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

Cairncross wondered if the strain might not be getting to Naseby.

“It will take more than a few submarines to put Old England down, old chap. No need to worry yourself about that!”

“Rule Britannia, eh, Cairncross? We need more than patriotism – we need effective weapons. At the moment, the blimps are the most useful tool we have against submarines in coastal waters such as the Channel. We need to make ourselves more effective every day. One thing you can bet on is that the Germans will be thinking of how best to counter us now. They won’t do it this week. Six months from now I would bet they will have some ideas and we will need be better to deal with them.”

Cairncross agreed – that was obviously true. It was the job of the boffins up at the Admiralty to think about those problems. Their own function was to take the tools they were given and use them, not to tinker with them and try to make them better.

“There are no boffins, Cairncross, not with knowledge of the air and its problems. It is us or nobody when it comes to tactics, to using the blimps they send us. We have to invent everything from scratch, you know.”

It was not the Royal Navy’s way of doing things. It might be better was the balloon service to be taken away from the Navy and set up as its own separate entity.

“Still, while you are part of us, better to do things in the proper fashion, don’t you agree?”

“No. Better to do things in our own fashion, which is the right way to use balloons to kill Germans.”

“Ah, yes, old chap. What about after the war? The war will be won sooner or later and the Germans will go away. The Navy will last for ever. We must not be short sighted, you know. The precedents we establish will set the pattern for the centuries to come, so we must be careful to change nothing without the best of good reasons. Wiser far to keep the midshipmen properly separate and not to talk shop in the wardroom. You ought to try to get your balloons back well before dinner, as well – I don’t really like this idea of men eating at any odd hour that is convenient to them.”

Peter smiled his best – he must not insult Cairncross on the first day. He must wait at least twenty-four hours in courtesy.

“Operational necessity, I am afraid, Cairncross. We must have all of the balloons in the air during daylight hours. That means taking off at first light and landing immediately before dusk, seven days a week. There must always be a full ground crew available on the field against need. If we drop a bomb then we must return to rearm, all to be done in a hurry. The effect is that the wardroom must offer breakfast before dawn and dinner whenever the men come in. We shall be making a maximum effort all through the summer months. I hope we shall have new and bigger balloons before winter, capable of breasting the stronger winds. That, of course, is far distant in operational terms. For the while, there can be no choice – my crews must be fed and must have the opportunity to share their experiences.”

Cairncross capitulated, unwillingly.

“I shall speak to Troughton. It might be wisest to construct a second wardroom, you know. One to maintain the proper standards of the service, the other for your balloon people.”

“You would only need a very small second structure, Cairncross. I would need the hangars and magazine people with me. That would not leave too many on your side.”

Peter returned to his office, mildly annoyed. He had met the attitude before – that the war was no more than an interlude and the Navy would soon be able to return to its proper functions of cruising the world’s oceans and showing the flag to the natives. Far more important to keep the brass properly polished than to consider operational efficiency. The war would be won because England did not lose wars – it was all very simple and straightforward in the eyes of so many of the longer-serving officers.

He wondered whether he could make a career in the Navy now that his own eyes had been opened. He would tread on so many toes, offend a plethora of vested interests and family groupings. The Tubbs were an example – the current generation recognised by all as second-raters yet still able to pull the strings because they had always been powerful in the service. Beatty was another case – a man of limited ability and overwhelming ambition whose greatest single skill was to toady to royalty – and he was vying with Jellicoe for supremacy.

He suspected the Army was just as bad – the casualty figures suggested a lack of military skill. It was already clear that the trenches were a brick wall, and the generals insisted on butting their heads against it.

It might be as well to look about him just as soon as the war ended, to find an alternative. His father had hinted that the possibility was there, that he could find something else that would be more congenial. Perhaps he might even consider working for his living rather than drifting along comfortably…

That was a shocking concept in itself. Naval officers were not expected to work at anything. Their job was to supervise as the lower deck performed their duties, to know how to do everything, of course, but not actually to get their hands dirty.

Almost drowning C-in-C Pompey had been beneficial to him, it seemed, had caused him to think for himself. Perhaps he should try it again, possibly drowning Cairncross instead.

A few more pieces of paper and he took a stroll across to the hangars.

“Pickles, old chap, the wireless set is powered off its own tiny little petrol motor, is it not? A generator, do you call it?”

That was so, Pickles agreed.

“Produces electricity, Pickles?”

“Yes, that is what generators tend to do, sir.”

“Excellent! Would it be feasible to work an Aldis signalling lamp off the generator, rather than having heavy batteries, which don’t last that long anyway?”

“Damned good question, sir. I am not an electrical man, myself, but I have a PO who is a wizard at all things sparking. Harrison! Over here, please.”

The petty officer was young and wore spectacles, a rarity in the Navy and instantly forbidding him from shipboard service. A man whose glasses were broken a thousand miles out to sea was a liability.

“Commander Naseby wants to run an Aldis off the generator. Batteries are too heavy for onboard use.”

“Don’t know, sir. Have to discover what the Aldis runs on – it might have different power requirements to the wireless.”

Peter vaguely understood.

“That’s those amps and volts things, is it?”

“Yes, sir. That’s one way of putting it.”

He had been long enough in the service to know that the PO thought he had made a fool of himself.

“That’s why we have people like you, PO. I’ll just fly the thing and pull the triggers. You make ‘em work.”

“Yes, sir. I can have an answer for you by tomorrow, sir, after flying. If it won’t work, I might be able to come up with an alternative. It might be possible to run a wire off the engine, sir, if the jenny won’t do it.”

“Good, it would be useful to be able to talk to a destroyer at sea, much better than having to send a message here then make a telephone call to Dover for them to send a signal out to the ship that I can see half a mile away from me.”

“Right, sir. We’ll see what can be done.”

Harrison bustled off to his own little workshop, leaving the officers to inspect the busy scene.

“Modifying the petrol tanks, using the couple of days off, sir. Slinging them higher under the envelope, gravity feed, no need for a pump. Made them lighter by a few pounds as well which means we can add a few gallons to them. It all helps.”

“It does. Any word on when these Coastals will come into service?”