Into Uncharted Seas

by E. C. Williams

  “'PC' stands for 'patrol craft'. And no, sir, there are not six more, helas. Hull numbers are not sequential, and have no significance other than identification. Of course, if the pirates assume from the number that we have more of them than we do, we won't be sad.” Sam laughed.

  “So they have no names, only numbers?”

  “Officially, yes, Commodore – the brass don't consider PCs to be big enough for the dignity of a name. But we of her crew have informally christened her 'Jeannette'”. The boy's slight blush as he said this made it easy to guess that 'Jeannette' was the name of his girl.

  “Will you come aboard sir?”

  “Thank you.”

  A dozen men, stripped to the waist and grease-covered, were working on the engines under an awning rigged to shade most of the boat's length. They came to attention as Sam and Laurent boarded the boat. “Ask your men to carry on, please, Mister Laurent – or should I call you 'Captain' Laurent? I don't want to hold up ship's work.”

  Laurent did so, and his crew resumed tinkering with the engines. No, Commodore, I am plain 'Mister' Laurent – the skipper of a gunboat is not addressed as 'captain', and is deemed an officer in charge of a detachment, not the commanding officer of a unit.” Sam nodded. That seemed right to him – PC-11 was after all not much more than ten meters in length and entirely open from bow to stern – no 'below-decks' whatever.

  “Is there a mechanical problem, Mister Laurent?”

  “No, sir. Although at the speeds we run them the engines need overhauling at frequent intervals, this is merely the preventive maintenance we do at every opportunity.” Laurent then rattled on about power in kilowatts and revolutions per minute while Sam listened with half his attention. His only interest in engines was that they start when needed and do what was required. When Laurent paused for breath, Sam said firmly, “Thank you, Mister Laurent. Very interesting. And now may I see the gun?”

  “Certainly, sir. Sergeant Pak?” One of the men working on the engines responded “Sir?” and approached them, wiping his hands on a rag.

  Laurent introduced them. “The sergeant is our chief gunner. He is in charge of the rifle, and is usually the aimer. He can tell you all about it.”

  “'Sergeant'? You don't use naval ranks?” Sam asked.

  “Reunion doesn't actually have a navy, sir. We're all soldiers of the FDR's Marine Battalion.”

  “But the anchor on your sleeve...?”

  “That's merely a branch or specialty badge, Commodore.” And on reflection, Sam recalled a badge in the same spot on the sleeves of the soldiers at the aerostat base: a stylized seagull in flight. He had noticed, too, soldiers with crossed rifles or crossed cannons on their sleeves, obviously, in retrospect, badges of the infantry and artillery, respectively.

  They walked the short distance aft to the gun mount. Sergeant Pak, obviously used to the duty of briefing visitors on the recoilless rifle, went into a rapid and highly technical description of the weapon. Sam found his fast Reunnionais creole hard to follow at times, but he got the gist of it. The weapon was fired electrically, and the wire pigtail connecting the shell to the battery was expended with each round, burned away by the back-blast. A supply of these was in a smaller box next to the ammo ready box. The 75 millimeter rounds looked enormous to Sam, accustomed as he was to the smaller one-inch and 37 mm shells.

  “A peculiarity of the weapon is these vents in the inner breech. They must be kept absolutely clean. If they're allowed to become clogged, recoil can gradually build to the point of damaging the mount, or even dismounting the weapon. It's the loader's duty to examine the vents after each round, and clean them if necessary with a small brush before he reloads. This slows down the rate of fire, of course. If necessary, and on the orders of the skipper, we can omit this step and quick-fire up to a dozen rounds or so. But at that point, it becomes absolutely necessary to clear the vents.”

  “What's this?” Sam said, pointing to a small tube attached to the barrel and parallel to it, well forward of the breech.

  “The sight – a two-power scope. The sight can be adjusted for ranges up to fifteen hundred meters. The gun has a theoretical maximum range of nearly two thousand meters, but it's not at all accurate at that distance. Our usual engagement range is no more than a thousand meters, usually less – in our last action, when you entered port with those dhows on your tail, we closed to well within five hundred meters.”

