That same week, a storm hit Bedfordshire without sufficient warning to get the ship put away in her shed. Lou was on board with the watchcrew while 80mph winds battered the ship. Many thought she’d be wrenched off the mast and blown away, as R33 had been from Pulham. She remained, held fast by the mooring gear—a credit to Scott, who’d designed it. Officials were pleased with the ship’s performance, but disappointed when they discovered the state of the gas bags. Adding to their dismay, the valves had expelled gas at an alarming rate, while the cover leaked like a sieve.
The night before the ship was to carry the hundred MPs, the weather deteriorated and the trip was postponed until the following week. In the meantime, Cardington R101 sailed off to carry out her thirty-hour endurance test. The pleasure of it was that they were unburdened by politicians or Air Ministry bigwigs and able to consume the food and drink put on board for the MP’s flight. With no one aboard to impress, Scott behaved himself most of the time. Lou witnessed Irwin make the best take-off so far without any drama. The weather, once again perfect, caused minimal gas loss from the valves, but the bags were still full of holes. The flight took them up the east coast over Lincoln, Darlington, York and Durham.
Over Yorkshire, after passing Scunthorpe, Scott came down to the control car. He called up to Johnston for the bearing to Howden. Johnston checked the map. “Three hundred and twenty degrees. About fourteen miles, sir,” he replied.
“Okay, let’s drop in on our friends at Howden,” Scott said.
Capt. Irwin turned to the rudder coxswain. “Steer three-twenty.”
The ship veered to port. Irwin raised his eyebrows to Lou.
“We’ll show them what a real airship looks like,” Scott said with a crafty smile. “Bring her down to six hundred feet, five miles out and then bring her down till you can see the whites of their eyes!”
Lou glanced at Scott before he disappeared upstairs. He didn’t think Scott was being malicious—mischievous perhaps, reckless certainly—probably hoping to tweak Burney’s nose. It made Lou uncomfortable.
The sky was clear and soon Howden Air Station loomed in the distance. They’d reduced altitude and were still descending. Lou, although pleased to see the old place, worried that the appearance of Cardington R101 would infuriate Wallis—like a detested neighbor showing up on his doorstep uninvited, but a whole lot worse. When he raised his binoculars, his fears were realized. As they approached the dilapidated shed at 400 feet, Norway came out and stood at the doors in his tweeds, hands on hips. Wallis joined him, followed by Howden R100’s Capt. Booth. Norway showed no emotion, except wonder, perhaps. He held up one hand, shielding his eyes, clenching his unlit pipe between his teeth. His mouth was set in that peculiar grin he wore when concentrating. Wallis scowled up at them, rubbing his temples. Lou knew he’d take this as a personal insult—which, of course, it was.
His migraine’s gonna get a whole lot worse!
Norway removed his pipe and shouted something above the noise, cupping his hand over Wallis’s ear. Wallis nodded his head vigorously up and down and replied with a grimace. Lou could see Wallis was seething and wondered what Norway had said to him.
I must remember to ask Nev when I see him.
Scott and the R.A.W. staff were content to sail on, confident they’d annoyed the hell out of their rivals in their own backyard. Lou knew Colmore wouldn’t have allowed this stunt. It was bad form, and he, too much of a gentleman. Richmond would’ve felt the same. Both men were busy at Cardington House, working on a report to present to Thomson, addressing the ship’s weight problems. This ‘in your face’ detour had been childish and fate-tempting. Repercussions would be incalculable.
Why go out of your way to make enemies?
Irwin grinned at Lou. “They’ve had their bit of fun. Now it’s our turn.’’ Lou was puzzled. The captain glanced up at Johnston leaning on the rail above. “Johnny, give me the bearing for Low Ackworth.”
Lou understood. Seeing that beautiful place from the air in perfect weather would be a treat, but hoped it wouldn’t upset Charlotte.
“Two hundred seventy-five degrees,” Johnston called down. “Nineteen miles, Captain.”
