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

by David Dennington

  “What’s the heading for London, Johnny?” Scott asked.

  “One hundred and eighty five degrees,” Johnston answered.

  “Steer one hundred and eighty-five degrees. Full speed on all engines,” Scott ordered.

  “This is ridiculous. My ship’s been commandeered from under me,” Irwin muttered.

  “Captain Irwin, I’m the senior ranking officer aboard this ship. You will obey my orders without question,” Scott shouted.

  Irwin glanced up at Lou. “Commander, inform the chief coxswain the flight test is over. Tell him to get down to scheduled watch-keeping routine.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Over Clophill where the A507 crosses the A6, the airship turned south. Brancker and Colmore appeared beaten. “Come on, Reggie,” Brancker said. “Let’s grab a couple of stiff ones.”

  Thomson sat patiently in the lounge, staring straight ahead, listening to the rain beating on the ship and cascading down the promenade deck windows. He felt it gently pitch and roll. With the engines running, the heat was on, and it was nice and cozy. Thomson thought it amazing that even in weather like this, airships were smooth and comfortable. He had no qualms about imposing his will on these men.

  They just need leadership.

  Again his mind went back to the night on the Forth Bridge.

  Well, the Tay Bridge came down, but not the mighty Forth. They’d learned by experience—as we did with the crash of R38. We’ll sail on to victory through all the storms and torrents the gods can throw at us.

  He smiled with satisfaction as Scott came bursting into the lounge. He was able to speak freely, since the passengers were out on the promenade decks, where Disley had dimmed the lighting so they could see lights on the ground.

  “I’ve decided to press on, sir. I’m going to drive her hard. We’ll outrun this storm.”

  “Bravo, Scottie! It’s times like this when the men are sorted from the boys, momentous decisions are made, and great things are achieved.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, sir. That’s my motto.”

  “I shan’t forget this. You’ve shown leadership and courage tonight.”

  Colmore and Brancker entered the lounge.

  “Scott informs me he’s decided to push on to London and beyond. We shall ride the storm!” Thomson said, unable to conceal his pleasure.

  “Yes, sir,” Colmore mumbled.

  “What time’s dinner? I’m famished,” Thomson asked, glancing at Colmore.

  Pierre was hovering in the doorway. “We can be ready for you in thirty minutes, gentlemen,” he said.

  “I think it’s time we had some music, don’t you?” Thomson said.

  91

  EVENING (DOG) WATCH: 16:00—20:00 HOURS

  Saturday October 4, 1930.

  After Scott’s announcement at 8:20 p.m., Thomson went to his cabin to change. Fifteen minutes later, with assistance of his valet, Thomson appeared—pressed and dressed in a new, lightweight, black evening suit made by Anderson & Sheppard. He’d also bought some expensive white shirts and splendid ties. With a blood-red rose in his lapel, tonight he looked fine indeed. He thought back fondly to the afternoon in July when Marthe had dragged him to Savile Row, insisting he had new clothes for the voyage. She’d helped him choose the materials—money he could hardly afford—but he was glad he’d splurged. Marthe would be proud of him tonight.

  Thomson headed for the dining room. Buck went to the crew’s quarters for bread and cheese. He chatted with passengers on the promenade deck. They stared nervously out into the night, occasionally lit by a half-moon showing itself between squalls and scudding cloud.

  Everyone had dressed for dinner. Pierre unlocked the record cabinet and showed the galley boy how to operate the gramophone. When the music came on, Thomson, Brancker and Colmore moved to the lounge for cocktails. Brancker appeared rigid—his way of masking his inebriated state—his monocle immovable, as if screwed into his head. Colmore was showing apprehension, but the alcohol took the edge off. Thomson didn’t care how much they drank as long as the ship pushed on for India. Some would feel lousy in the morning—that was their prerogative. He anticipated enjoying the view of the Mediterranean with a clear head the following day. How beautiful that was going to be!

