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

One could have sympathy for the captain, Peter suspected. He had heard the tune played by a blackface banjo band on Southsea front, the pleasure beach abutting Portsmouth, a dozen banjos plunking and their players whistling along. The day trippers had applauded and thrown their coppers into the hat at the front.

“Not to worry, old chap. It seems as if we have ended up in the right place for both of us. Tell me, what’s the trick to piloting a blimp?”

Not the mere technical details, the habit of thought that would make all the difference. The helmsman of a battleship had to perform a radically different job to his counterpart on a destroyer, though both stood at a wheel and turned it as needed – the particular job demanded its own frame of mind.

“Simple enough, Naseby – all the time you have to be thinking of what you want to be doing in two minutes time. If you start a diving turn to port now, where and when are you going to come out of it, and where will you be heading? Once you start a blimp moving in a given direction, she wants to continue that way and has to be persuaded carefully to change her mind. You have three hundred and fifty pounds of water ballast to release in emergency – once! When it’s gone, it’s gone. Avoid emergencies when at all possible – that’s the rule.”

“Attacking a submarine?”

“Throw the rulebook out of the window, old chap!”

The three laughed in unison – there was a time and a place for rules, and that was not in action, which Peter had yet to see, having been big ships so far this war.

A waiter brought their tea and biscuits, freshly baked locally. Fraser tucked in heartily, almost schoolboyishly.

“First rate little bakers shop in town, Naseby. Has a few tables as well. A favourite spot for local misses, I have discovered.”

“I met one such on the train coming across this morning Just sent home from school to be a companion to her grandparents. Hawes-Parker, the name. Mother dead, father in the Diplomatic and did not want her crossing the pond to Washington just at the moment.”

“Know them. Big house just half a mile down the road from here. On the outskirts, naturally. See them pottering in the garden. Give us a wave whenever we fly over. Not like some of the old tabbies who cringe away at the sight of us overhead. It seems we disturb the chickens and put the cows off their milk, Naseby.”

Peter shook his head gravely – that was very bad, he did not doubt.

“Not an agricultural sort, myself, Fraser. Wouldn’t know about such things. My people stick strictly to the City – won’t find them with mud on their boots.”

The Commander showed interested.

“Banking?”

“Very much so, sir. I think my father once said it was ‘merchant banking’, but I never picked up the hows and whys of it. Always wanted the sea. Now I’ve got the air, it would seem.”

The Commander said no more. He had obviously placed Peter as from a heavily moneyed background, was content to know nothing else. Fraser showed no signs of comprehension.

“Good family, the Hawes-Parkers. Know my parents – they are in the Service as well. My father is in Italy at the moment, trying to make sure they join the right side.”

Peter did not habitually read the newspapers, was not aware of the negotiations going on to bring Italy to break her flimsy treaty with Austria and Germany. As yet, Italy had not gone to war. It was becoming likely that she would join with England and France, provided sufficient promises were made.

They finished their tea and strolled out to inspect the facilities on the field.

The hangars were obvious enough – big boxes to store the blimps in and work on the fuselage underneath, particularly on the engine.

“The radioman/gunner is also a part-trained mechanic who can perform basic repairs in the air. He has a toolbox and a supply of parts – all of the simple stuff. Over time, you will learn a bit about the engines too. Useful to be able to lend a hand where necessary.”

Peter nodded, enthusiastically, he hoped.

“Fuel dump over to the left. Bomb dump well to the right. Makes sense to keep the two apart! Gunner’s workshop over here – always drop the Lewises off after a patrol – he will clean them of salt and whatever muck has come their way. He will also issue a pistol, always to be worn on patrol, and a cavalry carbine for the front seat. Never had to use either yet. Can’t see that a revolver could ever be of use, but that’s the orders.”

They carried on, round behind the hangars to a larger, solid building, brick-built and standing square. Next to it was a row of large cylinders, connected by pipes to each other and to the building. They were laid flat on the ground, some twelve feet long and about four in diameter.

Fraser gave the technical details, as he knew them.

“Gas-generation plant. Produces our hydrogen. Got our own chemist to oversee the process. Limestone and hydrochloric acid, I believe. Mix ‘em up and stir well and the gas bubbles off and is collected in the cylinders. The cylinders themselves can be disconnected from the supply pipes and then put onto a trolley and wheeled round to the front to inflate a gas bag. Got to do that with every new balloon coming in. Try to keep them inflated permanently after that. Costs a lot and is bloody awkward. Add to that, hydrogen burns easily – dangerous stuff to play with. You can rip off the patch, in need, let all of the hydrogen out of the top of the balloon, deflate it if you are crashing and need to come down in a hurry before you hit woodland or housing. It’s never a popular decision.”

The rest of the field could be ignored – galleys and mess-halls and ratings’ quarters where officers were not wanted except on official inspections.

“Are we quarters officers as well as pilots, Fraser?”

“No. The mids take those duties. Good experience for them. Pilots have a minimal workload other than flying. Fitzjames thinks we must give our all in the air and that demands as much relaxation as possible when we are on the ground.”

“Sounds good to me, old fellow. What’s the roster?”

“Nothing formalised yet. The new SS ships are still being delivered and we are not up to full strength yet. Next week should be different. We open Polegate and bring in five or six SS types and pilots and crew. Not fully built yet. Wardroom is to be some sort of country house, a cottage it's called but not the normal agricultural sort of thing. Provided you are flying by then, you will be senior at Polegate and I will be at Capel, just down the coast in Kent. Generally takes just three or four hours to learn the trick of flying a blimp – simple stuff and you will get plenty of practice out on patrol. When I say ‘senior’, by the way, that means of the operational people. There should be a station commander and Number One on the ground. You will be in charge of the air.”

It seemed a very rapid step from novice trainee to command in less than a week.

“Oh, flying’s simple, Naseby. You can handle a small boat, can you not?”

Much of a cadet’s training revolved around small boats, under sail, oars and steam power. Midshipmen at sea were always responsible for a boat, starting with a small cutter and progressing to a steam picket-boat.

“If you can sail a dinghy, you can fly a blimp.”

“Well and good. I enjoyed racing dinghies at Dartmouth.”

“There you are then! No difficulties at all!”

Dinner was taken around just one of the big tables – five sublieutenants and eight midshipmen making up the numbers to about the same as an armoured cruiser would carry, although the mix of ranks was different.

“No engineroom people here, Fraser?”

“They have their own facilities, old chap. Fitzjames is old-fashioned that way, does not approve of the greasy-handed mixing with the gentlemen.”