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

by David Dennington

  “Second-hand petrol engines? No, I didn’t know that,” Thomson said flatly.

  Thomson sensed Richmond’s discomfort over the weight of the engines. Now he seemed to be alluding to the diesel versus petrol issue as a distraction. Thomson wondered if Wallis had got one over on the Air Ministry.

  Damn Wallis! But at least he had sense enough to do some arithmetic first.

  Thomson made an effort to hide his irritation, but his eyes narrowed. This was a dilemma. Richmond was a military man who’d followed the edict Thomson had laid down himself. He’d need to give the matter more thought later. Richmond continued, mentioning that the gasbags were manufactured by the workers of Cardington and ready to install—unlike Howden, who’d imported theirs from Germany. He talked about the new and complex design of the gas valves and servo assistance mechanism necessary for a craft of such immense proportions. Lastly, he explained the revolutionary approach to the process of doping the ship’s outer cover, which he himself, had developed.

  When the briefing was over, everyone was ushered into the dining room. Roast leg of lamb smothered in mint sauce, baked potatoes, and garden peas were served by immaculate stewards in white jackets and gloves under the watchful eye of the fussy chief steward. A Beaujolais was offered and Thomson and Colmore had a glass each; Scott drank more. Treacle tart followed the main course and then coffee, cheese, and biscuits. By the end of the meal, Thomson had mellowed somewhat. He turned to Colmore.

  “How’s the American doing? I expected him to be here.”

  “He’s down in the shed supervising the finishing touches to the mock-ups for your inspection. He thought that was more important than lunch, sir.”

  “He’s a conscientious chap.”

  “He’s been a great asset and a fine liaison officer between the teams.”

  “So I’ve been given to understand,” Thomson said, noting the chief steward perk up at the mention of ‘the American.’

  “It’s just before two. Perhaps we should make a move, sir,” Colmore said.

  “Yes, I can’t wait!” Thomson said, jumping to his feet.

  29

  SHOW ME YOUR SHIP, MY CAPTAIN

  June 19, 1929.

  The lunch party made its way to one of the huge green buildings in convoy, led by Thomson’s Humber. He was always amazed by the size of this structure and how ridiculously tiny the staff entrance doors looked. He stepped inside, where silence was absolute. The reverent atmosphere surrounding the enormous space reminded him of a cathedral or even his favorite building—Westminster Hall.

  Lou had been on board the airship with Potter, Binks, Disley and Church since 9:30 a.m. Using a layout issued by the drawing office, they’d placed furniture in the lounge, dining room, and smoking room, with setups of couches and easy chairs positioned around coffee tables and card tables. Deck chairs were arranged on the promenade decks with side tables. In the dining room, tables were laid with white linen, dinnerware and cutlery, shined to perfection. Two typical cabins were set up with bunks, chairs, linens and blankets. Once they’d finished, Lou sent the others home.

  During the morning, while they worked, he’d asked them about Cameron. “What’s up with Doug?”

  “He’s having trouble with Rosie,” Potter said.

  “What sort of trouble?” Lou asked.

  “She’s messing around with one of them Yorkshire blokes,” Church answered.

  “And he found out?”

  “He did.”

  “Which one?”

  “The ugly bastard with the pockmarks and eyes like lollypops,” Binks replied.

  Lou grimaced. This explained what he'd witnessed earlier.

  “It’s a bloody shame. They were really ’appy. Next we know she’s gone overboard for that crazy lunatic,” Potter said.

  After they left, Lou made final adjustments to some of the lamps and cushions in the lounge. He thought about the change in Cameron. He and Rosie had been laughing and joking at the house-warming party. He’d need to keep an eye on that situation.

  Damn Jessup!

  Lou took a last look around the airship. Satisfied, he wearily sat down for a few moments in one of the comfortable easy chairs. He dozed off.

  Thomson walked from the shed door toward the ship, mesmerized.

  By Jove, what a sight!

