Sam thought this over, and could find no fault with the logic. “But it just seems silly to me.”
“Yes, to me as well, at first, but not to the volunteers. They take it all very seriously. And it’s quite effective in recruiting – we have to turn away more people than we enlist.”
“They’re actually enlisted in the Navy?”
“Yes, but in a rate we invented, to give them an opportunity to advance. They’re called ‘staff seamen’, and we’ll eventually have a rank called ‘staff PO’. And they’re enlisted in the Volunteer Reserve, which means they’ll never be eligible for pay, so they cost the Navy nothing but the coffee they drink while on duty. They don’t even rate the spirits ration, unlike regular seamen.”
“Okay. Makes sense. I guess,” Sam replied. “By the way, I noticed your uniform.” Foch wore a blue woolen version of a naval officer’s tropical dress white, complete with a commander’s three stripes. “Do the flics let you come to work like that?”
“More news – and this is brand-new. The Commissaire de police called me in just yesterday and told me that the top brass had decided to award me ‘military leave with pay’ – a pay status invented, apparently, just for me – for the duration of the war. “The police service’s contribution to the war effort,” he called it.
“You know, since the start I’ve worked sixteen or more hours a day, seven days a week, to hold my head above water in both my jobs, without anyone above me apparently noticing. Now, with the new atmosphere of Navy love, they’ve suddenly recognized it. Well, I’m not complaining – I practically had to re-introduce myself to my wife and daughters when I brought home the good news last night.”
“I’m guessing they were happy about it …?”
“Ecstatic. And I was happy about the full night’s sleep I got for the first time in months. Now, I’m hoping to use my boss’s noble example to shame some more employers of RKNVR officers and ratings into doing the same. I’d love to have one or both of my brilliant young lieutenants (E) full time, for example, but I doubt the shipyard would ever let them go.”
Foch then offered Sam a tour of “the Navy’s only stone schooner”, and Sam agreed. They left Foch’s office and crossed the “quarterdeck” to what had obviously once been another bedroom. There they found two staff seamen – both young women, somewhat to Sam’s surprise – in front of typewriters and banks of radio equipment, wearing earphones and occasionally typing a few lines. They ignored their visitors, apparently under orders not to allow themselves to be distracted. A second look told Sam they were both radiomen-strikers – they wore the triple lightening flash badge on their right sleeves.
“They’re each monitoring different frequencies,” Foch said in whisper. “Armistead, here, is scanning freqs the Pirates customarily use, and copying any transmissions. We use the Morse code transliteration method your Mr. Martin developed.
“Denis is guarding the Navy and merchant service frequencies.”
“Where’s your antenna?” Sam asked. “I didn’t see any on the roof.”
“We share the use of Radio Kerguelen’s antenna tower on Mount Ross. Of course, we have to be careful when transmitting not to step on their signal.”
“Of course.”
Foch could see that Sam was growing a little impatient, so he said, “One more space.”
They walked out onto what Sam was beginning to reluctantly think of as the “quarterdeck” and through the only other door opening on to it.
“Et Voila, our galley, conference room, and breakroom.” It was an ordinary kitchen, dominated by a long table seating six.
“Now, Commodore, you’ve had the full tour of my little command. Time to leave for Government House – we have a luncheon date with Mother.” They then crossed the quarterdeck, saluted, and left Navy House with the sounds of the bell and the watch rating’s shout of, “Commodore, RKN, departing!”
“I think we can get a cab quickest on Rue de Gaulle…” Foch began. Sam cut him off, saying “Let’s walk.”
“But we’ll be late!”
“Let her wait. Frankly, Andy, I’m not looking forward to this.”
“I’m sure you aren’t, Commodore, given your recent tragic loss. But the future of the Navy is at stake. The climate has never been so favorable to an appeal to Council for more funding.”
“Ja, ja, Tony – I know all that merde. And the fact that it’s true doesn’t make it any less painful.”
