Assault on Zanzibar

by E. C. Williams

  “Bill, I had no idea that you and Marie … I mean, how long? ...”, Sam stuttered, in shock at this news.

  “We've grown very close while she's been looking after me, Sam. I have you to thank – Marie said it was your idea to exchange her for Doc Cheah.”

  “Well, congratulations, of course, and my very best wishes, Bill. Marie's a wonderful woman. I'm sure you'll be very happy together.”

  “We'll have to talk about what this implies for her assignment,” Ennis said. “We hope you'll let her stay with the Joan, so we can be together, but if you think that would be improper ...”

  “Of course, she can remain on the Joan,” Sam replied. “It would be heartless to transfer her once you're married. There's plenty of precedent in the merchant marine for husband and wife going to sea together. It shouldn't be a problem.” Sam was speaking automatically, while his mind was still fully occupied in trying to assimilate this unexpected news.

  The two exchanged a few more pleasantries, then Ennis swung himself over the rail and down the pilot ladder, managing amazingly well with only one hand. Sam waved at the departing boat and walked aft, still in a daze. He paced the quarterdeck, automatically glancing astern at intervals to check the station keeping of the other vessels, making sure their dim wartime running lights were visible. Each of the vessels showed one red all-around light at the masthead, except for Charlemagne, which showed two red lights in a vertical line. Side lights and stern lights were dimmed to a visibility of a few hundred yards. Sam disliked showing even this much light, but they were essential for collision avoidance in formation sailing.

  Sam was churning with mixed emotions, from which one stood out, clearly identifiable: a raging jealousy. He knew this was totally, completely irrational. He could hardly expect Marie to remain unattached for the rest of her life based on one night in his bed a long time ago -- especially now that he was married to another woman. Yet images of Marie kept flashing across his mind, always accompanied by a keen sense of loss, mixed with bitter envy of Bill Ennis. Did the way he felt mean he wasn't as deeply in love with his wife as he had believed? Yet he knew that he had fallen hard for Maddie the night he met her, years before, and had remained in love with her ever since -- so why this emotional storm over the news that Marie had fallen in love with another man? His jealousy wasn't lessened by the reflection that, while Ennis and Marie would be sailing together aboard the Joan, Maddie would have to stay ashore on Nosy Be, occupied with the management of her family's chartering and brokerage business there.

  He realized with a start that more than four hours had passed when he heard the bustle of the midnight watch change. He had to get some sleep if he was to be alert tomorrow – and he had to be alert in enemy waters – but he doubted if the storm raging inside him would allow him to rest. He knew that he'd be a long time dealing with this.

  He forced his mind to turn to the situation of the task force, but found no peace there, either. He was dismayed by the realization that they had not succeeded in springing their warplanes on the Zanzibaris as a complete surprise. He had hoped that the shock of being the target of aerial warfare for the first time in centuries would induce a paralyzing fear in the enemy, making for a quick victory. He realized now that this had been a totally unrealistic hope. Even if, as Lieutenant (I) Dallas had so confidently asserted, they had succeeded in mostly eradicating the Caliphate spy ring on Nosy Be, the weeks of aerial activity in the island's skies as VSB-1 trained could hardly have failed to escape the enemy's notice. His great gamble, of pressing the long-planned attack on Zanzibar with only six aircraft, counting on completing the work-up of the force and the training of the pilots en route, was based on just this expectation of total surprise. With that expectation now gone, was he justified in pressing on, in taking what was now obviously an even greater risk? And had he made that decision, to carry on as previously planned, too precipitously, with too little forethought? And what were their alternatives? He turned over several scenarios in his mind. He finally fell asleep while focusing on one of them.

  The next morning, despite a nearly sleepless night, he was on deck in time to see the first scout plane taxi around the stern of Charlemagne, turn south-westerly, into the faint morning breeze, and take off. It banked around to the north as it climbed, and disappeared in the distance just as the upper limb of the sun made itself visible above the vast stretch of empty ocean to the east. The task force was still a good two days' sail – or rather motor-sail – from Zanzibar, since it had spent most of its time underway headed in the opposite direction, to windward, for air training operations. Sam didn't expect to meet any enemy squadron that might have sortied from Stone Town harbor on the previous afternoon's warning earlier than the next morning. But there was always the possibility of another pair of cruisers having been at sea when the warning came. They had to stay vigilant.