“Do you think they’ll mind upstairs?” Lou asked Irwin.
“I don’t suppose they’ll notice. They’re too busy tucking into the caviar and champagne,” Irwin replied.
Twenty minutes later, the airship was cruising at six hundred feet, closing in on Ackworth Village and its three collieries, each with its own coal mountain. The fields, rivers and pastures appeared as beautiful as ever, even in November with the trees almost bare. Soon they were nearing Station Road. Many residents, hearing the engines, had come out and stood in the street. Lou spotted the obelisk and St. Cuthbert’s through his binoculars—and then Charlotte’s house. He smiled when he saw a wisp of smoke coming from the chimney. It was a sure sign.
Somebody’s home!
“There’s her house,” Lou said, pointing. “Over there.”
The door opened and Charlotte ran out into the front garden.
“Ah, look now, there’s your missus,” Irwin said.
Charlotte was followed by her parents and then Auntie Betty. Johnston came down to see for himself. “I think she’s pleased to see you, mate!” he said. Lou’s heart skipped a beat. He slid the window open, took out his handkerchief, and waved it. She spotted him and pointed. He felt relieved. She was looking better and blew him a kiss. As they sailed on, he watched Charlotte until she was out of sight. He hoped she’d come home soon.
The rest of that flight was uneventful, passing over many parts of England, including York and Newcastle, then Edinburgh and Glasgow in Scotland, and Belfast and Dublin in Ireland. Irwin took a detour of his own, steering the ship over his hometown of Bray, on the coast south of Dublin. They returned to England and thick fog over Stafford. Scott didn’t interfere and landing was accomplished without mishap. Reporters were waiting when the officers disembarked. Scott was happy to give them a statement.
“This has been a magnificent flight. Everyone’s been most comfortable. We’ve been doing rigorous turning exercises in the air and she’s been behaving splendidly.”
Scott was trying to say that this airship wouldn’t break in two like R38 had done. He didn’t say the ship was overweight and the gas bags were full of holes. That would be broken to the public on another day perhaps—perhaps not.
Charlotte returned to Bedford a week later and went straight back to work. She pushed the worry and grief over Freddie under the surface where it lay with her other torments. At last, it was time for the MP's flight, or in Johnston’s words, ‘the flight of a hundred old men.’ Although the forecast wasn’t favorable, the Air Ministry refused to postpone again; Thomson kept bringing it up. There was no way out.
On the morning of the flight, Lou attempted to climb out of bed, but Charlotte pulled him back. “Stay awhile, love,” she implored.
“Let me check the weather first, honey.” Naked, Lou climbed out of bed and while Charlotte laid back on her pillows admiring him, he went to the window overlooking the garden. Rain was coming down in torrents, wind howling.
“Great! I don’t think anyone’ll show up in this weather. I can spare you half an hour.” He slipped back under the warm covers and took her in his arms.
“You cheeky dog. I need you for at least an hour,” Charlotte said, pulling him closer.
“God, you feel so good, Charlotte. Let’s make it two.”
“See what happens when I’m not around.”
“It’s been too long, my darling. Much, much too long,” Lou whispered.
49
ONE HUNDRED MPs & AN ULTIMATUM
November 23, 1929.
Lou put on his waterproofs and drove to Cardington in driving rain two and a half hours later. When he arrived, Cardington R101 was rolling gently around on the tower while an army of men serviced the ship from below. Hydrogen was being pumped aboard and would continue to be until the last moment before
takeoff. Boxes of food and drink were being carried up the tower stairs. Lou stopped Bert Mann to ask why they weren’t using the elevator. Mann told him it was broken. Lou climbed the stairs as usual.
This won’t please the old boys—if they bother coming.
He went to the control car. “Sorry I’m late, sir. Something came up,” Lou said.
“I’m sure it did …nice having the missus back, I expect. No need to watch. “Hmm, ten minutes to ten. Boarding’s at eleven. Oh, Jeez. Will you look at this!”
Lou glanced at the road. Two limousines were driving up to the gate.
“What are you going to do?” Lou asked.
“She’s already as heavy as old Sister Malone’s heart. Tell Sky Hunt to drain off half the fuel and ballast. Let’s hope the weather gets worse,” Irwin said, peering at the waterlogged field. “It's beginning to look like Lake Superior out there—I guess they’ll be comin’ in two by two.”
Lou went and found Hunt and relayed Irwin’s message.
“Are they gonna fly in this?” Hunt asked.
“Doubtful, I reckon,” Lou replied.
“Major Scott might have other ideas,” Hunt scoffed.
Half an hour later, twenty more black cars had appeared at the gate. At 10:45 a.m. the gates were opened and they drove across the sodden field to the tower, where ground crewmen in raingear directed MPs to the customs shed. No one was deterred by the weather or the broken elevator. Lou went to the bottom of the stairs to check conditions and attitudes. Waves of huffing, puffing, determined, old men on walking sticks made their way into the tower to begin the slog to the top.
Lou went into the customs office—where many were getting checked for lighters and matches—before the climb. One of the men, a little rotund, fifty-something, Lou recognized as Winston Churchill. He was in the act of removing a leather cigar case from his raincoat and counting his cigars. Lou politely stopped beside him. He peered up at Lou defiantly.
“Sir, you won’t be lighting those, will you?” Lou asked
Churchill gave him a haughty stare, mouth drooping, chin out.
“And who the blazes are you?”
“Commander Remington, sir.”
Churchill glanced at Lou’s insignias. “United States Navy?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
Churchill’s attitude softened. “Ah, the American.” He stuck out his hand, smiling broadly. I’m honored to meet you. I know these things are deathtraps, but I don’t intend to prove it—not today.”
One or two MPs shuffling past gave Churchill a filthy look.
“Glad to hear that, sir. What’s up with those folks?” Lou said.
“Don’t worry about them. Not fans of mine, or my party.”
Lou grinned. “And you don’t have any matches, or lighters, sir?”
“Absolutely not. I’ve already been interrogated by this bunch.”
“Good. Thank you, sir,” Lou said. Churchill pulled up his collar and started up the tower stairs beside Lou. He shouted above the drumming rain.
“I hear there’s a smoking room on board?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thomson told me he’s already christened it, personally.”
“That’s true. He did.”
“He’s hung some fifth-rate oil painting on his office wall done by some daubing fool—probably a painter and decorator! He’s asked me to brush in an airship for him. God knows why. Anyway, I thought I’d better come here and see the damned thing for myself first.
Lou laughed. “You picked a good day for it, sir!”
A massive wind blast made the tower shudder and rattle and rain showered down on them through the open sides.
“Do you think there’ll be a flight today in this lot?”Churchill asked, eyeing the weather. Scott, in civilian clothes, was on his way up the stairs. “Indeed there will, Mr. Churchill,” Scott answered. “Even if Remington and I have to fly the bloody thing ourselves.” Scott bounded past them two at a time. Lou gave Churchill a crooked half-smile and cocked his brow. Churchill understood.
“We may need to keep an eye on that one. I hope I can get coffee and some decent brandy on this old rust bucket—then at least I can die happy,” Churchill said. They continued their ascent of the never-ending steps.
Less than forty miles away, black and silver clouds rolled like breakers across the skies above Gwydyr House. Rain pounded the Georgian windows in Thomson’s office and cascaded down the brickwork. He stood peering out into the mist hanging over the river, listening to the hoots of invisible tugs.
He returned to his desk and sat down while the tugs continued sounding their mournful warnings. He felt the dreary dampness in the air due to lack of heat. Six table lamps lit the room in isolated areas, leaving the rest in gloom. He assumed Colmore and Richmond were waiting outside in the reception office. They’d be nervous and soaking wet.
Good. Let them be.
He sat for another ten minutes planning his attack. Marthe’s framed photograph smiled up at him from the half-open desk drawer at his side, while the Taj, in its ornate gold frame behind him, dominated the room. Buck had hung it for him and later he’d had a picture light installed over it. He often sat staring at the architectural masterpiece, meditating. It gave him inspiration. He looked forward to Winston visiting with his paint brushes. Finally, he stood and drew himself to his full height and strode to the door. He threw it open with a beaming smile, putting his hand out to Colmore.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, good of you to come. Come in! Come in!”
Both uniformed men got out of their chairs and shook Thomson’s hand. Their dripping raincoats hung on the coat stand by the door.
“Morning, sir,” they said together. Thomson noticed their faces brighten.
They’re thinking ‘He’s in a good mood—things won’t be so bad.’
“Oh, you shouldn’t have got dressed up. There was no need.”
This was all insincere banter, of course. They followed him in, carrying briefcases, wet hats under their arms. There was a sitting area with a low table and a couch and easy chairs set around the unlit marble fireplace. Richmond looked in that direction, but Thomson gestured for them to sit in the upright wooden chairs in front of his desk.
No good you looking over there, Richmond. This isn’t going to be a cosy, little fireside chat.
They waited for Thomson to sit down. When he’d done so, they stared at the brightly lit painting of the Taj Mahal behind him, impressed.
“How was your train journey?” Thomson said casually.
“The weather’s filthy out there, sir, coming down in buckets,”
Colmore replied as they sat down.
“Cats and dogs, eh? Same up there?”
“Worse actually,” Richmond said.
“Not sure they’ll be able to make that flight today,” Colmore said.
Typical Colmore!
“Why the hell not?”
“Might upset the passengers,” Richmond said, not touching the real reason.
“A spin around Bedford’ll do them good—blow the cobwebs away! How many showed up?”
“When I spoke with Scott on the phone, he said forty-four had arrived,” Colmore said.
“Forty-four! We must take them up if they’ve gone to the trouble of showing up in such foul weather. Excellent. They’re as keen as mustard!”
“Forty is the maximum we’ve carried so far, sir,” Colmore said weakly.
“Well, here’s the chance to break your own record, man!”
Richmond rummaged around in his briefcase, bringing out a file.
Lou got back to the control car where Irwin was still eyeing the weather.
“How many are there now?”
“I just counted forty-eight. And more cars are arriving.”
“Did you talk to Hunt?”
“I did, sir. He’s draining down fuel and ballast per your orders.”
“It’s getting worse,” Irwin said.
Atherstone entered
the control car. He looked worried.
“I’ve just looked this boat over from stem to stern,” he said.
“And?”
“The canvas cover’s leaking and breaking down. I could see daylight in a lot of places.”
“What about the bags?”
“They’re rubbing all right, sir.”
“And leaking?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Lou, keep an eye on the passengers and keep a count. We’re getting dangerously overweight. Keep me informed every fifteen minutes,” Irwin said.
Lou checked his watch. It was 10:30 a.m.
Thomson still appeared amiable and his two airshipmen had achieved a reasonable comfort level. Thomson picked up a sheaf of papers and waved it in the air.
“I read your report. Seems this airship of yours is too heavy?”
“Yes, sir. Heavier than expected,” Colmore answered.
“You may remember at the briefing in June I touched on the subject, sir.”
“I do remember, Richmond—and you made light of it! How much lift do you have?”
Richmond hesitated. “Around thirty-three tons.”
“A bit shy of sixty, isn’t it!” Thomson said. He glared at them in silence, while the wind screamed around the rumbling window frames. “It doesn’t look as though we’ll be getting to India any time soon, does it?”
He let the sense of failure hang in the air.
“The schedule will be delayed, I’m afraid, yes, sir,” Colmore said.
Thomson stared at them, saying nothing. During these silences, the ticking of the pendulum clock on the mantel sounded as loud as Big Ben.
“‘The schedule will be delayed.’ You speak as if we have all the time in the world, Colmore.”
The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue. Page 37