  Beaming with pleasure, he stared up at the massive skeleton. The structure was completely visible from bow to stern, her gas bags and cover, not yet installed. The stainless steel girders gleamed, giving the ship an aura of indestructibility.

  We’ll have no more structural problems like R38!

  Thomson’s gaze swept across the faces gathered around him.

  “Where’s our captain?”

  Irwin, standing modestly four rows back in the crowd, raised his hand.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear Captain Irwin. Show me over your ship, if you don’t mind,”

  Irwin edged forward in his unassuming way. “Not at all, sir. Please follow me.”

  Irwin led Thomson to a stepladder and they disappeared inside the control car. People in the entourage shuffled their feet and gave sideways glances, some slighted. Scott stood next to Richmond rattling loose change in his pocket, while Brancker stood beside Colmore and Knoxwood making polite conversation. Colmore showed no emotion—affable as always.

  Lou came to, awakened by voices in the shed. He glanced at his watch and went to the promenade deck and peered down at the group gathered below. He’d planned to make his way down before Thomson arrived. Time had slipped away. He moved to the chartroom where he heard the voices of Irwin and Thomson. He stood and listened, unable to help himself.

  This was the first time Thomson had been on an airship. He stared at one of the shiny ship’s wheels in the control car. “For steering?”

  Irwin pointed to the other wheel. “This one is, yes, sir. It controls the rudders. That one controls the elevators—the altitude.” Irwin pointed to three valves attached from pipes from above. “And here, beside the height coxswain, are the valves for releasing water ballast.”

  “And these?” Thomson gestured to the telegraph equipment.

  “These are telegraphs for sending instructions to the engine cars.”

  Thomson feasted his eyes on the hardwood wainscot, the floor and coxswain’s consuls.

  “It’s like a ship, Captain, but the instrumentation reminds me of a submarine.”

  “It does, indeed, sir.”

  Thomson ran his fingers along the shiny hardwood windowsill.

  “The workmanship is superb,” he said, thoughts about weight and engines banished from his mind. Thomson looked out the windows wrapped around the control car.

  “You’ll have a pretty good view from here.”

  “Yes, sir. All five engine cars are visible and we’ll be able to see where we’re going.”

  “Always good to know!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I look forward to standing here beside you, Captain, sailing the lofty skies.”

  “’Tis a nice thought, to be sure.”

  “I’m expecting great things from you, Irwin,” Thomson said. “I know you’re a man I can count on.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Let’s go up, shall we? Lead the way.”

  Irwin started up the mahogany steps. The spacious area above the control car doubled as control room and chartroom and was situated within the ship’s envelope. A railing allowed officers and navigators to look down into the control car below. A high hardwood table had been built along the back wall for studying maps and charts with plenty of pigeonholes for storage. Irwin described the room’s function.

  “This is where the navigator will chart the ship’s course and the officers will work on calculations and suchlike. You’ll see it’s convenient for keeping the officer on watch informed of their position and for him to call down new bearings.”

  “Very impressive, Captain. I can’t wait to see the dining room and lounge.” />
  “And don’t forget the smoking room, sir,” Irwin said with a smile.

  Lou, having heard a good deal of their conversation, decided to stay put until he could slip out undetected. He stayed out of sight, but he caught a glimpse of Thomson, remembering the last time he’d seen him. He saw a big change. Thomson certainly looked healthier, and sounded self assured.

  These last five years must have been good to him.

  Irwin led Thomson to the lounge, which measured sixty feet by forty. Linoleum flooring, replicating hardwood, gleamed in the subdued lighting of table lamps and wall sconces, powered up by Disley and Lou earlier. Thomson admired the room and furniture.

  “This is stunning! And tastefully done. Look at the size of it!” He rushed to the middle of the floor and spun around, marveling at the fluted columns at the perimeter with their gold-leaf ornamental heads. “I’m delighted. It’s better than I could have ever imagined. Why, they’ll be able to dance all the way to India in this fabulous room!”

  “I do believe you could be right, sir.”

