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

by David Dennington

  There’ll be so many devastated families in Bedford.

  He thought about Church and Irene and hoped Church was going to make it. Was he still alive? Then Captain Irwin ...

  Poor Olivia.

  Did Charlotte know yet? She’d been right all along. Who could blame her for getting out?

  I should have listened. She knew something others didn’t know—except for that damned gypsy ...and Mrs. Hinchliffe ...Millie!

  Lou couldn’t see—his eyes and ears had been covered, further impairing his hearing. He hoped he wasn’t blind and dreaded the thought of the nuns removing the bandages. When the French villagers had come to their aid in Therain Wood, he’d felt as if he was coming around from a deep sleep. His eyes hurt from being blinded by the hydrogen fire, and he was still half deaf—he supposed his eardrums had been damaged. He wondered if this would be permanent. Would his hair grow back?

  I’m a wreck—but most of the others are dead. Oh God, why do you do this to me?

  The nuns and nurses had been caring and gentle on the field—so reassuring, although he couldn’t understand a word they said. They’d lifted his arm carefully and tied it in a sling and bound up and bandaged the cut on the other arm. They applied cool lotion to his burning face and head. He was in and out after that.

  The journey in the field ambulance had been agony. It bounced and squeaked across the field, jarring his injured body. a couple of others were with him—probably Radcliffe and Church. He heard their cries and whimpers.

  The next thing he remembered was the removal of the bandages; the brightness was blinding—overhead lights above the table, glistening white walls, smocks, headscarves. They washed his wounds and burns. That hurt like hell. They also stitched the cut on his arm. Other victims had been in the room. He could tell by the chatter of nurses and doctors close by, and from groans on their creaking gurneys.

  The nuns have been kind and soothing—with voices of angels.

  Lou slept for what seemed like ages, in and out of consciousness, depending on the morphine doses they gave him. It caused him to seriously lose track of time; he drifted off to sleep for a minute and think he’d slept for an hour or two. During one of his conscious moments, he heard the voices of his men—those not too badly hurt—probably Binks talking to Bell. They must have thought he was asleep. One of them was mumbling close by his bed.

  “…Jessup …’is ’ead exploded, you should ’ave seen it …it was ’orrible! …Damn! …I couldn’t …” Then more muttering—most likely Bell. Lou drifted off to sleep, those phrases repeating themselves over and over, like an infuriating recording that just wouldn’t stop. Sometimes, he sensed the guys hovering by his bedside only to be shooed away by nuns.

  Allez-vous en! Go away!

  He thought about Disley. He hadn’t heard his voice. He wondered if he’d managed to call London. The smells of the hospital got to him, particularly the disinfectant. Once, he smelled the perfume of one of the nurses. Though not the same as Charlotte’s, it made him think of her. She’d always worn the same perfume, which he loved. He’d first noticed it in the hospital in Hull when she leaned over him and stitched his face. He’d concentrated on her perfume to block out the pain as she stuck in her needle and pulled the thread.

  What seemed like a week later (he had no way of knowing), he thought he smelled the scent Charlotte used. It came to him so strongly, it was jarring.

  Must be another crazy dream.

  He faded back to sleep again, sensing the aroma of Balkan Sobranind he thought of Norway. It was all a confusing muddle. Then, that same damned recording began playing over and over again in his brain, “…Jessup …’is ’ead exploded, you should ’ave seen it …it was ’orrible …Damn! ...I couldn’t …”

  He came to, smelling the same perfume and shook his head, trying to snap out of it. He felt delusional, saddened and comforted at the same time. There was more mumbling and he strained to listen; first a woman’s voice then and a man’s, possibly two. Then nothing. Now, a soft woman’s voice which he figured had to be a nun. He drifted back to sleep. When he awoke, the muttering continued and he caught the smell of that magnificent perfume once more. What was it called? Who could it be?

  If only she were here—if only it were she!

  He breathed in the scent and wept and lay there listening to those incoherent voices. Someone wiped the tears from his cheeks and gently took his hand.

  Must be a nun—thank God for her.

  “Can you hear me, my love?” a voice said.

