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

by David Dennington

  Outside, the cover had disappeared entirely, but the fire was still raging. Making their way through the flames to the perimeter of the structure, they stepped on red-hot girders, burning the soles of their feet. Once there, they had no choice but to jump for it. Lou guessed the ground was thirty or forty feet down, although he couldn’t see for smoke. Again, Leech went first. Lou heard crackling sounds, and then Leech shouting up to him.

  “It’s okay, sir. There’s a tree there. Jump for it.”

  Lou leapt out as far as his strength would allow. He could just make out branches and leaves that shook cold water over him as he jumped. He caught hold of one branch, but it snapped. He grabbed wildly at others, but they slipped through his grasp, tearing his face. He fell to the ground head-first, strangely evoking a vision of Irwin reading the lesson in church. He hit the ground with a snap, as his right arm was broken. He rolled across the grass and lay there feeling like Jonah spat from the whale onto the dripping shore. Irwin’s gentle Irish voice filled his head. “… And the Lord spake unto the fish, and it vomited out Jonah onto the land …”

  Water continued to shower upon him.

  Ah, blessed cool water!

  Leech knelt down beside him. “Are you okay, sir?”

  “You know what? I reckon we’re gonna get to smoke those cigars you stole from His Majesty’s airship, Harry.”

  “Damned right we are! Powerful stuff, this heather, sir.”

  Leech helped Lou to his feet and they limped away from the smoke and flames. From out of the haze, they heard a shout.

  “Anybody out there?”

  “Me, Leech!”

  Two men, their heads covered, emerged like desert tribesmen in a war, their faces black and blistered, clothes burned. But Lou recognized the voices. “Thank God, you’re all right, sir,” Binks said. “And you, too, Mr. Leech.”

  “Anyone seen Potter or the captain or Pierre?” Lou asked.

  They shook their heads. Three additional men approached out of the smoke: more engineers who’d escaped from their aft port and starboard engine cars. Two of them were supporting their companion, who looked close to death.

  “Who are you?” Lou asked.

  “I’m Cook, sir, and these are Savoury and Radcliffe.” Cook nodded to Radcliffe. “This man’s hurt pretty bad.”

  “You two lay him down over here and stay with him. We’ll go and see if we can find anyone else,” Lou said.

  Radcliffe was burned all over his body, face and hands. He cried out in agony as they laid him down. Both Lou’s arms throbbed and blood ran from the cut he now realized was deep. He held on to his broken arm as they moved along the wreck, feeling dizzy and nauseous.

  “Hey look, there’s another one,” Binks said.

  “Who are you?” Leech shouted.

  “It’s me, Disley.”

  Disley, his hands badly burned, was in terrible pain. He, like the others, was hardly recognizable, being black with soot and oil. He grimaced and moaned. They came to the position where the control car should’ve been. Not much was left. It was flattened into the ground.

  “If the captain was in there, he had no chance,” Leech said.

  “Thomson stayed with him ‘til the end,” Lou said.

  “I guess you gotta hand it to the man for that,” Leech said.

  Lou had been in that control car only minutes ago. All this was déjà vu—he’d survived again. He felt wretched. They moved on toward the ship’s bow in the woods. Someone was on all fours, trying to crawl away from the intense heat.

  “Sammy, is that you? Yes, it’s Sammy!” Binks cried, sinking to his knees beside Church.

  “Oh, Sammy, thank God you’re alive. Are you all right?”

  Church was far from all right. He, too, was barely recognizable—his hair completely gone, face and hands horribly burned, his jacket smoldering.

  “Get me jacket off ...” Church mumbled, fighting to breathe.

  Church cried out in pain as Binks and Bell gently turned him and sat him up and then removed his jacket. They then lifted him carefully and moved him further from the burning wreck.

  “Oh, Sammy,” Binks sobbed.

  “Get me cigs,” Church whispered, his eyes beseeching.

  “He wants a cigarette,” Lou said.

  “In me jacket,” Church said.

