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

by David Dennington

  “Shut down reversing engine No. 2 and increase revs on the rest to six hundred.”

  “Shut down reversing engine. Increase revs all engines to six hundred, sir,” Lou repeated.

  The power on the four forward running engines increased and the ship turned smoothly away on a starboard tack toward the perimeter fence. She cast a giant shadow over the crowd gathered a hundred feet below, nose still dangerously low, wallowing like a whale in the shallows.

  “Drop emergency ballast. Now!”

  Lou grabbed the speaking tube to Church at the bow.

  “Drop emergency ballast. Right now!”

  Water cascaded from under the ship’s bow and even though the amount of water was small, the effect was dramatic. The bow came up, but still not enough. The crowd below got soaked. The ship lumbered on, hovering over the country road toward a school where children waved handkerchiefs and scarves as the great monster approached. Still she wallowed. More water ballast was dropped from the forward frames. This time the children got wet, but it did nothing to dampen their spirits—quite the opposite; this was a wonderful game. They ran off screaming and laughing in all directions. The bow came up, at last, until she was flying straight and level.

  On the promenade deck, Thomson was in good spirits. He and his entourage waved back at the crowd at the fence initially, and then to the children in the schoolyard. He was elated, relishing Irwin’s maneuvering, which he presumed to be flawless.

  “Superb getaway! Well done, Captain Irwin,” Thomson exclaimed.

  “Hear, hear!” Brancker and Knoxwood seconded. Not everyone was so sure. Some mumbled under their breaths. “We’re too close to the damned ground for my liking,” one R.A.W. engineer grumbled.

  “I’d of thought we’d be a lot higher by now,” another complained.

  Scott peered out the window, his expression sullen.

  The airship slowly gained altitude and, after reaching eight hundred feet, turned toward Bedford to show herself a second time. So many in this city were counting on the success of this vessel. Thirty minutes later, they turned south toward London. The chief steward approached Thomson.

  “Good morning, sir. Breakfast will be served in the dining room in ten minutes, if that suits you, my Lord.” He addressed Thomson a little more tenderly than he would’ve preferred.

  “Splendid,” Thomson said with a weak smile. “all this excitement makes one very hungry.”

  After a delicious breakfast of ham and eggs and freshly ground coffee, everyone gathered on the promenade deck to get a good view of the London skyline from a cloudless sky. The ship, now at twelve hundred feet, approached from the north, passing over Lord’s Cricket Ground, close to Regent’s Park, and then followed Edgeware Road along the edge of Hyde Park, bursting with vivid, autumn colors. At Hyde Park Corner, the ship turned toward Buckingham Palace. Its rooftop flag was absent.

  The effect the ship had on the streets below Thomson thought was magical. Traffic came to a halt. Open-mouthed Londoners stopped in their tracks. Cardington R101 traveled over Birdcage Walk to Westminster Palace, the heart of the British Government. The panorama was a beautiful sight: Westminster Hall, the House of Commons and Big Ben, now striking the bottom of the hour—8:30 a.m. Thomson gazed at the House of Commons. He thought of Lord Scunthorpe and his scathing remarks.

  Now we shall find out who’s right.

  He didn’t dare crow, even to himself. He wondered what Scunthorpe would think if he came out of the House of Lords at this moment and looked up.

  Would he be inspired? No. Of course not!

  Thomson glanced down at the spot on the quadrangle where he and Marthe had recently had tea with MacDonald by the river. Seeing that place was gut-wrenching. Everywhere he turned was a reminder of her. The ship made its way along Whitehall, over the Horse Guards Parade, on to St. James’s Park Lake, and the Ritz Hotel. He’d requested they pass over these landmarks. For him it was enjoyable, masochistic torture. They traveled along Piccadilly to Piccadilly Circus. During this time, Thomson and Brancker stood together, separate from the others. They’d often talked about Marthe—not in depth as he did with MacDonald—but Brancker was aware of Thomson’s devotion. Brancker had met Marthe a few times at the Ministry.

  “I wish Marthe were able to witness this,” Thomson confided.

  “All in good time, CB. No doubt, she’ll be impressed.”

