Once upon a time V2...

Lt. William James Howse, upon graduating
from Portsmouth Naval Academy

On station off Gaul/Hispania Coast October 20^th 1880:

In the thinner atmosphere of five thousand feet, life’s more earthly and mundane worries somehow seem less important; Or so mused Lt. Commander (Flight Captain) William James Howse, youngest Flight Captain in the Rescue Air Service, also the youngest branch of service in the Ministry of Defense. The two of them had almost been birthed at the same time. He had been born in and raised at Pas de Calais, Gaul. On a good morning if the aether cooperated, he could see the white cliffs of Dover from the garden behind his parent’s house. His fondest memories were of his home and the soft loamy ground running down to the beach, where William and his father would walk and talk, or in autumn mornings where they would journey to the local tidal flats and bring home muscles for their morning breakfast.

Thoughts of his father brought a dull pain which refused to go away after all these years. His father James Richard Howse had been born into the solidly stable merchant/military class. James Richard Howse had owned an import & export trading company in partner with his sister’s husband Robert Hawkwood-Bradway. On one of his frequent cross channel excursions to see his partner and brother-in-law in Londonium, James Richard Howse’s ship began taking on water during a moderate storm. The ship was able to launch distress rockets, seen from both Pas de Calais and Dover. Neither side had strong enough rescue boats to motor through the growing chop. Merchant vessels in port had to make up enough steam pressure, to get underway. By the time the first ship arrived on scene. It was too late. Exposure to the cold water of an autumn storm killed most of the men who managed to abandon the sinking ship, including James Richard Howse.

It was his father’s needless death which motivated young William, to volunteer to join the local Rescue Boat Squad at the tender age of 14 years old. He hardened his body by swimming in the Channel in every season and in every type of weather. One day he saw a photographic image of a rigid airship on the front page of the Londonium Packet News, a freighter’s pursuer had left lying on the quay.

The caption read: Imperial Naval Air Service announces the newest member of its air fleet, “The Hermes.” Designed not to be a warship but rather a rescue ship, “The Hermes” will in fact be used to rescue crews and passengers from sinking vessels at sea. In the story under the photograph, the article stated a new branch of the Naval Air Service was now being formed. It was to be named, The Rescue Air Service. Their symbol would be the Green Cross of the Sanitary Ambulance Corp.

Taking the broadsheet home to his mother, William announced his desire to enlist in the newest branch of the military. His mother protested his youth, as he was just a week past his seventeenth birthday.

“Mother, I love you. But you know of my desire to help those who are unable to help themselves. If you don’t support me in this I will steal away some night in the near future and go to a city or town that doesn't know of me or my father and I will enlist anyway.” William said with a firm voice and glittering ice blue eyes.

Reaching out with her hand Clarice Marie Howse, ran it through his tousled jet black hair. “You’re so much like your father. Once he got an idea in his head, all the imps of Satan couldn't deter him from his goal.” She said with a melancholy voice.

William gently reached up and took his mother’s hand in his own and said, “This is what I am supposed to do. I was not meant to take the Emperor’s shilling and go fight the Hindu’s in Rajastan or the Moors along the Pyrenees Wall. I will instead be trained to save lives. If I had been in father’s place, I would want someone like myself to come to my rescue…”

Thus his entry into the world of rescuing those who could not do for themselves came about. It should be noted in his case, there are those who enlist for pay and there are those who do so because of the adventure of it all. Williams Grandfather had been a Colonel of Volunteers in Hindustan. His Uncle Samuel Howse was a Major of the line stationed on the Pyrenees Wall. Well enough he should learn his trade from the ground up.-As the old salt Airedales of the Imperial Naval Air Service. The grandson of a colonel and nephew of a decorated field officer, remain other-rank? Nonsense! Breeding would win out in the end, or so the older NCOs who had transferred into the RAS said about young William.

After four years of being a “ranker” he was selected to attend the brand new Service College at Portsmouth. Passing out #1 in class did nothing to dispel the admiration or rumors he, William James Howse was destined to become one of the leading personalities within the RAS...

In the second year of his lieutenancy, the Britannic Empire launched a punitive expedition against the Moors of Espana. Farouk ibn Salazar, the Eagle of the North, who had been raiding all up and down the Pyrenees Wall; constantly probing for one weakness or another. Life beyond the wall became unbearable, especially so for the Christian remnants of the Kingdom of Navarre the Empire was forced to respond to this Bandit Chieftains raids.-Besides it kept the Empires fingers inside the Moorish side of the wall and looked good for them to be rescuing Christians from their Islamic oppressors.

Since the Empire had for over three hundred years maintained a permanent garrison of troops along the wall. It was considered one of the more desirable postings. Followed by the North-West Frontier Force and their constant ambushing and raiding into Britannic controlled Rajastan. 