  Sam asked some more questions, and went away deeply impressed with the possibilities of this weapon system – high-speed boats armed with large-caliber recoilless rifles. He could still see no safe or practical way to mount the weapon on a vessel like the Albatros, but he could envision a mother ship carrying one or two of these boats to be launched on sighting a pirate dhow, to run her down and sink her with 75 mm HE shells, so deadly against a wooden-hulled vessel.

  Continuing this train of thought, it occurred to him that one of these guns could be mounted on the stern of the Albatros's motor sloop. The sloop was no speedboat, but he had ordered her armed with a one-inch rifle in more than one previous engagement, an expedient that had proven very useful. A 75 mm recoilless rifle would give the boat much more firepower without the need to rob the Albatros of part of her own armament. He decided then and there, before he stepped ashore from the boat, to ask the FDR for one of these weapons.

  All of these ideas and more had been discussed at length after a lavish dinner at the home of the president of Reunion, celebrating the victory over the flag dhow, sunk with all hands. Credit for the kill was shared by the crews of both the harbor batteries and the gunboats, and their officers were present to be feted as the FDR's first heroes.

  Sam took full advantage of the opportunity to lobby the President, most immediately for a quicker response to his request for fuel, but also for a recoilless rifle as soon as one could be made available. By discoursing at length on the dangers to Reunion's trade of a pirate dhow at large, Sam had succeeded in getting the Albatros moved to the top of the priority list for fuel, resulting in a halving of her stay in port.

  Beyond that, to Sam's delighted surprise, Petit had promised him a recoilless rifle before he sailed. Sam had assumed that even if the President had granted him the gift of one of these weapons (for Sam had no budget to buy one) the Albatros would be well down the priority list. He had not dared hope that he would be given one almost immediately.

  General Chasseur had been present at this conversation, and when the President turned to him and ordered the immediate delivery of one of the weapons to the Albatros, the soldier's first reaction had been strongly negative.

  “I'm afraid we can't fill this request so quickly, Mister President. The only such weapon immediately available is intended for PC-11, now almost ready to launch. Commodore Bowditch will have to wait until we can manufacture another one.”

  “General, I visited the yard where PC-11 is being built only last week, and she looked anything but 'almost ready to launch' to me. And even if giving up her gun means a small delay in her fitting-out, I believe the defense of the Republic will be better served by giving Albatros the weapon now, even if at the cost of a week or so in putting another patrol gunboat in commission.”

  General Chasseur had no choice but to accept this commandement with the best grace he could muster. Sam could understand fully the General's aversion to this sort of civilian interference in military affairs, and spent the rest of the evening drawing upon all the diplomatic skill he possessed in an attempt to mollify him.

  Among the other guests was the Kerguelenian High Commissioner to Reunion, a young man named Fuller. He was so young, in fact, that Sam wondered at his appointment to such an important post. But his conversation soon revealed a brilliant mind and the maturity of a much older man.

  When Sam had mentioned that he had met the High Commissioner on Nosy Be, but hadn't realized that there was an HC assigned to Reunion, as well, Fuller had explained that the Council had formed a corps diplomatique that had as its ultimate
goal representation at every place originally settled by Kerguelenians.

  “While Kergs in the Indian Ocean understand very well the threat represented by the Caliphate, the Southern Ocean settlements, other than Kerguelen, don't see why they should be concerned, since they aren't directly affected themselves,” Fuller had said. “Of course, their continued prosperity is indirectly affected, and potentially to a great extent, since they've come to rely on tropical commodities as well as the manufactured products for which they trade with the Rock. We have to persuade them that a victory over the pirates is in their interest, as well, and ultimately we hope to include all the states that were originally Kerg colonies in a defensive alliance.”

  “Well, it's easy to understand why, say, the Falklands Free State would see no direct threat to herself from pirates thousands of miles away in the Indian Ocean.”

  “Yes. But once they understand that their access to supplies of sugar, rum, hardwood, copra, palm oil, and other tropical products might be cut off, as well as nearly half the market for their wool and mutton, it might be possible to get their attention.

