Thomson perceived Wallis’s eyebrows raise slightly as he injected the ‘we’.
“That’s nice,” Wallis uttered coolly.
Thomson leaned on the railing and stared grandly up at the ornate ceiling with its octagonal glazed cupola and then down at the gathering below. He waved to MacDonald.
“Seven years ago, Lord Lee of Fareham bequeathed his stately home to the nation for use of future Prime Ministers, for rest and relaxation, to confer with heads of state and distinguished guests.”
“That was awfully generous of him,” said Wallis.
“You know there’s history attached to the name, too. It’s thought to have been the home of the King’s Minister of the Exchequer during the twelfth century.”
“Interesting.”
Suddenly, a blast of bagpipes took everyone by surprise—much to MacDonald’s evident delight. A small band of Scots Guardsmen, in full dress of the Black Watch, filed into the Great Hall and gathered at the center of the room. They were followed by four dancers carrying swords. Thomson glanced down at them, shouting above the din.
“Come, let me show you the library. We must endeavor preserve our eardrums.” Thomson led the way down the steps. They moved along a corridor to an ornate wooden door, opening onto what Thomson called ‘The Long Gallery’, a room running the length of the west side of the house. The place smelled of smoke and damp logs. On one side, seven-foot-high mahogany bookcases were stacked with ancient, leather-bound books, many of them first editions. The bookcase was interrupted at the center by a carved stone fireplace where another log fire blazed. Soft, comfortable chairs and occasional tables had been positioned for cosy chats, a well-stocked bar within easy reach. Then Thomson had a thought.
“Ah, I know—this’ll interest you,” he said, again leading Wallis away. Wallis obediently followed. Thomson went to the bookcase and opened a section, complete with dummy books. Behind, was another door.
Thomson pushed it open with a flourish. “Voilà!”
“My goodness!”
“Isn’t that fun?” Thomson said. “This is the Cromwell Passage. I should warn you, they say this place is haunted. At least, Lloyd George’s dog thought so. He used to bark like mad in the Long Gallery. Do let me know if you spot any ghosts!”
Wallis stared at him blandly, as if he were mad. Thomson pointed to the paintings hung along one side of the corridor.
“Here’s Cromwell as a child. He’s two years old in this one. Cute little fellow, isn’t he! Here he is again at the Battle of Marsden Moor. Now, that was a strong man—and altogether quite unpleasant!”
Wallis studied the painting intently. Cromwell sat on a black horse with a sword in one hand, his other arm in a sling. They proceeded along the corridor and Thomson showed him more portraits of Cromwell and his family. Wallis seemed mildly interested, but exhibited no sign of being in awe, as others might. But his eyes missed nothing.
“Ah, and look here, Cromwell’s death mask,” Thomson said, pointing to a cast lying on a side table. Wallis peered down at it, without comment. At the end of the corridor, Thomson stopped and slowly turned. “I expect you can guess why I invited you here, Wallis?”
Thomson had thoroughly reviewed Wallis’s background. Wallis had the reputation for being the finest and most experienced airship designer in the country. The only thing was—what were his political leanings? If he leaned left, it should be easy, but if he was a dyed in the wool Dennistoun Burney disciple, things might prove difficult—or impossible.
If he’s just a regular Conservative, I expect we can seduce him—they’re all for sale. All they think about is money. But this man’s hard to read.
Unusual for Thomson.
“My guess is—something to do with engineering?” Wallis answered.
Thomson chuckled. “Let’s go back to the library, shall we?” he said, leading the way to the warm hearth. The sun’s last rays were shining through the stained glass windows at the end of the room. Thomson went to the bar and poured two large glasses of twelve-year-old Macallan. He handed one to Wallis.
“I’m glad you came, Wallis,” he said, holding up his own glass.
“My pleasure, sir. Thank you for the tour.” Wallis held up his Scotch, but did not drink. Thomson wasn’t sure what to make of him.
Is he being sarcastic? Perhaps he doesn’t drink.
“I must congratulate you, on your government’s victory and your appointment as Air Minister,” Wallis said.
Ah, that’s more encouraging.
“Thank you, Wallis. That’s why you’re here. We’re hoping to do great things. We must get started on a grand new global transportation scheme.” They sat facing each other over the coffee table.
“Sounds exciting,” Wallis said. This pleased Thomson. Finally, a sign of interest.
“It’s a matter of national security for us to revitalize the airship industry without delay. The Germans have got too far ahead of us,” Thomson said.
“Indeed they have.”
“We must seize the initiative, Wallis.”
“I must agree, sir.”
“I attended the Treaty of Versailles and I can tell you quite bluntly, we were too hard on Germany. I said it then, and I say today: This peace will not hold!” Thomson said.
“That would be most unfortunate.”
“If there is another war, which I think is likely, we must be prepared, Wallis!”
“I hope not, but you’re right, of course—war might be inevitable. It’s more likely though, that it’d be because we weren’t hard enough on Germany.”
Thomson was surprised Wallis had the temerity to contradict him.
“That’s your considered opinion, is it, Wallis?” he said.
