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

“Report made, sir. Submarine has guns, sir. Something like a twelve pounder deck gun – a three inch perhaps. Looks like a machine gun mounted in the conning tower, sir. I can see a number, sir… U 38, I think – it’s a bit faded. No flap in the conning tower yet, sir. They haven’t spotted us yet… Acknowledgement from base, sir.”

The sighting report was in and the destroyers would be working up to something close to thirty knots; they might be sixty miles distant.

“Ready on the Lewis, Adams!”

Peter saw the boy stand and tuck the rifle butt of the Lewis Gun into his shoulder, working the cocking lever.

They were at a thousand feet and it was time to start persuading the blimp to level off – she changed attitude and course very slowly. He knocked the crab pot to an oblique setting, reducing the intake of air into the ballonets and changing the shape of the nose to assist in bringing the dive under control.

“Seen us, sir! Out of range yet.”

A few more seconds, Peter waiting to see the foam as air was expelled from the submarine’s tanks in a crash dive.

“Two men on the machine gun, sir. Opening fire, sir.”

He heard the hard, fast rattle. No tracers, he had no idea where the rounds were going; hopefully neither did the submarine. Less chance of setting the gas afire with common rounds.

“Inside one thousand yards, sir.”

The theoretical range of the Lewis was set at five cables, half a nautical mile or thereabouts. Its accuracy was limited over one hundred yards and the pan held only forty-seven rounds.

“Hold!”

Machine gun fire sprayed across the nacelle, scattering splinters.

“Effing Hun bastards! I’ll effing well get you for that!”

“Adams! Mind your language!”

Peter was genuinely shocked – he did not expect to hear those terms from a young officer.

“Sorry, sir.”

He pushed hard against the throttle, hoping for another few revs, even the tiniest increase in speed.

The machine gun came back on line, hitting the envelope, dropping, rounds ranging across the nacelle.

“Fire, Adams!”

The boy emptied the pan in a sustained burst, heaved the empty clear and slammed a replacement onto the breech, working the cocking lever and firing again.

“Got the bastards, right into them, sir!”

He changed the pan again, looking back to see Peter slumped over the yoke, heaving himself upright.

“Are you hit, sir?”

“Keep on your gun!”

Peter swore, very quietly so Adams would not hear him; he must not sound the hypocrite. He stretched across to the bomb release, tugged on the lanyard and snatched at the water ballast cable close to it.

The bomb fell and SS9 shot upwards, losing nearly five hundred pounds in weight in the one second.

“Close alongside, sir. Towards the stern. Machine gun is out of commission, sir. She’s submerging. Under control.”

“Make your report, Adams.”

He heard the key rattle, started to assess his own condition.

Wounds to both legs, no more than a crease to the right calf, painful but trivial; left leg broken just above the ankle. Bleeding heavily, pieces of white bone in sight. He fumbled for the medical kit, pulled out a dressing and slapped it in place and almost fainted as he bent forwards. A few seconds to recover, the gauze already saturated, and he leant over with a bandage, tugged it tight, stopped the bleeding, cut it to a dribble, at least.

His belly hurt as well. Pulling his flying coat open he saw a long gash, no deeper than a fingertip, running from left hip upwards for nearly six inches. That was a lucky one, fractions of an inch from opening up his guts. He used up the remaining gauze pads to make a cover, keep the wound clean.

They were at three thousand feet, rising only slowly, the fins set for a dive still and countering the weight loss.

“Course for nearest English naval base, Adams?”

“Either Portland or Plymouth, sir. Pretty much equal and about sixty miles distant. Portsmouth is another half hour, sir”

“Plymouth has better facilities than Portland.”

“Due north, sir.”

Peter turned the balloon’s head, fighting the lassitude of blood loss. Adams took to his binoculars again.

“Sir, there’s an oil trail on the sea, sir. The sub’s leaking!”

“Inform base.”

An instant response.

“Orders to track the sub, sir. Remain in contact. Surface craft at fifteen miles, sir.”

Half an hour, at least.

“Track her for me, Adams. I cannot stand to see.”

“Come port ten degrees, sir. Slow down now… We are nearly over her, sir. Oil still coming up, sir. Might be we cracked a diesel tank, sir, just a trickle which they don’t know about.”

“Diesel? What’s that?”

“It’s a sort of petrol, sir, used for some different type of internal combustion engines. So they told us at Dartmouth, sir. We are wandering off course, sir. Can you reach your Thermos, sir? A hot drink might help.”

“Too far down. I can’t stretch that far.”

“Wait, sir.”

A few seconds and Adams came wriggling over the top of the cockpit, holding onto anything he could grab. He made his way over the coaming, picked up the flask, wiped it clear of blood spatters.

“Christ, sir! Your foot’s half gone, sir. Still bleeding. Take the flask, sir.”

Adams unscrewed the top and Peter took a swig direct from the flask. It was warm rather than hot, heavily sugared, carried a slight tang from the flask itself. It was nectar.

“Thanks, Adams…”

The boy was gone, just a pair of feet visible. A minute and he crawled back with his own medical pack, eased his way down headfirst over Peter’s lap and started to bind his foot.

“Best I can do, sir. We should head straight for Plymouth, sir. That needs a hospital.”

“We stay until the destroyers come. Thank you. Go back to your own cockpit now. Carefully!”

Twenty long, slow, painful minutes, the flask emptied and his head a little clearer for the fluid.

“Destroyer in sight, sir.”

“Fire a flare.”

A green light arced out over the sea.

Peter dropped the blimp slowly and carefully to two thousand feet.

“Destroyer signalling, sir. Too fast for me to read, sir.”

“Reply. ‘Submarine on course – whatever it is. Send slowly.’”

“Acknowledged, sir.”

Ten minutes, a little less, and the destroyer had picked up the smear of oil, was above the probable location of the submarine.

Adams made another signal with the Aldis.

“I’ve told them you are seriously wounded, sir.”

Initiative on the boy’s part. Peter should have thought to give the order. His head was fuzzy.

“Reply, sir. ‘Go home. Many thanks.’”

“On their heads be it. Course for Plymouth?”

“Due north, sir.”

Peter pulled SS9 onto the course and opened the throttle, turned the crab pot to fill the ballonets and maintain a high pressure, glanced up and saw a faint sagging in the envelope.

“Losing gas, slowly, Adams. Report in that we are on course for Plymouth. Pilot wounded. Balloon perforated.”

The key rattled and there was an immediate response.

“Acknowledged, sir. Handling party will be waiting.”

Peter wondered where. He did not know Plymouth, had never used the port in his whole career. They had no charts aboard.

Adams appeared again, crawling across the nacelle.

“These bullet holes are handy to grab hold of, sir. My flask is still half-full, sir.”

Peter had to stay awake.

“Thanks, Adams. A life saver – might be literally. Can you see the destroyers still?”

“Three of them there now, sir. One of them is crossing at speed and throwing something over the side… A depth bomb, sir. Blowing now, in her wake. Two others must be watching the oil track. They are waiting, sir. Two of them signalling something, flags going up. I expect they are back on the oil. The sub must be changing course and the oil is giving her away. Bombing again, sir.”