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

by David Dennington

  A potential voter!

  The man, compelled to acknowledge Thomson, touched his cap.

  “Mornin', sir,” he said.

  “And a very good morning to you, my dear sir!” Thomson gushed.

  “What carriage are you in, sir? Perhaps I can be of assistance.” Knoxwood pulled out their tickets. “That’s first class. Right this way, gentlemen,” the railwayman said, leading them along the platform.

  He stopped abruptly and opened their carriage door. They piled in while Knoxwood dropped a coin into the man’s hand. They stashed their briefcases and raincoats in the overhead racks and got comfortable. Thomson gleefully rubbed his hands together like a schoolboy off to the seaside. A few minutes later, the doors slammed down the platform and the guard’s whistle blew. The train jolted forward.

  “Well, here we are again, Sefton. Back where it counts!”

  “I can’t tell you how pleased I am, CB,” Brancker said.

  “We’ll need to visit Egypt. We must make sure everything’s on schedule with the mooring mast and shed. Pity we lost our man, Hinchliffe. He’d have been ideal to fly us out there.”

  Brancker shook his head sadly. “Such a loss!”

  “Perhaps you’ll come back with another magic carpet,” Knoxwood said, brightly. He knew one of Thomson’s most prized possessions was a Persian rug presented to him in Iraq.

  “Our magic carpet, Knoxwood, will be Cardington R101 which will transport us first to Egypt and then on to India.”

  “Well put, CB,” Brancker said.

  “Perhaps the ship should be named The Magic Carpet,” Knoxwood said, laughing.

  “No, no. No fancy names,” Thomson declared. He leaned his head on the headrest and relaxed. The train glided unhurriedly through grimy rows of terraced houses, wheels clacking rhythmically over the tracks. Thomson loved that sound. Train rides always put him in a good mood.

  “Now, gentlemen, let’s see what’s what, shall we?” he said, delving into his red ministerial box. After reading his memoranda a few moments, he looked up suddenly, shooting a glance at Brancker, who was busy studying the form of a young woman pegging out the washing in her back yard.

  “What happened to those trial flights to Egypt? We were going to use R33 and R36 for that purpose. What happened?”

  Brancker turned back to Thomson. “Er, er, the trials got scrapped—budget cuts. Well er, …not budget cuts exactly …R36 and R33 needed a lot of money spending on them—especially after R33 got wrecked.”

  “Got wrecked! How?”

  “Collided with her shed …”

  “Collided with her shed! Who was in command?”

  “Scott, of course.”

  Thomson looked away in exasperation. “Whatever is the matter with that man?”

  Brancker raised his eyebrows and made no comment.

  “Well, they should have rebuilt those ships,” Thomson said.

  “The funding just wasn’t there CB,” Brancker replied.

  “Budget cuts? Damn the Tories! Wish I’d been around. What else did they cut?”

  “Nothing I can think of, but the emphasis is on heavier-than-air aircraft nowadays. Many in government don’t like airships,” Brancker replied.

  “We’ll see about that! I hope we don’t live to regret cutting those test flights with the older ships. We could’ve learned a thing or two from a few trial runs to the Middle East. My main concern is the schedule. The Germans are getting way out in front. Our ships should’ve been in the air by now.”

  “Quite so, Minister,” Knoxwood agreed.

  The train rushed into a tunnel and they sat in the dark while Thomson continued. “So let’s recap. Both ships are running three years late. We’ve taken twice as long to reach this stage. But on the brighter side, we’ve only spent half as much again. So, I suppose we can say we’ve given employment to more people, for a longer period of time. Fair assessment, Sefton?”

  “I suppose you could put it like that, CB, yes.”

  Even in the dark, Thomson sensed Brancker was amused by his nutty logic. The train rushed out of the tunnel into sunshine, revealing lush green fields and blue skies. A happy omen.

  “India by Christmas then!” Thomson exclaimed. Brancker and Knoxwood exchanged knowing glances.

  28

  THE BRIEFING

  June 19, 1929.

