Three days were all either of them felt they could spare from their respective duties, and they passed all too quickly. The car and driver turned up on time, as pre-arranged, and they departed reluctantly for the long and dusty drive back to Hell-ville.
Sam changed back into uniform at Maddie's, kissed her goodbye, and proceeded directly to the waterfront, where he hired a boat to take him out to the Albatros. The dress tunic felt hot and constricting after three days spent in casual clothes – usually no more than a swim suit – but now that the Navy had a uniform for its officers he had ordered that it always be worn when ashore, so he couldn't be seen making an exception for himself. He wanted, as a political matter, to keep the Navy's presence in the forefront of Nosy Be's collective mind, reminding the islanders of their dependence on the Kerguelenian squadron for their protection, since Sam depended on the island for a large proportion of the Navy's supplies and maintenance. Not to mention the outright gift of the Zeeschuimer and the Saint Denis – now the Wasp and the Scorpion.
Sam boarded from the port side, as usual, and was met by Low.
“Welcome back, Commodore. I trust you had a pleasant … leave?”
“Yes, thanks. Any problems while I was gone?” Sam had never been away from his command longer than overnight before now, and he feared chaos, decay, anarchy in his absence.
“Oh, no sir. All squared away. Well, you'll have one captain's mast. Murdoch, absent over leave. I'd have sorted him myself, but ...”
“Yes, I know. A chronic offender. He needs bringing to with a round turn. Schedule it. I'll give him a few weeks of early nights and no liquor to contemplate his sins.”
“Oh, and sir: the officers mess would like to invite you to dinner, at your convenience, to celebrate your recent marriage.”
“That's kind. Thank you. Any evening would do, so long as you can give me a day's notice.”
“Of course, sir. I'll consult with the mess treasurer and get back to you.”
They separated, Low to return to his ceaseless prowling of the vessel in a never-ending quest for perfection – the XO's role in life – and Sam to go below and change into something more comfortable.
Sam was touched by the invitation, but it meant he would need to return their hospitality. Usually, because of limited space at his table, he had to do this in a series of dinners.
But they were in port. What about something ashore, in a restaurant, perhaps? It would be more expensive, but then what was money for? Except for the wedding luncheon and honeymoon, he had barely spent a franc in months, so he certainly had enough to swing it. Maybe even a dinner-dance to which they could bring dates – Maddie could help him there. It could also be a sort of delayed wedding reception. He decided to talk to her about it.
Dave Schofield, leading the flight of six Petrels, banked to the left and lined up on the target, fifteen hundred feet below. It was a log mock-up of the Stone Town battery, palm trunks serving as the guns, built under Dave's supervision in the shallows just off the northern point of Nosy Tanikely, a small, uninhabited island five miles southwest of Hell-ville. Dave pointed his nose at the fake battery and went into a shallow dive, watching the altimeter and the target as nearly simultaneously as he could. At bombing altitude, he triggered the release. As he felt the little aircraft surge upward with the release of the weight of the dummy bombs, he pulled up and to the left, then banked right to take a quick look at the results. He saw four white splotches, two in the water alongside the target and two within the walls of the battery: two hits! At last! After countless runs resulting in nothing but splashes, he had finally hit the target.
Still climbing, he banked back to the left to come around to the tail of the line-ahead formation of the other five Petrels to watch their results. To his immense satisfaction, every aircraft but one scored at least one hit; the machine piloted by Petty Officer Kai hitting the battery squarely with three of his four bombs. The battery was nearly covered with blotches of the bleached sand the dummy bombs contained; if they had been real bombs, the target would have almost certainly been put out of action.
This achievement was the result of weeks of trial and error bomb runs, and endless calculations by Rao of altitude, speed, angle of dive, and release points. Dave felt a fierce pride in his little band of aviators, now designated Scout-Bombing Squadron One of the RKN. VSB-1, together with Charlemagne, was obviously going to be one of the deadliest weapon systems in the Navy's inventory.
It had better be, because it was horrendously expensive. The six aircraft, plus the enormous amounts of fuel they had expended in training, cost the Republic and her allies an amount of money that would have once been unthinkable. Dave was grateful to Commodore Bowditch for shielding him from the screams of bureaucratic pain no doubt emanating from Government House back in French Port.
He brought his mind back to the training exercise. The squadron, as ordered, had flown in a wide circle, at precise intervals nose-to-tail, and come around for a strafing run. Each aircraft went again into a shallow dive and got off three or four rounds of one-inch at the target with the semi-automatic gun fitted in the nose. The shells were HE, but with the explosive charge removed and replaced with red dye. Dave, now tail-end Charlie, saw, as he approached for his turn, that the target was now spattered with red; every craft had apparently scored at least one hit. Dave got off four quick rounds, and had the satisfaction of seeing two burst on the target, while the last two impacted in the water beyond.
As he pulled up, Dave spoke into the microphone of the radio headset that had been devised for fliers so they could communicate hands-free. “Charlie Gang, this is Charlie Leader. Go around for another strafing run.” He remained at the tail of the squadron in order to observe the effects of their fire. Again, each Petrel scored one or two hits out of the three or four rounds they had time to get off during their run. Dave did no better than in the previous run.
