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

by David Dennington

  That’d be more sensible and probably a lot safer!

  Lou missed Virginia. He lay there, finding it impossible to relax. Then the gypsy’s words began tormenting him.

  She had things she could not share …Another victim of war.

  After all her deceit, he figured cheating would have come easy. After half an hour, he got up and went back to the chartroom.

  While Lou had been trying to rest, Thomson and his group were sitting comfortably in the lounge, most of them well oiled and quite numb. Pierre approached Thomson again.

  “Sir, we’re coming up to Bodiam Castle. They tell me we’ll be crossing the English coastline in a just few minutes.”

  “Come on, Sefton—time to say goodbye to Dear Old Blighty,” Thomson said, getting up from his floral-cushioned, wicker armchair. Everyone got to their feet. Thomson’s choice of words upset Colmore and Thomson wished he’d been more careful.

  The airship passed over Bodiam but they couldn’t see much, save a light shining from a crofter’s cottage. They flew over Ewhurst Green, crossed the River Brede, over Guestling Green and then the village of Pett. Everyone gathered at the windows on the promenade decks.

  When they reached the coast, they passed over the Olde Cliff End Inn, its illuminated sign on the gable plainly visible. Outside, braving the weather, revelers stood wrapped in raincoats by their cars, under umbrellas—those that hadn’t been blown inside out. Some waved mugs of beer up at them, to wish them luck. Now, “Blue Skies” was being repeated from the lounge and dining room speakers. Thomson hoped the inn patrons could hear it.

  Our crabbing attitude must appear awfully strange.

  The ship swept out over the raging sea at a strange angle, still minus an engine, its colored navigation lights reflecting intermittently on the turbulent water. The sound of music gradually faded. Soon, the throbbing engines were gone, the glints of red and green swallowed by the darkness. Now, only the pounding surf on the rocks and the vicious wind in the swaying poplars could be heard by the pub crowd at the cliff edge.

  Thomson, surrounded by his entourage, stared back at England’s receding lights, Hastings and Bexhill on starboard, Rye and the Dungeness Lighthouse on port. Colmore couldn’t hide his gloom. “Perhaps the air will be smoother over the water,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

  “Don’t you worry, Colmore, it’ll all be here when we get back—and we’ll get a rousing reception, the likes of which you couldn’t possibly imagine!” Thomson reassured him.“Gentlemen, I think the time has come for a fine Cuban cigar to round off this very special occasion.”

  The thought of that only increased Colmore’s depression.

  “Good idea, sir,” Scott said.

  “Rather, CB,” said Brancker.

  A party of six, including O’Neill, the Indian representative, went with Thomson to the smoking room, led by the reluctant chief steward. Richmond and Rope excused themselves, needing to make another inspection. Colmore went back to the lounge with the Australian and a couple of R.A.W. officials for tea. Thomson shook his head.

  That’s what some British do to make themselves feel better—while the rest get drunk!

  In the smoking room, everyone settled down in easy chairs around the perimeter. Brancker took off his dinner jacket and sat next to Thomson on the long couch against the wall. Pierre served yet more port and brandy in fine crystal glasses to everyone, except Thomson, who requested coffee. Once they had drinks, Pierre came round with the box of cigars, cutting the caps off and assisting with the lighter chained to the trolley. Soon, the room was filled with smoke, causing Pierre to cough and his eyes to stream as before.

  The ship ploughed on toward mid-Channel and Johnston came down

  into the control car followed by Lou, who carried a box of flares. Johnston, his clipboard under his arm, also carried his sighting instrument. Lou put the flares on the sill and Johnston opened the window, causing a blast of cold air to rush in.

  “Sorry, gentlemen,” Johnston shouted above the howling—not sorry in the slightest.

  “That’s okay, these boys need waking up,” Atherstone said, eyeing Cameron.

  Lou threw the flares down into the thrashing sea at fifteen-second intervals, where they burst into flames on contact. Soon, a line of bobbing flames lay behind them, visible intermittently.

  “Look at the angle we’re flying at. Bloody ridiculous!” Johnston exclaimed.

  “She’s taking a beating all right,” Lou said.

