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

“Probably not, sir. Commander Cairncross is inspecting the field at the moment, sir. I will inform him of your presence when he comes in.”

“Do that, please. For the moment, can you get Captain Troughton on the telephone for me?”

The normal delays as the call was put through then Troughton’s voice booming in the earpiece.

“Naseby, you are back early, old chap. What can I do for you.”

They discussed the problem of Tubb’s family for a few minutes, Payne busy at his desk making a show of hearing nothing.

“Bloody nuisance, Naseby. The boy’s doing well where he is, for the first time ever. Pity they can’t leave him alone. I’ll have a word around, see what is to be done. We won’t be able to keep him if they really make a fuss, you know. We are pushing to keep RNAS personnel distinct from the wet navy, no interchange. Don’t know if it will come through in time. What I can do is ensure he goes where he might be useful. Naval Constructor’s Office, perhaps, or into the Gunnery section, though that is very clannish, don’t like outsiders who haven’t been through the Whale Island route. I shall see. Met your new man yet?”

“No, he’s out on the field at the moment.”

“Bit on the stiff side – ten years in the rank and passed over for promotion to post captain. By the book sort. No great harm in him.”

Peter wondered if there was any great good in him either. He made no comment, feeling at peace and charitable to the human race for the while. There was much to be said for a young lady like Charlie, should be more of them about…

He sat down to his in-trays, signed eighteen documents unread and then turned to the small stack marked ‘action required’.

Ten minutes saw a request for compassionate leave granted and two turned down and permission to marry granted to four ratings, all of whom had been transferred ashore after long commissions and wanted to settle down while they could.

The Navy did not like its men to marry, certainly not before reaching senior rank in their various fields. Peter thought this was a Victorian hangover and no longer appropriate. China was only twelve weeks away in this steam age – there was no need for men to go out on five or ten year postings as had previously been the case. In any case, they were at war – a marriage delayed might never take place at all.

That left the largest stack, ‘for information’, which he needed to read, ignorance never being an excuse.

Payne knocked half an hour later.

“Beg pardon, sir. Commander Cairncross is in his office now, sir, and is free to speak with you.”

Clumsily expressed, Peter thought, walking through after Payne, picking up his hat – they should exchange salutes at a first meeting.

“Come in, Naseby. How do ye do? Take a seat.”

A formal handshake – no harm in that.

“Bit of a difficult set up, Naseby – no direct line of command as such. You are OIC Flying and I cannot overrule you on operational matters. Trouble, is, what is ‘operational’ and what is not? I am in command of HMS Polegate in all other aspects. We need to work together, I think. As long as we accept that the single overriding need is to fly our patrols, there should be no great problem.”

It was easy to agree there.

“We have tended to be pretty much relaxed in everyday matters, Cairncross. The ten of us who fly do nothing else, with the exception of myself. No guard duty; no officer of the day; no duties at all when the blimps are grounded. Thing is, a patrol of ten or twelve hours can leave the boys exhausted – they are only youngsters, all of them.”

“Could lead to a sort of ‘us and them’ mentality in the wardroom, Naseby.”

“It does to a great extent already. The fliers see themselves as different. They are the whole reason for Polegate existing – every other man on the field is there to get us in the air and keep us there. Very easy for us to be an elite group – the little lords of creation, you might say.”

Cairncross could accept that. It was difficult to see how they could be other.

“I was talking to the wardroom steward, Naseby. Not a happy man.”

“Needs his arse kicking, Cairncross! Most of my lads are wartime entry, no money of their own, living on their pay – which ain’t very much for a mid or a sub. They can’t be forking out fees for a wine cellar and whatever – they haven’t got the cash. Simple as that. I really do not want them worried about living expenses when they should be giving their all to their flying. Can’t have formal dinners and such with wartime entry officers, Cairncross – it’s simply not possible.”

“Even so, we could do a bit more, don’t you think, Naseby?”

“No. The boys have spent out on warm scarves and gloves and extra sweaters – they simply don’t have even another five shillings a week to put into the wardroom fund.”

“I was thinking of more like two pounds, Naseby, and that is low compared to many ships.”

“It is. They haven’t got it. The mids are part of the wardroom and they cannot conceivably find anything from the few shillings a week they are paid.”

Cairncross shook his head. Without agreement, he could not go forward with his plans to make the wardroom a more respectable place.

“I was thinking we could put in for a gunroom to be built to house the midshipmen. Not really the thing, having them in the wardroom with commission officers, you know.”

“Useful, Cairncross. We can discuss the day’s flying over a relaxing beer last thing at night after they have eaten. All informal and easy, the crews together and learning from each other.”

“Talking shop in the wardroom, Naseby? Hardly desirable, surely!”

“We are at war, Cairncross. There is nothing more desirable than that we increase our efficiency in every possible way. That means we must talk to each other, the more the better. As well, we often need to discuss the bombs with Handsworth and young Sargent, the details of fusing, especially. We have already decided to modify the official fuses and have tried our changes out. Add to that, we need to make a decision on these little sixteen pounders. There is a lot to talk about and no time or place other than the wardroom available.”

Cairncross seized on the one point that seemed glaringly wrong to him.

“The fuses. They are the Admiralty pattern. You cannot simply modify them. They are the fuses you must use.”

“Not if we can improve them, Cairncross. If we can make them more effective, then we can tell our masters in the RNAS and they can speak to the gunnery people and we can argue it all out. If we don’t test out our changes, we cannot know if they will work.”

It was not done that way; Cairncross could not approve.

“Ah, well, old chap. That’s my side, operations, so it can all be filtered through me and any come-back lands on me.”

That also needed discussion – where their respective commands overlapped and how they could ensure they did not fall into dispute.

“Take it as it comes, Cairncross, and talk to Troughton when we have problems. He is a sensible sort of fellow, will be able to come up with a quick solution nine times out of ten. Keep it informal – so much easier, that way.”

It was not the Navy’s way of doing things – there was a proper procedure for everything and it was far wiser to keep to the book.

“More important to fight the war, Cairncross. We can write the book afterwards, if there is a Navy still. If we don’t put the submarines down, the book may be written in German, you know. All it would need would be for four submarines to get free in the Straits of Dover for a day and we could lose a whole division and its stores. A week of submarine activity and the war would be lost. You hear a lot about Jellicoe and the Grand Fleet being able to lose the war in an afternoon – that ain’t very likely, but the chance of submarines doing the job, cutting us off from France and America both, is a damned sight higher. We have no rulebook for using airships to suppress submarines, so we need to invent one, and pretty damned quick!”