  Brancker, in a well-cut, pinstripe suit today, appeared refined, not his usual rustic, country-gentleman self. He leaned on the promenade deck rail, monocle planted in his left eye, voice deep, accent rich and upper-class, toupée smartly combed and greased down.

  “It’s been a long time coming, but worth the wait, CB. You must feel very, very proud indeed,” Brancker said.

  “I do. I can’t help myself. It’s unjustified. I’ve had so little to do with it all really.”

  “You had everything to do with it.”

  The ship pressed on over the Strand, along Fleet Street, home of the British press. Thomson had an idea. Press photographers were out in droves this morning; he’d made sure of that. Tomorrow there’d be photographs of Cardington R101 over every landmark. Sunday newspapers would be full of it, with whole pages and center spreads devoted to her maiden flight.

  Marthe will read about it soon enough.

  Thomson decided to address the Lord Scunthorpe situation head on. He beckoned everyone over. “Gather round. I have an announcement.” He held his hand out toward the press buildings below as they formed a circle around him. “I hope after today we’ll get full support from the Government and the press,” he said.

  “I should jolly-well think so, sir,” Scott said.

  “I want to announce that we’re inviting one hundred Members of Parliament to make a flight in this airship,” Thomson said. Everyone was surprised and most faces lit up.

  “What a splendid, original idea,” somebody said.

  “A hundred MPs over how m-many flights, sir?” Richmond stammered.

  “One, of course! That ought to shut the critics up,” Thomson replied.

  “Are you sure about this, CB?” Brancker asked, taking down his monocle and polishing it thoughtfully.

  “Don’t worry; nothing like a hundred will take us up on it. But our confidence will speak volumes!” Thomson noted Richmond doing his best not to appear negative, while Colmore, by his demeanor lacked confidence in the idea.

  Damn, that man is weak!

  “Trust me. This’ll be a good move,” Thomson assured them.

  The airship passed by St. Paul’s, Tower Bridge and the Tower of London. The time was nine-thirty. Having seen the sights, and London having seen the sight of her, Cardington R101 headed over northeast London toward the Essex countryside, then Cambridge and Sandringham. Thomson had looked forward to spending time on the airship, working on his papers.

  “There are some matters of state that cannot wait,” he said grandly, excusing himself. “Come Knoxwood, we must earn our keep.”

  They headed to the promenade deck on the starboard side where a privacy curtain had been hung across the opening to form a makeshift office with an imposing desk and a leather executive chair.

  45

  SANDRINGHAM

  October 16, 1929.

  While the ship cruised silently at twelve hundred feet, Thomson sat and read through the papers in his dispatch box and ministerial files, glancing up every so often to appreciate the countryside. The surroundings and the silence made him calm and confident—just how he’d always imagined it. Knoxwood sat at a table preparing documents for Thomson to sign. He got up and brought them to Thomson.

  “Can’t beat this, what?” Thomson said.

  “Smoother than a liner, sir,” Knoxwood replied.

  “This makes the perfect office, such peace and quiet.”

  While Scott and Richmond chatted with the rest of the VIP’s, Brancker and Colmore paid a visit to the control car, where they found Irwin and Lou with two coxswains. As Brancker e
ntered, he threw up his arms in exultation.

  “This is magnificent!” He ran his hands over the hardwood and his eyes over the instrumentation. “The workmanship and finish are extraordinary. We should call her HMAS Victory II, or HMAS Queen Victoria, or some such splendid thing!” After a few minutes, Brancker, an experienced pilot, couldn’t resist. “May I?” he asked.

  “Of course you can, sir,” Irwin replied. He instructed both coxswains to leave the control car and for Lou to take over the elevators. Brancker took the rudder and turned the wheel gently around from port to starboard. He then turned the ship through twenty degrees, the massive bulk, moving like a great sea galleon under canvas.

  “I say, she seems responsive. What do you say, Irwin?”

  “She’s responsive to the helm all right, but she’s underpowered and grossly overweight.” Colmore sighed in exasperation. Irwin was confirming everything Richmond and Rope feared—but were things even worse than they thought?

  “You mean seriously overweight?” Brancker asked.

  “Fully loaded, this ship wouldn’t get off the ground, sir.”

