Charlie, at Wormwood Scrubs, gazed up at SSP-7’s sleek black belly, his eye then following wires and lines from the car to her rudder, elevators and valves. They’d moved her only this morning from the construction shed into this ordinary one, having telephoned Polegate last evening asking when they could expect someone up here to take her off their hands.
This was Wednesday. McLachlan’s proposal had been that Charlie should get here on Thursday and that he’d join him on Friday. McLachlan was now expected some time tomorrow, but probably not before Charlie had taken the new ship up on her maiden flight, first thing in the morning; there was some conference the major had to attend in London before he could get away. Not that his presence struck Charlie as in any way essential at this stage: in fact, if he’d elected to stay away until the initial trials were finished, that would have been fine. Except of course for the satisfaction of one’s natural curiosity about the mission. Charlie wasn’t being asked, though, only told. When the call had come last night – via old Peeling’s office – he’d been ‘ashore’ with Amanda; he’d taken her to see a Chaplin film at the Tivoli in Eastbourne and afterwards to a fish supper at Sattery’s Imperial Restaurant, before returning to her cottage for what both he and she had regarded as the main event. He’d only been given the news on his return to base a little after midnight, when they’d stopped him at the guardhouse with a message from the duty officer. He could hardly have gone thundering back to wake her up there and then – in any case should have been back on the station before midnight – instead had telephoned her at her office soon after eight-thirty this morning, and she hadn’t liked it much.
Anyway – SSP-7 was a fine-looking ship, and the prospect of taking her to France on some clandestine mission was really quite exciting, despite a qualm or two when recalling McLachlan’s hints of a night landing with no ground party to receive one, and obviously no certainty of the weather – wind, in particular. The problems in this were actually quite daunting; McLachlan might be aware of them, might not. Might just not give a damn, for that matter, might simply be relying on Charlie to cope with them.
The black dope did give her a certain style, he thought. An air of mystery: shiny-smooth and black as night, with an allegedly ‘silenced’ 100-HP watercooled Green engine, also sparkling new. The twin fuel tanks’ aluminium gleamed through the fabric cradles in which they were slung on the envelope’s black flanks, one each side; the fuel pipes providing gravity-feed to the engine were shining copper, their assembly as a whole wishbone-shaped – a branch from each tank and a stop-cock above the engine. The car, a modified version of those being built now for the new North Sea-class ships, was a lot more roomy than the Maurice Farman he’d had on SS-45. Three cockpits: his own in the middle, and each of the others – he guessed, judging it by eye – having room for two reasonably-sized men to sit side-by-side.
At a pinch…
McLachlan’s prescription, no doubt. McLachlan had referred to bringing people, not a person, out.
Two, say. As long as they didn’t turn out to be heavyweights; and with only one other man on board, no air mechanic, and an envelope holding 85,000 cubic feet of gas. As long as one didn’t have to valve too much, since losing gas meant losing lift – what was technically called ‘static’ lift.
Hallet, the pale, thin-faced engineer lieutenant who’d supervised her construction, pointed out, ‘No Lewis in her yet. We’ve given you an extra forty pounds of ballast to compensate for it.’
Charlie nodded, had already noted the festooning of sand-ballast bags. Sand-ballast only: at this time of year you didn’t want water-ballast, with the icing problem. He said, ‘They’ll give me a Lewis at Polegate, I dare say.’
‘Looks good though, don’t you think?’
He agreed, ‘Looks fine.’ Thinking, Handsome is as handsome does… Pointing, then: ‘That lacing in the suspension’s a bit fancy, isn’t it?’
‘Necessitated we thought by the shape of the car. Could have stuck to the standard rig, but…’
‘The second fin’s on account of the car’s length too, I suppose.’ To balance the whole ship against the transverse effect of wind on the car’s extra-large sides. The main stabilising fin was right aft on the black bag’s stern, with the rudder hinged to it, and this extra one was immediately for’ard of it. Charlie asked the engineer, ‘What about the engine modifications – going to be much quieter, is she?’
‘Should be.’ Shake of the head. ‘No. Is. The requirement’s that she shouldn’t be audible on the ground when she’s at four thousand or higher. You’ll check that out, won’t you? It’ll lose you a couple of knots, of course – can’t have your cake and eat it. Would you like my chief artificer to go up with you in the morning?’
‘Why, yes – if he’s agreeable.’
