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

Jonesy ran.

The SBA found a white gown and draped it over Peter’s upper body.

“Cold in early morning, sir. Even late in May, it is.”

They waited less than five minutes, heard a petrol engine outside.

Jonesy appeared.

“Stick the Commander up on a stretcher, SBA.”

Peter grinned as he heard the formality that would never normally be used. The three men in the sickbay would certainly be on Christian name terms with each other, but not in front of the Commanding Officer.

Twenty minutes saw them into the hospital at Eastbourne, the elderly duty doctor half awake and ordering Peter to the operating table.

“Try to do it with a local anaesthetic, sir. Looks as if it is a straightforward low velocity entry wound. What happened and when? This wound is a few hours old.”

Peter explained that he had flown his balloon back from Belgium, being unable to land at night.

“What? What were you doing in Belgium? Forget I asked! None of my damned business! What is the world coming to? Shot in Belgium and flying back to Eastbourne for treatment. Didn’t happen in my day! Still, I have seen enough bullet wounds lately that I remember well what to do with them. Nurse!”

Two nurses moved into action, stripping Peter of his remaining clothing and quickly washing and disinfecting the skin around the wound. One of the pair produced a huge glass hypodermic and advanced on him.

“Don’t look at it if you are going to faint, sir!”

“Sorry, nurse. I hate those damned things!”

“Tut! Dropping bombs on submarines from one hundred feet without turning an eyebrow then going all pale at the sight of a needle!”

The doctor showed interested.

“Are you that one, sir? Well done. A couple of minutes for the injection to take and then we shall see what can be found.”

An unpleasant quarter of an hour disclosed a deformed bullet and scraps of leather, wool and linen from his coat and uniform.

“More dangerous than the damned bullet, sir. All cleaned out and made tidy now. No damage to the bone, or not worth talking about, anyway. Muscle tear that will be annoying, will take longer to heal than all the rest put together. No sense telling you to stay in bed for the next week. Just keep the arm in the sling for at least a fortnight and then exercise carefully. Don’t go out flying for a month – you need to rest and build up your strength. You ought to stay here for two days at least, but you would only be a nuisance to yourself and everybody else. Keep off your feet for a few days.”

The Crossley was waiting and they eased him into the front passenger seat and sent him on his way quietly swearing to himself. He would not have objected to a couple of days rest in a hospital bed but that was for ordinary men – heroes had to be seen to rise above mere wounds.

Troughton appeared as he sat to a breakfast, carefully cut up for him by his steward.

“Sit down, man! What happened? I know Griffiths was killed. Damned bad luck, the boy had a good career in front of him.”

Peter recounted the day’s doings, taking some pains to point out that Intelligence had sent him out with the minimum of briefings and had not even waited to see him take off.

“Bloody hell! That’s poor behaviour. I shall tell the Admiral so. They could and should have done better than that. They can whistle for the use of our balloons in future, Naseby!”

The captain listened to the story of the actual landing and escape.

“You made your delivery and were shot at by a patrol that appeared coincidentally, you believe.”

“I thought I saw a train stopped on the line a half a mile or so distant, on an embankment crossing the river valley.”

“Saw the balloon, stopped and came to investigate? Bad luck and a bright officer combined. Bloody stupid place to have you land, in sight of a busy line!”

Peter agreed, wholeheartedly. The anaesthetic was starting to wear off.

“Griffiths opened up with his Lewis and was hit by return fire, as were you. You then dropped the water ballast and took off fast and hard, very wisely. Nowhere to land in the dark, so you came home.”

“A bit like a stray tomcat, had a night on the tiles and back home bedraggled in the morning, sir.”

“Not how I would describe it, Naseby. You saved the balloon, and that is important to us. Pity about the Belgians – nothing you could do for them, or for Griffiths. Bracegirdle tells me that he had five wounds in chest and upper legs, would have died within seconds. Bad luck for the lad.”

“So it was, sir. A good youngster. Could have done a lot.”

“So could so many others killed in action, Naseby. Home for you for two weeks. Leave Bracegirdle here in command for that time?”

“He is more than competent, sir. Make him acting lieutenant commander now and give him one of the new bases we are opening along the East Coast when I come back.”

“Will do. I shall send a staff car across this morning, Naseby. You and your servant to go home. Come back fit in a fortnight.”

“This is Oadby, Mother. He is my sailor servant.”

She was not entirely sure of the significance of the term; she knew how to make accommodation for the servants of guests. She also knew to remain calm and collected, as was proper, at all times. The sight of her second son, pale faced and haggard, arm in sling, did not alter her show of composure.

“Porson will see to his comfort, Peter. You must come in and sit down. You are wounded. I shall call our doctor to you – he will know better than your mere service people. Porson!”

The housekeeper, quietly in the background, having glanced out of the kitchen window as the knocker rattled, stepped forward and took charge, leading Oadby upstairs with the suitcases and sending a message to Cook to feed another servant and look to the younger son’s comfort while he remained, wounded in service. Cook must discover what, if any, special dietary needs the young man might have.

“Have you taken a luncheon yet, Peter?”

He had not. They had travelled directly from Polegate in the staff car. He had not really eaten since an early dinner on the previous evening, taken near Ypres.

“Ypres! Whatever were you doing there? That is the Salient we have heard too much of, especially in the lists in the newspapers.”

Every newspaper bore a black-bordered list on its main news pages, the names of the fallen of the previous twenty-four hours, as released by the War Office and often days out of date.

“At least, your name is not there.”

“Young Griffiths, my lieutenant, will be, Mama. He died at my side last night.”

“Poor lad! No more than a boy, surely, from the photographs I saw.”

“Barely seventeen. I cannot explain all that we were doing, Mama. I am not permitted to. Suffice it to say that we made a landing in occupied Belgium to deliver certain supplies to the brave Belgians who still defy the Germans. We were caught on the ground and Griffiths was killed by rifle fire as we made our escape. I was hit by a single bullet which did little enough injury to me – it likely spent most of its force on the woodwork of the cockpit. I am home for a fortnight, if that is convenient to you.”

“Convenient? This is your home, Peter! You are always and ever welcome.”

He supposed that to be true. He had grown away from the house at least. The people were family still.

In part it was war and the effects it had upon him – he had to be his own man, could no longer be merely his parents’ son. He wondered where he would end up, what house he would eventually purchase and in which town, where he would put roots down, assuming he ever did so.

Being wounded made him gloomy, it would seem.