  Johnston took his sightings, noted them on his clipboard, then closed the window.

  “Are you done, Johnnie?” Atherstone asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Check how they’re doing with No. 5, Lou. We need that engine,” Atherstone said.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Lou said.

  Lou left the flares on the windowsill. He and Johnston went back upstairs. As Lou was putting his coat on, he glanced down at the altimeter. It’d dropped to nine hundred feet. Atherstone had also noticed.

  “Wake up, Cameron! What the hell’s wrong with you? You need some more cold air!” He took the wheel and brought the ship up to a thousand feet. “Keep her right here.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry.” Cameron looked more miserable than Lou had ever seen him.

  That boy shouldn’t be on the wheel tonight.

  Lou left the control car and went down the catwalk to engine No. 5, keeping an eye out for Jessup. Rope was still making inspections. They both nodded without smiling. Lou pulled back the flap to the cat ladder. The wind lashed his face and head. He clung on and climbed down. Inside the car, they were wrapping things up. Leech gave Lou a half smile, confident now. He leaned down and peered out the window.

  “Blimey, look at them whitecaps. Who the bloody hell’s on the elevators?”

  “It’s a bitch of a night, Harry,” Lou said. “You guys done?”

  Binks screwed the last of the inspection plates back on.

  Leech answered, “Should be all right now. I’m going up to the oil storeroom. As soon we dump in some more oil, we’ll crank her up and find out.”

  Binks jumped up. “Stay where you are, Mr. Leech. I’ll get the oil,” he said.

  “That’s damned good of you, Joe,” Leech said. “I’ll wait here.”

  Binks went out and up the ladder like a squirrel up a tree. Lou’s eyes followed him.

  “He’s a damned good fella. So willin’,” said Leech.

  Lou nodded, wondering what Binks was up to and where the blood on his collar and sleeve had come from. A few minutes later, a shaken-looking Binks was back with drums of oil in a sack tied on his back. Leech poured oil into the engine. Binks got the starter engine going and cranked up the Tornado. After a few moments, the engine was running sweetly with its familiar, deafening rumble, the oil pressure perfect. Leech gave Lou and Binks the thumbs up.

  “I’m going up for me cocoa,” he shouted.

  “Wish I could come,” Binks said.

  Lou checked his watch: 11:45 p.m. “You’ve only got fifteen minutes, Joe.”

  Leech and Lou climbed back up into the ship.

  93

  MIDDLE WATCH: 23:00—02:00 HOURS

  Saturday October 4, 1930.

  Lou got back to the chartroom at ten minutes to midnight. Irwin had arrived to take over the watch with two fresh coxswains, who’d already taken over the wheels. Cameron and the rudder coxswain hung around while they got the feel of the ship. Irwin looked positively ill. The voyage had hardly begun. Exhaustion was already taking its toll.

  “Okay, time for cocoa and then a kip,” Atherstone said.

  “I hope you can sleep,” Irwin said.

  “I’ve just requested bearings from Le Bourget and Valciennes,” Johnston told them. “As soon as I have them, we’ll reset the course and I’ll take a nap myself.”

  At 23:00, Cameron glanced at his relief coxswain who nodded to him.

  “Okay, I’ve got it, Doug,” he said. Cameron scuttled off. Lou thought everyone see
med too damned jumpy this evening.

  At midnight, a wireless operator popped into the smoking room. The smoke-laden air and cigar odor was overpowering. “Gentlemen, would anyone like to send a message to friends or loved ones?” he asked, trying not to sneeze. He held up a notepad and pencil. Thomson was profoundly pleased.

  This will delight Marthe. Why not, I’ll send her another one.

  He took the pad and pencil and wrote in his bold scrawl.

  M Bibesco Mogosoëa Palace, Romania

  Dearest M We are making good progress STOP Now over the English Channel en route to Paris STOP Thinking of you as always K

  Brancker was next to take the pencil. He leaned close to Thomson.

  “I must drop a line to my dearest love, Auriol Lee in New York. She’s producing a play on Broadway, you know,” he whispered.

  Thomson gave him a funny look while Brancker scribbled a few lines. When he’d finished, O’Neill wrote a note to his wife. The wireless operator took the messages and hurried out.