  “Hell, you don’t say!” Brancker exploded. “He’s all set to go charging off to India before Christmas!”

  “That’d be suicide. This ship’s quite unserviceable at the moment, sir,” Irwin replied.

  Lots of questions went through Lou’s mind.

  Would the lightening help to any significant degree?

  Would they need to push for an extra bay?

  Even then, would that really be enough?

  Irwin’s pronouncement was devastating to Colmore. Brancker raised his hand, indicating Thomson’s location on the promenade deck above them.

  “We’ll need to keep his Lordship in check somehow. We must develop a strategy for dealing with the problem before things get out of hand. Damn it all! He’s talking about inviting a hundred politicians to go on a flight next week.”

  “Oh dear,” Colmore said, his sad eyes searching the countryside.

  After circling Cambridge University for ten minutes, the airship sailed on toward the North Sea coast and by 11:00 a.m. they’d arrived at the King’s country home at Sandringham, a magnificent red brick house, quoined in white stone, set in manicured gardens. While gardeners raked the lawns, pleasant smells of burning autumn leaves wafted heavenward, permeating the airship.

  The ship was flown slowly in wide circles, showing herself to the King and Queen who had emerged from the French doors onto the stone terrace. The royal couple slowly walked down the steps to the gravel path and stopped. The Queen waved a red silk handkerchief, while the King stood motionless at her side, his right hand raised. Thomson was thrilled they’d been noticed by the royals.

  “God save the King!” he exclaimed.

  “God save the King, indeed, sir!” Brancker echoed, and then under his breath to Lou, now at his side, “God save us all!”

  After a final wave, the King and Queen made their way unsteadily back up the steps and re-entered the building. The airship was turned toward the bay of the North Sea. Twenty minutes later, they crossed the water and traveled toward Boston and Nottingham.

  A luncheon of tomato soup, Dover sole, gooseberry tart and custard was served in the dining room at noon, accompanied by a Beaujolais ’22. Thomson was conservative in his drinking, especially during the day. After two or three glasses of wine, Scott requested brandy, and after one or two brandies he stood up. “Would anyone care to join me in smoking a fine cigar in the smoking room? We can find out if it’s air-tight,” he said with a broad grin.

  The chief steward wasn’t amused, but Thomson’s face broke into a grin. “What a smashing idea, Scottie. I find the idea of lighting up and smoking a cigar, surrounded by five million cubic feet of hydrogen, quite irresistible!”

  The stewards looked from one to the other.

  “Can we bring you coffee, gentlemen?” the chief steward asked.

  Thomson stood. “Yes, please. And lead us to the smoking room. We’ll take coffee there. That room needs christening.”

  The chief steward looked down his nose. “Very well, sir. Follow me.”

  He led the way with Thomson, Brancker and Scott, close behind. Only one of the R.A.W. people joined them. Knoxwood excused himself, saying he had more work to do. The rest returned to the promenade deck to admire the view of Nottingham.

  Thomson was a little disappointed once in the smoking room—depressing without windows and not terribly well-lit. He thought now perhaps his own bravado had been overdone. The chief steward poured coffee and then brandy from a drinks trolley. He then brought drinks on a silver tray. He passed round a box of Cubans. Each man solemnly took one, as if it might be his last, cut the end with the cutter and lit up with a lighter, (prudently chained to the trolley). The room soon filled with smoke, which the extractor fan fought bravely to overcome.

  “You may leave now, steward, if you like,” Thomson told him.

  “It’s quite all right, sir. I’ll be here, if you need anything,” the chief steward said between coughing fits. He then slunk away and sat on a chair in the corner. Thomson suspected the poor man was afraid to open the door. The truth was that Lou had instructed him to stay and keep a watchful eye on the smokers.

  While Thomson smoked his cigar, Lou inspected the ship, running into Sky Hunt as he moved along the catwalk.

  “Hi, Chief, what do you think?” Lou asked.

  “It’s flat calm out there, even so, the bags are rubbing. Let me show you,” Hunt said. He led Lou to the stern and from there, they moved down the length of the ship to the bow. Hunt pointed out locations where gas bags were in contact with the ship’s frame.

  “In rough weather, they’d really be getting ripped up,” Hunt said.