Foch kept a tactful silence after this, and the two raised the hoods of their parkas and walked on. A sudden snow squall almost caused a white-out, but both knew the streets so well that they trudged on regardless. The squall ended almost as soon as it started, and the sun even appeared for a few minutes.
They arrived at Government House during a snow flurry – nothing compared to the squall they had experienced earlier. They entered and found their way to the dining room, where a waiter divested them of their parkas, and told them, “Madame Moreau asked to be notified when you arrived. I’ll show you to your table.”
Their table proved to be in a private booth, behind a set of sound-deadening curtains; one of several tacitly reserved for council members who wanted to plot strategy without being overheard. The waiter offered them a pre-dinner drink, and both ordered rum and water.
Councilwoman Simone Moreau – “Mother” Moreau to all who knew her – arrived within minutes. Sam marveled to himself at the fact that she was as beautiful as ever, the only things suggesting her age some silver streaks in her jet-black hair and many laugh lines around her eyes, although she had borne a round dozen children, the oldest now young adults. She was radiant with happiness, which only added to her attractiveness.
After greetings, including the obligatory kiss on each cheek, she sat, and said “Congratulate me, gentlemen – I’ve just learned that I am to be a grandmother! My eldest, Jeanne, just informed me that she is pregnant.”
Sam and Foch duly offered their congratulations, and offered a toast to the forthcoming Moreau descendent. Mother smiled, dimpling prettily, and thanked them, then got right down to business.
“Sam, why aren’t you in uniform, like Commander Foch?”
“My only uniforms are tropical white – hardly practical in this climate.”
“You must get a uniform made, right away. Antoine, where did you get yours?” Foch mentioned the name of a tailor shop.
“I’ll send a message to them, telling them to expect you, Sam, and that it’s a rush job. You must be in uniform before you meet with the committee tomorrow” – she meant the Council’s Committee on Merchant Marine and Fisheries, which she chaired, and whose remit included the Navy. “Or, at the latest, before your speech to the Council the day after. It’s meeting as a committee of the whole to consider the issue of Naval appropriations. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing some remarks for you to offer.”
“Speech! I’m not making a speech, Mother!” replied Sam.
“You must, Sam. They need to hear from your mouth all the arguments I’ve been trying to make about the vital importance of our Navy in combating Pirate assaults on our shipping and tropical settlements. This is the vital moment for us – there will never again be a political climate this favorable. It’s your chance to finally secure the resources you need to defeat the enemy.”
Sam thought about this for a long moment – and Moreau wisely allowed him this time for consideration. During her long political career, she had learned to read people; she knew that Sam was on an emotional knife-edge and that she needed to manage him carefully. She understood instinctively that Sam found repellent the notion of using his wife’s death for political advantage, and that if pushed too hard he would rebel.
Finally, he agreed to the uniform, a meeting with the committee, and a speech before the entire council – but refused outright to accept Moreau’s “talking points”. “I’ll write my own damn speech,” he insisted adamantly.
Moreau agreed to this single condition readily, and with relief. She knew that Sam’
s simple statements of fact would have a greater effect than any elaborate, formal, ghostwritten speech.
“Formidable, Sam! If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you must go to the tailor’s right after lunch to have any chance at having your uniform ready by tomorrow.”
“I’ll skip lunch and go now, Mother,” Sam replied. “Thanks for your hospitality, and I hope I don’t seem ungracious, but the food here’s too rich for me. I’ll grab a bite at a tavern.”
“Then I hope Commander Foch will forgive me for leaving the table now, as well; I have a million things to do. But do stay, Antoine, and order anything you like.”
“Thanks, Mother. But I think I’ll go with Sam to the tailor shop and add my own urgings to his plea for speed. Then I’ll take the Commodore to lunch and we can talk shop about details that wouldn’t interest you. My apologies.”
“No apologies necessary, Antoine. Sam, my committee meets tomorrow at ten. Please come prepared to answer questions about current naval operations and resources needed. Don’t hesitate to ask for anything and everything – but prioritize your wants.”