  The first recording the galley boy put on (no one knew if it was intentional) was “Singing in the Rain”, sung by Cliff Edwards. Everybody had a good laugh, which helped ease the tension. Most people sat down around 8:40 p.m., but it wasn’t as formal as Thomson would have liked, since some of the officers were tied up with their duties. VIPs and special guests were served by the stewards as they arrived in the dining room—the more senior VIP’s (including his ‘Top Three’—Colmore, Scott and Richmond) sat at the head table with Thomson. Seating had been designated with white cards embossed with silver lettering, bearing their names at each place setting.

  The first course was a tasty oxtail soup with crusty bread rolls followed by meat cold cuts. Now Miss Helen Kane was giving her all on the gramophone with her smash hit, “I Wanna Be Loved By You.”

  In the chartroom, Irwin, Johnston and Lou studied the maps while Steff remained on duty below them. The evening watch would be over in half an hour. Potter had taken back the elevator wheel from Atherstone.

  “What’s the elevation of the ground ahead?” Irwin asked.

  They checked the maps. They were coming up on Bendish, a small hamlet on rising ground just east of Luton, west of the A1.

  “Four hundred feet above sea level,” Johnston answered.

  “After that, we’ve got the South Downs to contend with,” Irwin said.

  The ship was still dangerously low.

  “Bring her up as much as you can, Steff,” Irwin shouted over the rail.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Steff said and then, “You heard the captain, Potter.”

  Potter turned the elevator wheel. “She’s heavy, sir. She’s stayin’ right where she is.”

  “We’re going to have to dump ballast and quick, sir,” Steff shouted to Irwin.

  “Do it! Right now!” Irwin replied.

  While Thomson and his fellow passengers were enjoying their first course, Church was keeping an eye on Jessup, who was still on the prowl. Church had checked the duty roster and knew Jessup was scheduled to be on the next watch. The villain was snooping around at the bow for no apparent reason—he had no business there.

  Church and the others were very concerned about Lou. While the big shots had been having their conference, a few of the crew were having a conference of their own. They knew Lou was capable of snapping Jessup’s neck in a second. Jessup would only get one chance—they reckoned he’d lie in wait and strike from behind. They’d taken turns watching him ever since leaving the tower. The time had come to put their plan into action. Jessup approached amidships toward Church. Church put two fingers in his mouth and gave him one of his own wild whistles from the lower catwalk. “Hey Jessup, I got something for you, me old cock,” Church yelled.

  Jessup was outraged. He stared down, his hateful eyes narrowed. “Who you whistling at, you little shit? What’s that you got there?”

  “A letter for you from Charlotte Remington. She sent someone to the ship with it tonight. Must be stuck on you, eh! Who would ’ave thought?”

  Everyone knew there’d been a bit of a ‘to do’ over a girl at the tower earlier, but not the details. Jessup’s infatuation with Charlotte was common knowledge.

  “Give it ’ere, you little punk,” Jessup shouted, rapidly climbing down a ladder.

  Church ran off toward the oil storage room, laughing like a crazy man with Jessup in pursuit. Church slipped inside, closing the door behind him. Catching his breath, he leaned against the door taking in the smell of lubricants and sacking piled in stacks. Jessup pounded with his fists, throwing himself against the door. Church stepped away and Jessup came stumbling in. Clearly, it wasn’t what he’d expected. Church stood at the other end of the room waving the envelope in the air, ta
unting him.

  “Oh, Jess ...up ...come ...and ...get ...it.” Church sang the words.

  Then too late, Jessup spotted the others. With the sounds of “boo hoo beloo” drifting from the dining room above, he realized he’d been set up. He took in the faces of Disley, Binks, and now, closing the door behind him and blocking his escape—Cameron. Jessup turned toward him in time to see the high-speed blur of a lead pipe coming toward his head. The pipe connected with his front teeth with a sickening crunch.

  “You won’t be smilin’ at my wife again, boy,” Cameron said.

  Jessup spat his teeth on the floor mixed with gobs of blood and phlegm. Cameron hadn’t finished. He brought the pipe back, swinging it up into Jessup’s groin, crushing his testicles.

  “Nor will you be doin’ her anymore,” Cameron whispered.

  Jessup sank to his knees holding his crotch and groaning, his face contorted in agony. His eyes rolled up in his head and he threw up. Cameron reached to his back pocket and pulled out Rosie’s letter. Cameron held it up, glaring at Jessup, his eyes murderous.