  “Part of the problem, too, is the sheer novelty of any formal connection among the settlements that transcends the traditional commercial and cultural ties. The notion of diplomatic relations is new to everyone – or rather, regarded as old and obsolete, a practice from antiquity. And in every state, there's a faction that suspects the whole pirate issue is a cloak for an attempt by French Port to impose political control over them – to create a Kerg empire in all but name.”

  “Well, that's just ridiculous. How could Kerguelen possibly exert control over such distances of ocean? When the Republic is strained to the limit by the effort to protect its tropical shipping from the pirates? And why would it even try?”

  “You're right, of course, Commodore, and intelligent people see that. In some of the settlements, the issue is just a convenient political stick with which the out-party can beat the in-party. But also, paranoia sometimes transcends common sense. Either way, this just adds to the uphill nature of the challenges faced by the high commissioners.”

  Sam himself rather resented public expenditure on something as frivolous, in his opinion, as a diplomatic corps, when every request of his for guns or vessels was met by the Council with cries of dire poverty. Of course, he didn't express this aloud, but something of his attitude must have seeped through in what he intended as an innocent question about the diplomatic budget.

  “I wouldn't describe the pittance I'm granted for running the Reunion High Commission by so grand a name as 'a budget', Commodore,” Fuller said acerbically. “I'm not paid a salary. I'm allowed to hire just one local clerk, and I have a very spartan living allowance. Aside from that, I have to rely on my own resources and the hospitality of my hosts – as do the other HCs. We are all volunteers in the service of Kerguelen, and necessarily men of some private means. Otherwise we couldn't afford to do it. As for myself, I gave up a modestly-thriving law practice in Port Joan in order to take up this post.”

  Sam was now rather ashamed of himself for his previous attitude. Everyone in the Navy was paid at rates tied to the wages for comparable berths in the merchant marine. True, all ran a very real risk of being killed or crippled for life, but they weren't making a financial sacrifice.

  Perhaps sensing this, Fuller went on in a milder tone. “One of our principle goals is to persuade all the Kerg-origin states to contribute to the Navy – men, vessels, or funds. So in a very real sense we diplomats are working in direct support of your efforts, Commodore. I overheard just now as you succeeded in persuading the President to not only move your vessel up the fuel priority list, but to give you a very costly gun. I claim no direct credit for that, but I think I can say that the atmosphere of cordial cooperation I've worked so hard to create had something to do with your success. We – my colleagues and I – are working hard to build that same spirit throughout the Kerguelenian diaspora ”

  “And how's that coming along?”

  “Pretty well. In fact, I'm sure most of the Southern Ocean states would allow you to begin recruiting among their people now, if you could manage it logistically.”

  “'Logistically' – that's the problem,” Sam replied ruefully. “Ironically, I'm so short-handed I can't spare even one officer and a couple of ratings for such a long recruiting trip. Nor do I have a budget for paying recruits' passage to Nosy Be once I've signed 'em up.”

  “Well, if you can find a way to organize a recruiting party, Commodore, I'll use whatever influence I have in Government House to fund it.”

  “That's very kind of you, Mister Fuller.”

  “Not at all – part of my job,” Fuller replied. “But while you're feeling grateful, I'll take shameless advantage of you: I wonder if you could find a use in the Navy for my younger brother, Stanley? He's a naval architect and marine engineer, a free-lance designer of sea-going vessels, and he's become a naval enthusiast. He doesn't necessarily want to go to sea – he'd most like to be involved in design and development.”

  “We can certainly use another engineer in our shore establishment – we only have one at the moment. I'll send a message to Commander Foch to interview your brother with a view toward an engineer's commission.”

  “Wonderful! Stan will be delighted to hear that news. Thank you, Commodore.”

  “Part of my job, Commissioner.”

