The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue.

by David Dennington

  “You look so handsome, darling. I told you, you would, didn’t I?”

  They moved through the reception hall, passing Scott and Cmdr. Dyer who kept glancing in their direction, while deep in conversation. Lou thought nothing of it at the time. Minnie now sat in an old leather chair moaning. Elsie stood beside her, holding her own baby. As Charlotte passed, holding Lou’s hand, both women looked at Charlotte, bitterness and envy in their weary eyes. Charlotte felt a twinge of guilt. Bobby’s message to Elsie was still in the drawer at her flat.

  Damn! I was only trying to save you more pain, love!

  Lou led Charlotte to the curb, where his shiny, black and red Rover motorbike was parked. He kick-started the engine and, after donning their goggles and gloves, they climbed on. Charlotte sat side-saddle hugging Lou tightly around the waist. They drove off hopefully into their shared future, but any contentment Charlotte may have felt was crushed by the sight of Jessup, standing some distance away. He dragged on his cigarette and shot smoke into the air from thick, rubbery lips. He glared at Lou and spat on the ground like a cobra spraying venom, while he mouthed curses. He threw the dog-end down, grinding it into the dirt with his heel. God, she hated him! She wondered if Lou had seen him.

  A silly question!

  After this awful humiliation, it was vowed ‘never again.’ The British airship industry came to a complete standstill. Both the government and the public lacked the stomach for these monsters in the sky, unlike the Germans who were making a great success of their own program. And so, the enormous, sheds at Howden and Cardington fell silent and into a state of neglect, overgrown with weeds and ivy …that is until Brigadier General Christopher Birdwood Thomson came bursting upon the scene.

  PART TWO

  SCOTLAND

  3

  THE BRIGADIER GENERAL & THE FLYING SCOTSMAN

  New Year’s Eve, December 31, 1923.

  Thomson bought a first-class return ticket to Aberdeen at King’s Cross Station, costing one pound seven and six pence, money he could ill afford, but it wouldn’t be seemly to be seen alighting from a second-class carriage with the future Prime Minister of Great Britain waiting to greet him.

  He walked to Platform 10, where each day The Flying Scotsman left for Edinburgh at 10 o’clock sharp, stopping in York for a fifteen minute break. He had plenty of time. Dropping in at W.H. Smith, he bought peppermints and two newspapers: The left-leaning Manchester Guardian and the conservative Daily Telegraph. He liked to read both sides of a story, although he invariably agreed with the Guardian.

  He strolled down the platform past the carriages—counting eight—until he reached the coal tender and the massive Super-Pacific engine. He looked up at the driver and fireman leaning over the rail in blue boiler suits. The two men stared down at him with sullen indifference.

  They’ll make disparaging remarks the minute I turn my back, I’m sure.

  He lingered while the engine got up steam, admiring the magnificent machine in its traditional apple-green livery and crimson crash bars.

  British engineering at its finest! No wonder small boys are fascinated with railway trains.

  His mind briefly returned to his Boer War days as a young lieutenant tasked with keeping the railways open for the war effort in South Africa and keeping Kitchener happy. His idle curiosity satisfied, he turned back along the platform and went to his carriage. He climbed into the empty compartment, hoping to remain its sole occupant. He found it torturous to sit for long journeys making polite small talk. Usually, by the end, fellow travelers knew far too much of one’s business. Thomson had lots to contemplate, and needed to get his thoughts in order.

  Best done in solitude.

  After stowing his small suitcase on the overhead luggage rack, he removed his felt Homburg and put it on the seat next to the shabby, leather briefcase. He slipped off his woolen overcoat, folding it with care, though it’d seen better days, and placed it on the rack.

  This last morning of December 1923 was damp and chilly, but the carriage was warm enough. It struck him how well appointed trains were nowadays, with corridors leading to the dining car, the bar and the lavatories and even through the coal tender, so crews could be changed without stopping. Transportation fascinated Thomson. This was the Golden Age, not only of fashion, but of luxurious travel by train, by ship, and soon, by air.

