Into Uncharted Seas

by E. C. Williams

  The aircraft proved to be as seaworthy as she was airworthy; she stayed headed into the wind, pitching gently in the slight chop.

  While he waited for the boat, he had time to start worrying about the watertight integrity of the seaplane's hull. Was seawater even now flowing silently into the Petrel? He craned anxiously over the side to check the waterline. It appeared to be exactly where it ought to be. He nevertheless pulled away the inflation tube on his little rubber life vest – another new gadget – and blew into it until it was full. He sat and fretted for the best part of half an hour until he saw the boat approaching. He immediately deflated the life vest and assumed an expression of languid boredom.

  “Are you all right, sir?” shouted the boat coxwain, an aviation boatswain's mate of Dave's air group.

  “Oh, fine, fine – just wishing I'd brought along something to read. Merely out of fuel. How about a lift home?” replied Dave, with what he hoped was complete nonchalance.

  “No worries, Boss.” A seaman bent a towline onto the aircraft, using a small eye under the nose there for just that purpose. Then the motor boat got under way back toward the Charlemagne. Dave heaved a great sigh, apparently the first deep breath he had dared take in at least an hour.

  The Petrel, such a joy to fly, and which had ridden as gracefully as her namesake on the water, turned out to be a bitch to tow. The wind was now on the starboard beam, and she yawed, pitched, and pulled the tow boat off course repeatedly. Dave tried to steer on the stern of the boat, using the little fin rudder projecting from the bottom of the Petrel's hull, which worked in tandem with the main rudder and was used to keep the aircraft on a steady heading when taxiing at low speeds, but the very small surface area of this rudder was no match for the great sail area of the flying boat in a cross wind. The return to the Charlemagne was slow, tedious, and provoked much inventive swearing on the part of the boat's crew.

  At last the Petrel was alongside the carrier. The deck crew attached the lifting line to the pad-eye on top of the engine nacelle, at the center of gravity of the aircraft, and control lines to each wingtip. One of the carrier's two cranes then lifted her out of the water, swung her gently inboard, and deposited her on her cradle. Dave turned off the radio, hung the mike and headphones back on their hook, reset the flight timer to zero, and began to enter the details in his flight log.

  By the time he climbed down from the Petrel, using the ladder provided by one of the deck crew, Rao was hopping with a combination of anger and relief.

  “What could you be thinking, Commander?” he demanded. “You must always be keeping an eye on the fuel gauge and the flight timer! If we had not finally reached you by radio, you would have run out of fuel and crashed! You must be setting a better example of airmanship for your fliers, Commander!”

  “I'm sorry, Mister Rao,” Dave replied, trying to sound contrite. “You're right. Lesson learned – I won't do it again. And I'll caution the other pilots.”

  “Very well, then,” replied the volatile Rao, as quick to forgive as to fly into a rage. “I was very concerned about you, you know, Commander. And my airplane, of course.”

  “Of course,” Dave replied, with an ironic tone that escaped Rao.

  “Remember, your flight timer is even more important than your fuel gauge. The gauge can go wrong, but you know how much flying time you have with a certain amount of fuel...”

  “Yes, yes, Mister Rao. I'll remember. And I'll remind the other pilots.”

  “Sir! Sir! Can I go now? My ship is warmed and ready.” This was Midshipman (now Acting Lieutenant) Devan, late of the Scorpion. His aircraft was number two, the forward one of the starboard pair. It was already in the water alongside, engine idling.

  “Okay, Mister Devan. But when you return, I want to see your fuel gauge reading at least a quarter full...”

  “Aye aye, sir!” shouted Devan over his shoulder as he sprinted for the starboard side. He leaped for the crane line holding the plane clear of the hull, shinnied down it, and was in the cockpit before Dave could think of more dire warnings.

  “Don't give him the green flag until we have a good radio check,” Dave ordered the flight signals petty officer, remembering the mysterious silence of his own radio during his flight, when Rao had insisted he was trying repeatedly to contact him.

