Into Uncharted Seas

by E. C. Williams

  “But however much fun it is to speculate, it's all blue-sky talk until we have an airplane. We're not likely to have one anytime soon, unless the Reunnionais make us a gift of one, and I think I just about exhausted their reserves of generosity by wheedling the 75 mm recoilless rifle out of the President, over General Chasseur's objections.”

  “What's a 'recoilless rifle', Commodore?” asked Ennis.

  “A new kind of gun. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow – in fact, I'll show it to you. I think we should take advantage of the fact that we're all in port at once to have a conference of Captains and Executive Officers. Say tomorrow at ten hundred? On board the Albatros.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “I'll have the word passed to the Roland. Until then, Bill, Mike, Dave.” Sam took his leave, departing on the port side, as he had arrived, to spare the Joans the inconvenience of mustering a side party.

  Back aboard the Albatros, Sam found a note waiting for him, from Governor McLeod, inviting him to dinner that afternoon. The Governor apologized for the short notice, but gently insisted that a conference among Sam, the High Commissioner, and the commander of the Nosy Be militia was necessary at Sam's “earliest convenience.” Having used that formula himself, Sam realized with an inward groan that he was being told, not asked, to report on the double.

  The note went on to state that the Governor's car would be sent for him at one o'clock. That was rather early for dinner – by fashionable standards, that is, not those on board ship. Sam supposed this meant the conference would run all afternoon, through the dinner hour.

  He checked the time and swore to himself: he would just have time to change and take the motor sloop in to meet the Governor's car.

  He passed the word for the XO, who found his Commodore stripped to his underwear, in the process of changing clothes.

  “Al, I have to go see His Nibs. Order the motor sloop for me, will you? And we're having a CO/XO conference, all vessels, on board Albatros tomorrow morning at ten. No, better make it eight. Hang out a signal to that effect. When I get back we'll sit down and write the agenda.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “You can probably imagine some of the things we need to talk about – the housekeeping stuff – so go ahead and work up a draft if you have time.”

  “Right, Skipper.”

  Sam hurried on deck and down the port-side pilot ladder into the motor-sloop. The boat was soon at the small-craft pier they habitually used, the one the crew had begun to call “Navy Landing”, although it wasn't reserved for the exclusive use of the Navy. He found the Governor's car waiting for him there.

  The powerful open vehicle then whisked him away, through the crowded and bustling port district, through the leafy suburbs and the ubiquitous smell of vanilla, which grew wild all over the island, to the Governor's official residence. Comfortable rather than stately, the house was a rambling over-sized bungalow set among tall shade trees that kept it cool at all times of the day.

  There Sam was greeted as usual by the silent Malagasy servant and ushered into the Governor's parlor, where he found three men standing around with drinks in hand. One of these was the Governor, portly and smiling, who greeted Sam with great warmth and elaborate courtesy, as usual.

  “Commodore! How kind of you to come on such short notice. I scheduled this conference as soon as I knew the Albatros would be in port.

  “You know the High Commissioner, Mister Ravenel, I believe?” Sam shook hands with Ravenel.

  “But I don't believe you've met Colonel Dumont, commander of the Royal Nosy Be Regiment. Colonel, Commodore Bowditch.”

  Dumont was a tall man, resplendent in the uniform of an officer in the militia. His impressive turnout reminded Sam again that it was past time the Navy came up with a suitable uniform for its officers. He and Sam shook hands and murmured the appropriate social formulae.

  “'Royal'?” Sam asked. “Is that new?”

  “Yes. The King, on his most recent visit, reviewed the Regiment and granted it that appellation,” Dumont replied.

  This was one of the infrequent reminders of a fact that was ordinarily easy to overlook: Nosy Be was, nominally, a constitutional monarchy, being part of the realm of a Malagasy chieftain, ruler of the northwestern part of Madagascar. He appeared on Nosy Be at long and irregular intervals, to receive gifts and remind his Nosy Be subjects of their allegiance, and otherwise maintained a policy of benign neglect.