  On the edge of Bedford, crewmen had gathered at Rowe’s Tobacconists, the ‘corner store,’ adjacent to Munn’s Dairy. Lou drew up at the curb and parked his motorbike alongside others. Potter was waiting with Disley, Church, Binks and Freddie. Cameron hadn’t arrived. Lou noticed Capt. Irwin’s Austin Seven approaching. The car stopped some distance away and Irwin climbed out. He cut a striking figure in his dark blue officer’s uniform. This man had the keys to the city, admired and loved by all, especially his crewmen. Then Cameron appeared, his face tired and drawn.

  “You all right, Doug?” Lou asked.

  “No, but I don’t wanna talk about it if you don’t mind, sir.”

  Binks glanced across at Lou, shaking his head. He then turned to his cousin.

  “Freddie, guess what? You know the lieutenant got me a job on the construction? Well, now I just got promoted,” Binks said.

  “To what?” Freddie asked.

  “Engineer. I’ll be in one of them engine cars.”

  “You liar!” Freddie exclaimed.

  “God’s honest truth. I’m set for life. Ain’t that right, sir?”

  Lou smiled. This week, he’d interviewed and recommended a few men from the construction team for jobs in the crew. Church, who’d finished a spell cutting and shuffling his cards and springing them from one hand to the other, was now busy combing his hair. “Yeah, and I’m gonna be a rigger. How about that!” he said.

  Freddie gritted his teeth. “You lucky sods!”

  Lou felt sorry for him.

  “That’s not all. Old Bad-Luck Sammy over there’s doin’ all right—ain’tcha, Sammy. Show ’em the picture of your new girl,” Binks said.

  Church stuck the comb between his teeth, pulled out his wallet and produced a photograph. He handed it to Freddie who scrutinized the well-endowed blond in a tight-fitting jumper with a pretty face. Everyone gathered round.

  “What’s her name then?” someone demanded.

  “Irene,” Church said proudly, stuffing the comb in his top pocket.

  “Oooo, nice tits!” Freddie shrieked, holding the photo up close.

  “Give it ’ere, you little sod!” Church yelled, grabbing Freddie’s collar.

  Freddie handed back the photograph. “Sorry, Sammy. No offense. I didn’t realize it was serious.” He peered up at Lou, meekly. “Lou, er sir, do you fink you could get me a job … please?”

  “Give it a year or two, Freddie,” Lou answered.

  “Oh, come on, sir. He’s me cousin, twice removed, and he’s ever so old for ’is age,” Binks pleaded.

  Lou glanced away toward Irwin, closing on them. The group parted, respectfully.

  “Good morning, men,” Irwin said in his soft Irish brogue giving them all a smile.

  “Mornin’, sir,” they said together.

  Irwin proceeded to the shop doorway and went in, the bell inside jangling.

  “Who was that?” Freddie asked innocently.

  Leech, the foreman engineer, now joined them. “That, my son, is the captain of Cardington R101,” he said.

  It was Leech who’d given Lou a lift up to the main house from the guard gate on his first day. Lou was pleased to see him here with the younger crowd. He wouldn’t miss a fishing party at the river, Leech had told them. Lou followed Irwin into the shop. The bell inside tinkled again as he stepped onto the well-worn floor boards. The sweet smell of confectionery, tobacco, and newsprint, reminded him of his days here with his R38 crewmen. Irwin was at the counter.

  “Ten Players, if you’d be kind enough, Mr. Rowe,” Irwin said.

  The shopkeeper reached for the cigarettes from the shelf behind him
. “That’ll be one and tuppence, sir.”

  “Oh, and a box of Swan and the Daily Mirror.’’

  “Certainly, Captain.” The shopkeeper reverently laid the cigarettes and the red-tipped matches on the counter. “They say it’s gonna be a warm one today, sir,” he said.

  “Yes, indeed. Thank you,” Irwin said.

  Irwin gathered up his change and took a newspaper, glancing at Lou as some of the group came in. Lou realized the captain wanted to speak to him. He picked up the Daily Mail and a pack of Juicy Fruit, paid, and went into the street. Irwin walked to his car and climbed in, pausing to light a cigarette. Lou popped the Juicy Fruit in his mouth, watching Irwin’s car move closer. Lou got to the curb as Irwin rolled down his window.

  “You’re going in later, right Lou?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re gonna fish for a couple of hours first.”