  But the voice was English—perhaps even Yorkshire!

  “It’s me,” the voice whispered close to his ear. A soft loving kiss covered his mouth—the lips moist and luscious. There could be no mistaking those lips, or that perfume.

  Damn these dreams! Damn the morphine!

  One of the nuns spoke and his bandages were gently unwrapped. Though hazy, Charlotte's face came into focus, appearing more beautiful than he’d ever seen her—her lips full and red and her eyes so huge and clear and sparkling and blue. Short hair accentuated her elegant neck and high cheekbones.

  Thank God, I can see, but is any of this real?

  And she looked so well—she had an aura about her—not the same Charlotte he’d last seen. Behind her, he made out Norway and John Bull standing against the wall. He was overwhelmed.

  “Je Reviens,” he said softly.

  “Je Reviens,” she repeated.

  Lou didn’t speak again for some moments. A cloud descended over him. He stared blankly at Charlotte in a daze, remembering. He wrapped his bandaged arm around his head. His shoulders shook and he fought for breath. Charlotte embraced him, believing he was overcome with joy at the sight of her. But it wasn’t that emotion which had enveloped him. He’d finally collapsed under his burden and his demons. Her appearance fuelled the agony caused by burgeoning guilt, smothering him with feelings of self-loathing and unworthiness. Again, why hadn’t he been allowed to die in peace with the others? He gasped for breath.

  “I threw myself down, you know,” he said at last.

  She leaned over him. He was obviously delirious.

  “I didn’t black out. That was a lie.”

  “What, my darling? What do you mean?”

  “The machine guns cut my buddies down. I didn’t black out.”

  She understood perfectly. In that moment, she knew all there was to know about Lou Remington. He wasn’t worthy to live, or to have her return to him. It was all too much.

  “I cheated God. He’d sent me to that front line that last day as punishment for killing the German boy. I really didn’t have to kill him. I should’ve died that morning with the rest.”

  “No, Lou. You did what any man would’ve done.”

  “They said I was a hero. I was a cheat and a liar who deserved to die—and now my punishment is to live.”

  “Oh, Lou, please don’t say that, my darling.”

  “Julia’s prayers saved me …She made a pact.”

  “Julia …a pact?”

  “With God,” he said.

  She waited.

  “And look at her—she has nothing!”

  Charlotte was thrown even more off balance. “Who is Julia?”

  The nun came to Lou’s bedside and glared at Charlotte and then at Norway and John, who was himself, choking up.

  “Ça suffit! Vous le contrariez. Il est temps de partir. That’s enough! You’re upsetting him. It’s time for you to leave.”

  And then something happened that astonished Lou and Norway, but not John Bull. Charlotte smiled and turned to the nun and spoke perfect French.

  “Je vous supplie de me laisser rester. Je suis une infirmière. Je connais bien cet endroit. S'il vous plaît, laissez-moi rester un peu plus longtemps, j'ai des choses importantes à dire à mon mari. I beg you to let me stay. I’m a nurse. I’m familiar with this place,” she said, lifting her hands and gesturing to their surroundings. “Please allow me to stay a little longer. I have important things to say
to my husband.”

  The nun’s manner changed as she looked into Charlotte’s face. She showed a hint of recognition and relented. Norway pulled a chair up to the bed for Charlotte to sit close. He and John went into the corridor. Charlotte took Lou’s hand again.

  “Julia—she was waiting for you back home, wasn’t she? I always had the feeling there must be someone.”

  “Charlotte, she’s a wonderful person. She asks for nothing.”

  “I’m sure she is. She deserves you more than I, especially—”

  “My darling, don’t. …I missed you so much,” he said.

  “Lou, I’m so sorry I didn’t let you in that day—”

  “I came to tell you I was ready to give it all up.”

  Charlotte felt sick.

  “Kiss me again,” he said.

  She leaned over, kissed him and then took out a folded, white handkerchief from her handbag. She opened it, revealing his gleaming gold wedding ring. She gently slipped it back on his finger and kissed him again. He became calm.

  “I figured Robert had shown up again and you’d run off with him.”

