On completion of construction at Cardington and her launching eight weeks ago, the designers and British command had drawn up a comprehensive schedule of flight tests. After initial testing, R38 was flown to Howden Air Station where another massive shed waited to house the dirigible. Due to time constraints, both the British and American governments insisted the tests were hastened. Lou had taken part under the command of British captain, Flight Lieutenant Wann; now it was time for the final round under the command of Air Commodore Maitland, Britain’s most experienced airshipman.
Speed trials completed an hour ago had been satisfactory, although no testing had been done in inclement weather. To compensate, the Air Ministry decided that rough weather conditions could be simulated by stressful maneuvering at low altitude.
All that remained now was a series of these stress tests to prove her structural integrity, and at the same time, confirm that modifications to the rudder and elevator mechanisms had been carried out successfully.
At the end of September, the weather over the Atlantic would almost certainly deteriorate; another reason for rushing these tests. At first, the urgency wasn’t so dire, since the fabulous new shed under construction in New Jersey had not been ready. But after the ship’s own construction delays, completion had fallen behind and the shed at Lakehurst stood empty, waiting for its charge like a stable without its promised thoroughbred.
After additional training, they’d be on their way, leaving behind the moist, green hills of England and new friends they’d made—many girls—and heading for New Jersey. Although they looked forward to going home to their families, the upcoming passage brought a tinge of sadness and, for many, sheer terror at the thought of facing the Atlantic. Still, there’d been rumors of a ticker-tape welcome.
Why, soon we might all be famous!
Lou descended a long cat ladder to the keel and moved toward the stern, past brand new rolls of neatly-coiled rigger’s ropes and spare bolts of linen, each with its own smell. Everything was ‘ship shape.’ Some crewmen sat in specially fitted machine gun nests studying the picturesque view of fields, villages and streams below. One held a message in a tube attached to a tiny parachute. It was common for crewmen to drop messages—sometimes miraculously received by the addressee.
“A love letter to your honey, Bobby?” Lou called.
“You know it, sir.”
“She working today?”
“Yes, sir, she’s a nurse in Hull.”
“What’s her name?”
“Elsie, sir ...Elsie Postlethwaite.”
“That’s a quite mouthful! Is it serious?”
“Absolutely, sir!”
“Maybe you should ship that babe home,” Lou said.
“I’m gonna pop the question as soon as I see her. I want her to come to Baltimore … after the baby’s born, sir,” Bobby said, holding up a ring box he’d fished out of his pocket.
“Oh …okay. I see …Right. Well, er, that’s good. That’s the message,is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps you’ll be able to ask her yourself tonight if we finish these last tests.”
“That’s what I’m hoping, sir.”
“Good luck, Bobby!”
A Brit chimed in from another machine gun nest. “Hey, don’t you bloody Yanks be stealing all our women!”
“You got a surplus of ’em, buddy!” Bobby yelled back.
“Yeah, and that’s the way we like it, mate!”
Lou chuckled and walked on. He made several stops checking on his crewmen, giving words of encouragement, a pat on the shoulder, a smile. He passed rows of water ballast containers and newly fitted bomb racks, and extra banks of petrol storage tanks, installed at the request of the Navy. He made a point of observing the ship’s structure, as trained, for signs of loosening fasteners or metal fatigue in the girders. He stared up with satisfaction.
Over the past twelve months he’d personally witnessed every part being hoisted and riveted into place at the Royal Airship Works at Cardington in Bedfordshire, monitoring construction for quality and keeping records and as-built drawings. Satisfied all was well, he climbed back up the ladder to the central level. From there, he made his way aft to get the answer to the commodore’s question.
After four hundred feet, Lou reached the stern and opened the flap into a cockpit where Henry Bateman sat bundled in oilskins, pointing a camera at the huge tail structure. This tiny area was like a boat cuddy without a roof. From the ground, Bateman appeared as small as a freckle on a whale. Lou paused while Bateman snapped a picture. He shivered as the air enveloped him.