Sam and Foch said their goodbyes, and hurried to the tailor shop, where a note from Mother Moreau, sent ahead by messenger, had paved the way. The tailor took Sam’s measurements, and assured them that the uniform – no more than a man’s suit in blue wool, with the addition of rank markings and the Navy crest on each side of the tunic collar – would be ready first thing the next morning. The two officers then adjourned to le Gardien de la Paix, a favorite haunt of French Port flics, for a meal simpler but much more enjoyable to both than the lunch they had refused in Government House’s dining room.
Later that evening, he and Foch met with the Navy’s first – and so far, only – staff engineer, Lieutenant (E) Yeo, and a brilliant young naval architect/marine engineer who volunteered his services to the Navy: Lieutenant (E) RKNVR Fuller. The latter received sole credit from LT Yeo for the design of the auxiliary water jet propulsion system in growing use in the Navy, as well as in merchant and fishing vessel new-buildings. Fuller had patented the system, and then generously donated the patent to the Navy. As a result, not only did the Navy have unlimited free use of the design, it earned a royalty from each installation in a civilian vessel
The evening meeting was made necessary by the fact that Mr. Fuller was employed full-time by French Port’s largest shipyard, as Chief Engineer, and could only put on his Navy hat at night. The four officers conferred late into the night, compiling a “wish list” for Sam to present to the Council.
Sam spent the night in a room over Uncle Pete’s bar – not a relative but an old friend – where he had always stayed when in French Port since he was a cadet. He rose early, shared a hasty breakfast with Pete, and was at the door of the tailor shop when it opened for business.
His uniform was ready, neatly pressed, and it fit him perfectly. One thing about it puzzled Sam, however: the single broad gold stripe on the sleeve, instead of the four narrower stripes of a captain. The tailor explained that this was what he understood was the proper rank insignia for a commodore, and showed Sam a document, obviously redrawn from one much older, given to him by Foch and showing the ranks of naval officers from sub-lieutenant to admiral. Sam had always understood “commodore” to be a job description rather than a rank, a courtesy title for an officer in command of multiple vessels. However, he sighed and accepted it – it was too late to change. All that gold braid might impress the politicians, and it was a uniform he’d never wear at sea, anyway.
Sam kept the uniform on, and bundled up the clothes he had been wearing, all except parka and wool watch cap, and sent them to Pete’s Bar, where he had left the rest of his scant luggage. He then set out to walk to Government House, enjoying the exercise. He was also perfectly unrecognizable, with his long grey wool parka buttoned all the way up, the hood deployed, and the watch cap unfolded to create a facemask with holes only for eyes and mouth. It was a freezing day, and everyone he met was dressed similarly. He relished this solitary anonymity, and took his time on the walk.
He took a deep breath at the door to Government House, bracing himself as if for battle, before entering. He arrived just at 1000, and went straight to the committee meeting room, where Mother greeted him, and introduced him to the committee members. He recognized a few of the members, but the committee membership had grown with the growth of the Navy, and most were strangers. Mother called the meeting to order, and announced that the meeting would be informal, a question and answer session with Sam to figure out his needs, and develop a formal program to present to the full council.
The members first had many questions about current operations. They were particularly interested in the self-help building program that had produced the Mafia Utukufu, and asked many questions about its construction and performance in combat. They then asked Sam for a list of his needs.
It was a long one. “I desperately need the Wasp and the Scorpion retrofitted with the Stirling-electric auxiliary propulsion system. I need more schooners, too – ideally built to our specifications – but freighters taken up from trade and fitted with auxiliary propulsion will do. We need them to protect our shipping from the tropics down to well south of Madagascar, and I can use as many as you’ll pay for, and I can officer and man. We need enough armed schooners to patrol the Madagascar Channel as well as the island’s east coast.
“I need the development of a lightweight 37 mm rifle for our planes, to increase their firepower against targets of opportunity encountered at sea; the 37mm will allow our planes to stand off out of Pirate triple-A range and sink them.
