Picked it up in the peace, sir, just before I was put across to Cressy when she came out of reserve with a thin crew and needing experienced men. Pity it wasn’t delayed by three months, sir!”

“A bad luck ship, that one, Payne. Your papers are going through for Petty Officer, seeing just how good a job you have done for us here at Polegate.”

“Thank you, sir. Been thinking of getting married, sir. The extra money would do very nicely.”

“Put the request through as soon as you want, Payne. It will be given my approval.”

Payne made his thanks again, waited for the sting in the tail, knowing that he was not being favoured for no reason.

“Too much paperwork coming across the desks, Payne, Mr Naseby’s especially, him flying for the bulk of every day. I remember that my first captain, years back, had a system organised – three trays on his desk. Labels on each. One said ‘Sign’; the second was ‘Take Note Of’; the third, and smallest, read ‘For Immediate Action’. Used to be able to clear his desk in half an hour every day.”

Payne nodded.

“That can be done, sir.”

“I was sure it could be, Payne.”

Troughton picked up the telephone, asked for a number at the Admiralty, waited for the exchange, always slow in wartime, to connect him.

“Johnny, how are you dear boy?”

Peter could just hear the voice from the other end.

“Well indeed, brother. Covering yourself in glory down at Polegate, I see.”

“A bit of luck and a damned good man in the right place, Johnny. The old story.”

“My congratulations to him. What do you need, Archie?”

“Other than the pleasure of listening to your voice, Johnny? I have a Leading Seaman here, Paymaster, recently transferred in, wounded on Cressy. Good man. I want him made up to PO, substantive. It’s early, but I need a bit of rank in my office. Name’s Payne, with a ‘y’.”

There was a slight delay while files were consulted.

“Got him, Archie. Consider it done, dear boy! Right place at the right time – nothing too good for Polegate today. Notification will reach you before the end of the week. Have you heard that your man Fitzjames has kicked the bucket? Just come through. Needs a post captain who knows his way around the system in the RNAS. Seeing what can be done, Archie! Toodle-oo now, old chap – busy with all this work you people put upon me!”

Troughton hung up the receiver, nodded his satisfaction.

“Elder brother by my father’s first marriage, Naseby. Twenty years older than me and a damned good chap. Looked after me all through my schooldays and always had a quid to spare when I was at Dartmouth. Hear a lot about stepbrothers and that, not getting on together – couldn’t ask for a finer brother than Johnny. Rear Admiral now and dealing with the admin side in the RNAS. He will look after Payne, no problems!”

“Pity about Fitzjames, Troughton. A strange sort of fellow but he had the good of the service in mind, that was for sure.”

“Very much so, Naseby.”

Troughton had had respect but no affection for Fitzjames – he was laid to rest with very few words from him.

“Right, now. You had better spend an hour clearing your desk – Payne has had time enough to get to it by now. Then you will want to wander off to Shoreham, I should imagine.”