“One general warned we’d have to ‘do it over’ if we allowed them to walk away from the battlefield with their army intact and Germany left totally unscathed.”
Thomson frowned. “Who said that?”
“General Pershing.”
“Old ‘Black Jack’ said that, did he? He would!” Thomson snorted.
What the hell do you know, Wallis? You weren’t there!
There was a long pause and then at last, Thomson spoke again.
“I want someone to head up the New Imperial Airship Program. The industry shall rise again like the proverbial phoenix,” Thomson said, getting away from the subject of war.
“Yes, you’ll need the right man.”
“This is where you come in. I believe you’re that man.”
“You understand my position with Vickers Aircraft, Lord Thomson?” Wallis said, with slight discomfort.
“Yes, I do, Wallis, but this is all much too important. It’s my belief Vickers’s intention is to monopolize the airship industry, and we certainly can’t allow that. This has got to be more about the good of the country—not just about profit. There are people out there …” Thomson jerked his thumb toward the sound of the bagpipes, “…hell-bent on nationalizing Vickers and just about every other company in the land. To them, ‘profit’ is a very dirty word. Private business has its usefulness, but it must be held in check for the ‘common good’. You do understand, don’t you, Wallis?”
Wallis showed no sign of what he was thinking. “I think I understand perfectly, sir, yes.”
“Government took the lead in the production of airships until the unfortunate accident, but it’s time to put all that behind us and restart the program. Vickers will have its role to play—an important role. Our new government will not only undertake the design and construction of airships of its own, but will oversee airships built by Vickers under contract to us. And this is where you come in, Wallis.”
“What are you saying exactly, sir?”
“I want you to oversee the entire program, as Secretary of the Airship Committee.”
Wallis showed emotion for the first time. He was aghast.
“You’re planning to build airships by committee?”
“Yes, why not?”
“Well
, I, I …”
“You are the best man we’ve got after all—or so I’ve been led to believe.” Thomson paused. “Now your country needs you, Wallis.”
Wallis sat and stared down at his shiny, black lace-up shoes. Thomson waited, while the fire crackled in the grate. “I take it I’d be at liberty to pick and choose my own teams on both government and private sector projects?”
Thomson hadn’t seen this coming. He stared away at a painting of Charles I, searching for the right words. This was a loaded question.
This man is his own master. He’d certainly be strong enough for the job.
“Yes, to some extent, but naturally, I’d require you to take over the team at the Royal Airship Works at Cardington,” Thomson answered.
“The same people who built R38?”
Thomson tried to slough that off. “Well, yes.”
“The same team that built the airship that plunged into the Humber three years ago?”
The man’s tone is becoming irritating.
“As I said, they’d be working under your direction, yes.”
“I cannot believe you’d actually contemplate keeping those people employed—they’re totally incompetent. If I were in the position to, I’d sack the lot tomorrow. Some of them should’ve gone to prison. They shouldn’t be rewarded with another airship to build. That’d put more peoples’ lives in danger. It’d be a serious mistake indeed, sir!” Wallis said.
Stunned, Thomson stared down into his whisky and then slowly raised his head, his eyes boring into Wallis’s. “I take that, sir, as a refusal of your government’s offer?”
“I refuse to be part of another major airship disaster,” Wallis answered.
“I was rather hoping you would prevent one,” Thomson said with finality.
There was a long awkward silence. Wallis put down his untouched glass of whisky and both men got up and moved toward the door. A footman stood in the corridor waiting for instructions.
“Kindly fetch Mr. Wallis’s coat from the Stone Hall cloakroom and show him out through the west door to his car. Mr. Wallis, please wait here. I bid you good day, sir.” Wallis showed no emotion whatever as they parted without shaking hands. Thomson went up the main staircase to his room. He needed to unwind. This had been a disaster.
An unmitigated damned disaster!
He went to the sink and splashed his face with water. He trembled as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He hadn’t anticipated this reaction from Wallis and felt he’d misjudged him—mishandled the whole thing. He was furious, mostly with himself—his first important task and he’d failed miserably. It left him questioning the way the program was to be set up. Wallis’s sarcastic jibe kept running through his mind.
You’re planning to build airships by committee?
Thomson gradually calmed down and went to the window in time to see Wallis trudging to his car. He watched him climb in and white puffs shot from the exhaust. The car moved off unsurely in the snow toward the sun disappearing below the tree line. Thomson sat down in an armchair, staring at the fireplace until he felt composed. He thought about what Wallis had said about the Cardington people. The truth was, the design people who’d been responsible for R38 had perished with the airship. He concluded Wallis must have been ranting about government enterprise—his sacred cow!
Later, he went down to the Great Hall where the Scottish Guards and the dancers were finishing their performance. He slipped into the room as the servants were turning on more table lamps and wall sconces. He moved to where MacDonald stood with a group around him.
Sensing Thomson’s disappointment, MacDonald’s glance showed he instinctively knew the interview had been a failure. As the guardsmen and dancers wrapped up, MacDonald started the applause and everyone joined in. He eased his way over to Thomson and they went under the galleried arches into the White Parlor.
“Why so glum, CB?”