  Sam came to a sudden decision, one he had been turning over in his mind for hours, examining it from every angle.

  “Flag to Taffy One,” he said to the Signals Petty Officer. “Reverse course to port. Stand by.”. He waited until the SPO reported that all vessels had acknowledged, then said to the watch officer, “Mister Morrow, signal 'execute' when all vessels have signaled 'ready'”. He could sense the surprise of the watch at this sudden hundred and eighty-degree course change. There then came a rising babble of shouted orders and a burst of activity on deck. The task force had been motor-sailing on a broad reach. A simultaneous turn to port meant coming up into the wind, tacking, and heading south on a close beat to windward.

  “Pass the word for the XO.”

  “Commander Kendall, your presence is requested on the quarterdeck,” the phone talker murmured into his headset. Kendall appeared immediately.

  “Al, I've decided to shift my flag to Charlie. I believe that I can better exercise command of Taffy One from her, while being in more direct touch with air ops. You'll take command of Albatros.

  “I've also changed my mind about pressing on to Zanzibari waters at once. Instead, my intention is to head south and give the fliers a chance to work up some new tactics since they now can expect to encounter heavy AA fire.”

  Obviously taken aback by this pair of sudden announcements, Kendall was silent for a moment, then recovered. “Aye aye, Commodore. Will this be a permanent arrangement? Charlie as flag, I mean.”

  “Probably, but we'll see how it goes. I'm leaving now, as soon as we've steadied up on the new course. Launch the motor sloop to transfer me. Have Ritchie get my dunnage together to follow later. Tell Todd … no, I'll tell him myself. Pass the word for Lieutenant Cameron.” This last directed to his phone talker.

  Sam turned back to the XO and was conscience-stricken by the look on Kendall's face: confusion and worry. He hastened to elaborate: “Al, the thing is, I thought about it all night and I think it's just too risky to press home the attack at once. Now that we know they're prepared for aerial attack – that they've obviously got intel about our Petrels – we need to reconsider tactics, maybe re-train. And I'm shifting my flag to Charlie because she's obviously now the center for operations – our capital ship – and from her quarterdeck, I'll have quicker, more direct communications with the aircraft. So, barring something I haven't expected, yes, this will probably be permanent.” Kendall grasped the point of this at once, and relief flooded his face.

  “Makes sense, Commodore,” he rasped. “By your leave, I'll go see to your transfer.” At Sam's nod, he hurried forward and another burst of activity ensued as its crew readied the motor sloop for launch. Lieutenant Todd Cameron, Sam's chief (and only) staff officer, appeared from his tiny, cramped flag office below.

  “Todd, I'm shifting my flag to Charlemagne. I'm going over now. You and your petty officers get all your files and charts together, and your personal gear, and follow when you're ready. Ritchie will pack up mine and come with you.” Cameron's boyish face showed his astonishment at this, then struggled to become impassive. “Aye aye, sir. Flag to Charlie, s
taff to follow.” Then he dashed back down below.

  Sam now watched with interest and not a little apprehension as the task force performed a maneuver not much practiced: reversing course by each vessel turning simultaneously. At a standard rudder angle the vessels had widely differing turning circles, Roland, handiest of the four, having the smallest and Charlemagne, as a double-hulled vessel, the greatest. The possibility of a collision was clearly present as the four vessels, motor-sailing on a broad reach within a cable's length of one another, came up into the wind, tacked, and began a beat southward. But despite a few close calls, the formation carried off the maneuver without scraping any paintwork.

  “Make to task force, 'Well done',” Sam said to the signals petty officer. “Then make, “Standby for shift of flag to Charlemagne.” The two-letter hoist “Bravo Zulu” soared up the signal halyard. A pair of four-letter hoists followed that sent midshipmen scrabbling through their signal books, and that occasioned much amazement and not a little alarm, especially as it came so soon after the sudden reversal of course.