  And this very productive dinner was the ultimate cause of the Albatros getting to sea a week earlier than Sam had first thought, every tank in her hold and on the motor sloop pressed up with fresh fuel. Most delightful of all was the brand-new 75 millimeter recoilless rifle now in the process of being mounted on the stern of the motor sloop. From his post on the quarterdeck, Sam could see the Gunnery Officer, Mr. Du Lesseps, closely supervising this effort. The stern of the sloop would now be very crowded when it was underway, with the addition of the gun – now dubbed the “reckless rifle” by the hands – and its two-man crew, to the helmsman, for the sloop was steered by tiller. The officer in charge of the motor sloop – when in action, Lieutenant Low, the next senior officer after the XO – would have to conn the boat from further forward than his usual station next to the helmsman This crowding problem could eventually be solved by changing to wheel steering and moving the steering station forward, but that was a project best left for a long stay in port. For now, everyone would just have to cope.

  Du Lesseps had pressed Sam about the necessity of training a crew for the 75 mm as soon as possible, since they could go into action at any time. While he was quite right, his other motive – a burning desire to see what the gun could do – was obvious. Sam could see the necessity and shared the desire, so at that moment the carpenter's mates were building a floating target on deck amidships. The deck was cluttered with the empty barrels and scraps of wood going into its fabric, and crowded with carpenter's crew sawing and nailing, to the irritation of the XO and the Boatswain, both of whom had a nearly pathological aversion to untidiness in any form.

  The former came aft and joined Sam on the quarterdeck. “Good afternoon, Commodore. What a mess, eh?” he said.

  “Afternoon, Al. It'll be cleared up soon. Did you enjoy your run ashore?”

  “Oh, yes, Commodore. Especially that last night – the officers' mess of the FDR Marine Battalion entertained our wardroom royally. In addition to the full-time officers, a good number of reservists were there. I didn't know who they were until I asked why some officers had gold-colored rank stripes while others had black ones. I was told that gold means a full-time serving officer – they call themselves 'regulars'. Black means a reservist, usually the skipper or mate of a fishing vessel, coaster, or schooner in the local island trade.”

  “I didn't know that. I did notice some noncoms with black chevrons, while others had yellow ones.”

  “Yes, the distinction is carried right down to the lower ranks. I don't know why they do that – it's bound to be resented by the reservists, who are after all absol
utely essential to such a small force.”

  “Well, presumably they have their reasons, Al. It's not for us, as foreigners, to criticize their defense arrangements.”

  “Oh, absolutely, Commodore. I made no comment about it at the dinner.” Having exhausted this topic – or rather, having had it stepped on firmly by Sam, who encouraged no criticism, however mild, of their allies – the two paced in silence for a awhile, falling into step unconsciously. Walking the windward side of the quarterdeck with the Commodore was the unique privilege of the Executive Officer, and the venue of most of their conferences.

  They were interrupted by the Gunnery Officer, who, having requested and received permission to come onto the quarterdeck, approached the two senior officers diffidently.

  “Afternoon, Guns. What's up?” asked Sam.

  “About the shoot, Commodore; I'm thinking it would be best if I went out with the sloop this first time, to get a close look at the 75 mm when fired, and be on hand if there are any problems.

  Sam and Al exchanged glances. Sam said, “No, Mister Du Lesseps. We'll be at battle stations, and your station is with the 37 mm gun.”

  “But sir, none of my boys have had any experience with the 75 mm ...”

  “No, Guns,” Sam said firmly. “I understand your argument, but the whole point of a drill is to simulate as closely as possible the situation being drilled for, and there's no way I'd ever send the schooner's Gunnery Officer off in the motor sloop in the middle of an action. The PO Gunner in the sloop will have to cope with whatever comes up. Presumably, he's one of your best men … ?”

  “Yessir. Aye aye, sir,” Du Lesseps said resignedly. “Permission to shove off, sir?”

  “Carry on, Guns.”

  When the warrant officer had left the quarterdeck, Sam turned to Al and chuckled. “Poor Guns – he's like a kid with a new toy on Christmas morning ...”

  “ ... Dying to get outside and play with it!” Al finished for him. Both laughed. Sam said, “Well, I sympathize. I can't wait to see our 'new toy' in action, myself.” The two resumed their pacing.