“It didn’t go well with Wallis. He seemed quite receptive at first. But then he said his first task would be to fire all the staff at the Royal Airship Works.”
“My goodness!”
“The nerve of the fellow,” Thomson said.
“We’re supposed to be creating jobs, not laying everybody off!”
“He may be the greatest engineer in the world, but we can’t have someone like that going around laying down the law, telling us what’s what!”
“You don’t really know if he is the best engineer available. There must be others, surely?” MacDonald said.
“Time will tell, Ramsay.”
“Well, old chap, don’t let this little hiccup spoil this wonderful party. Let’s go in there and tell them about all our plans,” MacDonald said.
They reentered the Great Hall and Thomson picked out one of the Lenin look-a-likes and went to work.
“George Casewell, isn’t it? I'm Christopher Thomson,” he said, thrusting out his hand. “You’re with the Yorkshire Miners Union. The future is looking bright indeed. We have plans afoot to nationalize the mines, you know.”
The rough-and-ready Casewell peered at Thomson as if assessing him for the first time, obviously surprised to hear such sweet words coming from someone of his sort. Thomson sensed the man melt. His manner changed before Thomson’s eyes—yes, he was being reappraised.
Progress!
9
OUT OF THE BLUE
January 1922 - April 1924.
Lou enjoyed working at the garage. John Bull, the owner, was a gentle man with hands that tremored and words that faltered. He stood six feet tall, with sad blue eyes and a full head of grey hair and a matching, close-cropped beard. His disarming smile, though rarely seen, hinted at his inner goodness. Lou sensed he possessed a strong business acumen, but clearly his heart wasn’t in it; perhaps once it had been, but not anymore. Lou didn’t ask questions. It wasn’t hard to figure. If Mr. Bull wanted him to know, he’d tell him in his own time.
Lou guessed John had read about him in the newspapers from a few things he’d said. One day while Lou was working on a truck in the shop, John brought in two mugs of steaming tea and leaned on the bench.
“My son was in France, too,” he said.
Lou shook his head, sadly.
“Died at Passchendaele with hundreds of thousands of other young boys,” John said, staring at the ground, the memory raw and unbearable.
“Awful,” Lou said, remembering that indescribable horror.
“Blown to bits, I suppose, or drowned in the mud. They said he was ‘missing.’ No body, no funeral. Nothing!”
Lou screwed up his face, recalling the macabre faces of the dead. He’d encountered many gruesome skeletons in rags wearing helmets, propped against barbed wire, grinning—their faces eaten away by rats.
“When we got the news, it was the most miserable day of our lives.”
“I’m so very, very sorry, sir,” Lou said.
“So many of our young boys are gone—thousands and thousands of them from around here—gone forever. It just wasn’t right!”
“It was all a waste, Mr. Bull. A terrible waste.”
“Please call me John. No more sirs, or Mr. Bull, eh lad?”
“All right then …John.”
John went silent for a few moments as though deciding whether to ask—not sure if he really wanted to know. In the end he spoke.
“Tell me, what was it like for you? Where were you?”
“I was in Belleau Wood and then Saint-Mihiel with the Marines. I started out in observation balloons until they were shot down by enemy planes.”
“What happened to you?”
“I bailed out twice, but I was okay.”
“You were bloody lucky!”
“That’s what they called me, especially later,” Lou said.
“Why what happened?”
“Once the balloons were down they sent me to the trenches. I got blown up by German artillery in a deep bunker with twenty-five others and buried.”
John was horrified at the though
t. “How long were you buried?”
Lou grimaced. “Six hours.”
“Six hours! Oh no! Were you okay?”
“Yeah, I was a bit banged up. They sent me to the field hospital for a few days.”
“You’re okay now though?”
“Well, it stayed with me. I can’t bear being shut in—gives me the horrors.”
“What about the other men?”
“All dead.”
“Oh, dear God. What happened to you then, son? Did they send you back to the trenches?”
“I requested to be sent back with my Army buddies. But that wasn’t the worst of it.”
John looked at Lou with compassion. “Tell me what happened to you, I want to know.”
“On eleven, eleven …”
“The last day of the war?”
“Yeah. After first standing us down, we were ordered to attack. We climbed the ladders out of the trenches into No Man’s Land. There were waves of us. It was pretty quiet for a long time—the Germans were holding their fire.”
John was mortified. “What time was this?”
“We got to the German line about ten minutes to eleven.”
“Dear God! Then what?”
“The Germans kept shouting: ‘Go back, Yanks. Go home!’”
“But you advanced?”
“Yes. They fired over our heads at first. They wanted no part of it.”
“And then?”
“Finally, they understood we meant business and were coming to kill them.”
“And you would’ve?”
“Yes. We were under orders to kill them to the last second. They started firing at us. I saw my buddies to my left going down and then they all went down.”
“What about you?”
Lou paused for a long time, unable to answer.
“I went down, too,” he said finally.
“You were hit?”
Lou hesitated. “I guess I blacked out.”
John was reliving this with Lou who’d turned white. “What happened then?”
“I came to, lying beside my friends.” Lou wrapped his hands around his head trying to banish the memory.
“They were all dead?”
“Yes.”
The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue. Page 13