The semi-auto version of the one-inch rifle had a rigid ten-round magazine, so the squadron had now nearly expended its ammunition. Obviously, a fully automatic version of the one-incher, with a larger supply of ammo, would be a tremendous advantage. Making the weapon capable of full auto fire was no problem, but ammunition feed was. Old records referred to ancient heavy automatic weapons as “belt-fed”, but unfortunately there were no surviving details as to just how this worked. The gunner's mates had finally, through trial and error, solved this. The weapon had to be limited to a rate of fire no greater than about 120 rounds per minute, since any higher rate caused an unacceptable incidence of jamming, but this was still vastly preferable to semi-auto for ground attack. As soon as six of these weapons were ready – within the week, Dave hoped – they would be installed in place of the semi-automatic versions.
“Charlie Gang, Charlie Leader. Home to Mother” Dave orbited the Charlemagne, watching his flock peel off and alight on the water in pairs, then taxi to either side of the carrier, to within reach of the cranes, and shut down engines. A small boat brought lines to attach to the nose and tail of each aircraft, managed by the deck gang to keep the plane from rotating while being lifted. The pilot then had the mildly hazardous task of clambering out of the cockpit and up to the engine nacelle, hooking the crane line to the lifting eye, then hanging on tight while the Petrel was lifted clear of the water and settled into its cradle on deck. Dave then joined the last remaining aircraft and they both gently descended to alight on the surface of the sea almost simultaneously, then taxied to the starboard and port sides of the Charlemagne, respectively, for retrieval. The near-perfection of the maneuver made Dave reflect on how far the squadron had progressed, in airmanship, gunnery, and bombing, in a relatively short period of training. He felt a deep pride in his aviators. He decided that they were now ready to move on to the next and last phase of their training: attacking vessels underway. He had already arranged for a target vessel, a derelict fishing ketch that he had arranged to be restored to a reasonably watertight condition. The ketch would be towed at the end of
an extra-long towline by a civilian tug contracted for the purpose. He looked forward to telling them this during the usual post-flight debrief.
Sam leaned on the quarterdeck rail of the Albatros, gazing with interest down to the floor of the drydock in which the schooner now rested on blocks, shored up with heavy timbers to keep her on an even keel. He was watching a gang of shipyard workers mixed with Albatros engine ratings who were in the process of installing the port waterjet nacelle. The unit had been hoisted into position by a set of sheer-legs, and the techs were in the process of making the electrical connections. The starboard jet had already been installed and connected. The vessel's generator had been augmented with a second one, which had required enlarging the engine spaces, making the vessel even more crowded below. Ideally, the gen-sets should have been separated, each put into its own watertight compartment, to prevent the possibility of a single enemy hit depriving the schooner of all power, but that had been found to be impossible in the time allowed for the refit. As was also the case with the Joan.
The Joan of Arc had been afloat for several days, and was now on her trial run, shipyard technicians aboard, to shake down the new propulsion system and correct any bugs. The Roland was nearing completion of the installation of her own pair of water-jets.
The Albatros was already benefiting from her sister's experience, as the Joan radioed back a steady stream of descriptions of minor problems, and suggested fixes. So far – and with this thought Sam touched the wooden rail for luck – all of the problems had been minor, nothing that couldn't be corrected on the spot. Sam hoped this would continue, but apparently the designers and manufacturers of the system back on the Rock had done a careful and thorough job.
He straightened up, and took another look to the south, where the aircraft of VSB-1 were circling, then going into shallow dives to attack the target vessel, invisible to Sam behind the mass of shipping in the harbor.
Lieutenant Commander Schofield had sent him a steady stream of reports on the progress of training, nearly all positive. Sam reflected that Schofield was obviously the right – really the only – man for the job. He had held his breath while offering Dave his choice of a command at sea and command of the squadron. He had thought of simply ordering Dave to flying duty, but he certainly deserved another command, if he wanted one, and Sam felt that, in justice, he had to make the offer. To his great relief, Dave had accepted command of what was to become VSB-1 without hesitation.
The pieces were falling into place. The shipyard, by working round the clock under lights, should have the Albatros ready for sea trials in a few days. Then, once the kinks had all been ironed out of the new propulsion system, the four vessels that Sam had dubbed Task Force One, Joan, Albatros, Roland, and Charlemagne, would put to sea for training maneuvers. When Sam felt they were ready, they would embark on the biggest and most important operation of the war against the pirates.
With the Albatros in drydock, he could spend all of every night ashore without feeling he was neglecting his duty. For the first time in his sea-going career, he left his ship eagerly at the end of the working day and returned with reluctance in the morning. The passion of their honeymoon had continued and deepened as each became familiar with the other. Too, the routine of domesticity – meals together, decisions about purchases for what was now their home for the foreseeable future, simply being with Maddie in quiet companionship – was profoundly satisfying to Sam. He knew that leaving for sea would be a wrench but such partings were familiar to them both, Maddie being the daughter, sister, and wife of mariners; and Sam having gone to sea from his teens. They could stand the pain of separation even if they would never get used to it.
He hoped fervently that the next operation of the Kerguelenian Navy would be its last. He now had a reason to look forward to peace – to long for peace – so that he and Maddie could be with one another, have children, make a life.
But that could only come after the assault on Zanzibar.
If then.
The End
Look for the next exciting installment in the Westerly Gales saga, Assault on Zanzibar, on Amazon Kindle and other fine purveyors of e-Books.
Into Uncharted Seas (Westerly Gales) Page 47