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

“Diving attack over this big mole, sir, five of us in line astern. We could do it if we could see it. One bomb each, which is all we can carry. One hundred and twelve pounds, sir.”

“A quarter of a ton, in five separate explosions. Except by luck, you would do no damage at all. If you were lucky, then you would do very little. The lock gates are too big. We cannot make an attack on Zeebrugge, except in massive force. We must rely on the barrage and on convoys. Thank you for coming, Naseby. Take a meal before you go back. I had hoped we could talk through the plan of attack over a bite to eat, but there will be no attack.”

Troughton led Peter off to the wardroom.

“Did very well there, Naseby! Told him his favourite scheme was a no-go and got away unscathed – not many people achieve that! Interested that you think you could land without a ground party.”

“Not ‘land’ as such, sir. Couldn’t switch off and park up on a field without men to walk us in. What we could do is drop in and as you might say hover for a minute or two. Could drop off a man or pick one up, provided I could find the location at night. No wind, as well – be buggered in anything more than a light breeze.”

“Even so, old chap. We might be able to do a lot there.”

“Use one of the older balloons. The envelope gets dirty over time. Starts off quite a bright grey, gets grimier and darker over the months. Able to sneak through the night unseen and almost unheard in one of the older blimps. More accurately, one with an older envelope.”

Luncheon – nothing so undignified as a mere ‘lunch’ – was taken in the mess shared with Army officers and various civilians of senior status. It was a serious meal, designed for the benefit of generals’ and admirals’ bellies. There was wine with each course.

“Must be rich to pay the wardroom fees here, sir.”

“A couple of hundred a year, at least, Naseby. The staff do not pig it like the lesser mortals who actually fight the war.”

“Quite right too, sir. Where would we be if the aristocracy were not pandered to?”

“You sound like a Red, Naseby. An hour in company of the staff and I am too.”

Troughton accompanied Peter to his waiting tender, passing him back out through the gates.

“I shall be away to London to have a chat with some acquaintances tucked away in the less-known parts of the Admiralty, Naseby. Might be we could put you to, shall we say clandestine use.”

Peter smiled and showed enthusiastic, delighted to assist in any way to win the war. Troughton was a good fellow; he was still his senior officer and to be treated as such.

He saw a submarine a week later, dropped his bomb in its vague submerged locality and spent hours circling its possible location and assisting destroyers to chase it. He came away at nightfall, just making it into Polegate before sunset, swearing and stiff from a day of concentration. He entered the wardroom to eat a steak that had been kept warm for three hours since dinner, needing food, not especially enjoying it.

“What’s the score, Commander?”

“Submarine nil, Royal Navy nil. Light stopped play, Tubbs.”

They thought that was rather clever.

He relaxed with a gin and tonic.

“We need some way of signalling to the ships, Tubbs. A day of waving and pointing from the cockpit was rather frustrating.”

Pickles looked up from his beer.

“My Sparks has worked out how to run an Aldis off the jenny, Commander. We are waiting for the lamps themselves to come up from stores, will fit them overnight as soon as they get here.”

“Oh, well done, Pickles! That will be a godsend!”

“It was your idea, Commander. We have talked with the Torpedo Branch at the Admiralty and they have noted your name against it.”

“Torpedoes?”

“It’s electrical and torpedoes used electricity first so the Torpedo Branch took over all things relating to it, including wireless and electrically powered signalling lamps.”

“Of course. Obvious! I should have realised.”

It was how the Admiralty worked – and thought.

More long days of empty patrolling and Captain Troughton appeared one nightfall.

“Who of your subs could be promoted lieutenant and be put in charge of flying during your absence for three or four days?”

“Bracegirdle. His months in the trenches have turned him into a strong officer. Not necessarily the most able; easily the best at taking a decision. Horrocks is still not fully happy with command, though a damned good pilot. After him? Tubbs, surprisingly. He will always know the right thing to do and will try to give the correct orders. His manner is too diffident for my liking – an officer don’t apologise for telling a man what to do – but he is certainly able. What’s the position with his family, by the way?”

Troughton grinned.

“Stymied! Can’t do a thing. Their Lordships have declared that the RNAS is a specialist division and that its personnel should not generally be interchangeable with the wet navy. Exceptions are to be made for the seaplane carriers, and for the aircraft carriers they are thinking about. For us, however, the rule is clear – our officers and ratings belong to us and will not be posted outside of the RNAS, except they might volunteer for hazardous service or be found medically unfit for flying or somesuch. Tubbs cannot be pulled from us and stuffed aboard a battleship, much to his family’s dismay.”

“Good! I shall pass him the word. He will celebrate, I do not doubt. He is enjoying his service here, for the first time since he entered Dartmouth. He is one of the most useful officers and is often asked for his opinion and advice. Add to that, he has seen a submarine three times and has dropped his bomb twice, the second time leaving a moving oil slick on the surface which confirmed he had done some damage. I put him up for a Mention for that, by the way, a fortnight ago.”

“Gone through. He will receive official notification soon.”

That was pleasing – the boy deserved something. No doubt they could throw a party of some sort when the confirmation arrived. If they had a wet day, perhaps a meal in a big hotel in Brighton. He doubted whether the boy had been drunk in his life, and he had certainly never patronised a lady of the night. Brighton was a place where he could do both, and in safety, the tarts being of the better sort.

“Right, Naseby. Be so good as to inform Bracegirdle that he is your Number One and that he must get some idea of the administration of the flotilla. His promotion, substantive, will be notified tomorrow. At some time in the next fortnight, you will be requested and required to fly SS9 across to Flanders – you will be given a precise location, obviously. When there, you will be given a mission to cross the lines and drop off a large sum of money in Occupation notes and a pair of wireless sets. No batteries – they can supply the power themselves. Can’t be thrown over the side of an aeroplane on a parachute, the sets don’t bounce well. You will probably be given written reports in exchange. Details of finding the landing place will be given last minute. How is your boy Griffiths as a navigator?”

Peter shrugged.

“He can find his way, generally, sir.”

“I could replace him with a specialist.”

“No. Rather have Griffiths. He knows his way around the engine as well as being competent with a chart. Where have they got hold of the Occupation notes, sir?”

“Bank of England, Naseby. Printed them off ourselves.”

That seemed almost criminal. It was certainly not gentlemanly.

“Forgeries, sir?”

“Not in time of war, Naseby. The government has given itself almost unlimited powers under the Defence of the Realm Act and that includes the capacity to make war on land, sea and air in any way necessary.”