"And what do these sailors do?" I had noticed a large number of sailors about.
"They look after our machines and the balloons. You see this is a regular aviation section just the same as the army has, and the sailors are trained mechanics, repair men, clerks and so forth. They're rather taking it easy now because the planes have been somewhat slow in reaching us. You know as well as I do the rumpus that's been made in the States over the air program. Things are breezing up mighty fast now, however, and every supply ship that puts into the harbour brings some of our equipment. The Navy's ready, the camps are being organized, the men are trained; it's up to the manufacturers to hustle along our machines. Please try to make them realize that when you write."
"But, say," put in another, "don't, for the love of Pete, run away with the idea that we haven't any equipment. We've got some planes and some balloons. But we want more, more, more. Anything to keep the Germans on the go."
"What do you use?" I asked. "Mostly balloons," put in a third speaker, a quiet young Westerner who had thus far not joined in the conversation. "Most of us are balloon observers, though Jos here," he indicated the Bostonian, "is a sea-plane artist. He runs one of the planes."
"Come," said I, "tell the thrilling story."
"There isn't any story," groaned Jos, "that's just the trouble. I've been fooling round these coasts and out by the harbour mouth in the hope of spotting a sub till I feel as if I'd used up all the gasoline in the British Isles. Those destroyers have spilled the beans. Fritz doesn't dare to come round. Ever try fishing in a place from which the fish have been thoroughly scared away? It's like that. Mine laying submarines used to be round the mouth of the harbour all the time, now Fritz is never seen or heard from.... The destroyers have spilled the beans. The balloon hounds are the whole show here. Tell him about it, Mac. You've taken more trips than any of the others." The disgruntled sea planer knocked a bull-dog pipe on his shoe, and was still.
"I can't tell much," drawled Mac, a wiry, black little Southerner with a wonderful accent. "They fill the balloon up here, take it out to a destroyer or some patrol boat and tie it on, jes like a can to purp's tail. Then you go out in the Irish Sea and watch for subs. If you observe anything that looks like a Hun, you simply telephone it down to the destroyer's deck, and she rushes ahead and investigates. Sometimes the observer in the balloon sees something which can't be seen from the level of the destroyer's bridge, and in that case the balloonist practically steers the vessel, ... so many points to port, so many to starboard, and so on till you land them in the suspected area."
"What's it like up above there in a balloon? From the deck of a battleship or a destroyer, it seems to be a calm matter."
"Don't be too sure of that. I know it looks calm, calm as a regular up-in-the-air old feather baid. And it isn't bad if you have a decent wind with which the course and speed of the ship are in some sort of an agreement. But if the ship's course lies in one direction and the wind is blowing from another, the balloon blows all over the place. When the wind blows from behind, you float on ahead and try to pull the ship after you; if the wind is from ahead, you are dragged along at the end of a chain like a mean dawg. There is always sure to be a party if the ship zigzags. Now you are pulling towards the bow, now you are floating serenely to port, now you are tugging behind, now you are nowhere in particular and apparently standing on yo' haid."
We went to walk in the grounds. I was shown where the balloon shed was to be, the generators, and a dozen other houses. Evidently the station was going to be "some outfit." Already a big gang of civilian labourers, electrified by American energy, were hard at work laying the foundations of a large structure.