  Such progress—and so much more to be made, by golly!

  The journey to Edinburgh would take eight-and-a-half hours and another two-and-a-half to Aberdeen. He relished it. He’d read his newspapers, write a couple of letters and sit and reflect. He never minded his own company.

  Marthe’s company is infinitely preferable, of course.

  He fished out a peppermint and popped it in his mouth and settled down to scan his newspapers. The price of butter was to be increased by ten percent. A loud blast on a whistle preceded slamming doors. The train lurched forward. No one had entered the compartment at the last moment.

  Thank God for that!

  He continued updating himself on current events. Both newspapers had run articles summing up the year’s political highlights and the recent general election.

  Baldwin’s Blunder

  The Manchester Guardian crowed.

  The strategy of calling an election in order to increase the Tory majority had badly backfired. Prime Minister Baldwin already had a substantial majority and the move had been unnecessary.

  Stupid fool!

  The Conservatives were on the ropes and most likely going to fall. Thomson read the election results in the article, although he knew them by heart:

  Tories 258

  Labour 191

  Liberals 158

  If the Labour Party formed a coalition with the Liberals, they’d hold a majority. And with Labour winning more votes, they’d get to choose the leader—almost certainly Ramsay MacDonald—one of three men who’d recently created this new party. Would Labour come to power? That was the question on the nation’s mind. Thomson and MacDonald believed their chances were excellent, but nothing in politics was certain. If the Tories collapsed, this would be the first Labour government; a momentous achievement for the radical left—revolution without violence.

  The Guardian gleefully went on to speculate what Ramsay MacDonald would nationalize and what he might leave alone—the mines and railways being high on the list. Thomson had ideas of his own—the possibilities were infinite, with the sky, quite literally, the limit.

  The train sped through St. Albans. Thomson looked up and grimaced. The very name made him squirm. He hated failure. Then, he brightened. If not for St. Albans, he wouldn’t be on this train today. He went back to his newspaper. It wasn’t long before he was chugging past Cardington toward Grantham through lashing rain. He looked up in time to spot the looming airship sheds in the distance.

  To a stranger, at first glance, Christopher Thomson sitting alone next to the window might cut a rather striking figure. A closer look would reveal signs of a man who’d recently been going through hard times—not eating well, not looking after himself, pining for a lost love perhaps. Although his jacket was well pressed, the lapels were threadbare. His face was thin, his cheeks hollow and his close-set, deep blue eyes, which gave the impression of constant scrutiny, were sunken. He stood six feet five, and although slender, his shoulders were broad. His nose, broken by the vicious kick of a horse during a fall, had reshaped his previously symmetrical, angelic face, causing it to have a harsher, granite-like appearance. As a brigadier general, this had only served to enhance his overall demeanor. Under that impressive nose, he had a well-groomed, thick moustache, adding dignity. He could appear menacing when necessary, but congenial, even gentle at times.

  Thomson pondered the circumstances bringing him to this point in his life. This was a pivotal moment. He felt certain he’d done the right thing giving up his commission in the Army. During the last twenty-five years he’d reached sufficient heights to satisfy his military ambitions and had played a signi
ficant role serving his country. At times, he wished he could do more to improve the lives of others—not a sentiment usually associated with a seasoned brigadier general.

  The decision to resign had resulted from his attendance at the Treaty of Versailles as an aide to diplomats of the British delegation. He watched in dismay as European politicians fought over the scraps left after Germany’s defeat, a country forced to its knees and made to accept peace terms he thought too harsh.

  He decided the time had come to take a stand. He’d witnessed the suffering of people who didn’t have the slightest control over their own miserable lives, let alone global events. This damned unnecessary war had been a prime example. ‘Lambs led to the slaughter’ is what they’d said and in his heart he believed it was a perfect description. He made the decision to enter politics and his journey had begun. The first two years had been a rough ride, in fact, a roller coaster of hellish humiliation.