  Church was tense. He’d waited five long minutes for the others, who slipped in one by one—Cameron, Binks, Disley and then Potter who’d joined the party.

  “About bloody time!” Church growled.

  “Keep yer wool on,” Binks said. “I came in ’ere twenty minutes ago for some oil an’ there’s two bleedin’ riggers sitting on Jessup’s carcass drinking beer.” Everyone gasped. “I told ’em the foreman was comin’ and they scarpered, right quick.”

  “Best get moving. We’ve only got twenty minutes. We’re near the French coast,” Disley warned.

  “We gotta be careful. Where is everyone?” Church asked.

  “No. 5’s fixed now—Mr. Leech is out of the way,” Binks said.

  “Where is he now?” Church asked. ‘’He’s always making the rounds.”

  “He’s ’avin’ his supper in the mess,” Disley answered. “Where’s the navigator? Has he finished with the flares, Doug?”

  “Yes, he left the control car,” Cameron mumbled.

  “What about the chief?” Church asked.

  “Sky Hunt’s asleep in his bunk,” Potter said.

  “What about them two officers with the R.A.W.?” Binks asked.

  “They’re up in the tail, climbing around,” Church said.

  “Let’s hope they stay out the way. Sammy, make sure the coast’s clear. We’ll get him ready,” Disley said.

  Church went to the door and switched off the light before opening it. After poking his head out, he moved stealthily along the catwalk and then amidships to the hatchway at No. 5. No one was around. He scampered back to the storage room and slipped back inside.

  “Come on—it’s all clear,” he whispered.

  They’d pulled Jessup into the center of the room, nicely wrapped, and tied ropes to his ankles, which were sticking out the bottom. The corpse was lifted among them and they carried it along the catwalk, Church holding the feet. Up ahead, Church spotted Richmond, approaching.

  “Whoa! Watch it. Someone’s comin’,” he hissed.

  “Quick, under here,” Disley said, gesturing to an area off the catwalk. They laid the body down and threw a sack over Jessup’s feet. They stood in front of the bundle until Richmond arrived.

  “Evenin’, sir,” Church said, giving Richmond a sweet smile.

  “Evenin’, sir,” the others said together.

  Richmond was pleasantly surprised by so much respect. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “What are you fellows up to?”

  “Just stretching our legs, sir, and saying what a wonderful airship this is,” Binks said.

  Richmond smiled. “And what’s in the bundle?” he said, eyeing the tarpaulin behind them.

  “We wrapped Lord Thomson’s carpet and brought it up here from the bow to distribute the weight better, sir,” Church answered.

  “Excellent! I must confess that did concern me. Well done!” Richmond spotted drips of blood. “What’s that trail of red liquid along the catwalk and down here?”

  “Oh, that’s just dope. Someone spilled some, sir. Horrible stuff,” Binks said. “Don’t worry, we’ll clean it up.”

  “Dope, right. Ah, well, I’m off to the promenade deck to take a peek at the coast of France. Keep up the good work, chaps,” Richmond said, walking off.

  “Come on, we’d better hurry,” Church said.

  Around 12:15 a.m., one of the stewards reported the sighting of the French coast. Thomson waited while Pierre put out the last cigar in a pail of water, switched off the lights and shut the doors. Thomson followed them to the promenade deck. Some were in a bad state. Brancker, his jacket over his arm, was having difficulty negotiating the corridor. When they reached the promenade deck, they joined Colmore and the Australian at the window. Brancker collapsed into an armchair. Up ahead, the lights of France beckoned in the darkness.

  “Gentlemen, the lights you are seeing ahead are on Point de Saint Quentin,” Scott announced proudly.

  “Bravo,” someone said.

  As soon as Richmond had disappeared, the five crewmen resumed their unpleasant task. They grabbed Jessup in his tarpaulin shroud and marched rapidly to the flap over engine No. 5. Church shimmied down the ladder to warn Bell and make sure the coast was clear. He checked the control car. Irwin and the coxswains were facing forward.