‘He likes to see his babies up on their first jaunts. And as you haven’t brought either an observer or an AM…’
‘You could lend me another body for the initial trim – yes, please. As it happens there’s a leatherneck major arriving tomorrow forenoon, supposed to produce some spare hand who’ll act as observer but knows sweet FA about any of this stuff. I was thinking, might be better to teach him some rudimentary engine care and put him in the after cockpit. Think your artificer’d take that on – I mean, give him the necessary tuition?’
‘Show him how to use the starting handle and change a plug, you mean?’
‘Or spot a petrol leak. And start-up on an air-bottle – in case he drops the handle overboard. That sort of thing.’ He shrugged. ‘If the leatherneck approves, of course.’
‘I’ll ask him. Artificer’s name is Berriman. If he demurs, I’ll take it on. Although I’d have thought you’d do better to have an AM with you, and train him in whatever other functions are expected of him.’
‘Well, that’s likely to be fairly – what’s the word? – esoteric.’ Charlie paused, thinking that it surely would be; the passenger had to be some kind of cloak-and-dagger merchant who’d know what to do when you landed him behind the lines. He added, ‘Besides, McLachlan – that’s the leatherneck – may have some special reason to put his man in the fore cockpit. Up to now I haven’t been taken into his confidence to any great extent.’
To be fit for an early start, he turned in soon after dinner in the wardroom and a few drinks with men he’d known on other stations. Whichever naval air station you landed up on, you invariably ran into friends and acquaintances from times past, and he’d spent about six weeks here at the Scrubs two and a half years ago, doing his ballooning course. The station had been new and quite small then – just one shed, and this accommodation block only half-built.
Would have been with Amanda now, he thought, pulling his window shut against an icy north wind. A farewell supper in the cottage had been the intention for this Wednesday evening. On the ’phone this morning he’d told her soothingly, ‘Have to put it off a week, that’s all. Make it a reunion supper. Soon as I’m back I’ll call you – or if it’s late I’ll just buzz round.’
‘You say a week, but starting a day early mightn’t you be back before the weekend, now?’
‘I’d hardly think so.’
‘But might be?’
‘If everything went swimmingly, no snags at all – which would not be anything like the norm, unfortunately. Although it’s a fact no one’s dragging their feet on this one, so – not totally impossible, I admit.’
‘Fingers crossed, then.’
There was a Gotha raid on London during the night, but Charlie neither heard nor saw any of it, only learnt of it over breakfast from some who’d been woken by the crumps and gone outside to see the show – flashes of AA guns and a few exploding bombs, at one stage a bomber screaming down in flames, others caught in searchlight beams, and so forth, all the usual air-raid stuff. None the less valid for that – truth was that the guns which had so deterred the Zeppelins that in the last year or so they had left London alone, restricting their attentions to industrial targets and other population centres, had brought down quite a number of Gotha bombers in recent months.
Charlie had in fact woken for no apparent reason in the early hours, guessed now that it might have been distant percussions rattling the window, although all he’d been aware of was waking with Amanda in his mind again, the concept of her waiting for him to respond emotionally – the question then being wasn’t he pretty well bound to, eventually? He was fond of her, liked her, had done so for years – and sexually was much more than ‘fond’: was crazy for; was indeed having consciously to work at retaining emotional control; was not, God damn it, as cold a fish as that control made him seem even to himself.
‘Any word of damage done?’
Talking about the night’s air-raid still. Hallet, the engineer, saying no, not that he knew of. No one else had heard anything either. Hallet said, ‘Perhaps when your leatherneck shows up he’ll tell us the score.’
‘May indeed.’
Questions then about this leatherneck – what was he for? Charlie shrugged. ‘The ship I’m here to collect. Army want another shot at – you know, the recce stunt they tried last year and gave up on? Well, this chap’s organising it.’
‘Gave up because they could only use her on pitch-dark nights, pongo observers unable to distinguish between their arses and their elbows.’
‘Maybe they’ve been taking lessons. Trying again now, anyway.’
Eight forty-five. He was in SSP-7’s central cockpit, with Chief Artificer Berriman in the after one and a w/t operator by name of Crookshank for’ard. This was an afterthought: Hallet had been going to lend him an air mechanic, primarily as ballast, but they’d dug this spare observer out from somewhere or other and it was just as well to have him along to put the wireless through its paces. In case of mishap you might need to communicate with the station – if you force-landed in another county for instance, and needed to let people know where you were and in what condition. A first ascent was always a little speculative.