  Dave entered the little deck house which contained the grandly-named Air Operations Control Center – known universally as the “air shack” – and ordered the radioman on duty there to conduct a radio check with Charley Two. To Dave's relief, Devan replied immediately, loud and clear.

  Of course, Devan was only a matter of yards away. But so far, his radio did not seem affected by whatever passing malady had kept Dave incommunicado during most of his flight. Dave wondered if Rao suspected him of ignoring his radio, or switching it off. He resolved to have the aviation radio tech check it out thoroughly.

  Dave emerged from the Air Shack and nodded to the flight signalman. “Wave him off”, he said. The signalman stepped to the starboard rail and waved his green flag vigorously at Devan's aircraft. The midshipman, who was standing balanced by the engine nacelle, reached up and tripped the lift hook free, then dropped down into the cockpit, started the already-warmed engine, applied power, and taxied clear of the carrier's side. He quickly attained lift-off, and climbed steeply into the air – so steeply that Dave's heart was in his throat, waiting for the flying boat to stall and drop back into the sea.

  But Devan had calculated his angle of climb correctly – although cutting it very fine – and his aircraft kept rising to an altitude of a thousand feet.

  Dave had given him strict instructions to stay within sight of the carrier, and always over the sea – that way, the worst possible outcome at least wouldn't include dead civilians. He felt a bit hypocritical as he gave these orders, thinking of his own initial solo flight, but he realized now how reckless he had been.

  He stepped back into the air shack and picked up the VHF microphone. “Charley Two, this is Mother. Report aircraft operating state, over.”

  The reply came back immediately. “Mother, Charley Two. All parameters nominal, Skipper. Airspeed one hundred five knots, altitude twelve hundred feet. Chère mère de Dieu, but this is fun!”

  “Charley Two, this is Mother. Stick to standard radio procedure,” Dave said, trying to sound stern. But he was smiling as he said it.

  “Mother, this is Charley Two. Roger that. Over.” This last in a chastened tone.

  Devan, in spite of his exhilaration, dutifully circled the carrier at an altitude of around a thousand feet, then alit gently on the surface of the sea and taxied toward the Charlemagne. His fuel gauge read precisely a quarter of a tank, and the cockpit flight timer confirmed the accuracy of the gauge.

  One by one, the remaining six trainee pilots soloed, mostly without incident. One fledgling cut his throttle too soon on touching down and hit hard, so hard the aircraft bounced high and came down a second time with another great splash. This was Midshipman Mertel, whose maiden flight had been tentative and clumsy, with constant over-correction, and who had also struggled at every previous phase of training. He was a good kid and a good seaman, but he clearly did not have the makings of a pilot; Dave regretfully put a red “X” next to his name, and started thinking about what he would say in a painful final interview with the lad, one that would end with him packing his sea-bag for transfer back to a seagoing billet.

  Dave had anticipated that not all the trainees, however carefully picked and instructed, would succeed, and so had twice as many student pilots as aircraft. Another reason for this excess of trainees was that they anticipated delivery of two more Petrels, making up a squadron of six machines – three flights of two aircraft each. This was the maximum number the Charlemagne could handle given the reach of the two cranes. She had the deck space for two more aircraft, but would need an additional set of lifting gear on each side to handle them. Which she wasn't going to get any time soon, given the fact that vessel building an
d repair facilities on Nosy Be were already strained to the maximum.

  After each plane was recovered and settled into its cradle on deck, Rao and his mechanics swarmed over it and did a quick preliminary check of its systems and structure. As Dave assembled the trainees in a half circle on the deck for his usual debriefing, Rao pulled him aside and set in a low voice, “I am grounding number four – the most cursory look, we are finding numerous loose fittings. What else is wrong? We must be checking thoroughly You understand, Commander?” Dave understood; Charley Four had been Mertel's airplane, which had obviously suffered from Mertel's heavy hand. This confirmed Dave's decision.

