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

“Lieutenant Naseby you are a complete and utter fool! A hopeless, helpless tit, in fact! You were reported to be highly competent as a seaman and as a divisional officer, which is why you were appointed to a crack ship, why I accepted you. Your three months on board in our hurried wartime commissioning have shown you to be the most useful of officers. And after so promising a start, you show incompetent the moment we leave the wharf by proceeding to run down the Admiral’s barge! When manoeuvring in harbour, Naseby, one is expected to observe and give way to small craft, not to collide with them!”

Commander Savage, captain of HMS Calliope, the newest of light cruisers, seemed in no mood to listen to reason. Peter Naseby tried to offer a defence, suspecting he was wasting his time. The Old Man had not shown himself the most rational of figures in his three months in command, was far more inclined to shout abuse and blame than to consider the cause of any problem that arose. He was, considered from a rational, dispassionate viewpoint, an underbred lout, an oik, an officer who should have been locked away in a back office in the Admiralty where no gentleman would have to cross his path. Peter wondered just what his parentage was – there were a few strange sorts in the Navy these days. He was inclined to blame it on King Edward Albert, Dirty Bertie, who had encouraged the louche and the outré in Society. Edward was dead but his influence still lingered, resulting in a few very peculiar senior officers, appointed and rapidly promoted and a definite embarrassment to Society.

Not to worry, he must say something – truthful and simply expressed.

“Yes, sir. The admiral’s barge rounded Persephone’s stern, sir, at full speed. It was in sight for less than a minute. In that time, sir, I ordered full astern and threw the wheel hard astarboard. I also ordered a boat to be dropped, sir. The admiral was in the water for less than two minutes, sir.”

Savage snarled his contempt for that defence.

“Irrelevant! The smartest, newest, most efficient cruiser in the Royal Navy does not run down admirals in Portsmouth harbour in sight of half of the Channel Fleet, Mr Naseby. Whatever the excuse may be, HMS Calliope does not distinguish herself when first sailing off to war by attempting to drown C-in-C Portsmouth, who is also, one might remember, the Second Sea Lord!”

“No, sir.”

“We now have to wait in harbour for at least two days pending an inquiry. That is convenient because it means that you can be replaced immediately. You are dismissed my ship, Lieutenant Naseby, I will have no more of you! Report to the Captain of the Port’s offices within the hour.”

And that was the end of a promising naval career.

Peter Naseby ran to the cabin he shared with the assistant Gunnery Officer – a very proper and not especially able gentleman of the old school, despite being in his mid-twenties – was unsurprised to discover he was not there.

‘Arsehole! Won’t find him in company with the afflicted!’

He pulled his single suitcase out from his closet – it was wartime, 1915, and he had only the minimum of uniforms with him.

“Leave that to me, sir.”

Oadby, the seaman servant who looked after the pair of them.

“Get into reporting uniform, sir. Going for your next posting. Wartime, they won’t throw you out of the Andrew, they need all the trained, experienced officers they can get.”

Peter stripped down to his winter long johns – it was April but the Channel was still cold and the North Sea and Scapa Flow would be even colder. Quickly into his best working dress, less than a month old, worn only twice, almost perfect. He glanced in a mirror as he did up his collar stud and tied a Windsor knot in his necktie, all of the smartest. His shirt was new and well starched where it showed. He looked the part of the professional naval officer with a substantial allowance from home.

Not unhandsome as well, he considered, assessing himself critically. Little more than medium height at five foot eight inches, well muscled, having always kept himself fit and played Rugby when possible. A strong chin, good teeth, straight nose and deep blue eyes – ‘piercing’, he had been told – and naturally wavy fair hair. The epitome of the young officer, a man to go far. He had, in fact, done within reason well in his career so far.

Dartmouth and then his cruises as a midshipman well pre-war. Sublieutenant in 1912, making full lieutenant in the previous June of ’14 at age twenty-two. Not the most outstanding of careers but putting him high in the top quarter of young officers. He had been an obvious candidate for a new cruiser, expecting early wartime promotion to result. Now, dismissed his ship by his captain – not by court martial at least – he would be lucky to avoid a predreadnought or monitor, both backwaters for the lesser objects of the profession. He would remain a lieutenant for another ten years if that was his fate.

He dug into his pocket, came up with five shillings.

“Thank you, Oadby. You have looked after me well.”

“Pleasure, sir.”

Oadby was twenty years in the service, joined as a hungry twelve year old boy, looking for a steady source of meals, tall for his age and able to swear to fourteen. He had seen many an officer, had forgotten most of them. He had liked young Mr Naseby, had wondered about attaching himself to him when he was promoted and became entitled to his own servant. He wandered off to the Buffer, the second on the lower deck under the coxswain and unofficially in charge of the hands’ welfare. As a twenty year man, Oadby was one of the most senior of hands and was one of those who smoked a pipe in the Buffer’s company during their breaks.

“Young Mr Naseby’s got the chop, Buffer.”

“Bad luck. He did everything possible. The Admiral was a bloody fool, ordering his cox’n to try to cut across the ship’s bows.”

“Just that, Buffer. Naseby’s a good bloke, for an officer. What’s he got coming his way, do you know?”

“He’ll be posted today. Might hear something later. Why? You looking to hook onto him?”

“Could do worse. Don’t fancy the bull and brass at Scapa. I’m getting older, as well. Twenty years in, thirty-two years of age. End of the war – whenever that comes – I’ll be the sort to be given the old heave-ho, dumped on shore and told to find a living, too old to be a jack. If I’m sailor servant to an officer, I can stay in till I drop dead.”

“Coming to all of us, that is, Oadby. Pension of tuppence a week and ta very much for your years of service now bugger off and look after yourself. What do the likes of you and me know about working in some bloody town on land?”

The Buffer shook his head gloomily – old age had always seemed a long way distant. It was suddenly close and looking unpleasant.

“Add to that, we’re off to Scapa, Oadby. All brass and bullshit and no action. I shall see what can be done for you. No promises.”

Oadby made his thanks. His rum ration that day would end up in the Buffer’s belly, that being only fair.

They watched as a rating carried Mr Naseby’s suitcase ashore to the Port Captain’s office, followed by the gentleman himself, straight backed and looking strictly to his front. None of his fellow officers farewelled him.

“Piss poor, that is, Buffer!”

“The Captain’s got a down on him. Any officer who shows friendly is defying his captain. You know that, Oadby. It’s how the Navy works. When you’re up, you’re well up; when you’re down, they queue up to kick you. Bastards!”