Any ascent could be. Charlie recalled Amanda’s amusement when he’d told her about the Italian commander who’d been whisked up to seven thousand feet hanging by his heels. And whether or not it was justified, SSPs had acquired a certain reputation, on top of which this one had had modifications of its own – larger envelope and specially designed car, to kick off with – which were as yet unproved.
He looked down at the crowd of men below him on the shed’s floor, and raised a gauntleted hand to Hallet. ‘Ready when you are.’
Ready to be ‘walked out’ of the shed. An SSZ had been taken out ahead of them, should be in the air by this time. SSP-7’s skids were now about six feet off the ground, the ship’s buoyancy had been tested and the trim adjusted by shifting a few bags of sand; overall, she was just a little on the light side. Which was what one aimed for. The ballonets inside the envelope had been pumped up by a portable air compressor – so-called ‘portable’, at any rate moveable, on wheels and trundled clear in recent minutes by three or four burly airmen, along with the fabric tube by which it had been connected to the scoop – aluminium air scoop, abaft and just above the four-bladed pusher prop.
Moving out: airmen each side of the car like pall-bearers, others ahead and astern, handling the steel-wire guys. Charlie in his seat, bulky in the heavy flying-suit, doing some more last-minute eye-tracing of lines to valves, rudder and elevators. Behind him Hallet’s chief artificer, Berriman, had fitted the starting handle to the engine and was waiting – standing, leaning on his cockpit’s edge and singing rather loudly – if ‘singing’ was the word for it – ‘Hello, Hello, Who’s Your Lady Friend?’. A bit much, Charlie-thought, at this time of day. Steadily out into the near-freezing air now. Wind about force 2, north by east. The fore guy handlers had been joined by others now, sent by the station’s second-in-command, a diminutive RNVR lieutenant-commander who was out there in the open, short legs spread and arms akimbo. Charlie had met him in the wardroom last evening.
They were turning her into the wind, Berriman stopping to the crank handle, looking round at Charlie, who nodded and called, ‘Start up!’ He could feel the ‘lift’ – the upward pull against the hands and men’s weight restraining her – and that was as it should be. The big engine coughed, grumbled into life. Crank handle disengaged, and the trim was about right. He raised both gauntleted hands – all the signal they needed to let go and stand clear, although out of habit he also shouted – inaudibly, thanks to engine noise as he dropped his left hand to the throttle and eased it open – the ritual command: ‘Hands off!’
Lifting, in a smooth build-up of power and with the elevators tilting to bring her nose up by a degree or two. Field, sheds and upturned faces receding. A hundred feet on the altimeter: hundred and fifty. Starboard helm – right boot pushed forward to turn her well clear of the station’s tall wireless mast; although she’d clear it now in any case, it was something to stay away from. On this initial flight one would be testing the ship’s steering as well as lift, elevator and valve controls – essentially, that she was capable of flight, i.e. manoeuvrability in three dimensions.
Five hundred feet, and under helm. The prison with its exercise yard back on the quarter now – about due south – and that great cemetery – Kensal Green – northeast. SSP-7’s rounded black prow swinging smoothly, under less helm, to put that as well as the Grand Union Canal and the main line from Paddington away to port. Further afield, Kilburn, Brondesbury and Willesden – an open green patch there – now well abaft the beam. And passing just about under her now, slightly off to starboard, North Kensington – that sprawling mass of rooftops. Holding her at this height and on this course now – to ensure she’d fly straight and level when she was asked to. The compass was about right: he’d check it more accurately on a later outing, flying on a prearranged triangular route with allowance for wind direction and strength; or maybe a jaunt to some other station and back again – down-river to Kingsnorth, for instance.
The elevators, operated by the elevator wheel, seemed well adjusted. No reason they shouldn’t be, but until you’d tried them out you didn’t know. Extraordinary defects did sometimes show up on maiden flights. He’d left the field well astern by this time, and by way of a destination thought of the polo field at Hurlingham – down there ahead somewhere. In the ballooning course, all take-offs had been from that field. But turn somewhere short of it: take her up to say 2,000 feet en route, then go about in a really sharp turn – to ensure the rudder and its controls could take some strain when it had to; also to see how tight a turning-circle she could manage – and fly back over the same route. He’d have been up about half an hour or forty, forty-five minutes by that time, which for a first flip was about right and would leave long enough for engineers and riggers to make all their checks by, say, early afternoon, when he’d take her up again, perhaps with McLachlan’s stooge on board. Better to have some sort of plan in mind, in any case, rather than just doodle around; it was also advantageous, or might be, to have in mind a fairly large, flat, empty space – such as the Hurlingham field – where if things did go awry you could put her down.