“It’s freezing out here!” he shouted above the wind.
“Hello, Lou. It’s bracing Yorkshire air, my boy—breath it in!”
Lou glanced at the patchwork quilt of lush green fields and hedgerows below. Far beyond, across the flat Holderness Plain, he admired the North Sea. It was difficult to distinguish where the ocean merged with the hazy, azure-blue sky on the horizon.
“You’re lucky. You’ve got a decent view,” Lou said, moving into the cockpit. He sat down on the built-in wooden bench seat running around the perimeter. He peered up at the small, fluttering American flag attached to the tail fin and the ZR-2 lettering stenciled on the rudder. Lou smiled broadly, exposing even white teeth.
Bateman laughed. “We’re a little premature with the flag, aren’t we, Lou? I don’t think you’ve paid for the bloody thing yet.”
“Don’t know anything about that, pal. I’m only here to deliver the beast.”
“You’ll soon be on your way.”
“How are the elevators and rudders?” Lou asked.
Bateman held up his clipboard. “Everything’s working fine now. I’ve been noting course and altitude changes by the coxswains. Everything’s on the money.”
“Good.”
“She’s a fine ship,” Bateman said. “Just drop a check into the Bank of England and you can drive her home.”
“You sound like a damned car salesman!”
“Just pulling your leg, Lou. You know we like having you blokes around.”
“I’ll let the commodore know. They’re gonna do another test in about half an hour. I’ve got to make a crew change. I’ll check with you later,” Lou said, getting up.
While R38 glided majestically toward the city of Hull, the statuesque, twenty-two-year-old Charlotte Hamilton made her final rounds in the geriatric ward of Hull Infirmary. The cream-colored walls gleamed in the late afternoon sunshine, streaming in the windows overlooking the waterfront. The room was full of sick, elderly women propped up on pillows against ancient, white-railed bedsteads.
Charlotte and the other nurses moved from bed to bed, their black leather shoes squeaking on polished, linoleum floors that reeked of disinfectant. This shift would be over at 5 o’clock, but before they could leave, each patient’s needs had to be met, beds straightened, bedpans emptied.
Charlotte went to the window and studied the scene on the busy waterfront and the river estuary beyond. Small ripples on the smooth surface indicated that the river was on the turn. Soon, it’d be a raging torrent rushing seaward. The sky overhead was partly clear, but dark cumulus clouds were building over the high ground in the west. Tiny waves, kicked up by the chilly breeze, slapped the wharf. A hundred yards off, Charlotte spotted her best friend’s husband and son in a rowboat.
“Fanny, your Lenny’s out there with young Billy,” Charlotte said, as Fanny dashed by. “There’s a storm’s brewing by the looks of it.”
“Yes, I’ve seen them. They’d better be packing up and getting home. It’s almost five,” Fanny called over her shoulder.
On the side street opposite the hospital, five boys, about eight years old, were playing cricket. A lamppost served as a wicket. Two bored girls, around the same age, sat on their mother’s front step, babysitting their infant brother. They watched a scruffy lad with close-cropped hair slam the ball down the road with an old cricket bat. The boy whooped. The others sc
owled, arguing about whose turn it was to go for it.
A safe distance from the boys, a group of girls were skipping, one end of their rope tied to a drainpipe, while one twirled. Two girls jumped in unison, chanting their verses in time with the rope as it kissed the ground.
One, two, buckle my shoe,
Three four, knock at the door,
Five, six, pickin’ up sticks,
Seven, eight, they’re at heaven’s gate …
Charlotte smiled as she turned from the window and went over to Mrs. Tilly, her favorite patient, who was engrossed in the girls’ melody.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky …
“Oh, I do love to hear their sweet voices,” the old lady said.
“They make up their own rhymes as they go along, you know love. They see the airships coming over all the time from Howden. You have to laugh at them really—the girls, I mean. Is there anything you need before I go off duty, Mrs. T?” Charlotte asked.
