Page 42 of Wings of War

At the end of the corridor, another ensign pointed the way into a large space, where Fieran’s unit was falling into line once again. Tables with benches were bolted to the deck so that they wouldn’t shift around when the dirigible was in the air. To one side, a window gave a view into the industrial kitchen.

Fieran took his place next to Lije, ignoring the looks sent their way by the cooks bustling about the kitchens. He leaned closer to Lije. “I think they’re resentful they have to cook for this many more people.”

“Or they’re annoyed they have to cook for a bunch of army boys.” Lije kept his voice low in return.

“That’s probably it.” Fieran shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “I’m still surprised the navy and army managed to cooperate long enough to set up this cross training.”

At the moment, the army was in charge of the Flying Corps, which consisted of all kinds of flyers, aeroplanes, and that sort of thing. The navy ran the Naval Air Corps, which oversaw the airships. Various leaders were talking about restructuring to place all airborne units into one Corps, perhaps as its own branch separate from both army and navy. Not surprisingly, neither the army nor the navy were in favor of such a plan.

In the meantime, greater cooperation was being encouraged between the Flying Corps and Naval Air Corps of all three Alliance Kingdoms, especially when it came to making sure pilots could fly any type of airborne craft and the mechanics could fix anything that stopped at an aerodrome.

Merrik halted next to Fieran. When Tiny took his place, he looked a little green beneath his gray skin in a way he hadn’t when flying an aeroplane. Stickyfingers peered about as if he was contemplating if he could get away with stealing something while stuck on an airship.

Pip and the mechanics came after the last of the flyboys in Fieran’s unit. Fieran met Pip’s gaze and tipped his head to her, grinning. This trip would be even better with her along.

Finally, Capt. Arfeld and the navy captain entered the room. The navy captain halted in front of them, hands clasped behind his back as he glared. “You are here merely on the goodwill of the navy. If you so much as set a toe out of line, I will dump you out, with or without a parachute.”

“And after he is done with you, you will have to deal with me.” Capt. Arfeld swept a sharp glance over them. “Do what you’re told and answer to an order from Capt. Nien as you would from me.”

The nod Capt. Nien gave Capt. Arfeld held a great measure of respect. Perhaps the only reason this cross training was happening was Capt. Arfeld’s hero status as a pioneer of flight.

Any glint of respect vanished as Capt. Nien faced them again, a deep scowl putting grooves in his cheeks. “Stay out of my men’s way and stick to your assigned areas.”

With that, they were broken into groups, and each group was assigned to an airman to show them around the dirigible.

Fieran glanced over his shoulder as his group of Lije, Merrik, and several others were led in one direction and Pip’s group was led in another direction.

The airman led Fieran’s group through the maze of tiny tunnel-like passageways, explaining navy terms while they were at it. The floor was the deck. The walls were bulkheads. The lavatory was called the head. They had already been in the mess, and each small group would be assigned a time for breakfast, lunch, and dinner since the mess could only handle feeding so many people at a time.

The pilothouse was at the front of the gondola where broad windows provided views of the sky. The pilothouse was far enough from the magically powered engines at the rear—stern—of the gondola that the navigation station was equipped with a compass, since it wasn’t affected by the magi-magnetism. There was even a gyroscope to show the horizon line and keep the airship on an even keel. Too bad the flyers weren’t equipped with such luxuries. All they had was the Do not let it go red or you’ll blow up magical power gauge.

Machine guns bristled all along the sides of the gondola. There were even machine guns pointing downward underneath. The ammunition was stored in an armored room in the center of the gondola.

Racks stood next to all the doors on the sides and the bottom, holding packed parachutes. Fieran exchanged looks with his fellow flyboys at that. Everyone knew that real flyboys went up without the coward’s assurance of a parachute.

That, and the aeroplanes’ cockpits were too small to fit a pilot and a parachute. Nor was it likely a pilot could even lever himself out of a cockpit and push far enough away from a crashing aeroplane for a parachute to do him any good.

After climbing several sets of ladders, they entered the canvas balloon part of the dirigible. Here, the metal ribs holding up the canvas were visible, along with the additional machine guns that were accessible through zippered cloth doors in the canvas or by climbing the ratlines that stretched over the outside of the dirigible balloon.

Inside, the space between the catwalks was filled with multiple air balloons that held the helium. The helium was divided between many smaller balloons so that even if one of the balloons was torn, the others would keep the airship aloft.

When Fieran pressed his hand to the warm, waxy side of one of the balloons, he could sense the faint tingle of magic emanating from inside. Likely magic from a human magician, boosting the helium’s lifting power, keeping it heated, and providing a magical barrier inside the balloon to further prevent helium loss in the event of punctures. What human magicians lacked in volume of power they usually made up in versatility.

The airman paused and showed them a section of catwalk where layer upon layer of what looked like white canvas sacks hung from the metal ribs and rope ratlines. “This is where you’ll sleep. You take one of these hammocks and string them like this.” He demonstrated unhooking one side of the canvas hammock and tying it tight across the way. “In the event the whistle for call to arms sounds in the night, you’ll be responsible for stowing your own hammock and gear so that the catwalk isn’t blocked.”

Only then did Fieran spot the various hooks where they were supposed to hang their rucksacks from a series of ratlines.

As several of the other groups converged on the sleeping area assigned to them, Fieran hung his rucksack from the hook next to the hammock he claimed. “This isn’t too different than sleeping high in the trees in Estyra. Just less of a view.”

Merrik grinned and hung his rucksack near a hammock next to Fieran’s. “Yes. It is almost like home.”

A few yards away, Tiny gripped his stomach, bracing himself against the handrailing of the catwalk. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Don’t hurl in my rucksack!” Stickyfingers shifted his hook and hammock farther away from Tiny.

“Why did you sign up for the Flying Corps if you get airsick?” Pretty Face smoothed his hair, trying to peer at himself in the reflection on the railing.

“I don’t get airsick in a flyer.” Tiny leaned farther over the railing, giving a slight groan, his voice strained. “There’s a reason I didn’t join the navy.”

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