Meanwhile, though – up…
After crabpot open: some air into that ballonet, driving gas for’ard at the same time as using the elevator to tilt her black snout up, for a steeper climb. Appreciating meanwhile one great advantage of the pusher prop – that you weren’t in its slipstream as you were when the engine was in front of you. Much more comfortable than it had been in SS-45 in the past few days’ oversea patrolling. Crookshank, the w/t operator, Charlie noticed, was leaning forward, slightly crouched, in that for’ard cockpit: trying the wireless out, probably. He’d have paid out its aerial to hang vertically below them – it had a lead weight on its end – soon after they’d left the ground. Berriman – Charlie twisted around to look back at him – was obviously quite happy – whistling, by the look of him, and now nodding, raising a thumb, his lips still compressed in some inaudible rendition. No engine problems, anyway. At this rate, touch wood, might get back to Polegate by the weekend. Needing a few days there, of course; and from as little as McLachlan had divulged, mostly practising night landings. Which would not delight Amanda. Or suit oneself either, from that angle. Sneak away to the cottage some forenoons or afternoons, maybe – if she could do the same. At weekends, for sure. Not that one was likely to be there more than one weekend… But unassisted night landings, for God’s sake. Landings and take-offs too, presumably. And how the hell was one going to manage that…? Close to 2,000 now – shaking his head in keeping with that thought – and an eighth of a turn on the elevator wheel, to take the angle off her. Thinking that behind enemy lines you obviously couldn’t either land or take off in daylight – couldn’t even fly in daylight, no matter how black the bag was painted: bloody Huns’d be on you within minutes.
And come to that, having got down in darkness, wouldn’t be able to spend much time on the ground, either. Great black monster stuck out in the middle of some field…
Two thousand feet, and levelled. With the whole of London and its surrounding hills on display down there: Richmond, Twickenham, Hampstead – oh, and Crystal Palace. Not to mention Old Father Thames. But having been up for – twenty-one minutes – hard a-port now. Looking back at the artificer again – he’d been making some adjustment to the engine, was dumping himself back in his seat just as Charlie looked round. He wagged his head and again raised a thumb. Charlie moving one hand in a circling motion, conveying his intention of going about and heading back. Berriman nodded, gave him the other thumb as well.
So – round we go.
Feeling rather good about this trial flight. Wires dragging the rudder hard round to port, and the ship already turning – instantly and positively responsive. On a turn, however tight, a blimp didn’t heel as a winged aircraft did. Just swung around. Smooth and level – achieved by Charlie’s left foot pushing at the rudder-bar. It was a small, tight turn…
So tight that the lacings on the starboard-side suspension of the car went. Steel-wire rope snapping in a series of jolts and whipcrack explosions mostly drowned by the engine’s noise, so that twanging cracks were all you heard – but those wires gone, the whole damn lacing on that side. The car and the three inside it – as yet, still in it – toppling, then coming up hard in the grip of as much wire lacing as was still attached to the port-side suspension. Charlie in full awareness that steel-wire rope parting under strain was lethal, bloody dangerous, like scythes whipping, slicing; could decapitate or cut a man in half – cut an airship’s car in half, let alone the soft underbelly of its envelope, certainly mince up other lines, controls. The car had flung itself over to starboard anyway: Charlie clinging, bracing himself back inside it, boots still on the rudder-bar but knees, elbows and shoulders spread against the cockpit’s sides to jam himself in, gloved hands as and when they could be spared clamping to its rim. The port-side suspension seemed to be holding – this far, but don’t bloody count on it, Charlie boy – and both the others still there, thank Christ, not hurtling earthward, but – hell, no reason to think you’ve seen the worst yet, nothing like. For instance, if one of those wires had slashed through either of the overhead fuel lines to bring a stream of petrol down on a hot engine, flames then reaching in a swift flare-up to those 85,000 cubic feet of gas…
Hadn’t, anyway. And four or five seconds having passed since the wires had carried away, they’d only be trailing now. Until the other lot went. Then the whole caboosh would be hurtling earthward. From 2,000 feet. He was holding her level, he thought – not the car but the ship, no way of levelling the car – but had recognised that he had no control of the starboard elevator. Considerably reduced control overall, therefore, and thoughts returning momentarily to the polo field; but having already turned her – had now taken the helm off – he’d have had to have turned her back, then located it, and maybe on that turn carry-away the port-side suspension, too. With the full weight of the car and three men on it now, it was a miracle it was still holding; an essential was to avoid imposing any further strains.
