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

by David Dennington

  “Lou, I went and saw Billy this morning and this afternoon. He’s got a compound fracture, but he’ll be okay. He said to tell you not to forget what he said to you this mornin’—especially now. He said you’d know what he meant. His mum’s coming down from Goole tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks, Irene,” Lou said.

  Someone must have told Billy that Jessup had been picked as his replacement. He thought about Fanny again and how she’d rather her son had a broken leg than be on this flight tonight. Suddenly, he remembered and his stomach turned over. What was it Madame Harandah had said to Billy a year ago?

  Go break a leg!

  Lou was shaken. Church kissed his mother and shook his father’s hand.

  “We’ll be back by the twentieth. I’ll see you all then,” Church said. Before heading to the ship, Church grabbed Irene and they kissed passionately. “I love you, my darlin’,” he said as he let her go. He turned toward the tower and as he retreated he raised his arms triumphantly, shouting at the top of his voice. “You’re gonna be the most beautiful bride in all of Bedford, my darlin’!”

  Once again, Lou felt uneasy.

  What else did that old gypsy crone say?

  While the Churches waved to their son, Sky Hunt was saying his own goodbyes. His wife held a baby in her arms and their son stood beside her. “Albert, if anything happens to me, you must take care of your mum and the baby. You’ll be the man in the family, son,” Hunt said, kissing each of them. He stood and watched them troop off to the gate.

  For Lou, this was tough; never had he felt more alone. All around him were similar scenes: young men in uniform kissing their wives and girl friends; Richmond and his wife; Atherstone and his wife; Olivia Irwin looking earnestly up into her husband’s face.

  Harry Leech’s wife tucked a piece of heather into his lapel while he smoked a last cigarette. “Here you are, Harry,” she said. “For luck.” She patted his chest and kissed him.

  “I’ll be all right now then, won’t I? You go on home, love,” Leech said, peering up at the swirling clouds. “Goodness knows what time we’ll leave—that’s if we leave at all.”

  He stamped out his dog-end on the ground. Mrs. Leech agreed and, showing not the slightest sign of anxiety, kissed Leech again and made for the bus stop.

  Leech glanced over at Lou. “No point in ’er hangin’ around ’ere,” he said.

  Lou agreed. Binks arrived at his side.

  “Where’s your missus, Joe? Isn’t she coming?” Lou asked.

  “Nah. I told ’em to stay home. I don’t wanna go through all this rigmarole. I told ’em I’d be back in a couple of weeks.”

  But Binks seemed upset.

  “What’s up, Joe?”

  “Sir, some of the blokes have been talkin’. Jessup’s carrying a bloody great stiletto. He ’ad it in customs. Jessup told ’em a lot of old bollocks about needin’ it for emergencies.”

  “He’s got a point, Joe.”

  “Sir, everybody knows he’s got it in for you.”

  “All right. Thanks. I appreciate it—but don’t worry.”

  “Oh and sir, they weighed the old geezer’s stuff. It was over two hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “Jeez! Thanks for your help today, Joe.”

  “Welcome, sir.”

  Lou re-joined the main group just as Thomson was ushering them into the elevator.

  “Come along, everyone. We’ll have a farewell drink on board,” he said.

  While they were piling in, Knoxwood handed Thomson a telegram. Thomson stopped to read it, waving the group on. He thought it might be from Marthe. Mann slammed the accordion gate shut. The wives stood watching their husbands sadly.

  “Keep the old flag flying, Florry, my dear,” Richmond called to his wife. Standing behind the steel bars of the elevator doors, they reminded Lou of men on death row.

  Thomson tore the telegram open.

  A word to wish you good luck on your historic flight STOP kindest regards Burney

  “That’s decent of him,” Thomson said, disappointed.

  He handed the telegram back to Knoxwood.

  “Send him a reply.”

  Knoxwood pulled out his notepad.

  “Thank you for your very kind wishes. Indeed, this is a wonderful day. We’re looking forward with excitement to flying down Marco Polo’s ancient route—sign it CBT.”