  She was shocked at the suggestion. She held up her ring finger.

  “I never took mine off,” she said. “Poor Robert is dead—long dead, poor boy.”

  For the first time, Charlotte pronounced ‘Robert’ the French way (Ro-bare), which strangely, she’d never done, even in her own mind.

  “I love you, Charlie,” Lou said.

  “Now, there’s something I must tell you, Lou,” Charlotte said, pausing to recall dreadful memories, her voice a whisper. “I was at the Western Front, too.”

  It took a few moments for it to sink in. He was speechless.

  “What …!” he stammered. “Where? …When?”

  “I was at different field hospitals …the last one was at Saint-Mihiel… near you.”

  “Oh, my God …” Stunned, Lou put his hand to his head, it explained a lot of things.

  “I decided you should know.”

  Tears welled up in Lou’s eyes.

  “Many of them were American,” Charlotte told him. “So many died. I’ll never forget their pleading eyes …they were so far from home. I couldn’t talk about it. I’m sorry. I’ve never spoken of the horror of that place to anyone.” She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief smudging her eye makeup and then blew her nose.

  “Baby, I’m so sorry. I wish I’d known. A fine pair, huh. So that’s where you learned to stitch—and speak French!” He closed his eyes and smiled as he remembered.

  She had things she could not share …Another victim of war …She was a brave girl that one …And the Red Cross pin!

  Charlotte smiled now, too. They consoled each other until the nun returned and told them visiting would be suspended for a couple of hours. Lou’s dressings had to be changed and he needed rest. Before leaving, John came in and patted Lou’s shoulder, overjoyed Lou had survived and that he and Charlotte were reunited.

  97

  BLACKOUT IN BEDFORD

  Sunday October 5, 1930.

  Around 6.00 a.m. on that chilly Sunday morning of the crash, Charlotte and her parents were roused by pounding on the front door that shook the whole house. When Charlotte heard it, a feeling of doom overcame her and her heart began to race. Instinctively, she knew. She had listened to the 9 o’clock news the night before. Her heart had skipped a beat when she heard it mentioned that a representative from the United States was on board. She put on her dressing gown and went down to the living room where her father was already on his way to the front door. Charlotte’s mother followed her. Mr. Hamilton nervously switched on the vestibule light and opened the front door. Two familiar figures stood on the step: Norway and John Bull. Their faces said it all.

  “W-we’re s-sorry to d-disturb y-y-”

  “Lou’s ship went down,” John said.

  Charlotte felt as though she’d been stabbed in the chest. She let out a gasp and her mother caught her and led her back into the living room. They followed. Mother eased Charlotte down into an easy chair.

  “What happened?” Charlotte’s father asked.

  “I got a c-call from George Hunter of the D-Daily Express, he’s a r-reporter,” Norway said.

  “What did he say?” Charlotte asked.

  “He said the airship had crashed in France.”

  “Where?”

  “B-Beauvais,” Norway answered.

  “Beauvais!”

  “There are survivors. I’d been following it all night on my short wave radio. I don’t speak French, but I was able to pick up parts of it,” John said.

  “What about Lou?” Charlotte asked.

  “We d-don’t know.”

  “All we know is that nine survived and they’re in hospital,” John said.

  Charlotte’s father went to the radio and switched it on. There was nothing but church music on and a program about birds in Newfoundland on the other station. He looked at the clock.

  “We must listen to the seven o’clock news,” he said. It was twenty minutes to seven.

  “When did you last see Lou?” Charlotte asked.

  “I saw him off last night,” John replied.

  “From Cardington?” Charlotte’s mother asked.

  “Yes. I was worried when I left. The weather was shocking. I got home and sat by the radio all night. It came on in France at four o’clock this morning.”

  “And they said there were survivors?”

  “Yes, they said neuf survivants—that’s nine,” John said.

  Charlotte nodded.

  “George Hunter confirmed nine,” Norway said.

  “And all the rest are dead?” Charlotte asked.

  “Yes, but we’ve got to keep our hopes up for Lou,” John said.

