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

He ate his lunch and talked and tried to calm his mother’s fears – he had only been a little hurt and that by bad luck.

“Should you go up to your room to rest for the afternoon, Peter?”

He agreed with little argument. Flying all night had left him tired and he had not been able to rest comfortably in the car coming up from Polegate. He allowed Oadby to assist him into pyjamas and demanded a bath for five o’clock when he must rise to be ready for the arrival of his father and brother.

Six o’clock saw him sat in working uniform, as was proper in his own home. He would not wear mess dress for dinner unless there were guests, his parents not demanding formality for family meals. His father and brother would be wearing no more than lounge suits to dine. Oadby had changed the bandages and sling, made sure everything was clean and tidy.

The elder Nasebys arrived from their normal train. His father showing surprise and some distress. Menfolk were allowed emotions, in their own home.

“Peter! I did not expect to see you, heard nothing down the grapevine. What has happened, an accident?”

“A rifle bullet, Father. On a job for Intelligence in Belgium. It went wrong.”

“How many times have we heard that said of Intelligence these last few months! They need a few businessmen in their ranks to show them how to organise themselves!”

“I lost young Griffiths, my lieutenant.”

“Bad luck that, my son. He went well, I presume?”

“Manning his Lewis. Gave me the chance to get us into the air.”

“Well done, the boy! Can’t ask for much better than that, Peter.”

“Small comfort for his parents, Father. I must discover their whereabouts and at least send them a letter.”

“Not an easy task, Peter.”

Geoffrey managed to say a few sensible words – Peter supposed he must have had practice in condolences, the way the casualty lists were mounting.

“How badly are you injured, Peter?”

“Not much. A hole in the shoulder is all. The bullet had lost much of its force when it hit me. I was lucky.”

He did not mention his growing suspicion that the bullet had passed through Griffiths to hit him – he could offer no proof, had no need to feel guilt.

Dinner was a quiet, ordinary meal, Peter’s mother taking pleasure in cutting his beef for him, her little boy again.

“A silent table without the girls, Mother.”

“It is indeed. Far too much so, Peter. Jennifer lives at the hospital now, in something called ‘Nurses Quarters’, with a proper housekeeper to watch over them. She sometimes calls upon us of a Sunday afternoon, has almost no other free time, from the little she says. She seems tired and older now.”

Geoffrey agreed – the life was not good for her and he really thought she should stand down from it.

“Done her bit now. Ought to settle back to a proper life for a girl.”

His father shook his head, gravely rebuking him.

“We must all be grateful to Jennifer for the work she does for her country and for the poor men who pass through her hands. I believe she intends to study as a doctor when the war ends – if it ever does – and she will have my wholehearted support. The days of the sheltered young miss are gone, Geoffrey.”

He could not agree – what was right and proper could not change merely to accommodate a war.

“And as for Minnie! Words fail me, Father!”

“Do they? I am rather proud of her, my son. She is in France and driving an ambulance of her own already, I am told. She is doing very well. What she will be after the war, I cannot imagine. Not a simpering, blushing debutante, that is for sure!”

“Most likely one of those damned flapper suffragettes, sir!”

“Quite possibly, Geoffrey. I am assured that women will be given the vote after the war, by the way, so we should see little more of suffragettes. They have won their cause.”

“A shocking dereliction of his duty by Asquith if that be so, sir. He should know better!”

Peter was mildly amused. He could see no reason at all why Charlie, as an example, should not have a vote; he was sure she would know far more about politics than he did. As for Josephine? She was intelligent and educated – who was he to claim superiority over her in matters of government. She had seen Imperial Russia and had thought deeply about the state of affairs there, while he knew almost nothing about England.

“I cannot see why women should not have the vote, Geoffrey. With a few women in the House of Commons and joining the government, we might not have had this damned war.”

That smacked of heresy. Geoffrey put it down to the effects of the recent wound on his younger brother’s system.

“How long are you to stay with us, Peter?”

“Two weeks at most, Geoffrey. Less if I heal quickly – it is not a major wound. I could be useful in my office even if I am not to fly for a few more days.”

It was the call of duty – no man could deny that, Geoffrey agreed.

“Can’t say I like hanging back in the City, you know, Peter. Fewer and fewer young men to be seen there these days.”

“You should serve where you are most useful, Geoffrey. You can do much more for the country in your City office than you could waving a revolver in a trench. Any young man leaving school can go as a second lieutenant. Very few can master the complexity of banking at its highest level. You should do what is best for the country – and if that means suppressing your natural urge to go out and fight, well, so be it. We must all make sacrifices in these hard times.”

Peter thought that was sufficiently platitudinous to penetrate Geoffrey’s brain. It was not that his brother was stupid – far from it, in fact – he was, however, determined to reject anything and everything that even faintly smacked of novelty. Peculiar, though to give Geoffrey his due, his own experiences at Dartmouth had left him much the same. It was only since taking up ballooning that he had started to think for himself, and that was all down to accident, after all.

“Will there be more of these Intelligence jobs, do you think, Peter?”

His father seemed concerned, perhaps for knowing that the Spies were a law unto themselves. They were outside of the normal nexus of favours and string-pulling, went their own way with no concern for what was proper. He had no contact with them, other than the occasional demand coming across his desk to provide information upon a particular person he had come into contact with when negotiating a foreign loan. He had always provided the information asked for, wondering sometimes why, accepting that some things were outside his scope.

“I doubt it, Father. My people are angry at the offhand manner in which we were treated. Their man behaved to me as if I was no more than a cabbie, hired to provide transport for his betters. Not the way people treat the Navy!”

“I might let that complaint be heard, Peter. Just a comment doing the rounds to the effect that the Intelligence people were underbred these days. Amazing what a word in passing can achieve.”

“I would be glad if you would, Father. They let brave Belgian men die because of a half-baked scheme, poorly thought through and casually executed.”

“That also can be heard where it will do some good. A quiet mention at the Committee tomorrow that I am worried about you, injured in a most untidy and unnecessary affair slapped together by Intelligence. A waste of the life of a brave young lieutenant recently decorated for his part in sinking a submarine – lost because Intelligence was damnably inefficient. Asquith will hear and will make his displeasure known, in his understated, ineffectual fashion. His aides will take the matter up, to do me a favour, and there will be a furore at the War Office, the generals wanting some control of Intelligence, which they have not got at the moment. It will provide them with an excuse to slap the Spies down and force them to be more open in their dealings with government and the Army.”