  Leaving the Army after twenty-five years service gave him a stipend of one hundred and fifteen pounds, which he put in his account at Barclays Bank. The grand sum of sixty-four pounds, sixteen shillings and five pence remained. He’d taken a low-priced bedsit in Stockwell, an easy walk to Westminster.

  He had a few conservative friends, who thought highly enough of him to get him seated on a panel to advise the government on the wisdom of resuming the airship program. Dennistoun Burney, a director of Vickers Aircraft, had been rigorously promoting a plan for the company to construct six airships to be underwritten and operated by government. Thomson didn’t care for Burney’s type. A profiteer! The ‘Burney Scheme’ promoted a program whereby Vickers built all Britain’s airships—an intolerable situation! Besides, ‘state enterprise’ would be the wave of the future in the new British Socialist State. Burney’s proposal had been accepted by the Conservative Government in principal, although not ratified.

  I will certainly put a stop to that!

  Thomson pulled out a file from his briefcase which had been passed on to him by Sir Sefton Brancker—a man always in the know, always with one ear to the ground and always ready to help—a bit of a dandy, but a loveable one. The file contained information concerning one Lieutenant Louis Remington, an American airshipman, who happened to be sitting around in Yorkshire doing nothing. “The man might come in useful,” Brancker had said, “since we’ve lost so many of our own people.” Thomson glanced at the man’s war record. A marine …survived the war …bailed out twice from observation balloons (that’s amazing—I was in observation balloons, too!) …survived being hit and buried alive for hours in a bunker with twenty-five others … joined the Navy to fly airships …posted to England …survived the R38 disaster …displayed fine leadership qualities—gave excellent account of himself at the court of inquiry …discharged 1922. Thomson slipped the file back into his briefcase.

  If things go well, I’ll drop the Secretary of the Navy a line in Washington …or speak to him on the phone, perhaps. Sounds like a useful chap. That other American fellow—Zachary Landsdowne—they said he was a first class fellow when he worked here with us.

  Thomson received no salary for serving on the airships panel, but it propelled him into the right circles. Now he needed to get himself elected to Parliament. It came as a surprise to his friends when he chose to join the Labour Party. Many became angry over the betrayal of his own class when he threw in with ‘the radical Left.’ The road might have been easier had he joined the Tories, but his idealistic notions prevented that.

  In truth, Thomson had no real political doctrine or ideology clearly set in his mind. He’d met a few larger-than-life figures in his time, men he had reason to look up to. He begrudgingly admired visionary Cecil Rhodes, but had more in common with Socialists Lenin and Mussolini. Socialism had to be the answer to life’s problems and inequalities. He found it seductive.

  Thomson put himself up for a seat in Bristol Central. This hadn’t been a pleasant experience and he began to question the wisdom of joining this new Labour Party. He went from one committee meeting to another at working men’s clubs and women’s organizations—all fiercely left wing. The reception he received from party supporters ranged from frigid to downright hostile. They regarded him as one of the enemy, a filthy capitalist, a toff, upper class, or worse, an aristocrat—the very people causing worldwide misery and keeping them down.

  He said the words they needed to hear, but delivered in an irritating hoity-toity tone. Often he used words they didn’t understand. They jeered and hooted at him, calling him a ‘toffee-nosed git.’ He couldn’t do much about the way he spoke. His deep, gravelly voice made him sound gruff—perhaps too much like the officers who’d ordered men out of their rat-infested trenches into the German guns to die like vermin, to collapse in the mud and filth and left to rot on the endless dumpsite called ‘No Man’s Land’, to later have their bleached bones tilled into the soil like fertilizer. All that, while the senior officers in their fancy uniforms and shiny boots remained in safety well behind the front lines. They weren’t unwashed and plagued by lice, driven mad by trench foot, sickened by contaminated food and the stench of rotting bodies. That was the way they felt and at the mere mention of the war, they became infuriated and yelled abuse at him.