  “This is the letter delivered tonight—you destroyed my Rosie. She’s really fucked now and so are you—you piece of shit!”

  Cameron unhurriedly and methodically stuck the envelope back in his pocket. He swung the pipe high in the air and brought it smashing down on Jessup’s skull. His head exploded. Blood, brain and bone fragments flew in all directions and Jessup went down like a side of beef.

  “Well, fuck me, Doug, you’ve gone and killed ’im now!” Binks said incredulously, wiping splatter from his face with his sleeve.

  “Yer don’t say,” Cameron said.

  “You weren’t supposed to kill ’im, were yer,” Disley said.

  “The plan was to put him out of action—not this,” Binks said.

  “Shit—now what are we going to do?” Church said.

  “You’ve made a right mess of ’is ’ed, look,” Binks said, standing over Jessup.

  “Drag him over here while we figure this out,” Disley said, stepping out of a pool of blood that had soaked one of his canvas shoes. They pulled Jessup across the room and pushed him up against the shelving stacked with cans of oil. They wiped up the blood from the floor with sacking and covered Jessup’s torso with it.

  “We’re gonna have to get rid of ’im,” Binks said.

  “We’ll have to dump him overboard,” Church said.

  “He might land in someone’s back yard,” Disley said.

  “Or on somebody’s roof,” Binks said.

  “Come through somebody’s roof, more like,” Church said.

  “That wouldn’t be very nice,” Binks said.

  Church took a rag and wiped blood from his face, jacket front and sleeve and then his hair, now an unruly mess. He took out his comb, put his foot up on Jessup’s chest and began combing his hair back into place, while Jessup’s demonic eyes stared vacantly up at him. When he’d finished, he threw a sack over Jessup’s face.

  “You’re such an ugly sod!” he muttered.

  Moggy Wigglesbottom loved cats, hence her nickname. She sat in her 15th century cottage in the quaint hamlet of Bendish finishing the last of her delicious baked trout. On a chair beside her, a majestic, white Persian, named Queen Isabella, sat watching and licking her lips. Moggy was a contented woman. Her tranquil life had never been better.

  Suddenly, to her bewilderment, a bloodcurdling scream emanated from the kitchen. The cook and the maid must surely be under some kind of attack. Without hesitation, Moggy jumped up from her upholstered antique chair, snatched up the white ball of fluff, grabbed the poker from the fireplace and raced to the kitchen. She found both women staring, trance-like, out the garden picture window over the sink. Moggy couldn’t believe what she saw.

  Coming toward them, up her garden path, was the largest object she had ever seen in her entire life—a monster with flashing red and green eyes and yellow rays spilling from its sides. All she had worked for was about to be erased from the map and she, Queen Isabella, and her staff faced certain death.

  “Come on! We can’t stay here,” Moggy yelled. She dropped the poker and rushed to the back door clutching the cat, the cook and maid close on her heels. All three ran full gallop down the path and leapt over the fence—a remarkably clean effort, worthy of a trio of Olympic hurdlers. They landed together in a heap on the other side in a pile of the gardener’s horse manure. The area was suddenly lit like a stage set by an eerie, amber glow and flashing, green lights that made it even more surreal. The once white Persian howled in disgust.

  “Oh, bugger!” Moggy exclaimed, surely echoing the Persian's thoughts, while picking manure out of her hair.

  The women stared up in horror as His Majesty’s Airship Cardington R101 sailed over their heads. They were mesmerized by the sound of thumping railway engines accompanied by “I Wanna Be Loved By You”. More annoying was the sight of men in dinner jackets and bow ties casually moving around the promenade deck as if they were in some swanky hotel bar, oblivious to the plight of Mrs. Wigglesbottom and her staff.

  Then came another unwelcome sound—gushing water—two tons of ballast released by Steff. The beleaguered women were saturated by the freezing deluge as it spilled down upon them. They struggled to their feet, shivering.

  “Shit and bugger!” shouted Moggy. The maid and the cook were shocked. They’d never heard such profanity fall from the lips of their mistress, church deaconess, Moggy Wigglesbottom.