It was said, the Pashtu Sulaimankhel tribesmen could lift a horse from between your legs. Regiments were regularly posted to the North-West frontier and then rotated out for rest and refit along the Pyrenees wall. It was these regiments who were at hand, who marched... 

The 92nd Gordon Highlanders Marching into Hispania

The 92nd Regiment of Highlanders along with the “Brunswicks” with their colorful yellow and gold uniforms marched into Hispania. Supported by the Gray’s on their enormous Blue and Gray Whalers and the 21st Lancers on their flanks, the campaign at first seemed like a grand affair. One veteran said it was more of the stuff of parade than fighting. It was also the first time a wireless set had been brought forward into campaign. The wireless set consisted of two large wagons filled with batteries and esoteric equipment needed to stay in contact with Army HQ. It was at the Battle of Compostela the wireless set began to make its mark on history and of the Empire. 

General Sir Alexander Buford found himself and what remained of his expedition holed up in the converted church cum mosque within the medieval walls of Compostela. Although Farouk ibn Salazar had been hung from a gibbet made in his own harem quarters, the rest of Moorish Spain had arrived under green and gold banners proclaiming Jihad against the Effendi.

There is an old and venerable saying south of the Pyrenees Wall: “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” In short almost the entirety of the countryside and its attendant cities rose up against the Empire’s Military Forces. 

The Heavy Britannic Horse, scattering the Moorish Jinte Cavalry

At first the cavalry of the Empire with their Whalers and Hanoverian warm bloods presented a terrible shock to the Moors. But the Moors soon learned to not present a large enough front for a full charge. They were equipped with new short barreled Mauser rifles purchased with great expense, and more than some secrecy from the United German States, they used these new rifles to great purpose, on top of nimble and fleet footed Arabian horses.

For the first time in almost 80 years the Empire was forced to form squares, and to their dying shame the cavalry had to take refuge within those self-same squares.

The Cavalry having to take shelter behind the square.

“Twas enough to make a trooper weep it was.” Exclaimed; one unnamed ranker.

One of the Survivor’s wrote a verse that summed up the expedition, “The plains of Hispania is sodden red, Red with the wreck of a square that broke; The Gatling’s jammed and the Colonels dead, and the regiment blind with dust and smoke.”

It was only the timely arrival of the Naval Infantry aboard the Imperial Naval Rigid Airships with their portable Nordenfeldt four barreled guns firing more than 200 1-inch rounds a minute which broke the Jinte Cavalry squadrons.

One of the naval gunner’s said, “It twas like watching water splatter and run when thrown into a hot griddle. Only to see them rally at some distant point where we couldn’t reach them, they soon learned to fear our guns.”

Naval Gunner's firing their
1" Nordenfeldt guns

At which point what was left of the expedition was forced to laager up in Compostela. In an instance of fate and its cruel finger meddling in the affairs of men, an 8mm Mouser round clipped the metal frog on General Sir Alexander Buford’s sword belt and skipped upwards to lodge alongside his Jugular vein.

To the relief of the men who had been fighting a remorseless campaign under Spain’s ever hot sun, the weather took a turn for the cooler, and then to their dismay… it began to rain and then sleet. Heavy clouds and lighting rolled over their beleaguered situation. In the higher elevations, snow was falling on the Roncevaux Pass, where Emperor Charlemagne’s Roland had met his death at the hands of the Moors eighteen hundred years past.

The descendants of those warriors were now howling outside the gates of the Mosque.

The Moors of Espania firing into
Compostela.

A desperate message was sent forth requesting an emergency air lift of their commander and hopefully a re-supply of any ammunition and medicines which could be hurriedly acquired. Lieutenant William James Howse and the crew of The Prometheus were patrolling off the Bay of Biscay, when they picked up the distress message.

“Captain, we just received a distress message from Gen. Buford’s expedition.” Lt. Howse said upon entering the flight deck of The Prometheus.

“What does it say Lieutenant?” Captain Sir David Smyth-Gordon KOE replied from his captain’s wicker flight chair.

Fighting amongst the walls.

“Seems sir, they are in a bit of a spot. Engineer’s Mate Mulvaney say’s, the generals been wounded, they have retreated back to the mosque in Compostela and, the Naval Infantry with their Nordenfeldt’s are all but out of ammunition. Seems A large part of the Grays and the Lancers are food for the crows and the infantry is down to five rounds left in their Metfords. Their wireless operator says its coming down to the blade sir!”

“By Jupiter’s hairy behind, that’s just not Cricket my old son. Can’t the cantonments along the wall send reinforcements?”

“Well sir it is a bit of a rum goings on all the way around. Currently there is a storm breaking down across the wall and the aether is ripe with all sorts of electrical discharge over the top of the Pyrenees. They can’t reach the pass with the wireless which is less than twenty miles, but they can reach us sir.”