  “The Air Minister is scheduled to visit the shed at 2 o’clock.”

  “That’ll give us plenty of time. We’ll finish this morning and make sure everything’s perfect.”

  “Wing Commander Colmore’s anxious the Minister leaves with a good impression.”

  “You bet, sir.”

  They were disturbed by a noisy group across the street, yelling and attracting attention. Lou turned and saw Jessup and his cronies—three originals and two new faces. They hadn’t spotted Lou, leaning down talking to Capt. Irwin.

  “They’re Howden crewmen. I see you’ve pitched in with the Cardington lads,” Irwin said.

  “Oh, no sir. They were all invited, but the Howden lot don’t wanna mix.”

  “I’ve noticed that. I hope we’re not going to have trouble with all these different groups—different ships—different construction crews.”

  “They are rivals, sir,” said Lou.

  “Yes, I suppose they are. Dumb really, isn’t it!”

  Jessup’s crowd continued making a fuss—looking over and laughing. Jessup limped off, smirking while his gang laughed and whooped. They jeered at Cameron, who was on the verge of tears.

  “Give it to ’er, Jessie,” one of the gang shouted.

  Jessup gave Cameron one of his two-finger whistles and pumped his fist in a crude gesture.

  That son of a bitch is up to his tricks again, dammit!

  “When they’re not busy, they get into mischief, sir,” Lou said.

  “I don’t like the looks of that one—could be a troublemaker. You know him?”

  “I’ve had a few dealings with him.”

  “I’d better get moving, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay, Captain.”

  "It’s good you’re taking an interest in these men. They’ll think the world of you for it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Make sure you’re in uniform this afternoon.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Irwin drove off. Lou went back to his group and they ambled to the river carrying rods and tackle. They spent two hours fishing. Freddie caught a couple of trout and Leech hooked a pike. After that, Lou left the river, arranging to meet Potter, Binks, Disley and Church at Shed No.1. Cameron didn’t look up to it.

  Thomson was still in high spirits when his train rolled into Bedford Station. The chauffeur-driven Airship Works Humber was waiting. He had fond memories of Cardington House and couldn’t wait to see the place again. The driver touched his cap and opened the doors for the three men. Thomson settled down with a sigh of contentment beside Brancker.

  “Ah yes, it’s nice to back in this city,” Thomson said. “What’s that wonderful smell in the air, Sefton, hm?”

  “I don’t smell anything, CB.”

  “I smell optimism, my dear fellow. That’s what I smell—optimism!”

  “Ah yes,” Brancker said, smiling.

  “Have the press been informed of my visit, Knoxwood?” Thomson asked.

  “Absolutely, sir. I’m sure they’re eagerly awaiting your awival.”

  “I’m getting hungry and we’ve been promised a bang-up lunch by all accounts,” Thomson said.

  The driver pulled out onto the high street. Twenty minutes later, they reached the Cardington gate, stopping at the guard house.

  “Lord Thomson, we’ve been expecting you, sir,” the gatekeeper gushed, grabbing the phone. The car glided smoothly up the winding driveway. Thomson savored every moment—like the returning warrior. They drew up outside the great house, where Thomson leapt out and stood for a few moments surveying the building in its lush surroundings.

  Ah yes, it’s as beautiful as ever.

  On seeing his team gathered with a dozen press people at the top of the steps, he handed his walking stick to Knoxwood. He bounded up two at a time like a man half his age, the photographers, catching the moment. What would they think of him? It’d been five years since they’d seen him. He looked fit and had put on weight, banishing the under-nourished look. He wondered how they’d fared under the strain. He made straight for Colmore, at center.

  “My dear Colmore!” he said, taking his hand.

  “We’re so pleased to have you back, sir,” Colmore lied.

  “A few more grey hairs, I see. I’m sure you’ve earned them,” Thomson said.

  “Oh, yes, sir, we’ve had a few mountains to climb.”

  He turned to Richmond. “I hear you’ve been achieving great things, Richmond.”

  “We’ve been doing our best, sir,” Richmond replied.

  “Well, don’t look so glum, man! The best is yet to come. All your hard work’s about to pay off!”

