Wine bottles were opened for the Royal party and the reporters were given gin, both sets seeming satisfied.
An hour and they were all decanted back into their cars and were saluted ashore, all as it should be.
“Jolly good show, Naseby!”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Not sir, Naseby – not no more!”
“Neither it is, Troughton – I shall have to get used to that.”
“So will I, old chap. The Admiral said that Fitzjames is done for and they must tidy up. For the moment, no change, be ready for anything to happen in the next couple of days. Flying again tomorrow, of course.”
“Commander with a DSO at twenty-four – does a bit of good to my career, I think, Troughton.”
“A lot, I would suggest, old chap. Sets you up as a civilian, too, if you would prefer that when the war comes to an end. Lots to think about. Free to consider a wife as well – commonplace for a commander to marry. Much to be said in favour, in fact. As well, leaves you a degree of freedom in your future – I suspect you will not be restricted to the RNAS. Much to think about. Young Griffiths as well. Train him up as a pilot and see what he can make of himself in the service.”
Five minutes of excitement had effectively changed the whole of his life, and Griffiths’ as well, probably. His future had seemed simply laid out; now there were literally hundreds of possibilities.
Chapter Eight
“You should read this, Josie. Ought to be of interest to you.”
Her grandfather passed the Daily Telegraph across.
The headlines were in the normal bold type, flaring across the front page.
“’Submarine sunk off Brighton. Daring attack by British balloon’, Grandpa? Oh! Was it…”
She left the question unfinished, eyes fixing on the photographs, Peter with a medal on his chest, an unknown lieutenant as well. A larger picture of the Prince of Wales, boldly present at a base on active service, the balloons visible behind him, bombs and Lewises prominent due to a little of artistic touching-up.
“Oh! ‘Machine gunned the conning tower and made a daring diving attack and released his bomb from a bare one hundred feet, striking the pressure hull and blowing a hole through it, sinking the submarine instantly’. Four bodies recovered and to be buried with honours, poor men! I wonder how many others there were aboard, Grandpa?”
“Twenty or thirty, I should imagine. Submarines are small ships.”
“Yet doing a huge amount of damage for their size.”
“Exactly. They must be driven out of the Channel. If they were able to target the troopships crossing from Dover to Calais, that would be a disaster.”
Thousands of soldiers would be killed, she realised.
She turned to the inside pages which showed more photographs of the heroic naval officers and of their balloons resting on the field with bombs prominent. It would seem that the cowardly German nation must shudder in terror at the power that had been unleashed upon them.
“Are the Germans cowards, Grandpa?”
“No. Or no more than any of the rest of us. Why should they be? You can ignore that tosh in the newspapers – it is for the benefit of the foolishly unintelligent, who seem to include the great bulk of our politicians and generals.”
“I see. It does suggest that Commander Naseby was brave to make his attack in the way he did.”
“No doubt of that, Josie. To dive on an enemy vessel underneath a gasbag containing tens of thousands of cubic feet of hydrogen – that shows courage enough for any man!”
She had attended science lessons at school, and had stayed awake in some few, sufficient to have a recollection that hydrogen burned easily.
“They are only very small, their cockpits, as well. It must be cold out in the open, sat up with only their legs and hips covered, the rest exposed to the wind. I know they have leather flying coats but I am sure they are not especially warm.”
“Freezing cold, up at any height. I remember, years back, going to Switzerland and being taken halfway up a mountain there. That was cold even in summer.”
“I suppose I could knit a scarf…”
Her grandmother suggested it were better to buy one.
“You have not really developed the knack of knitting, my dear. Winter might be long past when you finally finished it.”
She was inclined to be indignant, decided the old lady was far more than her match, smiled weakly.
“What else does it say… ‘Commander Naseby hoped his young lady in Shoreham would be pleased at his prowess. This reporter ventures to suggest that any young miss might be proud of such a swain.’”
“How very vulgar, my dear. You may be assured that Commander Naseby said no more than that he has a lady friend in Shoreham, responding to a direct question and unable to deny your existence.”
“Mine?”
“Who else could he be referring to?”
She took refuge in her teacup, avoiding the question.
“Are the newspapers always so disgustingly intrusive?”
Her grandfather answered, his contempt overt.
“Unfailingly, my dear. They exist to pander to the vulgarity of the masses in order to sell their advertising. The so-called ‘free press’ hopes to make a profit each year, and that will be better achieved by offering titivation than cultured good taste. In time of war, their ability to cultivate the basest instincts of the mob goes untrammelled by any consideration of decency or honesty. Germany – the home to Beethoven and Goethe, and a vast number of other titans of the arts – is the land of the Hun, a cowardly race of back-stabbing barbarians, according to our wonderful newspapers. They devalue everything that is decent in England.”
Josephine could not disagree – she had no knowledge of the press. She wondered just why her grandfather was so bitter. She caught her grandmother’s eye and saw the minute shake of her head.
“Do you think I should address a letter to Commander Naseby, offering my congratulations, Grandpapa?”
“If he is one half of the man I think he is, he will be knocking on our door just as soon as he is free, probably before a letter could reach him. What is the weather like?”
“Windy and with low cloud. Rain on the wind, I would think.”
“Not flying weather.”
Commander Troughton agreed.
“Grounded today, Naseby. Westerly wind. Just been on the telephone to the Port Captain’s office at Pompey. Heavy rain showers there. Squally. It will reach us within the next hour or two. Damned good invention, the telephone, you know!”
Peter thought that to be true.
“Time to get ahead of the paperwork, Troughton. Piling up on my desk.”
Troughton shook his head in the most superior fashion.
“That will never do, old fellow! Have a word with Payne… Tell you what, we can do it together.”
He yelled for Payne.
“There you are, Leading Seaman. How long have you in the rank, Payne?”
“Just over a year, sir. Picked it up in the peace, sir, just before I was put across to Cressy when she came out of reserve with a thin crew and needing experienced men. Pity it wasn’t delayed by three months, sir!”
“A bad luck ship, that one, Payne. Your papers are going through for Petty Officer, seeing just how good a job you have done for us here at Polegate.”
“Thank you, sir. Been thinking of getting married, sir. The extra money would do very nicely.”
“Put the request through as soon as you want, Payne. It will be given my approval.”
Payne made his thanks again, waited for the sting in the tail, knowing that he was not being favoured for no reason.
“Too much paperwork coming across the desks, Payne, Mr Naseby’s especially, him flying for the bulk of every day. I remember that my first captain, years back, had a system organised – three trays on his desk. Labels on each. One said ‘Sign’; the second was ‘Take Note Of’; the third, and smallest, read ‘For Immediate Action’. Used to be able to clear his desk in half an hour every day.”