“Promises to be a good evening.”
“I much hope so, Mr Farnsworth. The boys need to relax – they have been flying far too many hours for their own good.”
“I wish I could fly, Commander.”
“Goes against the regulations, Farnsworth. However, we have no spare second hand – if one of the boys gets a heavy cold, we have no way of replacing him, have to ground the balloon. Such being the case, needing to respond to emergency, it might be possible. How is your Morse?”
“Learned it as a Boy Scout, for a wireless badge.”
“Well done. Go across to the Magazine when you can, get Handsworth or Sargent to show you how to use a Lewis and the official carbine. I’ll ask them to issue a pistol. We can wangle flying clothing – bound to have some extras in stock somewhere. Be ready against need. Won’t be able to do much by way of a training flight – you’ll have to pick it up in the air. Should be possible to work the oracle, Farnsworth. Useful to have a spare hand and you are the only available officer – good of you to volunteer, in fact.”
“They told me the Navy was very much by the book, when I was in basic training, Commander.”
“It is. We, however, are the Balloonatics – ordinary rules apply to us only sometimes.”
Peter feared the Admiralty might not agree with him – it was as well they were not listening.
Chapter Eleven
The celebratory dinner was a success. Tubbs was formally toasted and went on to drink far too much and was tucked away in a warm bed, waking up to find he had female company and responding in approved fashion, rather to his own surprise. He had always been nervous in the company of women, had wondered whether he would fail there as he had so often in the rest of his life. All went well and more than once, to the apparent pleasure of the lady who had so surprisingly appeared in his bed.
He took a belated breakfast feeling very much pleased with himself, ignoring his hangover and wondering whether the others in the wardroom would know what he had been up to. Several of them were eating with him, most of them with grins on their faces. He thought they might all have enjoyed the celebration. He was inclined to wonder how it had all come about; for once in his life, he decided to ask no questions, to accept that he had, amazingly, been a success and had enjoyed himself.
A charabanc drew up in front of the hotel, a single deck motor bus used in peacetime to give holidaymakers a tour of the sights, and often their first ride in a motor vehicle. The hotel staff chased the late risers out of their beds and they pottered off to Polegate, most of them going to sleep in their seats, making up for a busy night.
Peter, who had enjoyed his evening with the rest, was content that morale had been lifted and that his officers were fit to go back to war again. It had been an expensive outing, he admitted; he had more money than he knew what to do with, so why not? The youngsters had needed a break from the long, tedious patrols. Now they had memories to keep them warm while they were out.
A Marine on a motorcycle rode through the gates in the afternoon, informing the guard he was carrying a despatch ‘what had to go to the CO in person’.
They admired his massive four hp Douglas bike, pointing the way to the offices and encouraging him to open the throttle. The noise would be good for the officers’ headaches, they were sure.
“Commander Naseby, sir?”
Peter nodded. There was no other commander within sight, he could be the only possible recipient of the despatch pouch.
“Sign, please, sir.”
The rider produced a blue pencil and a receipt book from a waterproof pocket up his sleeve.
“’Orders, one pouch, Commander Naseby, for the edification thereof’. Seriously, man?”
“I don’t write them, sir. Just gets them signed, sir.”
The Marine clasped tight to the pouch, making it clear that he would not let go short of a signature.
Peter chose to be edified, signed as indicated.
“Thank you, sir. Be getting back now, sir.”
“Where to, Marine?”
“London, sir. The Office, sir.”
He evidently assumed that Peter knew all about the Office.
“Payne!”
The PO appeared, eyebrow raised.
“Take this man to the cookhouse, get him something hot before he goes off again. Long way to London on a bike.”
“Yes, sir.”
Payne led the grateful marine away, chattering in friendly fashion. All that the man knew about the Office would be made clear in short time.
There was a lead seal to the pouch, needing to be cut away, at least preventing casual pickpockets from accessing its contents.
The orders were brief. He was to fly SS9 to a field outside Langemark, near Ypres, arriving there before noon next day. He shouted for Griffiths, knowing that one of the ratings in the cabin next door would run for him.
“Flying tomorrow morning, Griffiths. A course for Langemark, near the Salient. Exact location given here. A road and a railway line shown and a number of tramway tracks. Should be possible to spot the field. A flag will be flying to give a wind indication and there will be two companies of soldiers to act as a ground party. There are anchor points and ropes.”
Griffiths nodded. He could set a course for Ypres, he suspected. Close to the landing field and the tracks should give him a sufficient guide.
“Lewis and rifle loaded. No bomb. I’ll have a word with Pickles, see if he can fix up a carrying box in place of the bomb.”
Pickles did not think that was a good idea.
“Simpler to strip back the canvas behind your cockpit, sir. Make a small open hold. Hang four mail bags there to stick the load in. Anything fragile, sir?”
Pickles hummed thoughtfully on hearing of a pair of wireless sets.
“Bag of wood shavings underneath and on top, sir. Act as padding. Do all we need, well wrapped up. Carpenter’s shop will have a bin full of shavings and sawdust. Easy to get hold of. All be ready for the morning, sir.”
Peter made his way to the magazine.
“One cavalry carbine and rounds, if you would be so good, Handsworth. I feel the need to have something tucked away in my cockpit, a comforter, you might say.”
Handsworth simply stood and led the way to his small arms shed.
“One carbine, sir, if you wish. You might prefer an additional pistol. I have three Belgian made automatics, sir. Nine mil with half a dozen clips of eight rounds. Picked them up from a refugee coming through Harwich last year. Don’t know where he got them from but the crushers didn’t want him carrying them in England, passed them to me to dispose of safely. Tried them on the range, accurate up to fifteen yards, which is all you can ask of any handgun. Well made – as many of the Belgian guns are – their own design, owing a lot to the German models. Stick the issue Webley under the seat – in case you have to stand in front of senior officers and need to wear it – and put one of these on either hip. I have holsters.”
“Billy the Kid?”
“Just that, sir. Fastest draw in the West!”
Peter took the pistols, somewhat embarrassed; it seemed rather theatrical. He was nonetheless unhappy about playing cloak and dagger games in the night air above the Western Front and wanted something in the way of a weapon to hand, just in case.
Troughton telephoned before dinner.
“All ready to go, Naseby? Forecast for the morning is for near calm. Three days of light breezes, you will be glad to hear.”
“Delighted, rather, sir. All prepared, including a cargo place behind the cockpit.”