  Binks fished through Church’s jacket pockets and found a tin of Players. He lit one from a piece of burning wreckage on the ground. He stuck the cigarette in Church’s mouth and took hold of his injured hand, but had to let it go. Church winced and took a long drag and blew the smoke out. He looked thankful for a moment, nodding to indicate they should help themselves. They each took a cigarette. He looked up at Lou.

  “I’m sorry sir, I tried to release that ballast, but I got there too late,” Church whispered.

  “Don’t worry about that, Sam. It wouldn’t have made much difference,” Lou told him.

  “I was so looking forward to a life with Irene,” Church said, looking up at the swirling clouds.

  “You’ll have that life, Sammy,” Lou assured him, knowing it was a lie.

  “Not now. They don’t call me ‘Bad-Luck Sam’ for nothing.” He closed his eyes. “I shoulda stayed home. Joe, me cards. You take ’em.”

  Binks fished out the playing cards loose in Church’s coat pocket. “Don’t worry, mate. I’ll look after ’em for yer.”

  Lou hobbled away coughing and holding his broken arm. He beckoned to Disley with his head to follow him.

  “Dizzy, can you make it to that town over there?”

  “Yeah, I reckon.”

  “Call the Air Ministry. Tell them what’s happened.”

  “The police station’s the best bet, sir,” Disley said. Despite the pain, he stumbled off across the field toward the lights of Allonne.

  Lou sank to the ground as an army of villagers approached—there must have been a hundred of them. They moved slowly up the hill in the darkness, carrying lanterns and rescue equipment. At last, they arrived. Nuns, nurses, doctors, firemen, policemen and farm workers made up the procession. They carried stretchers, first aid supplies, picks, shovels and digging bars. The fire had died down some and Leech implored them to help him try to find his shipmates inside the wreck. Lou didn’t have the strength to assist them. He lay on his side watching, until he faded into blackness.

  PART TWELVE

  AFTERMATH

  95

  MOGOSOËA

  Sunday October 5 & Monday October 6, 1930.

  While Thomson had been enjoying a cigar in the smoking room and scribbling a message, Marthe was kneeling beside her sumptuous bed praying to God for Him to watch over Thomson and his airship and for his voyage to India to be a resounding success. She shuddered with cold as she climbed into bed and burrowed under the bedclothes. As she drifted off, she considered Thomson’s marriage proposal. Had she, deep in the furrows of her subconscious, already made up her mind? She prayed again in a whisper for an answer. Guilt and depression hung over her like a guillotine.

  Please God help me, please help us all.

  Marthe woke in the darkness Sunday morning and let out a piercing scream. Isadora burst in from the adjoining room.

  “My dear baby, what’s the matter?”

  Marthe sat up clutching her chest, her face screwed up in agony.

  “I’m dying. I’m dying. Fetch the doctor! The pain is terrible!”

  Isadora rushed off and telephoned Marthe’s doctor, asking him to come at once. She also called Marthe’s husband, who was in bed fast asleep with this mistress. George arrived before the doctor.

  Isadora sat with Marthe on the bed, her arm around her. Other servants came and joined the vigil. Gradually, the searing pain subsided, only to be replaced by despair. Just before dawn, the French windows to Marthe’s bedroom burst open and the sheer curtains flew out from the wall. To the women gathered around Marthe’s bed, this was a dreadful, supernatural sign.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Mart
he moaned.

  “It’s only the storm,” Isadora assured her.

  “No, no, it’s not.”

  “What is it, my darling?”

  “It’s Kit.”

  “What about him?”

  “It’s him—he’s dead,” she whispered.

  “Oh, Marthe. Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “He’s dead! Isadora, I know he’s dead ...”

  The next day, the pain had subsided and despite her anguish, Marthe wrote in her journal.

  Sunday October 5th, 1930.

  Last night, I was awoken by Kit’s voice calling to me in a dream. So loud, it woke me. I managed to get back to sleep, but was awoken again by a dreadful pain in my chest. It felt so bad, I thought I would surely die. I called for Isadora, and she sent for George, who came immediately. He is very good these days. The doctor came at last, but found nothing. A heart attack, perhaps. He gave me pills to sleep, but they did no good. I could only think of Kit. I long for him to be back from his voyage and for us to meet again in Paris. Oh Kit, my dear friend, Kit. May God preserve you.