If she dives, they all might die,
Oh, I wonder, why, why, why?
“Much as I love to hear ‘em, I’m feeling a chill right down in my old bones.”
Poor ol’ Bobby, he’s in the drink,
Should we pull him out—what do you fink?
Charlotte closed the steel casement window with a clunk. The chanting grew fainter.
Nine, ten …
“Can I do anything else for you, love? You only have to ask.”
“Don’t go to a lot of trouble for me, dear,” Mrs. Tilly protested.
“Come on, let me fix this bed for you.”
She pulled the old lady gently up into a sitting position. Mrs. Tilly wheezed and coughed while Charlotte fluffed up her pillows and straightened the bedclothes. Charlotte read the birthday card on the side table next to a vase of flowers.
“I hope you’ve had a nice birthday, Mrs. Tilly.”
“Eighty-one years I’ve been on this earth—it’s long enough. I lost my ’usband last year. I’ll be glad to join him and my sons in ‘eaven.”
“You’ve got a few more years to wait, I’m sure,” Charlotte said.
Charlotte eased her frail patient down onto the pillows. The entrance doors to the ward rattled as a young nurse pushed in a tea trolley. Charlotte poured tea and brought it to Mrs. Tilly with a bite to eat.
“Here’s a cuppa and a cucumber sandwich. This’ll keep your strength up, love.”
Mrs. Tilly’s face brightened. “You’re such a lovely girl.”
The factory whistle blew—grating, but always a welcome sound on Prospect Street.
“It must be time for you to go and meet your young man,” Mrs. Tilly said.
Charlotte grimaced. “Oh, no. Nothing like that.”
“What! Why ever not?”
“Eligible men are scarce nowadays—most of them are buried in France.”
“What about them Americans?”
“Oh, no, no. I can’t be bothered.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve heard too many stories. A lot of girls I know are in a right sorry state.”
“Maybe you could find a nice one.”
“No, I don’t want to get mixed up in all that. Besides, I read they’re all going back to America any day now.”
The old lady seemed seriously concerned. “What a pity. Pretty girl like you should have a fella. You could have your pick, I reckon.”
“Oh, go on with you!”
“With that marvelous black hair and beautiful figure you could be an actress.”
“Bless your heart, Mrs. Tilly.”
“You’ll find someone special. I just know you will. And when you do, you grab ’im and ’old on to ’im and never let ’im go. I did. My ’usband was a lovely man and he gave me two wonderful sons. Oh, I do miss ’im so,” she sobbed. Tears filled Mrs. Tilly’s eyes and ran down her cheeks. “They’re all gone now. Our first boy at Mons … the second at Ypres. All three of ’em. Make the most of this life, my dear. It’s just a flicker of a candle. That’s all it is ...”
A dark cloud fell over Charlotte’s face. She understood perfectly.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Tilly,” she said.
The old lady stared up at the ceiling for a moment as though looking through a window to the past, or perhaps the future. After a few moments, she became calm and was at peace.
“I’ll see you in the morning, love,” Charlotte said.
“Don’t forget what I said, my girl,” Mrs. Tilly called after her. “Some of them Americans are really lovely!”
“Yes, I know they are, Mrs. Tilly,” Charlotte whispered to herself.
After getting permission from Matron to leave, Charlotte went to the staff room where several nurses were washing their hands, combing their hair and freshening their makeup before leaving for the day. Others were getting ready to go on duty. Charlotte sensed desperation among some. One girl had been crying. She was starting to show and Charlotte wondered if her condition had escaped Matron’s attention.
No chance of that!
Some were going on about their boyfriends. Charlotte frowned.
They're just so irritating!
“I hope they finish their testing today. I wanna be with my Bobby tonight,” one said.
“Do you think they will, Elsie?”
“Bobby said they should and, all being well, they might fly over the city this afternoon.”
“Oh, I do hope so.”
“Bobby told me they’re not expecting any problems, but I wish the test would fail so he could stay here for a few more months.”