  Dave, notes in hand, went through every minute of each pilot's flight, criticizing the trainees' handling of their aircraft. Since he, too, was a trainee, he didn't spare himself, self-flagellating fiercely for his joy-flying over Nosy Be. When it came round to Mertel's turn, Dave was merciless. He had thought of skating over it lightly, since he was going to wash the boy out anyway, but decided the other trainees had to learn the right lesson from this. Mertel's face reddened, then paled, as Dave, calmly and without rancor, described in detail his mistakes during the flight.

  At the end of the debriefing, Dave dismissed the student pilots for the next phase: a careful examination of every inch and system of the airplane each had flown, accompanied by the mechanic assigned to that plane, an exercise designed both to let them see the effects on the machine of bad or good flying, and further familiarize themselves with it. Dave thought that, ideally, every pilot should also be a journeyman mechanic.

  As the trainees dispersed, Dave said, “A word with you, Mister Mertel.” Mertel's face fell further – after the debrief, he had a good idea what was coming.

  “Paul, I'm sorry, but you'll never make a flier. I'm sending you back to the Albatros for further assignment. Don't worry, this won't affect your career in the Navy. You're a good sea officer according to all reports, and we need good sea officers as much, or more than, we need aircraft pilots. See the Air Group Writer for written orders. I'm including a letter of commendation for the terrific effort you gave it.” And indeed, Mertel had, if anything, worked harder than any other trainee, often studying the manual late into the night, or going over a Petrel by the light of a lamp held by a mechanic. But the mere fact that Mertel wanted it so badly made the interview extra painful for them both.

  His experience with Mertel made Dave realize that being a flier took more than education and application. In fact, the best pilot in the group was Petty Officer Kai, who had little formal education but was a natural aviator, taking to it with an ease that suggested he was born to fly. Dave decided that there was some combination of eye-hand coordination and spatial awareness that was most important in suggesting an aptitude for flying, and he wondered if there were some way to test for it.

  Something to think about later. Right now, he had a squadron already manned to train for combat.

  - 20 -

  Maddie Dupree stepped out into the street and gazed proudly up at the shiny new sign as the workmen packed away their tools. It read, in large golden letters on a scarlet background – the lucky colors – “Campbell & Son, Ship Brokers and Chartering Agents”. Below that, in smaller letters: “Madeline Campbell Dupree, Resident Agent & Broker”. She was now officially open for business.

  She had actually already transacted one piece of business that was quite profitable for the firm: a return cargo of rum and sugar for one of the vessels that had been originally fixed by Campbell & Son from French Port to Nosy Be with general cargo. The increased ability of the firm to fix return cargoes would surely attract more shipowners on Kerguelen to use the firm's services outbound.

  She had already found the coffee shop where agents, brokers, and vessel owners gathered every morning to chat, gossip, and transact business over cup after cup of the strong Nosy Be coffee. This was a tradition that preceded the spread of the telephone system throughout Hell-ville and then to the outports. Of course, the local maritime industry now made extensive use of the telephone, but everyone had become used to the daily face to face business and socializing at Chang's, so the practice continued.

  Maddie had found the shop, gone the first morning she could, and was introduced around to the gathering by the ship's agent who had been the firm's primary contact in Hell-ville, and who had helped Maddie set up her office. Maddie was, to no surprise at all, the only woman in the Hell-ville maritime industry – the only woman who was not a clerk-typist or office cleaner, that is. The men were taken aback, but to her relief, they had accepted her with surprising speed. Many of them knew her father, and some her brother, from their seafaring days, and that helped.

  She had found – or rather, her father's local contact had found – an office with a flat above it. The flat was fully furnished, but drably, and was very dusty, having been unused for a long time. She soon made it her own, and it was now clean, bright, and cheerful, with new curtains, rugs, and colorful slipcovers for the furniture.

  As she gazed with pleasure at the new sign, she thought how much she loved Nosy Be and Hell-ville so far. The climate was delightful, everything was scented with vanilla, and the mix of people, white, brown, and in-between, was thrillingly exotic.