  The following morning, Isadora came to Marthe’s bedroom with two telegrams—both from Thomson. One was from the post office in Westminster on the evening of departure and the other from the airship itself, during the early hours of Sunday morning. Marthe derived no comfort from them.

  Half an hour later, Marthe was informed Prime Minister MacDonald was on the telephone. She knew the reason for his call. Her heart sank.

  “Good morning, Prime Minister.”

  “Marthe, I’m calling with news which breaks my heart ...” He sounded shaken.

  “Yes, Ramsay?”

  “His airship has crashed in France.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “I’m afraid he is. All but nine perished.”

  “It happened at just after 4 o’clock Sunday morning?” Marthe said, managing to stay composed.

  “Yes, my dear. Today they’ll lie in state in Beauvais. They’ll be brought home tomorrow from Boulogne and thence by train to Victoria. I shall be there to meet him ...” his voice faltered.

  “He’ll be glad of that.”

  “I’ve arranged for them to lie in state in Westminster Hall.”

  She pictured Thomson’s handsome face as he stood in the center of Westminster Hall, staring up at the structure before they parted, as he always did.

  “When?” she asked.

  “Friday …The damned blabbermouths have already started with their mischief.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some newspapers are asking questions. They’re blaming him. He hasn’t even been identified and buried ...”

  She heard him draw in his breath as he choked up.

  “You think they’d leave a man something …” he whispered.

  “Sickening!” she said.

  He rallied suddenly.

  “I shan’t allow his name to be tarnished. I’ll not stand for it!”

  “Has the funeral been arranged?”

  “Saturday. Will you come?” MacDonald asked.

  “I wish that were possible, but I’m feeling quite ill.”

  “I understand. Please take good care of yourself, Marthe.”

  “Will you do something for me?” she asked.

  “Anything.”

  “Place a single red rose on his coffin from me.”

  “I shall make a point of obtaining one of his special roses—Variété Général Jacqueminot, I believe.”

  “Bless you, dear Ramsay.”

  They said their goodbyes and MacDonald promised to keep her informed. Marthe retired to her bedroom, where she remained for the next three days.

  96

  THE NUNS OF BEAUVAIS

  Monday October 6, 1930.

  Lou found himself riding into the Cardington Fairground on the Brough Superior. The colors were vivid, unnaturally so, the cloudless sky a deep sapphire, the sandy ground, violent ginger. Above, he heard unnerving screams of girls on the Ferris wheel, not of joy, but of horror and behind him, more screams…those of crewmen trapped inside Cardington R101. He looked back over his shoulder at the tower. The ship, shining like polished silver, was enveloped in orange flame from end to end. He turned the bike and stopped. He saw no one, but could hear their cries inside. Turning away from that miserable sight, he coasted on through the fairground toward the carousel, its music gently playing. Sound came intermittently, as though from a speaker with a bad connection.

  He passed the crimson tent where Madam Harandah stood with her hands on her hips. She gave him an off-hand look as he neared the gilded, red and gold carousel of bobbing horses. He stopped to watch it. Charlotte was the first person he spotted, with her parents standing beside her. She rode a white horse, her eyes vacant. She took no notice of him. Others were seated behind her on multi-colored horses: his own father and mother, Tom and Anna, Julia, old Jeb, his hair dazzling white, and wife, Alice, and their children dressed in fluorescent colors. Following them, from R38 was Josh, Capt. Wann soaked in blood, Capt. Maxfield and Commodore Maitland horribly burnt. They were in uniform. The commodore looked ridiculous, wearing a black Napoleonic bicorn hat. Lou’s dead German boy, with the broken neck, sat beside New York Johnny, Bobby and Gladstone the cabin boy—all dripping wet. Three satanic Ku Klux Klansmen followed in flowing, white robes. The leader, on a black and white appaloosa, held a blazing cross. Lou sat motionless, realizing why no one would acknowledge his presence—they all hated his guts. He couldn’t contain himself any longer.

