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

Figures ran into the pool of light from the lamps.

“Soldiers, sir. Wearing pickelhaubes, sir.”

“Open fire, Griffiths.”

The Lewis crackled in a short burst as Peter opened the throttle slowly, taking care not to flood the engine. They began to bump forward.

“Closing, sir! Shooting at us.”

Right hand off the yoke, reaching for the cord in the corner of the cockpit, swearing as a bullet creased his shoulder. He heard a howl from Griffiths as he heaved on the thick line and released the water ballast, lightening the nacelle by three hundred and fifty pounds. The balloon shot up into the air, far steeper than the ordinary climb away, disappearing from the sight of those on the ground in seconds. The rifle fire ceased as he turned through one hundred and twenty degrees to port, coming onto a bearing well south of west and holding the throttle open at full until they reached four thousand feet and safety.

He reduced speed to forty miles an hour into the wind, probably a little more than thirty miles an hour over the ground.

“Griffiths! Are you badly hit?”

Five minutes gone since escaping, a safe distance from the landing field. He picked up the small electric torch carried in the cockpit, shone it forward on Griffiths.

The lieutenant was slumped forward over the Lewis, unmoving. There was blood splashed liberally, dripping down into the well of the cockpit. Shifting the torch beam he spotted three exit wounds in Griffiths’ back, bullets having torn through from his chest and side. There was no more blood coming from them.

‘Poor little sod’s dead. For sure.’

Peter could not climb forward from the pilot’s cockpit while in flight. He had to keep control of the yoke and throttle.

Landing in German occupied territory was forbidden to him. It would mean capture of him and most likely the balloon as he would probably be unable to get down and pull Griffiths out and to safety and then set fire to the gasbag.

Getting down behind the Lines was a possibility, but not until daylight when he would be able to select a flat stretch of ground close to an army unit that could provide men to control the balloon. Landing without the ballast aboard would not be easy and there would be no facilities to moor the ship.

If he increased speed to fifty, he could make Polegate for first light and have skilled hands to bring him in.

He sat back in his seat, opening up the throttle. If Griffiths was alive, he could do nothing for him. The odds were very high that he was dead. Three bullets through the chest would be fatal nine times out of ten. He pushed the pistols he had not used out of his way, tried to make himself comfortable for the tedious flight back to England.

His shoulder twinged as he shifted in his seat. He could see nothing, put a hand up to feel, came away with a trickle of blood on his glove. Probing with a bare finger suggested a trivial hole in his shoulder, a splinter sent flying by a bullet, most likely. An inch higher would have hit the collarbone and likely incapacitated him for a few minutes, leading to their capture. Three inches to the left would have ripped a hole in his throat. As it was, nothing – a quick wipe with carbolic and a pad taped on for a day and he would be perfectly sound again.

He wondered briefly how the Belgians had got on, suspected they would have been lucky to escape. Those taken would certainly be shot as spies from all he had read in the papers of the treatment of the conquered country.

Another great success for Intelligence, it would seem!

An hour and he could pick out the Channel, the sea much lighter than the land. The towns along the Belgian and north French coast were blacked out he knew, to give no navigation marks out to sea. He could see nothing that he recognised. He throttled down, needing to wait for first light to find his way back to Polegate.

He craned forward, playing the torch over Griffiths again. Still no movement.

He eased course a little southerly, having a feeling he was north of where he wanted to be as he crossed the coast.

Two more hours and he had light, could see white cliffs to his west, turned towards them, not knowing whether it was Dover or Beachy Head.

A few minutes and he picked out Dover Harbour, opened up the throttle and headed directly towards Polegate. He readied the Very pistol, a red flare, two more to reload.

In low, over the gatehouse at two hundred feet firing the flare as the men on duty ran outside. He circled as the field began to resemble an ant’s nest, men running from barracks and the Cottage, arms waving, parties assembling in quick order. He fired another red flare to confirm emergency. CPO Yarney appeared in front of the landing party, fired a green flare and waved him in. He spotted a sick berth attendant with a stretcher party at his side, all according to the laid down standing orders.

He had never landed without the additional weight of the water ballast, did not know what difference it might make. No trailing rope, either. The wireless aerial was out. He wondered if it was strong enough to be hauled on.

Throttle back to little more than ticking over, fins hard down, much more angle than he would normally apply. The nacelle thumped into the turf and bounced a good ten feet in the air, came down again, slewing to the side as the wind tried to turn the balloon broadside on and bouncing a second time. Down again and hands grabbing at the cockpit coaming, the first few swinging their feet off the ground, putting their whole weight onto the nacelle.

“Got her, sir!”

“Get the medical team to Griffiths. I think he’s dead.”

“You’re covered in blood over your coat, sir.”

“Just a scratch. Check the front first.”

A few seconds and Yarney appeared shaking his head.

“He’s a goner, sir. Three rounds in his chest and two more lower down. Can’t have lasted a minute, sir. Let’s get you out, sir.”

Peter stood and staggered, unexpectedly weak.

Bracegirdle ran across, having taken the time to put on his uniform, unlike many of the men present.

“The Commander to the sickbay. Mr Griffiths as well. Chief, take SS9 into the hangar. Mr Pickles to take her over, obviously. Payne, telephone to Captain Troughton, tell him what we know at the moment, which is not bloody much! Inform him that Polegate will patrol as normal this morning. Cooks! Early breakfasts! Get hot cocoa on the go as well for soonest. We all need something at five o’clock in the bloody morning!”

“Half past four, sir.”

“Even worse!”

Peter refused a stretcher, walked across to the medical hut reflecting that six months in the Trenches had turned Bracegirdle into a fine young officer, liked as well as respected by the ratings. He must make sure Troughton knew to promote him rapidly.

He was sat down on an upright wooden chair.

“Just taking your upper clothes off, sir. You stay still and we’ll get them off without hurting too much.”

“It’s no more than a scratch. Bullet or a splinter more like, just nicked the flesh.”

“Beg pardon, sir, but there ain’t no hole at the back of your coat. Good chance you’ve got a bullet stuck in your shoulder. Just going to have a look…”

Silence for a while.

“Yes, sir. Gone in under the collar bone and travelled a bit. Reckon maybe it hit something first, got slowed down before it hit you. I’m not touching this, sir. Needs a medical officer, a doctor, not a Sick Berth Attendant One what I am. Jonesy!”

A lean, tiny fellow who Peter vaguely recognised as part of the sick bay, stepped forward.

“Run across to Mr Bracegirdle and say as how the Commander ‘as got to go to the hospital. Ask whether to call an ambulance, what will take the better part of an hour to get here, or to send him off on a stretcher in the back of a Crossley.”