  Lou was about to take the stairs, when he spotted a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce approaching the tower. Perhaps it was Sir Sefton’s lady friend. The limousine stopped and a pair of elegant legs stepped out. The finely-dressed woman made her way toward Lou, clutching her long, dark coat tightly to her breast.

  “Lady Cathcart? Lou inquired.

  “Yes, I’m here to wish Sir Sefton Brancker bon voyage.”

  By now, everyone was onboard the ship. Feeling obligated, Lou led her to the elevator gate. “This is the lady who Sir Sefton is expecting. Please take us up, Bert,” Lou said.

  “Right you are, sir.”

  Lou closed his eyes as the elevator ascended.

  88

  ON BOARD RECEPTION

  Saturday October 4, 1930.

  When Thomson had arrived at the tower gallery minutes earlier and climbed the gangplank, he was reminded of that New Year’s Eve of 1923, on the train crossing the Firth of Forth on his way to meet MacDonald—a truly wicked storm. He listened to the intermittent rain beating on the ship’s cover and felt the wind’s fury.

  I survived that night and I shall survive this one.

  Thomson made his entrance into the lounge with great fanfare—shaking hands, giving nods of encouragement and expressions of thanks. Tables had been set up for a brief farewell celebration. R.A.W. passengers had gathered, along with Higgins and Dowding and the Deputy Director of Civil Aviation for India, Squadron Leader Bill O’Neill and his wife. Thomson sensed Mrs. O’Neill was in serious distress about this flight. He couldn’t abide such feelings of negativity and, with a stony look, moved away to speak with Squadron Leader Palstra and his colleague from the Australian Embassy.

  Lou led Brancker’s terrified visitor up the gangplank and then past a group of crewmen struggling to stow the Persian carpet at the bow, between Frames 1 and 2. Lou and Lady Cathcart continued unsteadily along the main corridor, over the blue carpet. The ship rocked and rolled from side to side to the sound of rain, belting down in torrents. Lady Cathcart found all this unnerving and took hold of Lou’s arm. The deeper into the airship they got, the more uneasy she became.

  At last, they arrived at the entrance to the magnificent dining salon, its brass wall sconces casting light onto slender, white columns, each with its own shining, gold leaf ornamental head. Lady Cathcart peered around helplessly, not noticing or caring about the beauty of the room. Brancker came rushing over.

  “So good of you to come, my dear,” he said, taking both her hands and gallantly kissing her on both cheeks.

  “Oh Branks, will you be safe in this bloody thing?”

  “Safe as houses, my love. Don’t you worry—old Sefton’s going to be all right.”

  “Dear God—are you sure? I’m scared to death.”

  “Let me get you a glass of bubbly and we can go and have a little chit chat.” Brancker left Lady Cathcart with Lou and nipped off to the table. He returned with a tray and four glasses of champagne and a few brandies. “Come along, my dear, let’s go this way, where it’s quiet. We’ll have a drink and you’ll feel so much better,” Brancker said. He gave Lou a smile of thanks and another of his little winks as he led the lady off to his cabin. Lou grinned.

  Not the most private place in the world—what the hell—it could be The Last Supper!

  In the lounge, the stewards came round with trays of champagne. Thomson took one and moved to the center of the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, well-wishers and fellow travelers. Please take up your glasses. Here’s to this historic voyage—to our success—to India!”

  “To India!” everyone repeat
ed, and swallowed it down.

  With that, Thomson went over to Colmore. “What’s the latest on the weather?”

  “We’re waiting for Mr. Giblett, sir. He’ll have the updated weather report in his hands shortly,” Colmore replied.

  “Good. We’ll meet and discuss it after the reception—somewhere private.”

  “The chartroom would be the best place, sir. We can just about squeeze in there.”

  “Schedule that meeting in half an hour,” Thomson said.

  After Brancker and the woman had gone, Lou poked his head in the lounge. Colmore stood in the corner talking to Thomson, Richmond and Scott. Scott was drinking heavily. Colmore still appeared relaxed. He smiled at Lou and beckoned him over.

  “I’ve told Lord Thomson that we’ll have the latest weather report any time. Would you tell Captain Irwin we’ll meet in the chartroom in half an hour?”

