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

“Wet down here in winter, sir. Thick mud. Couldn’t barely get through in January, sir.”

Through Shoreham itself, which took very few minutes, a small town with little to distinguish it, and uphill to the RNAS field, past the board announcing HMS Shoreham, all naval bases being ships, and then round to the tall hangars and far smaller mess buildings.

Peter saw his first airship, being walked out of a hangar, at least fifty men pulling on ropes to hold it down and ease it out into the open air. It was huge. He watched for a minute or two before turning to the buildings.

“Doorway on the left, sir. Commander, acting as first lieutenant.”

He squared his cap and marched inside, spotted a lieutenant commander, rising from a desk.

“Naseby, sir. Reporting to join.”

“Ah yes. Busy day for you, Naseby! Drowning Sea Lords first thing in the morning to joining the RNAS in the afternoon!”

“We fished him out, sir, with his boat crew. None lost. More damage done to his dignity than anything else, sir.”

“Captain Holder reports that the collision was entirely the admiral’s fault?”

“He was running late for a meeting, sir. Ducked under Persephone’s stern and tried to cut across Calliope’s bows. Had him in sight for a bare thirty seconds. Managed to just hit him a glancing blow, overturned him rather than drove him under. Had a boat in the water and him out inside two minutes.”

“So Holder said. Telephoned me to give me the gen. Your captain was unsympathetic?”

“Worried he might lose his ship, sir, I suspect. Not ideal, when you consider it, your ship’s first battle honour being C-in-C Portsmouth.”

The lieutenant commander laughed. It seemed that Peter had passed some sort of test. He suspected that if he had complained it was unfair he might have been turned away, sent off as unsuitable.

“I’m Finlay, Naseby. Welcome aboard. Let’s get you organised. Captain’s busy outside, he likes to oversee bringing the ships in and out of the sheds personally. Get a wind that catches them sideways on the ground and they can crash into the doors and rip their skins. Only small hangars here, not wholly suitable, a chance of collision and at worst, lose gas and catch fire, which would be unpleasant for all. Now then, various forms to get you on the roster and paid and deductions for mess fees. Generally pretty informal in the wardroom, Naseby. Don’t go in for Dinners and such. Most of the youngsters can’t afford it. We don’t get many of the traditional career officers here – they don’t like the balloons. Wartime mids and subs, mostly, with no incomes of their own. All of us in the same facility, not having one separate for the mids and wanting all of the flying people in together anyway.”

“Many of us, sir?”

“You make fourteen, at the moment. Naseby. More balloons coming out of the factory and we will need more men for them. Might not be able to stick with volunteers, the way things are going. Might be that the best thing will be to call for ratings to put their names forward. Offer them a commission in exchange. Should be able to fill the gaps that way.”

Peter thought for a few seconds, decided it would work. There might be problems in the wardroom, but they could be ironed out.

“Yes, sir. Young men, say with at least one long cruise at sea behind them, or with experience in the Channel, on the destroyers and small craft, if they were to be wartime enlistments. Men who have shown their worth in some way. I know several ratings from my last two ships who would make more than adequate officers.”

“Good. So do I. Captain Fitzjames is not quite so sure. I am sure he can be persuaded by his senior men, of whom you are one, of course. Our officers are youngsters, all, and only one lieutenant is senior to you. He’s out at the moment. You will meet him this afternoon when he comes in.”

“I’ll get settled in then, sir.”

“Don’t get too comfortable. The hangars at Polegate, just down the coast, are almost finished and we might be taking the station over within days. Most likely we will pull out of Shoreham and give it over to the RFC or the heavier-than-air RNAS as a training station. More suitable for them.”

Captain Fitzjames was tall, two or three inches over six feet, massively bearded in the Victorian tradition and skeletally thin. Peter doubted he would turn the scales at one hundred pounds, wondered if he might be consumptive. He looked ill, grey and exhausted. He was definitely at least slightly mad. He believed in airships, knew them to be the ultimate answer to winning the war at sea and probably on land as well.

“Small ships to protect the Channel and East Coast, Naseby. Blimps, that is. Full scale dirigibles to monitor Atlantic shipping. Thing is, Naseby, the submarine is incorrectly named. It can’t live beneath the water for more than a few hours at a time and must spend the bulk of its existence on the surface. It’s a submersible, not a submarine – a surface ship that can descend beneath the waves for a limited time. It has no protection against aerial attack. A dirigible convoying a score of ships will see every submarine on the surface for a twenty mile range, more perhaps. The balloon can drive the subs under the water with the threat of its depth bombs. Once submerged, few subs can make as much as four knots. The convoys or individual ships can outrun them.”

It seemed logical.

“Forty dirigibles operating between Londonderry and Halifax in Canada would end the submarine menace, except in winter when the gales grow too strong. They could cut losses almost to nothing. But – it is a new concept and Their Lordships will not take it on board in full. They have agreed to use the coastal blimps and we can be thankful – and amazed – at that.”

The Captain shook his head, deploring the short-sighted, head in the sand nature of the Admiralty and of all who dwelt within it.

“Think what could be achieved on the Western front by balloons sitting in the sky at ten thousand feet, well beyond the range of most guns, using telescope and wireless to communicate with our gunners.”

“Might there not be a problem with aeroplanes, sir? I have heard – we all have recently – of aeroplanes, Fokkers, carrying machine guns to shoot at each other. Load those guns with tracer rounds, sir, and I do not believe that hydrogen gas filled balloons would live long.”

Captain Fitzjames was dismissive.

“The dirigible is a stable platform and could be equipped with its own guns to hold them off, Naseby. Not a problem.”

“Possibly so, sir. For the while, I believe we have our smaller blimps here at Shoreham, though the ones I have seen are by no means tiny!”

“They are not, Naseby. One hundred and forty-three feet, nose to tail, when inflated, and forty-three feet at maximum height. Further details can wait till tomorrow when you start to become acquainted with the ships you will fly. The Sea Scouts are of some seventy thousand cubic feet of gas to provide lift. Underneath the balloon itself, the fuselage of an aeroplane, suspended by wires. No wings, of course. An engine, either tractor or pusher depending on the plane used, and cockpits for two or more crew. Where it is practical, depending on the size of the fuselage we have been given, we have cut away the fuselage to provide a third cockpit, but that does mean no bomb, because of weight considerations. Thus, we have the pilot, radio man and engineer and in some the second hand who is gunner and lookout and whatever is necessary. We have larger balloons planned to take a four man crew including a second gunner. There will be a choice of bombs to be suspended below the envelope.”

It seemed within reason simple.