  Sam was offered a drink and asked for something non-alcoholic, having learned that the Governor's rum was too potent for pre-dinner consumption – at least for someone who, like Sam, had eaten breakfast at dawn and had had nothing since.

  “I asked you here at this early hour so we could get some work done before dinner, gentlemen,” the Governor said. “If you don't mind, let's congregate around the dinner table now, where I hope my staff have laid out a few snacks to keep hunger at bay, and get down to it.”

  The “few snacks” turned out to be a lavish spread of fresh fruit, rice balls, and assorted pastries, more than adequate to keep hunger at bay for several times their number.

  “I have no formal agenda for this meeting. It is my intention that we meet whenever possible – whenever Commodore Bowditch is in port, in other words – to share opinions about the course of the war, and developments naval, military, and diplomatic.

  “Perhaps we can begin with the latter. High Commissioner?”

  Ravenel cleared his throat and took a moment to organize his thoughts.

  “On the diplomatic front, we've made some modest progress with the states of the Kerguelenian diaspora around the Southern Ocean,” he began. “I don't think it's so much the persuasiveness of my colleagues as the rise in prices of tropical products that made them realize that this is their war, too. Hardwoods, copra, palm oil, and, above all, sugar and rum – all have soared because of the pirate threat to trade. This has attracted the attention of important mercantile interests in all the Southern Ocean states.

  “As a result, the Falklands Free State, the Republic of Patagonia , the Tasmanian Federation, and the Stewart Islanders – all have agreed to contribute funds to the war effort. Unfortunately, for the present they offer only nominal amounts: all together not quite enough to fit out one converted merchantman as a warship.

  “Perhaps their most important contribution, at least from your point of view, Commodore, is their agreement to allow us to recruit their people. If you can send a recruiting detail to tour the Southern Ocean, your manpower problem may be solved.”

  “That's good news, of course,” Sam replied. “But it's a long-range solution. Right now, I have the problem of sparing an officer and several petty officers to make up the detail, then sending them to Kerguelen to catch a round-the-worlder. I certainly can't spare a naval vessel. So they'll take commercial vessels from port to port, stay in one place long enough to engage a batch of recruits, then find commercial passage to the next port – it'll take forever.”

  “Perhaps the corps diplomatique can be of service, Commodore. We now have diplomatic representation throughout the Kergosphere. What if you delegated to us the responsibility for recruiting suitable people --using criteria specified by you, of course – then sending them on to you?.”

  Sam said, “How would your diplomats know how to pick out a man who would make a good sailor? And would they then just send the recruits onward, to travel halfway around the world unsupervised?”

  “As I said , Commodore, you would specify recruiting standards – age, physical fitness, education, seagoing background, whatever criteria you choose – and our diplomats would simply follow them. As for sending them onward unsupervised, they'll be volunteers, sir, not prisoners requiring an escort.”

  Sam thought about this, and could see no obvious flaw. The idea of letting diplomats recruit seamen for him was strange – but he was desperate for men, and needed them immediately, and this plan seemed to promise quick results. Quicker, certainly, than sending a recruiting party
off around the world.

  Finally he said, “Thank you, High Commissioner. The Navy appreciates your help. I'll draft a set of recruiting specifications for your people to follow and get them to you right away.”

  “And I'll immediately transmit them to my colleagues.”

  Ravenel, unusually for him, added nothing further to the conference. On being given the floor, Sam raised the issue of the Joan's immediate need for drydock time, for installation of the waterjet propulsion system. The Albatros also needed, at a minimum, a gang of shipyard workers to apply more durable, if still temporary, patches to her shot holes; permanent repairs would have to wait until she, too, could schedule a yard period.

  This proved uncontroversial, Ravenel and Dumont being indifferent to such technical issues of merely naval importance, and the Governor perfectly willing to grant the Navy top priority with the local drydock company Sam preferred, as having past experience with Navy work.