  “I think she’s getting heavy,” Lou said.

  Hunt gestured toward the bags. “Here’s the reason: the bags are getting full of holes and the valves are discharging gas—she’s losing lift all the time.” They walked past the hissing gas valves and Hunt continued. “I’m not happy with these valves. In bumpy weather they’ll be discharging even more gas.”

  Richmond appeared. “Discharging! What do you mean?”

  “Gas. Lots of it, sir, from the valves and the bags,” Hunt explained, but obviously Richmond already knew. Lou returned to the control car.

  Later, Thomson and the cigar-reeking smokers returned to the promenade deck. The chief steward immersed all their cigar butts in a bowl of water before allowing them out. By now, Richmond was back from his own inspection.

  “Well, as you can tell, the smoking room experiment was a complete success,” Thomson declared as he rejoined the others. “Where are we now, Richmond?”

  “Leaving Leicester and approaching Birmingham, Lord Thomson.’’

  Over Birmingham the passengers peered down at the tight-knit masses of tiny houses. Once again, traffic came to a halt. Elated citizens got out and waved and honked their horns.

  46

  MISHAP AT CARDINGTON TOWER

  October 16, 1929.

  Soon, they were over Northampton, heading toward Bedfordshire. At 2 o’clock passengers were served afternoon tea, digestive biscuits, and Thomson’s favorite cucumber sandwiches. They were nearing Cardington. In the control car, with Atherstone and Lou at his side, Irwin was becoming concerned. Lou had briefed him on Hunt’s comments.

  “She’s getting heavy and losing gas doesn’t help. It’s happening so rapidly,” Irwin said.

  “Do you want to dump ballast yet, sir?” Lou asked.

  “Yes. Dump five tons from Frame 2 and five tons from Frame 8.”

  “Right you are, sir,” Atherstone said, grabbing ballast release valves.

  “I’m going to drive her hard and keep her nose up. Increase all engines to eight hundred.”

  “All engines to eight hundred, sir.” Lou sent the message to all cars and the engine notes increased.

  “How are we off for fuel?” Irwin asked.

  “We got pl
enty. Enough for eighteen hours,” Atherstone replied.

  “Dump water ballast on Frames 3 and 6,” Irwin ordered.

  “Dumping ballast on 3 and 6, Captain. We’re down to five tons of water ballast,” Atherstone said.

  “Save that. We might need it at the tower. Damn. She’s sinking like a rock. Dump five tons of fuel from Frame 5.”

  “Did you say fuel, sir?” Lou asked.

  “Affirmative. Start dumping fuel.”

  Atherstone carried out the order. From the control car they watched diesel fuel cascading over the fields.

  “That’s good for the animals and crops,” Atherstone said.

  “Can’t be helped,” Irwin muttered.

  Lou imagined what the farm would smell like when the cows came home tonight. Soon, they were within three miles of Cardington at an altitude of four hundred feet. They were surprised by a voice from above.

  “Okay, I’ll take over now,” Scott shouted from the chartroom, his speech slurred. Lou, Irwin and Atherstone stared up in disbelief.

  “Steer off forty degrees—” Irwin began.

  “Steer straight in from here,” Scott barked. “Don’t you change course!”

  “I was planning to avoid the fairground, sir,” Irwin said.

  “No, we’ve got plenty of height. Go straight across the fairground to the tower. We can’t mess around. Daft place for a fair anyway.”

  “But sir, that would be—”

  “Just do as I say, Irwin,” Scott hollered, bounding down the stairs. “Make room, Atherstone. Go upstairs and wait for my orders.” Atherstone reluctantly did as ordered, mounted the stairs and stood with Johnston at the chartroom rail.

  “Cut power to dead slow all engines,” Scott ordered.

  “Dead slow all engines,” Lou repeated looking to Irwin for confirmation. The captain merely nodded. Lou relayed orders to the four forward driving engine cars, 1, 3, 4 and 5, via telegraph.

  “Start reversing engine No. 2 to idling speed,” Scott shouted. Lou relayed that order. Potter on rudders instinctively steered away from the fairground. Scott leaned across and grabbed the wheel. “Hold your course I told you!”