  Sam walked forward just as the motor sloop touched the water, and climbed down the pilot ladder as soon as it was rigged, as the sloop's crew prepared to cast off.

  “Port side,” Sam said as the sloop pulled away. He didn't want to put the officers and crew of Charlemagne to the hassle of piping him aboard, with side boys, especially given the suddenness of his transfer, and boarding on the port side rather than the starboard signaled this desire. The trip over to Charlemagne, only a couple of cables distant, was a matter of minutes, and he scampered up her pilot ladder to be greeted by her captain, Commander Benoit Murphy, who was as stolid and imperturbable as always.

  “Welcome aboard, Commodore,” he said, with a formal salute.

  “Thanks, Ben,” Sam said, returning the salute. “I'm afraid you're stuck with me for a while. This may prove to be a long-term thing. But keep in mind that I'm not superseding you in command of the Charlie. The ship is still yours – I'll just run the task force from here.”

  “I understand, Commodore. I've had my steward clear out my cabin for you.”

  “That's not necessary, Ben,” Sam protested. “Surely you can find a corner for me somewhere – I don't want to kick you out of your berth.”

  “Not to worry, sir. I'm taking my XO's stateroom, which is nearly as roomy as the master's. We have lots of cabin space on the Charlie – as a round-the-worlder, she had plenty of passenger accommodations.” Before her conversion into a warship – the Navy's first seaplane carrier – the Charlemagne had been Jean le Révélateur, a merchant vessel in the circumnavigation trade, sailing always down wind, riding the westerlies eastward from Kerguelen to the Kerg settlements on Tasmania, New Zealand's South Island, Patagonia, the Falklands, South Georgia, and home again to Kerguelen, taking on and discharging cargo and passengers at each port.

  Sam realized that, since Murphy's XO would certainly take over the next most desirable stateroom on the ship, displacing its present occupant, his presence had precipitated a round of 'musical cabins” affecting nearly every officer aboard. Well, c'est la vie marine.

  Sam looked around him with a lively interest. He had been aboard the Charlemagne before, of course, but never while she was underway. As a merchant ship, the twin-hulled vessel was fitted with a total of ten masts, a row of five down the centerline of each hull, all unstayed and junk-rigged. Sam had served as a cadet aboard a similar vessel, and found that this then-strange (to him) rig had been remarkably efficient for either running free or sailing on a reach. It also allowed for quick and safe reductions in sail area, obviously an advantage in the Roaring Forties.

  But as a part of her conversion, her original masts were removed and replaced with five masts down the centerline of the bridge deck, schooner-rigged and stayed to the inboard gunwale of each hull. Although this reduced her sail area by roughly half, her two water-jet engines, mounted on the inboard quarter of each hull, compensated for this in terms of speed. This arrangement allowed for the addition of cranes along each outboard side for the handling of her complement of six Petrel flying boats, single-engine scout bombers, as well as deck room for them.

  A four-flag signal hoist flying from the foremast, one he didn't recognize, caught Sam’s attention. This was unusual, since flag signals were always flown from the mizzen. Puzzled, Sam turned to Murphy and said, “What's that signal flying at the fore, Ben?”

  Murphy looked embarrassed, a first in Sam's acquaintance with this usually impassive officer.

  “It says “Commodore aboard”, sir. It signifies that Charlie's now the flagship. We didn't have a single broad pennant in the flag bag – the signals chief didn't expect that we might be the flag. Sails is whipping one up now.”

  The broad pennant signified the formation's flagship, and of course had come down smartly from the Albatros's foremast the instant the motor sloop, with Sam aboard her, had pulled away from the vessel's side. A broad pennant should have gone up smartly at the Charlemagne's fore the moment Sam stepped aboard her. But, since no vessel except the Albatros had ever been the flagship, it hadn't occurred to anyone that another vessel needed to have a broad pennant handy for this eventuality.