  Sam then sprang his recoilless rifle surprise, confidently anticipating the reverent awe this wonder-weapon would produce, at least on the part of Colonel Dumont, and then going on to generously offer to share it with the Nosy Be militia so long as the initial output of rifles was reserved for the Navy. But to his dismay, this was old news to his hearers.

  “Yes, the RDF shared the specifications for the 75 mm with us some time back,” said Colonel Dumont. “Mister Kwek's shop is currently at work on our first batch of six rifles.”

  Sam's heart sank at this news, but he might have known that, given the close cooperation between Reunion and Nosy Be, the Reunionnais would have shared the design of the gun as a matter of course. He wondered how his gunner was faring now: at this moment he was supposed to be at Kwek's shop, getting the final repairs done to the Albatros's 75 mm, the precision machining necessary having proved beyond the capabilities of the ship.

  “How do you plan to use the reckless rifles, Colonel?”

  “Pretty much the same way as the Reunnionais: arm two fast boats with the first ones, then create four mobile, rapid-response beach defense teams, each centered on a 75 mm, deployed around the island. We're going to forgo fixed emplacements of big, heavy guns, like the RDF's five-inchers, in favor of a mobile defense, since we can't afford enough of the Reunnionais five inchers to make any difference, and we don't yet have the industrial capacity for casting such big guns.”

  There then ensued an argument that eventually became heated, as Sam argued for the Navy's need to cut into line and get at least two of the first batch of Kwek-made 75 mm rifles. Dumont fought just as stubbornly for the militia's right to all six, with the Navy limited to sharing equally in a follow-on batch of six guns.

  The argument reached a stalemate and was on the verge of the shouting phase, when the Governor smoothly intervened and cut the baby in half: Sam's needed repair to his one damaged gun would get top priority, “ … if it didn't take too much time”. What would constitute “too much time” was left undefined. Thereafter, the Militia would get the first two weapons of the initial batch, the Navy the second two, and so on. The initial batch would be doubled to twelve rifles. This agreement shared the characteristic of all forced compromises in that it satisfied neither party, but Sam decided that he had gotten all he could reasonably expect, so he accepted it with as good grace as he could muster.

  The discussion moved on to longer-range plans. “What will be the Navy's movements during the next quarter?” asked the Governor.

  “The Albatros will get under way again as soon as she's repaired and stored, with one of the 'little sisters', to patrol the Mascarene approaches. The other 'little sister' will stay here in local waters, to provide support to Nosy Be militia forces defending the island.”

  Colonel Dumont interrupted at this point. “'Little sisters?'”

  “The Roland and the Scorpion,” Sam said. “Navy slang. We call the Albatros and the Joan the 'big sisters'.” Dumont nodded, and Sam went on. “The Albatros will stay at sea until informed that the Joan's auxiliary waterjet engines have been installed and tested, and then return to take her place in dock while the Joan takes over the task of patrolling the sea lanes. I expect that the Albatros will have to be stripped of most of her hands to bring Joan up to an acceptable level of manning.”

  “When do you think your squadron will be ready for our Zanzibar enterprise?” asked the Governor.

  “Hard to say. For one thing, we'll have to have enough trained men to fully men all vessels. That situation will depend on how many men the recruiting drive in the other Kerg states produces, how quickly they can get here, and how soon they can be trained up to combat readiness.”

  Sam knew this response wasn't very satisfactory to the Governor and Colonel Dumont. They wanted a fixed future date for the much-discussed raid on Zanzibar, which always seemed to recede into the indefinite future. But Sam also knew that fixing a firm date now would simply flesh out and confirm the inevitable rumors of a planned descent on Zanzibar, which information would inevitably make its way to pirate ears. And arbitrarily picking a date at this point would be pointless, since it would almost certainly have to be put back. Everything depended upon the recruiting drive throughout the Kerguelenian settlements all round the Southern Ocean, something beyond the control of anyone present, and, since it was unprecedented, the time it would take could not be realistically predicted.