  The airship passed over, just clearing the thatched roof. It did, however, scrape the clay pot from the ancient chimney stack, which crashed onto the driveway on the other side of the cottage and smashed into tiny pieces.

  “Damn you!” Moggy screamed at the dirigible’s rear end. The twinkling lights, the roaring engines and Helen Kane singing her song faded gently into the night. She took a deep breath, her teeth chattering in the howling wind. It could’ve been worse. Much worse—they could all be dead and her beloved cottage destroyed. She would get down on her knees tonight and thank God her home had been spared and, after that, she’d write to the Air Ministry. She’d read earlier, with mild excitement about the airship leaving for India—but didn’t expect to actually set eyes on it, let alone get close enough to be touched by the diabolical thing!

  Dinner jackets indeed!

  In the oil storage room, the crewmen were still debating the situation.

  “We’ll have to dump ’im in the sea,” Disley said, at last.

  “How long before we’re over the Channel?” Church asked.

  “I dunno. We’ll ’ave to find out,” Binks answered.

  “It’s gotta be a couple of hours,” Disley said.

  “I’m on watch in ten minutes,” Church said.

  “So am I,” Binks said.

  “Me, too,” Cameron grunted. Until now, he’d remained mute.

  “You gonna be all right to go on duty?” Binks asked.

  Cameron didn’t answer.

  “Yeah, it’ll be better if he does,” Disley said.

  “We’ll ’ave to do it after 23:00, when we get off,” Church said.

  “We could dump ’im from the hatch above No. 5,” Binks said.

  “We’d have to lower ’im down the ladder on a rope, so he doesn’t hit the car or the prop and make another bloody mess,” Disley said.

  “There’s plenty of rope over ’ere, look,” Church said.

  “We’ll have to wait till they’ve fixed my engine,” Binks said.

  “Won’t they spot us from the control car?” Disley asked.

  “They’re usually looking where they’re goin,’ not backwards,” Binks said.

  “As long as the navigator ain’t there, buggering about,” Church said.

  “We’ll have to make sure the coast is clear,” Disley said.

  “And time it just right,” Church said.

  “Gettin’ ’im to the ’atch without anybody seein’ is going to be difficult,” Disley said.

  “We’ll need
more help. He’s a big bugger,” Binks said.

  “I’ll get Potter. He hates the bastard,” Church said.

  “They’ll hang the lot of us for this, you know,” Cameron said.

  “Shut the hell up, will yer? No one’s gonna find out,” Binks said.

  “Besides—you were the silly arse what clobbered ’im,” Church reminded him.

  “What ’appens when they can’t find ’im?” Binks asked.

  “He’s on the next watch. They’ll be lookin’ for ’im,” Church said.

  “They’ll think he’s hiding somewhere,” Binks said.

  “We can say he must’ve committed suicide. Jumped out or got blown away,” Church said.

  “Here, grab this tarpaulin,” Disley said.

  They pulled out a folded tarpaulin and wrapped Jessup into a bundle, tying it with rope.

  “A nice, tidy package,” Disley said.

  “He’s humming a bit,” Church said.

  “What if people come in ’ere for oil and stuff?” Binks asked.

  “Let’s hope no one notices,” Church said.

  “We’ll have to keep an eye out,” Disley said.

  In the control car and the chartroom, the officers had had a few nervous moments approaching Bendish. They’d heard the control car strike Moggy Wigglesbottom’s chimney pot. They’d managed to gain altitude, but it was insufficient and too late. Lou realized the captain was worried about dumping more. The ship would get lighter and they could rise too high over the following days as the weight of fuel diminished. Then they’d be forced to valve off gas and not have enough to last the voyage. It was a vicious circle, but in this weather, the ballast tanks were being replenished with rainwater for the moment.

  “Make a note, Johnny. We owe somebody a new chimney pot,” Irwin said.

  “Better than a new house,” Lou said.

  “We should go in to dinner. His Lordship will be expecting us,” Irwin said. Lou, Irwin, Giblett and Atherstone trooped off to the dining room, leaving Johnston and Steff in control.