  Church returned and they got themselves in position. Jessup’s body was lowered head first down the cat ladder, while Cameron, Disley and Binks held the ropes tied to his ankles. Awkward to the last, Jessup became snagged between the engine car and the ladder and Church had to go down and push him out until he was clear. Soon Jessup was dangling free in space below the engine car. Church came back up the ladder.

  “Okay, let him go,” he whispered.

  “Anyone gonna say a prayer for him?” Binks whispered.

  “You’re jokin’, right?” Church asked.

  “Yeah, I’ll say a prayer for him, all right,” Cameron said.

  They unraveled the ropes from their wrists and let go. The bundle and rope was gone in a flash. They heard nothing but howling wind.

  “Go straight to hell, you worthless sack o’ shit!” Cameron shouted down the ladder.

  “Amen!” said Binks.

  At 12:20 a.m., the wireless operator handed a message to Johnston in response to his request to Le Bourget and Valciennes for bearings to fix their position. Lou and Johnston referred to the chart, calculating an adjustment to the course. Johnston drew a new line.

  “We need to steer two hundred degrees. This’ll bring us nine miles southwest of Abbeville and four miles west of Beauvais,” Johnston said. He wrote the heading down and gave it to Irwin.

  Scott entered the chartroom a little unsteadily. “Commander, do you mind coming with me? I need your assistance.” Lou followed Scott past the dining room, now laid for breakfast, to the lounge.

  “Have a seat. We must write a communication to Cardington,” Scott said. He had some Cardington R101 stationery on the table. Lou sat down.

  Scott held out a pencil. “Here, your writing’s better than mine.”

  “Okay, sir. What would you like to say?”

  Scott sat thinking.

  The passengers were still gathered on the promenade deck with Thomson, Colmore at his side with Richmond. Brancker remained slumped in his chair.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Thomson said, “having seen the welcome sight of France, I must now bid you all a very good night!”

  Amid a flurry of ‘good nights’ and brimming with satisfaction, he drew himself up to his full six foot five inches and marched away—every inch a brigadier general. Tonight, he’d accomplished something great—this would go down in the history books. Thomson entered his cabin. He took out the red keyring from his pocket and put it on his desk. He then changed into his pajamas and put on his silk dressing gown. Before sitting down to write his journal, he picked up the keyring to examine it closely. Satisfied, he slipped it into his dressing gown pocket and began to write.

&
nbsp; Saturday October 4th, 1930.

  A successful day. Airship standing up to gale admirably. Having crossed the Channel, we are now heading toward Paris. Tomorrow, I anticipate enjoying sunshine over the Mediterranean. Today, we have put an end to the naysayers.

  When Thomson had gone, Colmore appeared at Lou’s table in the lounge, Pierre at his side. “Lou, please give Sir Sefton some assistance. He’s a little bit under the weather,” Colmore said, squinting as if to say, ‘Let’s not make a fuss.’

  Lou went to Brancker and held out his hand. Brancker took it and Lou pulled him to his feet. “Can’t seem to get my legs going, old man,” Brancker mumbled.

  Lou put an arm around Brancker’s back and under his arm. “Quite all right, sir,” Lou said. They walked crablike down the corridor, joined at the hip, with Pierre leading the way, holding Brancker’s jacket.

  “It’s awfully good of you, Lou,” Brancker said.

  Pierre pulled back the curtain to Brancker’s cabin and Lou manhandled him to the bunk and gently laid him down. Lou pulled off Brancker’s shoes and stood over him. Colmore remained at the doorway. Brancker tugged at his tie and collar, revealing a St. Christopher on a silver chain. He pulled it over his head and held it out to Lou, smiling happily.

  “See that? Belongs to Lady Cathcart. Took it off and gave it to me, she did. Insisted I wear it. Sweet gal—said it’d keep me safe.”

  “I’m sure it will, sir.”

  “Wants me to give it back to her when we get back,” he said with a devilish grin.

  “I expect she’s making sure she sees you again soon, sir,” Lou said.

  Brancker grinned at that. He wanted to confide more, but speech was difficult and his eyelids were beginning to flutter. Lou was sure he wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. Brancker revived for a moment.

  “Lady Cathcart is a close friend of Lord T’s lady love—Princess Marthe, you know.”