  “Dad!” he screamed in desperation, but not one head turned in his direction. They remained like tailors’ dummies, riding up and down and round and round, in a slow motion parade.

  Then, off to one side, he saw two women. They were both gorgeous and beautifully dressed and made up, unreal, like shop-window mannequins. One was Helen Smothers (in her magnificent hat) and the other, Mrs. Hinchliffe.

  “Hey, Commander Remington, come ride with us,” Helen Smothers called.

  “Yeah, come on, Remy,” Mrs. Hinchliffe said.

  But he knew they didn’t mean it. They were taunting him.

  “Come on Lou, I was hoping we’d meet again,” Helen Smothers said, her voice silky and inviting.

  “Don’t forget to call me Millie when we meet again, Lou …” Mrs. Hinchliffe shouted.

  Lou rode away from them, over to the coconut shy, where he found Potter at the entrance, playing his accordion. He smiled as he squeezed the bellows, playing a polka. On the ground in front of him was his airshipman’s cap full of coins. Lou tossed in a silver half crown. Potter smiled and nodded his thanks. At the rail, Church stood holding Jessup’s grimacing head high in the air like a trophy. Disley, Binks, Cameron, Freddie and Billy fell about with laughter while the fairground attendant angrily shook his fist. Behind him, the heads of Jessup’s friends cried out from their coconut cups, tears streaming down their cheeks.

  “See, I told you those ‘eads were glued in, didn’t I, boys!” Church was yelling.

  Beside Lou, there was more laughter. The clown’s head in its glass box stopped its cackle and glared, and as Lou rode away, it threw its head back and roared.

  The carousel music and Potter’s accordion were drowned out by sounds of sita, flute and beating percussion. A group of Indian musicians in national garb sat playing their captivating music. In front of them, a huge silver cobra reared up and swayed from side to side, its evil eyes on Lou, ready to strike.

  Lou drove away through the chestnut fencing and was overpowered by the smell of fish and seaweed-filled air. Finding himself on top of a sand dune, he left the bike and began to walk, hoping to find relief from all this weirdness and misery. Directly ahead, in the distance, he saw an airship. It was black. He knew it was Howden R100 by its rippling cover. The gentle surf monotonously sucked the seashore, while gulls sounded their warnings overhead. Lou’s eye traced the curved, sandy beach stretching to a low-lying headland, where the great Egyptian Pyramids stood silhou
etted against a rising sun. In the opposite direction was another headland where the dome and minarets of the Taj Mahal stood in shining orange against another, dying sun. The airship passed directly over his head and disappeared behind him.

  From the direction of the pyramids, a tiny, open-topped vehicle approached. As it drew nearer, he saw four figures inside, woodenly upright, rocking to and fro. The vehicle sped up the sand dune and came to an abrupt halt in front of him, the figures’ heads bobbing and jerking comically. The car and its occupants were made of molded red and blue plastic. Lou recognized Scott as the driver. He wore a tall pointed hat with the letters R101 embossed across the front. Next to him, was Irwin. Thomson sat in the back, complete with overcoat and trilby, Brancker beside him, wearing his pith helmet. Each of them appeared weary and forlorn.

  “I say old man, could you tell us, which way to India?” Scott called.

  Lou pointed along the beach toward the Taj Mahal on the other headland. With a wave of Scott’s hand, they sped off in their strange contraption, doomed to an eternity of searching—melded together for all time. Lou felt abject pity for them.

  The sound of Potter’s accordion in an overlapping dream woke Lou from his morphine nightmare. He was glad to be released from that, but overwhelmed by loneliness. Voices of dead crewmen screamed in his head. The sickening horror of the ship’s last moments flooded back to him—the massive boom and blinding light, not being able to breathe or hear. Then, more detonations as the rest of the gas bags ignited in succession. He couldn’t get Potter out of his mind—in plain sight one moment, gone the next. Again, there was the accordion.

  Damn it, Walt—why didn’t you stick close to me?

  Lou wished he’d waited for him, perhaps even shared his fate. He wondered where Leech was—he owed that man his life.