  “His luck may’ve run out,” Charlotte said. She remembered the nine lives he joked about.

  “We’re going to f-f-fly down to Cardington and then F-France. Depending on what we f-find out,” Norway said.

  “Depending on if he’s dead, you mean?” Charlotte said, her eyes flashing at Norway, who looked away, badly stung.

  “There were a l-lot of good people on that flight. P-people I liked,” Norway said.

  “It’s all your bloody fault!” Charlotte snapped.

  “Char-Char-Char …”

  “I’m coming with you,” Charlotte said.

  “I’d hoped you’d say that. Bring your passport,” John said, “and don’t forget your door key.”

  “We’re going over to Sh-Sherburn to pick up a plane,” Norway said.

  “Okay, I’ll make you breakfast before you go,” Charlotte’s mother said, rushing off to the kitchen. There was now a great sense of urgency. Charlotte dashed up stairs to get dressed. Mr. Hamilton put the radio on just before 7 o’clock.

  “They’ll make an announcement, I’m sure,” he said.

  They listened closely to the news while they ate breakfast, but the BBC didn’t mention a word about Cardington R101. It made them wonder if it’d all been a cruel hoax. There’d been false stories put out when Howden R100 flew to Canada—rumors it’d gone down in the Atlantic. Within half an hour, they were on their way to Norway’s flying club in John’s car. Once there, they found that the plane they needed was already rented, but the club-member allowed them to take it when he heard the news. Everyone at the club was deeply shocked.

  Two hours later, they landed on Cardington Field, parked the aeroplane close to St Mary’s Church and tied it down. That morning, the weather was perfect for flying; the wind had dropped and the sky was clear. Charlotte stared at the leaves stuck to the damp, autumn-smelling ground. Their colors reminded her of khaki blankets and dried blood. Across Church Lane, they heard the congregation singing. There wasn’t much gusto in the voices; it was supposed to be Harvest Festival with worshipers there to give thanks. Charlotte remembered being in church with Lou last year, this very day. She looked across at the Ferris wheel. It was still. The fairground, like the aerodrome, was emp
ty and quiet except, for the sound of birds in the hedgerows and men dismantling the rides. Perhaps the gypsies knew there’d be no business here now—maybe never.

  They walked across the field, past the sheds and up to Cardington House. The doors were locked. Booth’s Sunbeam Talbot was parked outside next to Scott’s Morris Oxford and two other cars. Norway pounded on the door. Eventually, they saw Booth through the glass, walking toward them. His face was grave. He reluctantly let them in.

  “Look Nevil. I can’t tell you anything and you’re the last person they want to see around here right now!” Booth whispered.

  “What are you d-doing here, then?” Norway asked.

  “They called me at four-thirty this morning.”

  “I got a c-call from a reporter at the D-Daily Express at four o’clock,” Norway said. He pointed at John, “And he heard it on shortwave radio.”

  “Most people round here don’t have radios,” Booth said.

  “So people in Bedford don’t know?” John said.

  “They didn’t, but a rumor has spread like wildfire,” Booth said.

  “Are you sure it’s actually true?” Charlotte said.

  Booth nodded. “Disley, the electrician called from the police station in Allonne.”

  “But there were survivors?” Charlotte asked.

  Booth wouldn’t say, but he did nod his head slightly.

  “What about Lou?”

  Charlotte could see, Booth was in a terrible position. He kept looking nervously toward the corridor behind him. “I’m so sorry I can’t …Orders have come from the highest levels,” he said. “The very highest!”

  “I need to know if my husband’s alive!” Charlotte whispered, her eyes like daggers. Booth nodded his head silently so that others listening couldn’t tell he was communicating. Charlotte closed her eyes in relief.

  “Is he going to live?”

  Please God.

  “That, I can’t say. I don’t know. Honestly, I’d tell you if I knew,” Booth murmured. And then, in a loud voice, “Nevil, you must leave! You really shouldn’t have landed here, you know.”

  “I’m s-sorry if I hurt anyone’s f-feelings, but this was important to Mrs. Remington. We’re going on to F-France tomorrow morning,” Norway said.