Engine still fine, anyway – by the sound of it – and he still had the throttle in easy reach. Throttling down a little, slightly to ease all strains. And he had her on course, had ‘met’ the swing with starboard rudder. Physically not easy, but it had been accomplished. You weren’t upside-down like that Wop had been, but you were definitely on your ear. Gently now, using the wheel on the remaining elevator control. Very gently. And valving: hoping to God the lines to the valves hadn’t also carried away. As – merciful God – they had not. Yet. One action at a time, though, apart from steering, which – again, thank God – was footwork. But needing one hand for holding on, while envying Berriman and Crookshank for being able to devote two hands to that single purpose. Needing one hand and – as much of the time as possible – both elbows – forearms – to exert pressure on the cockpit’s sides. Would have expanded his whole body to fill it more tightly, like one of those toads that blew themselves up, if he could have. It actually wasn’t easy, and inside his Sidcot suit he was soaking wet. Did have her on course – the compass, set in gymbals, was OK – but not quite on course now: bring her back to starboard just a little. That uncontrollable elevator was putting the black bulk of her slightly on the tilt, despite the extra fin’s stabilising influence, thus affecting her steering as well as – now-the process of getting her down from about 1,900 feet to something like 100, say.
Valving was one way to do it. On that same principle of sparing the port elevator and its control wire any nonessential strain. She was slightly nose-down anyway: altimeter reading just under 1,800 feet. Air into the ballonets therefore, by opening the crabpot valves, admitting slipstream via the scoop. In descent, with external air pressure increasing and the gas contracting as a result of its squeezing effect on the envelope, by expanding the ballonets you kept the envelope full so that it retained its shape. And since it was the lightness of the gas that provided lift, its contraction (and the ballonets’ expansion) made her heavier, allowing the descent to continue, in fact increasing the rate of descent. He felt more or less in control now: muscles complaining, but procedures proving effective, reinforcing confidence. Still very much aware that the port-side suspension might carry away at any moment, which would mean curtains – goodbye, Amanda darling. Fifteen hundred feet: needing to speed up the descent, get a little more bow-down angle on her. Very cautiously with that elevator now: increasing the angle by just a degree. Thirteen hundred, and valving again. Wanting to come in to the Scrubs field low, without any sudden, steep descent creating further strains and ending as it might in really crashing down, smashing up the car as well as throwing out its occupants, with possible breakage of skids and struts, not to mention bones and skulls. One thousand feet. He hoped Crookshank might have been in touch with base by wireless, alerting them to the situation so they’d have chaps ready out there on the field. Eight hundred feet, valving. Seven-fifty. Lucky to have such a light wind, for sure. He could see the sheds now. Home, sweet home. Am getting back to you, Mandy, but won’t be with you this weekend, that’s for sure. Not even if I manage to put her down with skids, struts and car intact – of which there’s no certainty at all.
Five hundred feet, valving again. Nose down another degree or so? Nose directly into wind, compass needle on north-by-east. Fractionally throttling down. Two large groups of men down there ahead in mid-field, and a smaller group between them. Three hundred. The crowd on the ground now shifting, being marshalled on to either side of the ship’s anticipated line of approach and final descent, where he’d put her – touch wood – into their waiting hands. The handling-guys dangling from her bow and stern and from the car would be what they’d go for – steel-wire ropes fitted with ‘eyes’ through which the handling teams would as often as not loop their own rope lines: in any sort of wind that was the way to do it, but in present conditions Charlie was hoping to make it easy for them, as well as for himself… Hundred feet. Eighty. Throttling down, and more valving, SSP-7’s black snout right into wind; she was slowing as engine revs reduced. Couldn’t reduce by too much too soon or you’d lose control. Fifty feet. Thirty. Shifting sea of white faces and dark-blue caps and uniforms down there, teams of them closing in on either bow. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Going to be all right, believe it or not – already damn near there! Ten feet: levelling her with the port elevator alone and cutting power still further – throttling down to nothing – they had the guys in hand, could hold her bow into the wind and pull her down. Hands reaching up to grab hold of the car’s lower – starboard – skid, and the engine stopped, switched off, Charlie hearing the wind and – for the second time in two days – cheering.