  Thomson spotted the promenade deck and raced off to the polished wood guardrail in front of the huge plate glass windows and stared out into the shadows of the shed, oblivious to his entourage below. Irwin followed him.

  “Oh, this is exceptional, Irwin. Can you imagine the view of the Mediterranean coast? The French Riviera! The Italian Riviera! My goodness, what a sight that’ll be.”

  “Yes, it’ll be grand, sir.”

  Thomson was deeply preoccupied with his vision of the future.

  One day, I shall travel with Marthe in this beautiful airship. We’ll arrive as husband and wife!

  He turned and saw the captain patiently waiting.

  “Do forgive me, Irwin. I was lost in thought. I look forward to returning in this airship to the land of my birth.”

  “India?”

  “Yes, India. And confidentially, Irwin I hope to be taking a very special lady with me as my wife, one day.”

  “That’ll be very nice, sir.”

  “It’s fate, Irwin. Do you believe in fate?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “Yes, our fate is written.”

  “I’m sure you’re right about that, sir.”

  Thomson grabbed Irwin’s hand and clasped it, warmly in two hands.

  “This ship will be the making of us, my dear Captain. All of us!”

  30

  THE OLD GASBAG

  June 19, 1929.

  After reviewing the dining room, cabins and smoking room—which everyone had made so much fuss about—Thomson posed for a few photographs before making for the gasbag factory. The fabric shop, another cavernous, corrugated iron building, stood among a group of utility buildings near the two main sheds. Within, eighty-seven excited women patiently waited, singing to relieve their boredom. On his arrival, Thomson was greeted by the sound of their voices drifting through the windows. He paused to listen. He’d heard the song a thousand times before.

  Good-bye, Dolly, I must leave you, though it breaks my heart to go,

  Something tells me I am needed at the Front to fight the foe,

  See the boys in blue are marching and I can no longer stay,

  Hark I heard the bugle calling, good-bye, Dolly Gray.

  The haunting melody reminded him of France. Suddenly, he was back in Ypres listening to the soldiers. He heard the boom of guns, the whine of shells, explosions thundering in the distance. He became morbid—so much death. He shook it off and turned to Colmore and Brancker.

  “Let’s go in.”

  As they entered, the anticipation was palpable. The sun on the metal building made the interior oppressive, despite the open windows. A few electric fans placed in strategic locations did little to dispel the smell of rotting animals’ intestines, dampness, body odor and glue. The women went silent, as if on cue from an invisible conductor, as Thomson’s towering frame appeared in the doorway.

  Members of his entourage silently eased their way in behind him, as though late for church. Lou, now in uniform, stood next to Scott. Photographers clutched their cameras, ready for a spread in tomorrow’s papers. Seeing their eagerness, Thomson’s face lit up, captivating the women. He stepped forward into the open space and took off his hat to survey the scene. Down one side, dozens sat on stools in rows, six deep, at tiny scraping boards working on wet, slimy substances with wooden-handled scrapers. Although dressed in protective smocks and unglamorous hats, he noticed they were wearing makeup.

  Must be for me—how nice—I’m very flattered.

  He unconsciously began to fan himself with his hat before he caught himself and stopped. On the floor, huge sheets of fabric were laid out with women on their knees joining the pieces together. It reminded him of parachutes being spread out for assembly, or the cutting and sewing of great yacht sails. Thomson raised his arms in a grand gesture and gave them one of his paralyzing smiles.

  “Ladies! I beg you, please don’t stop. I should enjoy to hear you sing. I love that you are so happy in your work, which I know is arduous—but so vital to this great undertaking.”

  A stocky, sergeant-major-like woman stepped forward and stood beside him. Thomson observed her closely. Even to him, she was intimidating. She wore a starched, sharply pressed, blue boiler suit, bright red headscarf tied in knots over her tightly cropped hair and shiny black boots. She placed her hands on her hips, ready for business.

  “You ‘eard the Lord, girls!” she bawled and then, pointing to one young woman in the middle, yelled, “Okay, sing, Millicent!”