“But you know if they leave in October or November, it’ll be everso much more dangerous for ‘em, Elsie.”
“Yes, you’re right, but I love ’im so much. I don’t want ’im to go, Minnie.”
“I know. I love my Jimmy, too. I’m going over there, though. He’s asked me to marry ’im. We’re going to be wed next year.”
“Oh, you’re so lucky. I wish …”
“What love?’
“Oh, I got a feeling tonight Bobby’s going to ask me …he did promise …”
The two girls looked up and saw Charlotte and glanced at one another.
“Oh hello, love. Why don’t you get yourself a nice chap from the U.S. Navy? They’re smashin’, aren’t they, Elsie? I could listen to my Jimmy talk all night long. He’s like a movie star. I’ve seen ’em in the talkies at the Odeon in Leeds,” Minnie said.
“Not me. And if I were you, I’d make sure you get a ring on your finger before you do anything stupid, Minnie Brown,” Charlotte snapped.
“It’s a bit late for that, love,” Elsie scoffed. At that, both girls doubled up, laughing uncontrollably. Charlotte scowled. Taking her make-up compact from her handbag, she peered into the mirror and puckered her full lips to apply a little plum-colored lipstick. Her vivid blue eyes stared back at her questioningly. She thought about what Mrs. Tilly had said.
Maybe a doctor? No, they’re all old men around here, or ugly!
After applying a few dabs of her favorite perfume to her neck, she went to the wall mirror and untied her hair. She laid her head to one side and brushed her thick curls out with long strokes. She then flicked her head back, allowing it to cascade to her waist. The other nurses watched.
“Time you had that lot cut off, isn’t it, Charlotte?” dumpy, little Minnie said, with a sly grin.
“No, I’m perfectly satisfied the way it is, thank you very much.”
“You should go in for one of these, Charlotte. They’re all the rage,” the well-endowed Elsie said, running her fingers through her bob cut and thrusting out her bosom.
“You’d feel free as a bird,” Minnie added.
“Like us!” Elsie exclaimed.
They rocked back and forth cackling again.
Jealous little cows!
“You’re much too straight-laced, Charlotte,” Elsie said.
“Aye, straight-laced is what I am! And straight-laced is what�
��ll prevent me from landing myself in the right pickle you two are gonna be in,” Charlotte snapped.
Charlotte ignored them further, taking off her white cotton apron. She put her foot on a chair and hoisted her light blue cotton uniform, pulled her black stockings up tight over her long shapely legs and refastened her garters. After smoothing down her skirt to the ankles, she re-tied her headscarf and put on her dark blue cape before making for the door. Elsie and Minnie stared after her, as if she were the foolish one.
Lou entered the crewmen’s mess at the same time the factory whistle was sounding on Prospect Street (although he couldn’t hear it). The lads still appeared to be in high spirits, except for New York Johnny whose mood hadn’t changed. He sat in the corner staring at the wall, just as Lou had left him, elbows on the table, chin in his hands.
“Ready, Johnny?”
“Yes, sir,” Johnny said.
He got slowly to his feet, without looking up. Lou led him along the catwalk to the opening above engine car No.1 and pulled back the canvas hatch to the exterior ladder. They were buffeted by the cold, noisy wind rushing over the ship’s cover. The boy caught his breath.
“Right, Johnny?” Lou shouted.
Johnny nodded without speaking, staring at the fields below. A tiny goods train rushed along its tracks like a kid’s toy train, a black smoke cloud billowing behind, while its whistle screamed a warning. Lou had watched the boy climb down this ladder dozens of times, but it got harder each time. Lou knew he’d developed a phobia. He’d seen it before.
This line of work’s better suited to circus performers, or barnstormers. Climbing down ladders suspended from airships at two thousand feet isn’t for the faint-hearted.
Lou understood phobias only too well. During the war, he’d developed one of his own—claustrophobia.
The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue. Page 2