“Has Mulvaney tried to reach the wall?”

“Yes sir he has, with no result. Mulvaney tried to explain how the atmospherics are playing merry hob with their wireless sets-Bit of dark wizardly magic if you ask me. The long and short of it is there is no getting around it… We are their only hope of re-supply or rescue.”

The Captain turned in his flight chair back to where Flying Sergeant Baker had command of the large wrought iron and turned oak handled Steering controls and said, “Helm! Hard to port! Mark your course for Porto Real, and signal engineering flank speed!”

“Aye, aye Sir! Making course correction for Porto Real!” Sgt. Baker replied, as he grasped the ships signaling gear on the brass pedestal next to him and moved its lever to flank speed.

Thirty minutes of grunting and sweating by the laborers below decks in what was called by the wet navy, the black gang area, Master Chief Stinson Armand called to the captain, “Sar, da Ol boy is a fartin fire fram every orifice he’s got! Flank Speed achieved Sar!”

The Prometheus made quite a sight. The newly designed cyclonic engines used the steam and the exhaust of the boilers to propel their counter rotating blades. Three black streamers of coal smut twisted behind the dirigible as it roared across the vault of heaven towards one of the greatest rescue attempts in the history of the fledgling Rescue Air Service.

The Prometheus taking on supplies and ammunition
Porto Real Naval Yard,
Grand Duchy of Portugal

Stopping at the Naval Station Porto Real, in the Duchy of Portugal, The Prometheus exchanged ballast for ammunition, grenades and medicine. As providence would have it, Fleet Collier HMIS Interregnum was in port, and able after a great deal of conversation between captains, were the men able to being loading operations of the arms and medicines aboard the Prometheus. Two of her escorts, The destroyers, HMIS Fearless and HMIS Neptune, were both able to cross-deck load their contingents of Marines, and Naval Infantrymen.

Two hours later, Master Chief Armand reported, “Captain Sar! He is wallerin around like a bloated hawg. When we let go of our cargo, it going tae be the devil’s own luck ta get him back on tha ground.”

Acknowledging his Chief’s report, the Captain and Lt. Howse spent the next hour in hurried consultation as they lumbered their way due East to the besieged troops under Sir Alexander Buford’s command.

“This is going to be dicey lad.”- Captain Smyth-Gordon stated.

“Oh aye, Sir, I expect it to be. But I have a plan…”

An hour later, after several long coded conversations with the beleaguered force’s wireless operator, a scheme was hatched. By the time The Prometheus arrived, things had decidedly gone pear shaped for the soldiers. The Spanish Moors were pushing up siege ladders with wild eyed Basque peasant levies equipped with axes and swords. The Army was fighting on the wall with cold steel and bare knuckles.

Sgt Major McGreggor OCA
Order of Corona Aurea
for unflinching defense of Campostela

The crew of The Prometheus, along with a Color Sergeant named Bourne, had jury rigged several large bundles of grenades. As the airship silently fought its way through the storm above, they began dropping these improvised bombs. In the center of each bundle was a Phosphorus cylinder normally used in the ship’s emergency searchlights. 

Jagged blooms of blue-white light erupted from each bundle, as the explosions worked their way through the dead ground in front of the wall of the Mosque. The Moors and their peasant levies broke and began slashing into one another in their attempts to escape a fire, not even water could put out.

No sooner than The Prometheus had crossed over the top of the Mosque, long rat lines fell from the ship as cargo baskets of ammunition, medicine, rations and grenades began lowering to the desperate defenders. Squads of infantrymen alerted to the plan, ran out and secured the dirigible as it attempted to hover in place. With a great deal of cursing Color Sergeant Bourne, and the rest of the non-commissioned officers were able to get the Marines and Naval Infantrymen, sliding down the ropes to relieve the infantrymen who were needed back on the walls.

Stopping a break through at the postern gate.

Lt. Howse, abseiled down into the Mosque’s Orange tree lined plaza with a pistol and a spare working harness. No sooner had The Prometheus began to lower her supplies, the Warlord of Zaragoza rallied his troops and personally led the next heroic assault on the fortified gates of the Mosque. A stretcher party running out of the sanctuary came into the courtyard carrying Gen. Buford, who was lapsing in and out of consciousness.

Ignoring the General's incoherent ramblings his Aide de Camp, Colonel Charles Woodbine, who had marched along side the stretcher handed Lt. Howse a small packet of orders and said, “Here you are sir, this is a record of our operations in this region. I want it known, until he lost consciousness the General would not allow us to give him medical treatment or have him evacuated to our field hospital. Since he is no longer has the ability to command his own body, I have relieved him and through you and your good ship ordered him to a medical facility where he can be treated.”