  Clearly struggling with her nerves, the one called Millicent took a few moments, but soon the great space was filled with the most beautiful operatic sound, continuing the song Thomson had heard outside. It took his breath away.

  I have come to say good-bye, Dolly Gray,

  It’s no use to ask me why, Dolly Gray,

  There’s a murmur in the air, you can hear it everywhere,

  It’s time to do and dare, Dolly Gray.

  So if you hear the sound of feet, Dolly Gray,

  Sounding through the village street, Dolly Gray,

  It’s the tramp of soldiers true, in their uniforms so blue,

  I must say good-bye to you, Dolly Gray.

  At this point, all the women joined the chorus, producing a harmony enough to warm any choirmaster’s heart; they sounded like a choir of heavenly angels.

  Good bye, Dolly, I must leave you though it breaks my heart to go,

  Something tells me I am needed at the Front to fight the foe,

  See the boys in blue are marching and I can no longer stay,

  Hark I heard the bugle calling, goodbye, Dolly Gray.

  It was Thomson’s turn to be smitten. He almost choked up, not believing such a wonderful sound could come from such a ragged-looking bunch of women. He stepped forward with his hand out to the forewoman.

  “Welcome to the fabric shop, your Lordship,” she bellowed.

  “You’re in charge?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “And what’s your name, if I may ask?”

  My goodness, what a scary woman—must be a communist!

  “Yes, you may. It’s ’ilda, sir.”

  “’Ilda?” Thomson repeated.

  The embarrassed women tried to hold back their laughter. He’d pronounced her name in Cockney. The forewoman corrected him.

  “No, sir. 'Haych' as in H–ilda,” she said, emphasizing the H with much heavy breathing.

  “All right you lot, that’s enough,” she hollered.

  “Oh, Hilda, of course! Do forgive me.”

  “Quite all right, me lord.”

  “Would you be kind enough to show me around and educate me on what these fine ladies are doing?”

  “It would be my pleasure, sir. In this ’ere place, we make gasbags and canvas covers for the airships. First of all, what we call the ‘goldbeater’s skins’ are shipped from Argentina and Chicago—that’s in America.” Hilda led Thomson alo
ng the rows of women perched on stools, pointing at the skins on their scraping boards.

  “What are they made of, these goldbeater’s skins?”

  “Cattles’ bellies, sir.”

  Thomson already knew some of this, but wanted to give the woman her head. He wrinkled his nose, as though all this was completely new to him.

  “Cattle’s bellies. Fascinating!”

  Hilda picked up a sloppy, dripping skin and held it up, a respectable distance from Thomson, careful not to splash his face or his pinstriped suit.

  “Then we take ’em and we stick ’em together on that there table over there. Then we glue ’em on them linen sheets on them slantin’ boards what you see and then make ’em into big sheets on the floor,” Hilda said, pointing at the women on their knees.

  “Well, bless my soul. How many skins will you need for this airship, Hilda?”

  “More than a million, actually.”

  “More than a million! Good Lord! You don’t say.”

  Hilda flopped the skin down onto one of the women’s boards, wiped her hands on a cloth, and threw it down. Thomson marched across to a petite, middle-aged woman perched on her stool. She had an impish face and big brown eyes.

  “Now, please introduce me to this lovely lady.”

  “This ’ere is Nellie. She’s bin ’ere longer than any of my girls. ’Eaven knows how many skins she’s ’andled, this one!”

  Giggling broke out across the factory floor; first among the women and then the entourage. Thomson’s face showed no emotion, as if he didn’t get the joke. But he did. Overcome by his intimidating presence, Nellie became painfully shy, blushing and perspiring like a sixteen-year-old. For Thomson, the experience of getting down to these people’s level was exhilarating. He felt wholesome and good. He fawned over Nellie, knowing the effect he had on her. His interest was genuine and knew she completely understood that.

  “Nellie, show me exactly what you’re doing.”