  She gloried in the coolness of her tropical-weight linen dress, short-sleeved and rather daringly knee-length – on Kerguelen, the climate dictated that skirts, when worn, must be ankle-length and of heavy wool. The tropical sunshine had given her arms, legs, and face a golden glow that she thought set off her looks very nicely.

  But that reminded her – too much time in the sun without a hat would turn that glow into an angry red, so she hurried back into the cool interior of her office. There her clerk, a pretty meti girl named Charlotte, was busy filing away the various standard blank charter parties, fresh from the printer's, that were the working tools of the ship broker. In negotiating a charter, the chartering agent and the broker would fill in blanks, cross out unwanted clauses, and write in new ones in pencil, and shake hands on the deal; the ship might very well be loaded and under way before final typed and signed originals were exchanged. The business worked on trust.

  “Getting things squared away? Need any help?” Maddie asked.

  “Oh, no ma'am – no problems,” Charlotte replied, flashing the dazzling white smile that, Maddie thought, must attract young men as honey does flies.

  “Then I'd better be getting round to Chang's,” Maddie said, glancing at her watch. “You can reach me there if you need to – Chang doesn't mind taking calls for customers.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Maddie fetched the hat she had chosen for the day, a broad-brimmed straw with a colorful scarf tied round it, the long ends left to flutter in any breeze, and also donned a very light-weight, open-weave shawl against the sun on her upper arms. She checked her appearance in the mirror by the office door as she left

  She had no false modesty about her looks, and knew that they were an advantage to her in a business dominated by men. She wasn't above a little innocent flirting, either, if it helped her reach a goal. But there was only room for one man in her life at a time. Until his death, it had been her late husband, brutally taken from her by pirates while she was still a bride. Lately, although Johnny's memory could never be displaced, he had been joined in her heart by Sam Bowditch, Johnny's oldest and closest friend, who had been best man at their wedding, and who had held Johnny at the moment of his death.

  She thought about Sam as she walked briskly – but not too briskly; she didn't want to arrive dripping with sweat – the few blocks to Chang's. She wondered if Sam was aware of her feelings, and if he reciprocated them. She thought both were true, but with Sam it was hard to tell. She wasn't sure if it was guilt about Johnny's death, reticence, or (awful thought!) simple indifference, but Sam, while ever affectionate, seemed to be holding something back when with her. As always when she thought of him, her thoughts inevitably wandered to the subject of Marie Girard, and the doctor's relatio
nship with Sam. There was something there, she knew it. The question was how strong the attachment was, on both sides.

  Maddie believed that she had made no secret of how she felt, but she also knew that something – Pride? Fear of rejection? Maidenly modesty, God forbid? – had kept her from making an outright declaration. Nevertheless, she couldn't bear the thought of losing Sam, whether to another woman or to death at sea, without making a determined effort.

  The Governor's gala victory ball seemed the ideal opportunity to strike. And that turned her mind to practical matters: she would need a new dress. She decided to go shopping after the morning session at Chang's.

  Sam Bowditch, as usual pacing around the quarterdeck of the Albatros, had been gazing southward through his telescope at the Charlemagne when he saw one of the new Petrels taxi away from the carrier and become airborne – the first time he had seen one take flight. The flying boat climbed, then flew over the Albatros, provoking all on deck to cheer and wave their hats. Then it flew away over Hell-ville and then inland over Nosy Be until out of sight.

  Sam hoped that Rao or one of the Reunionnais pilots was at the controls. A novice pilot on his maiden flight over a populated area – it struck him as an undue risk, even as little as he knew about aviation. After the best part of an hour had passed, the flying boat reappeared, flew over the Albatros again, and alit on the surface of the water a fair distance inshore of the Charlemagne – a good couple of miles. Why so far away from the carrier? If it was a measure for the safety of the Charlemagne, it seemed damned odd to give the warship so much sea-room after flying directly over a crowded town.

  He could see a motor boat heading out from the Charlemagne, and then towing the aircraft back to the carrier. Even from a distance, it was easy to see what an awkward tow the flying boat was, as she yawed back and forth, continually pulling the launch off course.