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

“Only three courses and them not of the best and the wines little more than vinegar. I do not know what guests would think of this!”

“No plans to have any, Commander,” Pickles assured him. “Can’t have guests when the balloons are flying – no officers in the wardroom to join them. No way of telling when we are going to be grounded by the weather, so no possibility of sending out invitations.”

Cairncross shook his head – a little of ingenuity could get round all such problems.

“Bearing in mind our recent great success, I would imagine that the worthies of the County will be awaiting invitations and their chance to rub shoulders with our fliers.”

“They will have to wait, Commander. Nothing we can do for them.” Pickles nodded to the waiters to draw the cloth and set out the port. “Must take a glass for form’s sake. Not my idea of a satisfying drink.”

Pickles filled his glass and passed the decanter along the table, waited till all had filled their own before lifting it to his lips.

“The Loyal Toast, Mr President?”

“We only bother with that on a Friday, Commander, and only then if the balloons are on the ground. Too much fuss and bother with trying to work out who is Mr Vice on the particular evening.”

“I would think the midshipmen would know their seniority and would be aware who was the junior!”

“No. Wartime entry. They don’t intend to stay in after the war and hardly expect to make much by way of promotion, so they are not concerned with the exact date on their papers. Not like us at all.”

“But, they damned well should be!”

It seemed to Peter that sentence summed up the whole problem.

“Not the best of beginnings with Cairncross, Naseby?”

Captain Troughton sounded ruefully amused.

“Got the same coming in from Capel and all of the other stations along my stretch of coast. Complaints that the fliers have no respect for all that makes the Royal Navy great on one side; moans that the old-school commanders are a bunch of stuffy bastards.”

“That was well expressed, sir. Couldn’t have put it better.”

“As I thought, Naseby. As ye sow, so shall ye reap, young man! I have spoken to the admiral and we have agreed that we are wasting scarce officers on the stations. No need for two commanders; a lieutenant commander can in fact command a station. The RFC has a single chain of command on its fields. So should we. There are predreadnoughts and monitors in commission, short of bodies, crying out for experienced senior officers. They will get them. You will take over command of the station, Naseby. Cairncross is off to sea, will undoubtedly be happier there as Commander in an old battleship. He will not be given the captaincy of a light cruiser, you will be pleased to hear.”

Peter was dismayed. He was tired, coming in from ten hours on patrol. To be greeted with the news that he was master of his domain was not what he wanted to hear.

“Can I have a Paymaster Lieutenant to sit at the desk and winnow through the mass of bumf, sir?”

“On his way already. I do want reports this month rather than next as a rule. Common sense said to get hold of a pen-pusher for you. Wartime entry, mind you. You will have to keep an eye on him until he gets a feel for the job. What’s the weather forecast?”

“Looks fairly good. I haven’t telephoned Plymouth, haven’t got any contacts there.”

“I shall see what can be arranged, Naseby. Might be possible to get a call made every morning to my office and then send the information out to the stations… I shall look into that. Your petty officer, young Payne, will have to greet the man tomorrow and settle him in. Shouldn’t be too difficult. Did you have a good leave?”

“Yes, thank you, sir. I was trotted out for the benefit of the old fogies on the first evening. Some sort of dinner party for the neighbourhood hosted by Lord Lancing.”

Troughton laughed.

“I know. Talked about it when my boss, who is Lancing’s brother, mentioned it to me. Introducing you to the great and the good, in case you decide to give the Navy the go-by after the war. Not trying to push you, Naseby, you could make a career in the Navy. You might do far better outside of it. You won’t ever make the very top in the Admiralty for being too intelligent. You think when you should be crying the name of Nelson. It is useful in wartime, having a man who possesses a brain and will use it; the peacetime Navy wants an officer who will keep the brasswork shining bright. If you want my advice – retire after the war as a young post captain, one of the bright stars of the Navy and with a great future ahead of him. There will be a sigh of relief when you go and a choice of opportunities in civilian life.”

Peter was inclined to be bitter.

“The Navy wants the Cairncrosses, you say, sir.”

“Until the next war comes, yes. That should be a long time – a century between the end of the Napoleonic Wars and the beginning of this one. Next war ain’t due till the year 2010 and you and me won’t be available for it. Do what you can now and leave the sea when the fun’s over, that’s my advice. Cultivate the old farts and fogies – they need bright go-getters to make their money for them and build a pile for themselves.”

“Probably good advice. I must get a meal, sir. Knackered from flying all day. I should make a polite farewell to Cairncross as well, I expect.”

“He will be gone, Naseby. I spoke to him mid-afternoon. He’s got a predreadnought stationed out of Dunkerque and will be on his way to Dover, delighted with the posting and to be at sea again. He thought he was to be shorebound for the rest of his existence, can think of nothing better than to be sent to a battleship. Said that it might be old but he would soon have it polished up and properly smart.”

“With those words, I shall leave you, sir. I can think of nothing to say.”

Dinner was waiting in the wardroom, slightly dry but hot.

Handsworth was sat at a table with Pickles and Sargent, pulled out a chair for Peter when he had finished eating.

“Mr Cairncross left us this afternoon, Commander. A short reign indeed.”

“Brief but merry, Handsworth.”

They thought that was a great joke.

“Who is to replace him, Commander?”

“Me. With the aid of a paymaster lieutenant to do the bulk of the paper-pushing, we shall have just the single command structure. Apparently, it’s the way they do it in the RFC – they have majors who command their airfields as well as fly their aeroplanes.”

“Busy men, Commander.”

“Might instal a desk in SS9 to do the paperwork in quiet moments when we’re out.”

They called for more gin and debated the possibilities.

The new body appeared, showed himself to be a peacetime bank clerk, a man of thirty who had been promoted in his branch, was in line to become a bank manager and believed himself more than capable of running what he considered to be a small office. He sat down with PO Payne and set up more efficient methods of dealing with the necessary reports and administration, assured Peter that he would have very little to do.

“Only items demanding a decision to appear on your desk, sir. I shall present a precis of all information you must know. Where your signature is required, sir, I shall place a separate folder which can be quickly dealt with.”

“Very good, Farnsworth, is it? Wartime entry?”

“Yes, sir. Thought I should join up to do my bit, sir. Discovered I was partially colour blind at the medical and could not be accepted as a deck officer. Ended up here in the Paymasters, sir. Necessary work and must be done properly, sir.”

“So it must, Farnsworth. While you are doing it, I am not, much to my relief!”