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

“That’s our one piece of artistry, would you say, Fraser?”

“Well… I wouldn’t, meself, but every man to his own, Naseby!”

They chuckled and strolled out to the blimp that had been walked out of the other hangar. As Captain Fitzjames had said, there was a wooden dining chair strapped to the nacelle, immediately behind the pilot’s cockpit.

“Your Number Two, Naseby. Leading Seaman Horrocks. He will be your crew, permanently.”

“Good to meet you, Horrocks. I’ll try not to kill you too often!”

“Just avoid it once, that will do me, sir.”

The free and easy atmosphere evidently applied to the ratings as well.

Boarding the nacelle was done by way of steps, Horrocks first, then Fraser climbing over the back of the cockpit followed by Peter.

“Different fuselage, this one, Fraser?”

“Yes. One of the pre-war things that the RFC threw away last year. Don’t know what, exactly, they are all similar.”

The sides of the cockpit were low, barely hip-height when Peter sat down, and he was not the tallest of men. Almost the whole of his abdomen was exposed to the air.

“Won’t be actually flying today, old chap. Tomorrow, we’ll have you equipped with the proper gear. Get the feel of the cockpit today.”

An hour and Peter felt more or less at home in the machine. He supposed it was not unlike the canoe he had occasionally paddled at Dartmouth – exposed above the waist and demanding balance.

They stepped down from the nacelle and wandered off to wardroom and mess respectively.

“Be easier with a mid as crew, Naseby – the pair of you able to talk after flying and eat together as well. I mentioned that Captain Fitzjames is being pressured to look at a lower-deck commission for some of the ratings who fly.”

That might be a good idea, Peter thought, having considered the possibility overnight. There was no absolute reason why a competent and bright seaman should not rise in the world, particularly in the specialist branches. It would not be easy aboard ship, could be done in the blimps where there was no need to do the social pretty.

“Horrocks seems brighter than average, Fraser. Quietly confident, I would describe him as. Did he volunteer to come across to the blimps?”

“He was aboard a battleship at Scapa Flow. Bored rigid with nothing happening – all brass and blanco and bugles – you know what it must be like there. The call came for volunteers to the RNAS and he led the stampede to the Buffer’s office to get his name in, so he said.”

“Right. Give me a while to get to know him. If he is as good as he looks at first sight, I’ll support his application for a commission.”

“Good man! Fitzjames will be pleased to have more backing.”

“As long as he is still around, that is, Fraser. The poor old fellow looks shockingly ill. No appetite for his dinner, last night.”

“He’s always been on the skinny side, though, mind you, I will accept that he’s leaner than he was. I suppose it shows when you are new in. The man’s condition must be more obvious to a newcomer… Pity if he goes. A good man for the balloons.”

Evidently not a man who had established any personal relationship with his officers. Fraser seemed not at all concerned that he was probably dying.

Not to worry. The RNAS had other captains, all more or less competent in the ordinary way of things. They would find another body.

The morning dawned still, almost windless, ideal for flying, especially for a new man.

The three went out to Peter’s Sea Scout and climbed aboard, Fraser balancing himself on his chair with apparent aplomb.

“Have you not a belt at least, Fraser?”

“Belt? No, never needed one yet. I’ll sit tight, never you fear. Right, fins to central, now check that each is responding to the yoke. Watch them as you apply left and right and upward and downward movement. Always check for yourself. Your mechanic did so ten minutes ago. He ain’t flying the machine. You are.”

Peter went through his checks, confirmed that nothing had dropped off or seized up.

“Now. Crab pot. Where do you position it?”

Peter knew the answer and leaned across and turned the bell mouth three-quarters to the front.

“Place it to fill the ballonets, but not too quickly, then maintain high pressure.”

“Well done. Up to you now.”

Peter pumped petrol to the carburettors with a first turn of the propellor, magneto off, turned the switches to contact and called to the mechanic stood at the propellor. One mighty heave and the engine caught, Peter slowly increasing the revolutions and ‘leaning’ the air mix so that the engine was no longer firing on pure petrol. He avoided a stall, which not every experienced pilot achieved every time.

He set the horizontal fins to give him maximum operating tilt to assist the balloon to lift.

“Handlers off!”

He roared the command, best Atlantic voice to be heard above a gale. The blimp took off, angling upwards, Peter holding the rudder steady, and was over the little town inside a minute, some four hundred feet up and climbing in an unvarying line.

It was almost like sailing a small dinghy, Peter thought, and he had always been good at that. There were people waving below him. He did not feel he could risk taking a hand off the yoke to respond.

Five hundred feet.

He leaned forward and yelled to Horrocks.

“Aerial out.”

The wire was unwound and Horrocks tapped out a brief message, making contact with the ground. Fraser called approval and gave a first command.

“Level off at one thousand feet, Naseby.”

Not quite so easy as it sounded. He was at one thousand and fifty on the simple altimeter before he had her in level flight.

“Close enough for a first try. Hold her until we are a mile out to sea, then turn to port to parallel the coast towards Dover.”

The first turn made and height maintained, within reason close, then a series of other turns, starboard and port in succession, followed by a climb to two thousand feet and a run up-Channel, just to see the sights. Finally, they turned and made a gentle descent towards Shoreham.

“Right, remember the procedure. Drop the trailing rope at one hundred feet as you cross the perimeter. The ground party will grab hold then and pull you in. Cut the engine as soon as they have you.”

“Got it.”

They were coming to five hundred feet.

“Horrocks! Aerial!”

“Well remembered, old chap!”

The aerial in, Horrocks had just sufficient time to heave the long trailing rope over the side, having first double checked that it was tied on.

Captain Fitzjames roared through a megaphone and Peter cut the engine, let the ground party take over, turning the crab pot to allow air out of the ballonets.

They bounced onto the air bags under the fuselage, wheels having been done away with as unnecessary for balloons.

The sixty men of the ground party attached themselves where they could and held the balloon steady while the three disembarked. A mechanic jumped in and the blimp was walked into the hangar, safer there if the wind got up.

“Bloody hell, Fraser! That was knackering! Time for morning tea?”

“Late for lunch, man! You were five hours on that trip.”

“Christ! I thought it was two at most. You said we would only take a short run.”

“No need to bring you back, Naseby. You were having no problems at all. Best beginner I have ever seen.”

Captain Fitzjames appeared.

“Rather a long first outing, Fraser?”

“Naseby is a natural, sir. Took to it like a duck to water. No need for the chair tomorrow, sir. As far as I am concerned, he is a pilot.”

“Good. Coastal patrol tomorrow morning, Naseby. West bound. Four hours out, no more than ten miles offshore. Watching for everything. Carrying a single one hundred and twelve pounder. Fraser will show you the bomb release gear. This afternoon free. Go into town, stretch your legs, smile at the females, whatever you young men do these days. I want you to go to Polegate on Tuesday. That gives you four days to get your feet wet. There will be five other SS blimps coming in over the following days. Their pilots will have had no training. They will have no experience. Get them up to scratch inside a week. Current plans – which will certainly change – are that you will then have responsibility for the coast for twenty miles east and west and all the way across to France. I want to hear of no ships lost to submarines in daylight hours, Naseby!”