  Not so cock-sure by the looks of him. Must have all been tougher than he thought.

  He held his hand out to Scott who appeared a little the worse for wear.

  Looks like the drink’s catching up with him!

  “Scottie, my dear fellow! You’re looking well. Wonderful to see you. You all know the Director of Civil Aviation, Sir Sefton Brancker, and my private secretary, Rupert Knoxwood.” Everyone shook hands and made pleasantries and Colmore led the way into the grand, marble entrance hall. Thomson retrieved his walking stick from Knoxwood. Their voices and footsteps echoed as though they were in a museum. Thomson paused, remembering that glorious day when he stood here between these great columns at the foot of the sweeping, stone stairs and announced his plans to the nation.

  What a day that was! Well, there’ll be plenty more days like that.

  Thomson stopped and leaned on his walking stick peering at the ensign hanging forty feet up from the ornate, coffered ceiling, among gold leaf scrollwork and classical paintings of British battles on land and sea—a blaze of red, white and blue, cannons and muskets, blood, mud, fire and raging seas. Scott stepped forward and pointed to the ensign.

  “We plan to fly that from the stern on her maiden voyage, Lord Thomson.”

  Sounds tipsy …yes, I can smell it.

  “What a splendid idea. It’ll look superb fluttering in the wind from the world’s mightiest airship. Bravo, Scott! I’m planning to be on that voyage, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “None of us have forgotten your pledge,” Colmore said.

  “I’m looking forward to that,” Thomson said. “You’re coming, too, eh Sefton?”

  “Oh yes, rather, CB. Wouldn’t miss that show for the world!”

  The group filed into the reception room for Earl Grey tea served in bone china cups with digestive biscuits and snacks, while the chief steward hovered. The engineering and design staff of the Royal Airship Works trooped in to shake hands with Thomson, who treated them like old friends. He remembered their faces and names from his visit in 1924 and the roles they played. This impressed them greatly. Naturally, he’d consulted a staff list he kept at the flat the night before.

  After tea, and the opportunity to get re-acquainted, the group of forty-two moved to the conference room. The table seated thirty and the rest sat around perimeter walls. Brancker and Knoxwood sat next to Thomson at the table. Anticipation was high: shades drawn, projector on, nerves on edge. Thomson had this effect on people, in
dividually or en mass. It was time to crack the whip. They’d all had it too easy for too long—they’d fallen asleep at the switch. No excuse for that.

  Richmond stood stiffly at the front, waiting for the room to settle down. People lit cigarettes and pipes. Soon the air was laden with smoke drifting across the projector’s beam. For some, it became hard to breath.

  “All right, Colonel Richmond, proceed. Perhaps you won’t mind if occasionally I butt in with a question or two,” Thomson said.

  The lights were dimmed and a picture of Cardington R101 appeared on a screen behind Richmond, who cleared his throat nervously.

  “This is a side-view. Strength of the hull has been our first concern.”

  “Excellent!” Thomson said.

  Richmond traced the outline of the ship with his pointer.

  “Cardington R101 is 734 feet long, 134 feet in diameter. You’ll notice she’s fatter than previous airships. This makes her more resilient and with a stainless steel skeleton, she’ll be the strongest airship ever built.”

  “Good. Now tell me about progress.”

  The picture on the screen changed to one showing the gas bag harnesses hanging from the ship’s interior.

  “There have been some delays, but the features of this airship are, if I may say so, unique and innovative. We have designed a revolutionary new gasbag harnessing system—”

  “What have you done to cut down the risk of fire?”

  “We cannot eliminate the risk completely. Even static electricity can be deadly and is an ever-present threat—that’s why it’s necessary for groundcrewmen to always use rubber mats when picking up lines dropped from the ship. Static electricity can be deadly; it’s a danger to the men and could cause fire. It’s another reason we’re using diesel engines in accordance with the original specification requirements, though they've turned out to be less powerful and heavier than expected.”

  “Is that so?” Thomson’s tone was level.

  I smell trouble. This man isn’t telling me the full story.

  “Of course, I expect you’ve already been informed Howden is using lighter petrol engines from Rolls-Royce which, by the way, I hear are second-hand.”