  When this discussion wound down, the Governor adjourned the group for dinner. By this point, Sam had little appetite left: it being so long past his usual dinner hour, he had been grazing through the “snacks” so bountifully provided. He would have much preferred to work on through the agenda so he could return to his ship, but His Excellency's hospitality was not to be so easily refused. Everyone therefore went into the parlor for a pre-dinner drink while the table was cleared and re-set for dinner. There Sam enjoyed the drink but not the small talk so determinedly guided by the governor away from any hint of “shop”.

  When they returned to the Governor's dining room, Sam looked with dismay at the fish, grilled and fried, zebu roast, vegetables, rice, and fruit set out there, all of which he would have to at least sample in the interests of politeness but for which he had no appetite whatever. He grimly ate small portions of everything without the least enjoyment. The “grease cutter”, or after-dinner drink – interesting that this inelegant term was in use on Nosy Be, too – he gratefully received when they once again adjourned to the parlor to allow servants to clear the dining table.

  When the conference resumed, it was Colonel Dumont's turn. He was a tall, handsome man of middle years, elegant in an exquisitely tailored militia uniform. He had no more military experience or knowledge than anyone else on Nosy Be, but he was from a rich and well-connected family, seemingly the main qualification for any high public post here. To give him credit, though, he had taken his responsibilities seriously, to the extent of careful study both of whatever books on military strategy and tactics he could find, and of various likely scenarios that might arise in the defense of the island.

  He illustrated his presentation with a large map of Nosy Be placed on an easel at the end of the table, to which he pointed from time to time. Sam was having trouble staying awake by this point, the “grease cutter” having had its soporific effect, and was grateful for the coffee set out for self-service. He attempted to take notes, keenly aware that he needed to know all this stuff since he was responsible – had voluntarily assumed responsibility – for supporting the militia from seaward.

  He resolved to bring an officer with him to the next conference, tasked with taking careful notes.

  In fact, what he really needed, he reflected not for the first time, was a staff. He was trying to command both a squadron of four vessels, and one of the vessels, without any staff support whatever. It wasn't yet time to give up personal command of the Albatros. But he absolutely needed, as a minimum, an officer with no other duties but to provide him staff support, plus one or two competent petty officers, perhaps a staff writer and
a staff signals petty officer.

  A reference by Colonel Dumont to the Albatros made Sam realize that his mind was wandering, and forced his attention back to the militia commander, who was talking about lessons learned from the raid on Andilana.

  “ … so if the Albatros and the Joan of Arc had not been available to intervene, the pirates could have sacked Andilana at their leisure, taken captives, and been long gone before we could have mustered so much as a squad of riflemen to oppose them. And this was at a time when we had already mustered in, armed, and partly trained a full battalion.

  “So our emphasis now is on mobility. We have established platoon-sized battle groups at key points around the island, trained to muster at their local armories within minutes of an alarm. From there, they can be dispatched rapidly to any threatened place around the shoreline, ready to oppose a landing. We have selected locations at or near junctions of roads leading to key points on the coast. Each battle group has a dedicated motor vehicle, which will ultimately mount a 75 mm recoilless rifle. This vehicle will be maintained in a state of instant readiness at all times.”

  Sam interrupted at this point. “You can put a whole platoon on one truck? Isn't that a tight fit?”

  The Colonel chuckled. “It certainly is – or was, until we figured out a solution.

  “We just don't have the resources to equip these battle groups with more than one dedicated motor vehicle apiece. We thought at first of supplementing them with commandeered local civilian trucks, but decided that the availability of suitable vehicles at any given time was too uncertain. And, of course, this practice wouldn't be popular with the owners of those vehicles. Although the battle groups are organized as platoons, their strength is at the low end of the traditional definition of that unit: they average fewer than twenty men apiece. So we ultimately managed to carry them all on one truck by welding grab rails and footholds all round the bed, so that those who won't fit in the cab or the bed can hang on to the side. It looks precarious and even a bit silly, but it works – we've held several drills.”