In his ears Lt James Howse could hear the screams of the dying and the growing sounds of grenades detonating as ammunition made its way forward to the troops defending the walls. Directing the ground crew to keep the rat-lines taught, he directed the off-loading of the ship’s cargo.

Turning to face Col. Woodbine Howse replied, “Never you fear sir! We brought Doctor Clifford Jones, an old Chancre Mechanic out of Cardiff. One of the best in the fleet!” Turning away Howse shouted at the men on the ground, “Hold steady men! Hold Steady! As the weight leaves the ship, it is going to want to bounce upwards!” He shouted to the press ganged infantrymen. When all of sudden a large rumbling explosion announced the demise of the front gates.

Grabbing the nearest medico, Lt. Howse shouted to the man, “Dash it all! Go get your wounded General prepared! We cannot defend and evacuate at the same time!”

Putting words into action he drew his .44 Caliber service revolver, and began laying down a steady fire into the screaming, and whirling mass of humanity surging through the front gates of the Mosque. He had gone through his second reload when the medicos reckoned they had stabilized the general as best as they could. Directing the medical team, Howse ordered them to place the general into the spare harness he had repelled out of the ship with.

As they did so, a turbaned warrior wearing silvered mail and a green dyed beard, screaming “Allah Akbar!” Lunged at Howse and the wounded General from out of the darkness with a drawn scimitar. Lt. Howse shot him in the forehead with his pistol’s last round. He quickly reloaded his weapon.

Seeing old chaos and merry hell was breaking out in every direction and more importantly how the infantry were needed more on the walls than on the mooring lines… Lt. Howse shouted out, “Cast off all lines!”

As they did so, he reached down and snapped a security carabiner on the General’s harness. With the loss of its ballast, and the release of the mooring lines, the Prometheus, shot skyward as if, assisted by rockets.

The last thing the infantry on the ground saw was Lt. Howse holding the general’s body with his left hand, as he kept firing his pistol into the maddening crowd below, as they disappeared into the swirling snow clouds above them.

Quickly the crew of the Prometheus retrieved Lt. Howse and his charge. Howse could feel the air ship straining in its structural members as the engines went from a station keeping idle to a full throttle blast. The one remaining medico rating, and Howse hurriedly carried Gen. Buford to the galley/medical station. In all of the hustle and bustle the General began to regain consciousness and in his waking torpor had reopened his wound, blood began to cascade down his neck and across Howse's hands and uniform.

“Wel, wel Beth llanast iawn sydd gennym yma!-Well, well What a fine mess we have here! Put him down here lads. Don't you worry sir. We will have you patched up and ready to go in no time.” Doctor Clifford Jones' soft Cymraeg or Welsh accent cut through the confusion of in the galley. The good doctor looked up at Lt. Howse and said, “The Captain expressed a desire to see you on the flight deck lad, when you had arrived with my patient. Now be a good lad, and let me get on with my duties.”

Howse glanced at the old man laying on the table said a silent prayer and headed forward to the flight deck.

“Lt. Howse so glad you could make it back in one piece, although looking at the state of your uniform, you are going to need a batman to get the blood off of your leathers, young sir!” Sir David Smyth-Gordon said with his Caledonian accent adding a rolling “r” sound in his guff voice. He continued on by turning and pointing to the fitted glass windows of the flight deck. “Look ye there my lad! See what's coming this way!”

Howse looked past the arm of his captain, and as the Prometheus, broke through the cloud layer of the storm, with the rising Sun on to their backs, he could see glimmering in the distance, the silver hulls of the Imperial Naval Air Ships of the Red Fleet coming their way.

“The wireless boy! Mulvaney worked out a scheme with the operators at Porto Real, while we were loading, and they were able to reach the Red Fleet before they fully committed themselves in the Mare Nostrum.” Clapping his hands on Howse shoulders, “I know you joined to save lives, and what happened below might seem like a bit of the Hurley ball in the face, but you just helped to save an entire expedition. Before anyone else says it, I just wanted to tell you good job that!” The normally staid and stuffy peer or the Britannic Empire smiled and shook Lt. Howse's arm. “Now back to work! Quit your malingering or I will have you scrubbing the engineering sections with that poor excuse of a uniform!”

Britannic Red Fleet Airship, leaving Operation Bagshot
For Compostela

With the survival of General Sir Alexander Buford, and with being mentioned several times in dispatches, upon the successful completion of their support duties to “Operation Bagshot” The Emperor, at the behest of the Rescue Air Service, promoted one Lieutenant William James Howse to Lieutenant Commander (Flight Captain) and given his first command, The RAS Ajax, fresh from her field trials and the Astra Clement-Bayard works, in Picardy, Gaul.This is an excerpt from "An Agent of Empire." It is actually the second chapter of such. *All images are just to explain or give example of the world I am writing in. When published, all images will be originals. This is just for reading and feedback purposes only.

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All my best!
DS Baker