It seemed well organised.
Lunch was tasty and the room allocated was comfortable. Peter rose refreshed to go down to dinner.
“Happy with the course, Griffiths?”
“Yes, sir. There are canals and roads and railway lines to give checks, sir. Should not be too difficult. The bit that’s worrying me is spotting the landing ground. It’s all a bit vague. ‘Fifteen miles south of Brussels, on a road, by a railway line, close to the river to the left’. Paraffin lanterns in a pattern, not carbide bicycle lamps which cast a brighter beam. Should put out a fair bit of light even so. I hope not so much as to attract attention.”
“Let’s eat. Get a good meal in our bellies and the rest is in the lap of the gods. Don’t take too many glasses. Looks like a hard drinking mess.”
“Bracegirdle said they all were when they came out of the line, sir. They needed it to get rid of the memories so they could face going back up again.”
“The soldiers have got it hard from all I hear. Keep quiet about our job – they might not see sitting in a blimp as much like fighting.”
The balloon in fact made a topic of conversation during the meal. It was new and the soldiers without exception thought they were crazy to sit in a tiny cockpit suspended under tens of thousands of cubic feet of inflammable hydrogen and then to fly miles out over the sea.
“It will put the fire out if anything goes wrong, Major.”
They thought that was funny, and even crazier.
“You are the man who sunk a submarine, aren’t you, Commander?”
“Luck. We came out of cloud and it was there, pretty much underneath us.”
“The papers said you dropped the bomb from one hundred feet.”
“Didn’t want to miss. Only got the one to drop.”
The questioner said no more, lifting his glass in salute, joined by the rest of the table.
Peter felt acutely uncomfortable, certain they took greater risks every day up in the Trenches. He had been visible and his achievement had been more obvious. Nothing more than that, he was convinced.
“You are flying over the Lines, Commander?”
“Bit of an experiment. Seeing what is possible. Not convinced it’s a good idea. Not up to me to pass judgement on the orders I receive.”
That was obviously true. The orders might seem stupid and the men giving them certainly often were, and that mattered not at all. Until they became generals, they did as they were told. Even then, they suspected, there would be politicians to stand over them. The services obeyed orders; if they did not then England would become another banana republic with military dictators and that sort of nonsense.
“Quite right, Commander. We are English, not a bunch of dagoes who don’t know what discipline means.”
The whole table honestly agreed with their Colonel.
Peter remembered Bracegirdle speaking of marching into uncut wire defended by machine guns, of losing one half of the men in a single action. That was the other side of blind acceptance of one’s orders.
He said nothing, unable to think of a sensible response. That would require many years of thought and possibly a better educated brain than his. For the while he could only respect their integrity.
The table broke up and he and Griffiths changed into their flying dress, putting on their scarves and gloves and long leather overcoats and exchanging peaked caps for flying helmets.
Colonel Secombe-Askey wished them well before handing them over to his adjutant.
“How many men do you need, Commander?”
“We normally have fifty to hold the nacelle steady and control the blimp until we have engine power, sir.”
“Two companies will be best.”
“Thank you, sir. One officer to command the ground party, please. Keep everything attached until we have started the engine, then unhook the mooring ropes as quickly as possible. Keep hold of the single trailing rope until I call the release, sir.”
“I will do it. Sounds simple.”
“It is, sir. One strong man to swing the propellor as well, sir. I will tell him exactly what to do.”
Peter looked about him for the lieutenant commander from Intelligence.
“He left for London while you were asleep, sir. Said he could do no good standing around and watching you take off.”
The adjutant made it clear that he was unimpressed by the man’s attitude – it was not how they did things in his regiment.
“If you will come on out to the field, sir. I think we have everything ready for you.”
There were two captains and more than a hundred men, most of them looking interested in the balloon, a change from their ordinary routine.
“Light cloud cover, sir, and a half moon. Just right for a night journey. All ready here, sir.”
They produced a corporal standing well over six feet and built in proportion, a farm boy from his voice.
“First time, we simply prime the cylinders. I will call to you and you give the propellor a single slow spin. Then I will shout ‘switches on’ and you will heave the propellor as hard as you can and step back fast, out of its way. If the moving blade hits you, it will kill you. So you must keep your balance and step back. If all goes well, the engine will start on that first hard swing. If it does not, wait for me to order you to start again. Don’t step in close until I tell you it’s safe.”
“Roight you are, zur. Once round quiet like. You shouts switches and then I really give ‘er a sharp old tug and get out the bliddy way. If so be it don’t work, keep back till you gives I the word.”
“Just that, Corporal. Ready now?”
“Arr, no worries, like, zur.”
The engine started obediently and Peter shouted his thanks.
“Release mooring guys.”
The four ropes were unhooked in seconds, a sergeant who had watched the earlier mooring supervising.
“Let go the trailing rope.”
Griffiths heaved the rope in, the sole part of his job requiring any strength.
Peter set the fins to rise.
“Handling party, step back.”
They let go of the nacelle and the blimp made its normal rushing ascent, controlled by the engine. Peter managed a single wave as he steered due south to make height. Ten minutes later he came back over the field at three thousand feet, still rising slowly.
“Got the fires, Griffiths?”
“Spotted, sir. I reckon a wind of about eight miles an hour, sir. Sou’westerly. Crossing the Trenches in about ten minutes, sir.”
It was almost full night and Peter was fairly sure they would not be seen at height. No aeroplanes flew at night, he knew, other than a few experimental sorts which would be back at the factories. He need not fear ground fire above four thousand feet – he would be out of the range of the few machine guns that were set up on high angle mountings and invisible, he hoped, to anything bigger.
The sole problem was discovering their landing ground.
“Railway line, sir. Port, about two miles. Train coming south.”
The old main line from Brussels to Ypres was still in use on the German side of the lines. They had been told it was busy with troop trains and ration and ammunition carriers every night. Their landing ground was in sight of the line.
Peter adjusted course and followed the line north, passing over a few small towns, none of which he could certainly identify on his chart.
“A road to the east, sir. Busy, sir. Looks like lorries in a convoy, a dozen pairs of headlights spaced close together in a block. Quite a lot of weaker lights, single lanterns, maybe. Perhaps horse-drawn wagons, sir?”
It was reasonable to expect many more horses than motor vehicles.
The distance between road and railway was not much more than five miles, Peter thought. Close enough that traffic on one or the other might spot a balloon circling low.