“And I need more planes, for both the attack and the reconnaissance roles.
“I need more Stirling engines and 75 mm recoilless rifles to equip our locally-built gunboats, which have proven so useful for inshore work.
“Of course, we’ll need more fuel, much more than we can afford now; even with my present small force, I’m constrained in operations by fuel limitations. I realize that this won’t be politically attractive, because we get all our fuel locally, not on Kerguelen, but I can’t see that changing soon. The tropics are where the palm oil we use is produced.
“Fuel based on imported palm oil is increasingly supplanting the coal and fish oil slurry that has been used here, because the lignite mines are nearing exhaustion, and for technical reasons I don’t understand it seems that pure fish oil is unsatisfactory as a fuel.”
A member raised his hand. “Commodore, you mentioned schooners built to Navy specs; do you have a detailed design for such vessels, so that building could start at once?”
“I do, Councilman. One of our volunteer reserve officers, a brilliant engineer and designer, has produced detailed plans for a vessel more useful to us than a freight schooner. It has a finer entrance and run and a larger sail plan than a freighter, so it should be quite fast, perhaps as fast as the speedy Pirate dhows. It includes a larger engine than any so far manufactured and accommodations and stores capacity for a large crew.”
Another question: “Commodore, can you lend us the aid of your engineers, to help us specify and cost these items?”
“We only have two here in French Port, but of course Commander Foch will make them available to you. It may require Council intervention with Lieutenant Fuller’s employer to get him released from his duties at Messrs. Dupont’s shipyard, where he is Chief Engineer.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. I’m well acquainted with his employers and see no difficulty getting him released for as long as we need him,” Mother interjected.
The committee then broke for thirty minutes, for a quick snack in lieu of dinner. When it reconvened, members had thought of more questions to ask Sam, and the meeting dragged on for another two hours. When they finally adjourned, Sam was exhausted from so much talking, but heartened by fact that the committee members did not carp at the cost of these requirements, but merely wanted full details for their formal proposal for a new naval budget.
&nb
sp; Twelve
When Sam emerged from the committee room, a Government House functionary handed him a message from Foch. It read: I think I’ve found a schooner to take you back north. You may also find it suitable for conversion to naval use. If interested please call and we can meet at the building yard. VR: A. Foch.
This made Sam forget all about fatigue, and he hurried to phone Foch.
“Is the schooner not yet complete?” he asked.
“She’s complete, but the would-be owner got so far behind in progress payments to the yard that he couldn’t take possession. He had to file for bankruptcy, and the schooner is now for sale by court order to satisfy his debts.”
“What’s her name?”
“Not yet christened.”
“I want to see her!”
Foch named the shipyard, and they arranged to meet there as soon as possible.
Sam, so excited by the prospect of a new schooner that he overcame his aversion to cabs, phoned for one.
The yard was Colquitt & Cie, a large, long-established builder of ocean-going vessels. Sam fell in love at first sight.
She was a two-master, with a fine entry and run. Her masts were set up, including topmasts, and there were yards on the fore for two square topsails, one on the fore topmast and another on the lower foremast. The masts were sharply raked, giving her an appearance of speed. Sam assumed that all this fair-weather rigging was in place for the benefit of prospective buyers, since the topmasts and all related sails and gear would have to be struck below to weather the Roaring Forties.
“That lower yard will be perfect for setting a drifter,” said Sam. “But I don’t understand – I’ve never seen a Kerg-built schooner with finer lines. She’s obviously built for speed, not carrying capacity. How did the owner expect to make money with her?”
“The yard people told me he built it to serve as a fast passenger-cargo packet for the inter-island trades in the IO.
“And her lines are not the only thing about her that’s unusual; she’s composite built, of course, but on aluminum, not steel, frames. Colquitt’s is the only yard prepared to build vessels like this – welding aluminum is tricky, so the frame is bolted together, not welded, as a steel frame would be.”
Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga Page 24