  Sam laughed at Murphy's obvious – and unusual – discomfiture. “No problem, Ben. I never imagined myself that I'd ever shift my flag out of the Albatros until this morning – your people couldn't have anticipated it.”

  “Thanks for your understanding, Commodore.”

  “And now we’ll need to figure out how we're going to get along, Ben. We're like two women sharing the same kitchen.”

  Murphy laughed. “You're right, sir. And I'm reminded of my father-in-law's comment that the Chinese character for “trouble” is made up of symbols showing two women under one roof.”

  Sam chuckled. “Is that really true?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. But my old father-in-law, Wang, claims to be able to read Chinese characters. He has some books in Chinese passed down through his family.”

  “But seriously, Ben, I want to be as far as possible invisible to you and your officers and crew – as if I were still on the Albatros and you only needed to respond to my signals. I just need a patch of quarterdeck, and access to the flag halyards and signal light for my signals PO. Naturally I'll pass any orders on to you or your watch officers verbally.”

  “Not a problem, sir. As you can see, I've got plenty of room on my quarterdeck. Pick a corner.” And truly, to Sam, the Charlemagne's beam, more than a third as beamy as her length overall, seemed as spacious as a football pitch, spanning as it did both hulls and the bridge deck connecting them. He looked around, thought for a moment, then said, “Instead of a corner, how about if I take a space around the centerline all the way aft? That way you'll always have the windward side to yourself, and we'll be least in the way.”

  “Works for me, Commodore. I'll send Boats to see you or your Flag Lieutenant, and we'll mark off your turf – call it “flag country” – with painted lines.”

  “Putting me in a box, are you, Ben?” Sam said, laughing.

  “Oh, no, no sir, not at all. Of course, you and your staff are free to go where you please. But it'll mark your private space, where my guys can't intrude without permission.”

  “Kidding, Ben. That should work just fine. And of course, as Captain of the Charlemagne, that doesn't apply to you.”

  They were interrupted by a shout from forward: “Boat, ahoy!” The Albatros's motor sloop was approaching. The sloop's bow hook shouted back, “Aye aye”, signifying that there was a commissioned officer aboard. By this time, the sloop was near enough for Sam to see that the officer was Todd Cameron, accompanied by the flag writer, flag signals PO, and Ritchie, Sam's steward. The sloop's passengers boarded by pilot ladder, and Cameron oversaw the loading of the group's baggage. He then hurried aft to report to Sam. At that moment, a broad pennant raced up the forward flag halyards, a very respectable-looking broad pennant, given its hasty manufacture.

>   Charlemagne was now officially the flagship of Task Force One, and, indeed, of the entire Navy. And Sam was now, for the first time since the navy's beginnings, no longer the captain of the Albatros. He had known for some time that he would have to give up command of her, to devote his full attention to his duties and responsibilities as the commander in chief. Still, it was a strange feeling

  Two

  Their first day at sea, the watch officers and engineers had been constantly busy with adjustments to engine speed as the vessels strove to keep station. By now, however, the black gangs had discovered through trial and error just what RPM was optimal, and the task force had shaken down into a groove of precise station-keeping. They maintained intervals of two cables through the hours of darkness, and closed in to one cable at first light. Predictably, Charlemagne was the slowest of the four, and her escorts adjusted their speed to hers.

  Sam paced the patch of the Charlie's quarterdeck -- “flag country” -- and considered what Taffy One's next move should be. They now headed south, toward the Comoros, where they would conduct further air attack training based on the new threat of AA fire. He had no idea just what tactics Dave and his pilots would devise, but he was confident they would come up with something. Then what?

  As if summoned telepathically, at that moment the messenger of the watch walked up to Sam and said, “Sir, Commander Schofield requests permission to approach the Flag.”

  “Granted.”

  “Good morning, Commodore,” Schofield said, saluting.

  “'Morning, Dave. Have you and your fellow bird-men come up with something?”

  “I think so, sir. Skip bombing.”

  “'Skip bombing'? What's that?”

  “Dropping a bomb at very low altitude, from level flight, so that it skips across the water toward the target. You know, like skipping stones on a tarn when you were a kid.”