  “I’m on my way there now, sir. I’ll relay your message,” Lou said.

  Lou headed along the corridor passing the passenger cabins. Sounds of passion were coming from what he guessed had to be Brancker’s cabin.

  God bless the old dog!

  When Lou reached the end of the corridor, he ran into Jessup lurking with two others, listening to Lady Cathcart moaning with delight.

  “Oh Sefton ...oh Sefton …oh, oh, oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! ...Aaaaaaaaahhh! ”

  The crewmen laughed and sniggered.

  “Okay, you lot. Get away from the passenger quarters. Immediately!” Lou said.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” one of them said. “We’ve just been turnin’ down the beds.”

  Jessup gave no lip, but he had a glint in his eye. The three slouched off toward the bow. Jessup turned back to Lou and with a crooked smile said, “See you later … sir.”

  After they’d gone, Lou went to the chartroom overlooking the control car. Although doubling as the control room, it was usually referred to as the ‘chartroom.’ It was from here the ship was managed, including the production of weather charts, navigation and load calculations. Johnston was studying the weather charts with Giblett. Irwin had returned and was going over the load sheet with Atherstone, inputting additional data—Thomson’s luggage.

  “Two hundred seventy-four pounds,” Irwin said.

  Atherstone entered the number onto a load sheet.

  “We’ll have to adjust the ballast for that,” Irwin said.

  Irwin continued with the figures. As he called them out, Atherstone repeated them and wrote them down.

  “Okay, fuel 25.3 tons ...lube oils one ton ...water ballast 9.25 tons ...drinking water 1.1 tons ...crew and passengers 3.8 tons ...food and provisions .33 tons ...luggage .53 tons ...”

  “Including Thomson’s?” Atherstone asked.

  “Yes. Crew kit .8 tons ...furnishings and equipment 1.25 tons ...”

  “That bloody Axminster carpet weighed more than half a ton,” Atherstone muttered.

  “We’ll call it permanent ballast. We’ll tear it up and throw it in the Channel, if we have to,” Irwin said. Lou knew Irwin meant what he said. “Okay, so, lift available with bags filled to ninety-six percent, is 161.75 tons. Lift needed is 162.1 tons. We’ll need to dump 1.35 tons of ballast to slip,” Irwin concluded.

  “All very nice, but we have no margin for safety,” Atherstone said.

  Irwin glanced up at Lou for a second, giving him a nod. Lou went to the rail and peered down into the control car. Steff stood on watch, his face frozen. These men were under almost unbearable stress. Lou had seen faces like this before aboard R38. His uneasiness returned.

  “Lord Thomson wants to have a conference before we leave,” Lou said.

  “Where?”

  “Right here,” Lou answered.

  Irwin nodded again. “Okay,” he said absently.

  While Lou was in the control car, Thomson walked along the corridor with Buck to his cabin. Thomson was mystified by grunting and moaning noises coming from one of the cabins. He said nothing.

  Surely that can’t be what it sounds like!

  Buck was impassive as he stopped and held the curtain of Thomson’s assigned cabin open, although Thomson detected a hint of a smile at the corner of Buck’s mouth and mirth in his eyes.

  “This is yours, sir,” Buck said. “I’m next door.”

  Thomson surveyed the cabin. It was double size, having had one partition removed. A large desk and a comfortable chair had been installed for him to work on affairs of state.

  “This one’s bigger than the others, sir,” Buck said. “So’s the bed.”

  Thomson nodded with satisfaction. Buck had laid out a clean shirt and underclothes for a change before dinner. Although it was chilly without heating, Thomson removed his overcoat and Buck hung it in the closet behind the curtain.

  Thomson picked up the postcards Buck had bought from the souvenir vendors and left on the table. He browsed through colored pictures and photographs of the airship floating at the tower. They were emblazoned in red letters with Cardington R101 alongside the Union Jack. Each had been date-stamped: 4th October 1930. Pleased, Thomson laid them back on the table. He picked up the two key rings, each of which had a chain and the metal shape of an airship attached with HMA R101 pressed into the metal—one red, one blue. Thomson nodded with satisfaction and handed Buck the blue one along with three postcards.