  “Oh, yeah, where were you, then mate, eh? What were you doin’ while our lot were dyin’ up front?”

  Thomson managed to increase Labour’s vote count from the last election, although this hadn’t been enough to win in that Conservative stronghold. He tried again the following year, putting himself up for a seat in St. Albans. He campaigned hard, said all the right things, but the result was the same. They called him an imposter and a spy. He became demoralized, not used to rejection.

  Thomson had always scoffed at politicians, believing them to be a spineless, self-serving lot. Now, he found politics to be a rough business and his respect for its participants grew. Sometimes he questioned his own motives. Was all this really about improving the plight of the downtrodden, or was it more about her?

  Thomson scratched his head and glanced at the gold watch given him by his mother. An hour had passed. He peered out the window, hoping for an answer in the sopping landscape. The sky had turned dark over what he guessed must be Grantham. In the gloom, his gaunt reflection stared back from the glass. Nagging guilt seized him. He was circumventing the system—not like him at all. He’d always earned his way—worked for everything he got.

  After the crushing defeat in St. Albans, he’d received a letter bearing the Labour Party name with a return address in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It was a short handwritten note from Ramsay MacDonald, leader of the new party, asking him to meet at a tea room at Charing Cross. Thomson knew of it as a place frequented by writers, artists, Fabian Society members and other left-leaning types. Thomson wasted no time writing back.

  They met at the café in summer ’23. When they shook hands, they took a liking to one another immediately. Everybody knew MacDonald, but here was a new face. Other patrons watched in silence, sensing an important moment. After two or three coffees, they walked along the Thames Embankment. MacDonald told Thomson not to dwell on his election defeats, though he didn’t realize it now, his ‘baptism of fire’ was all to the good; he’d turn out to be a stronger politician.

  MacDonald understood the obstacles Thomson had been facing, but there’d be a place for him in the party. He said being surrounded by hot-heads, he needed an ally and a confidante—someone capable of calm, rational thought. An election would be coming soon. MacDonald sensed it in his gut. He urged Thomson to sit tight.

  During this time, Thomson served on the airship advisory panel and was befriended by Sir Sefton Brancker, Director of Civil Aviation. Brancker went out of his way to help him, sensing Thomson faced not just financial hardship, but perhaps ruin. He arranged for Thomson to go on a paid speaking tour in Canada, and Thomson gratefully accepted. Thus, another momentous friendship began.

  MacDonald’s instincts had been right. An election was held December
6, 1923 and the Tories didn’t win a clear majority. MacDonald asked Thomson to forgo his visit to Canada and meet him instead at his home in Lossiemouth in the Highlands. Labour’s time had come!

  The train thundered through Sheffield, then Leeds and on to Doncaster through blinding rain, then toward brightening skies. At ten minutes past two, the train made its fifteen-minute stop in York. Thomson put on his overcoat and paced up and down the platform in the drizzle. He couldn’t wait to get to Aberdeen.

  Returning to his compartment he took out his fountain pen, and using his briefcase to rest on, made some notes in his bold hand.

  Cardington

  Airships

  Employment

  State Enterprise

  Keep Capitalists (Burney) Under Control

  Gov Funding

  Links to Empire

  Improvement and betterment of mankind

  He crossed out the last line.

  Too grandiose.

  Underneath that, he wrote:

  My title?

  The train rushed through the counties of Yorkshire and Durham toward the border, where it traveled the long viaduct and over the River Tweed into Scotland. After a brief stop in Edinburgh, it continued toward Aberdeen. Before crossing the Forth Bridge, the train slowed to half speed. At mid span, they were hit by a fierce squall, causing the carriages to shake and creak, rain beating against the windows like gravel. Thomson thought about the Tay Bridge, which had collapsed in a storm. He knew this bridge had been built to new designs by different engineers using steel instead of cast iron. He was unfazed, secure in the belief that British designers had learned their lessons from previous mistakes.

  Let it blow all it likes! This bridge is as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar.