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

by David Dennington

  Yours Respectfully,

  F. McWade,

  Inspector-In-Charge,

  Airship Inspection Dept.(A.I.D.)

  Royal Airship Works, Cardington.

  Lou put the letter down in his lap and rested his head on the back of the armchair. “My God, Fred, you’re taking a hell of a risk, aren’t you?”

  “I know this could cost me ma job and ma pension, but that’s nothing compared to the risk they’re taking.”

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “Are you advising me not to post it?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. If you feel this strongly, then you must—but understand you will become the most hated man in Cardington.”

  “I needed your opinion.”

  “I wouldn’t dissuade you, Fred, and I must say, I admire your guts.”

  “That makes me feel better, laddie.”

  “But look, Fred, these men aren’t fools. They’re gonna add an extra bay. It should perform a lot better then, don’t you think?”

  “Nay, laddie. They committed a grave mistake when they let those harnesses out. Those valves might become detached. She’s unstable now—the bags are surging up and down and back and forth. And adding an extra bay will only weaken her resilience. That ship’s damned now. I have to tell you in all candor: these bloody geniuses at Cardington are outmatched.” McWade swallowed the remnants of his glass and got up. “I’ll be off, then. This letter is going in the post-box first thing in the morning.”

  Lou smiled weakly. At least McWade would have time to sleep on it. Maybe he’d change his mind by morning. “All right, Fred. Ride home safely. I can take you home on my bike, if you like?”

  “No, no, son. I’ll be fine.”

  Lou stood at the front door and watched the old man peddle off down the street, wobbling as he went. When Lou got back to the bedroom, he found Charlotte sitting on the bed staring at the floor.

  “I thought you’d be asleep, honey,” Lou said.

  “It didn’t sound good. That man is worried sick, isn’t he?”

  “He’ll be all right, once the modifications are done.”

  “I told you—that ship’s cursed!”

  They climbed into bed. Lou lay on his back reflecting on their approach to the tower on Saturday, minutes before the arrival of a violent storm. They'd got the ship moored just in time.

  When they reached the tower, Colmore was waiting with Richmond, Rope and Scott to make an inspection. Sky Hunt was already on board. Colmore was anxious to know if the modifications to lighten her had made any noticeable difference. During these past few days the ship had no load to speak of, so these flights should indicate clearly if the ship was airworthy. When the extra bay was inserted, the additional lift would be used up by the weight of passengers and extra fuel. If she couldn’t fly now, she never could.

  Once locked onto the tower, the gas hoses were connected to recharge the gas bags and a thorough inspection carried out from bow to stern with everybody in attendance. With the wind blowing a gale and rain coming down in torrents, this was the perfect time. The first obvious thing was that the cover leaked badly. In no time everybody was soaking wet. The damp atmosphere accentuated the smell of cattle’s intestines.

  As the ship rolled and was buffeted about, deep sighs from the gas valves were loud enough for all to hear. The creaking and squeaking of gas bags rubbing against the structure was no less unnerving. Richmond’s face expressed disappointment. He spoke to Irwin first.

  “Captain, assuming your calculations are correct, you’re losing ten tons of lift every day. Is that correct?”

  “Absolutely correct. Commander Remington can attest to that.”

  “We’re pumping in more than 300,000 cubic feet of gas a day just to keep her afloat at the tower,” Lou said.

  Richmond looked at Sky Hunt for confirmation. “That’s correct, sir,” Hunt said.

  “This is all very disturbing, indeed,” Richmond declared, glaring at the officers.

  Lou saw McWade about to explode.

  “It’s more than disturbing, sir. When you let out the harnesses, you allowed the gas bags to become riddled with holes throughout this airship. That’s why you’re losing gas at an alarming rate and why she’s unstable. This situation is totally unacceptable! I cannot allow this.”

  “What are you trying to say? Speak up, man!” Richmond erupted.

  McWade replied as though speaking to a child. “I’m saying that, as far as I’m concerned, this airship is totally unsafe.”

  Richmond was enraged. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Who do I think I am? I’ll tell you exactly who I am, sir. I’m the man who stood and watched R38 break in two and blow up, killing dozens of British and American young men, decapitating them, dismembering them, blowing them to bits, drowning them and burning them to a crisp. I’m the man who’s trying to avoid more of our boys sharing the same fate. That’s who I am, sir!”

  Richmond stormed off down the catwalk. Lou figured he was about ready to break down.

  Lou lay in bed with Charlotte beside him. He was sure she wasn’t asleep even though she lay perfectly still. He remembered feeling sorry for Colmore; the man’s troubles seemed to be multiplying daily. When McWade made his damning statement, Colmore stood there at a loss, water pouring from his hair, running down his face, and dripping off the end of his nose. Scott remained quiet. Rope cradled his chin, deep in thought.

  A couple of days after McWade’s late night visit, Cardington R101 was returned to her shed and work resumed on replacing the cover. The question of the holes in the gas bags still needed to be addressed. Lou visited the shed to see how work was progressing. He stopped by McWade’s office in the corner.

  “Hi, Fred. How’re things?”

  Fred closed the door, his manner conspiratorial. “I posted that letter,” he whispered.

  McWade had just brewed a pot of tea and poured a cup for Lou, his chin stuck out defiantly.

  “Brave man,” Lou said.

  “Och, I’m not brave at all. I just don’t want to see bad things happen to these men—or this city, come to that.”

  Lou sipped his tea, feeling awkward and disloyal. Sometimes he knew too much. He wished people wouldn’t confide in him, but they did. He’d keep it all to himself and see what happened. No doubt Colmore would bring it up with him.

  “I expect you’ve got Whitehall in a flurry, Fred.”

  “I bloody well hope so,” McWade said.

  Lou laughed. “Maybe they’ll scrap the whole program, eh?”

  “Better now than later,” McWade replied. He finished his tea and put down his cup. “I told yer, I’ve been in airships all my life. The older I get, the more futile it all seems to me. It’s all been for nought.”

  As Lou expected, Colmore confided in him the next day. He told him the chief of the inspection department at the Air Ministry had called him and told him he’d received Fred McWade’s letter. They were ‘all in a tizzy about it’ down there.

  “He asked me if this was as serious as it sounded,” Colmore said.

  “Did you tell him it was?” Lou asked.

  “How could I do that? We’re our own judge and jury here. How would it look if I said ‘Yes, actually, we’ve built an un-flyable airship.’?”

  “Sir, who cares about looks. We’re talking about people’s lives. Here was a chance to buy more time.”

  “Easy for you to say. Heads would roll.”

  “So what did you tell him, sir?”

  “I told him it was nothing we couldn’t handle.”

  Lou was frustrated.“How?” he asked skeptically.

  “By padding. It’s done all the time. And we’ll do it again.”

  “McWade’s a highly experienced man. Maybe we should all listen to him.”

  “Lou, I’m in an impossible situation. Can’t you see that? Can you imagine his Lordship—he’d go stark raving mad.”

  “That would be his p
roblem, sir. You should remind him of his own ‘Safety First policy’.”

  Colmore put his hand to his forehead and sighed. “Lord Thomson told us a story—something that had happened in his early life involving Lord Kitchener in South Africa. I won’t go into details, but it was intended as a warning, or a threat—an ultimatum really. I’m haunted by it.”

  Lou was fascinated and wanted to find out more, but the phone on Colmore’s desk rang. Colmore picked it up. “Sir Sefton, how nice to hear your voice, sir …Yes, hmm, okay …Yes, I’m sure that can be arranged. Right you are …Ah yes, I’ll bring him along, too,” Colmore said, looking at Lou as he hung up. He lowered his voice. “That was the Director of Civil Aviation—Sir Sefton Brancker.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s calling a meeting. Very hush, hush. He said Thomson’s girlfriend is coming to town next week and they’ve been invited to Chequers. While he’s out of the way, he wants me, Irwin and you, to meet with him at his home in Surrey. He’s very concerned about what’s been going on this week with the ship—and about McWade’s letter.”

  “Okay, sir. Sure, I’ll come, if I can be helpful.”

  “He thinks a lot of you, Lou. Saturday morning, 9:00 a.m.”

  “Sir, may I ask you something?”

  “By all means.”

  “Suppose you were asked to judge Howden R100? I mean, suppose the ships were reversed and they had Cardington R101 and you had theirs. What would you do?”

  “I’d declare their ship unsafe and forbid them to fly it.”

  “Then you should do the same thing with your own ship.”

  Colmore screwed up his eyes and then looked down at his desk.“We’re in a box. We’re stuck. We have to do as we’re told—do our duty.”

  Lou understood Colmore’s dilemma. It would be interesting to see how it played out.

  Later that week, Lou was in Shed No.1 again. An Air Ministry dispatch rider came striding into the shed toward him. “I’m looking for a Mr. Frederick McWade, sir,” he said, reading from a white envelope. Lou pointed to the end office in the wooden structure in the corner of the shed. He watched the man walk over and knock on McWade’s door. McWade opened it, surprised at first. He took the letter and closed the door. A few moments later, McWade came bursting out, his face crimson.

  “Lou, come and see this,” McWade said, disgusted. They went back to McWade’s office and closed the door. McWade handed the letter to Lou. He read the envelope:

  Director of Aeronautical Inspection,

  Air Ministry, Whitehall, London.

  Lou scanned the letter.

  He read aloud when he reached the heart of it:

  “I have discussed the matter you raised at length with the Director of Airship Development, Wing Commander Colmore. Naturally, I understand it is absolutely essential that contact between the ship’s structure and the gas bags is eliminated. I am sure you understand it would be quite impossible to change the framing of the airship at this juncture. Therefore, the only solution is to install padding. It will be your responsibility to ensure all points of contact which could cause damage are properly padded.”

  Yours Truly - Da-dee-da-dee-da!”

  Lou whistled. “Nice!”

  “Bastards!” McWade whispered.

  “You put Colmore in a bind,” Lou said.

  “He’s gutless. He’ll go along with anything they say.”

  “He’s in a difficult position, Fred.”

  “This seals our fate,” McWade said, almost to himself.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll oversee the padding, I suppose. And they’ll all be laughing at me while I do it. I’ll do everything in my power to make the damn thing safe. I’ll not walk away—not yet.”

  “You’re a damned good man, Fred.”

  “Aye, ‘damned’ is right!”

  McWade was close to tears.

  56

  CHEQUERS & A MEETING WITH BRANCKER

  Friday & Saturday July 4 & 5, 1930.

  Marthe returned to London in July and this time Thomson was able to meet her at Victoria. He took pleasure in standing on the platform under his umbrella, waiting for her glistening train to come gliding in. He patiently watched it grind to a halt. Marthe alighted from the train, minus the irritating Isadora. They greeted each other warmly, but formally, and were driven by Buck across London and Buckinghamshire to Chequers. Marthe was in an excitable mood, chattering like a young girl. Thomson couldn’t remember seeing her this bubbly for a long time, if ever. She made him feel elated, too. She’d certainly warmed to him this past year.

  “There’s something special about Fridays, don’t you find, Kit?” Marthe said.

  Thomson took her hand. “Even for princesses?”

  “Yes, I’m happy to be here and I’m so looking forward to seeing your dear friend.”

  “Our dear friend! He’s dying to meet you again, Marthe.”

  Forty minutes after leaving the northwest suburbs, they reached the winding lanes of Buckinghamshire, flanked by hedgerows and swaying beeches, leading up to the imposing mansion. Marthe was in a dream as they entered this magical place—a place where prime ministers relaxed, played and sometimes made policy. This was where they met with the most important men in the world and came to agreements. It was also where they entertained and bedded their mistresses.

  Thomson took pleasure in watching Marthe’s darting eyes. She took in every detail. Soon she’d be writing it all down. She stared up at the red brick building looming above them. Thomson knew the façade’s air of enchantment cloaked an underlying menace. This came from its long history—no doubt bad things had happened within these walls. The car reached the impressive wrought-iron gates and a nondescript man in gray appeared.

  “Afternoon, Lord Thomson, nice to see you back, sir,” he said in a Cockney accent.

  “Hello, Robards,” Thomson said.

  “Who is that?” Marthe whispered.

  “The policeman in charge of the Prime Minister’s security.”

  The gates were opened by two roughly dressed men.

  “And here are two more, disguised as gardeners—imported from Lossiemouth,” Thomson explained.

  Marthe gave him a teasing look. “You British are so cunning.”

  “I’ve told him he needs more security out here, but he won’t listen.”

  The limousine cruised slowly past the center lawn and Hygeia, the health goddess, up to the entrance. The gravel driveway crunched under their wheels in welcome. The main front door opened and Ishbel came out to greet them, while the gardeners unloaded their luggage. Thomson kissed Ishbel’s cheek and turned to Marthe to make introductions.

  “Ishbel, this is Princess Marthe Bibesco. Our lives have been inextricably linked since before the war.”

  Ishbel was shy. Marthe took both her hands. “Ishbel! What a beautiful name. Oh, I can see a striking resemblance. You are so very lucky—your father is such a handsome man.”

  This made Ishbel more shy and embarrassed. “Welcome. Please come in and I’ll show you to your rooms, Princess,” she said.

  “Please call me Marthe.”

  “Very well, Marthe. My father told me which rooms you’re to have.”

  “And you speak just like him. Captivating!” Marthe exclaimed, pressing her hands together. Ishbel smiled and led them upstairs and along a wide corridor that creaked underfoot. The walls were decorated in flowery, brown and tan wallpaper. She stopped at Thomson’s room.

  “Christopher is in here—where he usually sleeps.” She moved on to the next room. “And you, Marthe, are in here—the Lee Room—reserved for special guests, or heads of state.”

  Ishbel gestured for Marthe to enter. Marthe‘s eyes lit up when she spotted the hand-carved four-poster bed. “I’m so honored,” she said.

  The room was decorated in floral pink and green wallpaper with coordinating drapes and cushions. Marthe went to the window and looked across the gardens, which were bursting with color.
MacDonald had not exaggerated their beauty.

  “There are two bathrooms, one each end of the corridor. There’s plenty of hot water if you’d like a bath after your journey,” Ishbel said.

  Thomson and Marthe spent the rest of the afternoon settling in. Marthe relaxed in a hot bath, savoring the place she hoped would become part of her life, as it had for Thomson. She was soon looking her best for MacDonald’s arrival and for cocktails before dinner. She wore a long, tan, satin cocktail dress with a subtle, sculptured floral design showing a hint of silver and pale-blue. The dress, from her Parisian dressmaker, was low-key and understated, narrow at the waist and covered her slender neck. She kept with her a designer wrap in a slightly darker shade, to throw around her shoulders later.

  Once Marthe was ready, she sat down at a writing table in her room. She wrote down her thoughts in a leather-bound diary, together with vivid descriptions of her observations since arriving at Victoria. She’d use them in a future memoir, hopefully a best seller.

  After half an hour, Thomson knocked on Marthe’s door dressed in a black evening suit with a pale-blue tie. He kissed her hand. “Marthe you look quite lovely, my dear.” He breathed in. “And your perfume is divine.”

  Just after 5 o’clock, they heard MacDonald’s blue Rolls-Royce crackling over the driveway. Marthe went to wait in the reception hall and Thomson joined her. He watched as the butler opened the front door and MacDonald walked in, his face beaming, not taking his eyes off Marthe. He raised her hand and kissed it, looking into her face. Thomson felt quite invisible. MacDonald let go of her hand and she stepped closer for him to kiss her on both cheeks. He, too, breathed in her perfume.

  “Dearest Marthe, welcome to Chequers. I am most honored to have you as my guest.”

  “I’ve been so looking forward to this visit, Ramsay.”

  “The feeling is mutual, my dear.”

  “And you’re still in office!”