  “Here, some mementos for the trip,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir. I shall always remember this,” Buck said, genuinely grateful.

  Thomson slipped the red keyring into his trouser pocket.

  89

  THE WEATHER CONFERENCE

  Saturday October 4, 1930.

  Fifteen minutes later, everyone trooped into the chartroom. Five chairs had been placed at the bow end, where Thomson, Knoxwood, Colmore, Scott and Richmond sat, with Thomson at center. This left the officers and Rope standing. Lou stood next to Irwin at the back with Atherstone and Johnston. It was cramped and oppressive. There was no sign of Brancker.

  Colmore stood up. “Minutes ago we received a new weather forecast. Why don’t you give us an update, Mr. Giblett?”

  Giblett leaned against the chart table holding the latest information, his eyes darting back and forth across it. “Around one o’clock today, the occluded front over France moved eastwards, leaving a trough of low pressure off the Irish coast to move in, causing rain to spread over England this evening and throughout the night. Therefore, we can expect increasing southwesterly winds over the south of England and northern France.”

  “And the velocity of these winds, Mr. Giblett?” Thomson asked.

  “They’re forecasting surface winds of ten to fifteen miles an hour, freshening later. Upper winds above two thousand feet are expected to be from twenty to thirty miles an hour.”

  “At what altitude will we be flying?” Thomson asked, looking at Scott.

  “Between one thousand and fifteen hundred feet, sir,” Scott answered.

  Giblett continued, “On the basis of what we’re being told, we don’t expect a huge increase in wind strength tonight—but I must stress, we can’t rule that out.”

  “So you’re saying it could increase … and if it did, by how much?” Thomson asked.

  Brancker entered the room, soaking wet, embarrassed, and a little the worse for wear. His toupée was askew and his monocle splashed with rain. Lou wondered if he’d been wearing it in his bunk with Lady Cathcart. He couldn’t help grinning at the thought.

  I’d like a snap of that!

  “Ah, Sefton, it’s so very good of you to join us,” Thomson said.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Minister. I didn’t realize you’d called a conference.”

  Thomson looked down his nose. “I don’t suppose you did. We were discussing the weather. Mr. Giblett has been telling us of the possibility of the winds increasing.”

  “I just saw someone off to the elevator—it’s bloody awful out there!”

  “I asked Mr. Giblett how much the winds might incre
ase and he was about to tell us.” Thomson turned to Giblett.

  “That’s not possible to predict, sir, but—”

  “Might they increase to, say, thirty or forty knots?” Thomson pressed him.

  “It must be blowing twenty-five knots right now!” Brancker announced.

  “I have to tell you anything’s possible. I can’t give you the odds. Weather forecasting is not an exact science, sir,” Giblett said.

  “All right. Let’s suppose the winds do increase to 40 knots.” Thomson’s eyes fell on Richmond. “Would that be too much for this airship, Colonel Richmond?”

  “No, Lord Thomson, not at all. She’s proved herself on that score.”

  Thomson’s gaze was transferred to Scott, whose red face became animated.

  “No, sir. Absolutely not!” Scott affirmed.

  Irwin’s voice projected from the back of the room. All heads turned in his direction. “I must remind you this airship has never once been flown in foul weather and its tests have never been completed,” Irwin said. He sounded almost detached.

  “So, Captain, you don’t have confidence in your ship. Is that it?’’ Thomson snapped.

  “That’s not what I said, sir. I was merely pointing out the fact that this ship has never flown in anything more than a ten-knot breeze—and never once under full power.”

  “Captain Irwin—” Scott started, but Irwin stubbornly continued.

  “And I should mention the gas valves are pumping out gas at an alarming rate every time the ship rolls. The gas bags are rubbing on the padding, which will wear holes in them in no time …and the cover was never completely replaced.”

  “So, are you proposing that we postpone this voyage, Captain?” Thomson asked.

  “I’m saying we should definitely consider that possibility, yes,” Irwin replied.