“How do you know that will work? And won't the bomb go off as soon as it hits the water?”
“Well, sir, we can fit the bombs with delay fuses, set for two or three seconds. I spoke to the squadron armorer, and he's confident he can do it. And yes, a bomb can skip across the water – Kai did it by accident once. Jimmy Mallery was flying near him, and saw it. Kai was taking off, and had come up to only thirty or forty feet when one of his practice bombs accidentally released. Jimmy saw it hit the surface and take two or three long skips before sinking.”
Sam thought this sounded too unlikely – skipping bombs across the water, like flat stones? “You really think this will work?” he asked dubiously.
“Yessir. Well, it's worth a try. It's the best idea we've come up with.”
“Assuming it does – how does this defeat the triple-A threat?”
“We all talked it over, and agreed on this tactic. A two-plane attack – both approach the target out of the sun to within a few miles, then dive down right onto the deck. Both juke and swerve as they fly toward the target at max speed, to throw off the gunners' aim. We figure by coming in low on the bow, we put at least half the AA mounts on the target out of the picture – masked by their own masts and spars. One plane strafes, to encourage 'em keep their heads down, while the other lines up and drops when within just twenty feet or so of the target. Then both bank off in opposite directions and climb steeply.”
“And you're sure this'll work?” Sam was still dubious.
“Well, no, sir – not sure. We'll have to try it. But we think it's worth a trial.”
“Okay. So how do we test this idea?”
“We're very near the Comoros, aren't we? Could we anchor there?”
“Probably. I'll look at the chart. But I'm pretty sure that won't be a problem. Go ahead and get ready – make up dummy bombs, or whatever. Decide how you'll rig up a target.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sam walked forward to the Charlemagne's wheel-house and entered the chart-room, just aft of the helm. He rummaged through the drawers in the chart desk until he found the chart he was looking for: the Comoros Islands. Seeing the island of Anjouan brought vividly to mind the bloody Battle at Anchor, during which the Kerg squadron had destroyed a Caliphate expeditionary force that had begun the establishment of a base there: a victory, but a very costly one. Many more such victories, in fact, would destroy the Navy.
His eye traveled down the chart, to the island of Mayotte. He knew from an earlier reconnaissance that Mayotte was uninhabited, while the more northerly Comoros, including Anjouan, had a remnant population. The northern coast of Mayotte trended northwest to southeast, and thus created a lee from the prevailing winds where the task force could anchor safely. Sam then laid off a track from their present position to Mayotte, and noted the course.
Stepping out of the chart-room, he waved Todd Cameron over and told him to signal a change of course for Mayotte. “And be sure to notify the Charlie's watch officer verbally.”
“Aye aye, Commodore.”
Before noon the next day, Taffy One was approaching the northern shore of Mayotte, sails furled, proceeding at slow ahead under power. The signal “anchor” was flying at the dip from the mizzen of Charlemagne, repeated from the other ships.
“Execute when we come onto the bearing,” Sam said to Todd. When the Charlemagne approached the position selected for the anchorage, as fixed by visual cross-bearings on a couple of prominent landmarks ashore, the “anchor” signal was two-blocked smartly, and the anchors of all four went into the water with a great rattle of chain and clatter of windlasses. The splashes were almost simultaneous, a precision that Sam found very satisfying.
An immense bustle at once broke out on board Charlemagne. Boats and planes were launched, the boats headed for shore towing barrels, the aircraft warming their engines alongside. As Sam and Ben Murphy watched together from the quarterdeck, the boats connected all the barrels, and laid out the string in a line, anchored at each end, with flags attached to each barrel. The flags were a motley of white and colored rags, with no signal significance – just visual aids for finding the barrel string.
At the same time, a work party ashore was busy cutting down trees and using them to build a crude tower about thirty feet high. A small platform, with guard rails and a thatched sun-roof, topped it off. Seamen hoisted up radio equipment, very carefully, followed by a battery bank.
The messenger of the watch approached the two, and said, “Commander Schofield's respects, and may he approach the Flag.” Sam looked around and saw with some surprise that Dave Schofield was waiting just forward of the quarterdeck. Sam had assumed that he would be ashore or in a cockpit, taking part in the upcoming training exercise.
“Come on aft, Dave,” Sam called, and, as Schofield approached, said “I'm surprised to see you still aboard.”
“Well, sir, I've decided to watch from here – let Jimmy Mallery run the exercise. He'll be up that tower with a radio, spotting for the planes.”
“Good. You can brief Captain Murphy and me on what's happening. Begin with what we're seeing now.”
“Yes, sir. The string of barrels marked with flags stands for a target vessel. The planes are each armed with four dummy bombs, fabricated by the armorer to be as identical as possible in weight, balance, and dimensions to our hundred-pounders. Each pilot in turn will make a run on the target, and try to “skip” a bomb across the line of barrels – success will mean a hit, and if the bomb sinks prematurely we’ll score it either a miss or a near-miss, depending on how close it gets to the target before sinking. We figure a near-enough miss – the bomb going off within, say, ten to twenty feet of the target – will be almost as good as a hit, since the concussion should damage the hull – at least open a few seams.
“Jimmy Mallery will call hits or misses, and keep score. We'll keep on until we run out of dummy bombs or we get good at it, whichever comes first.”
“What if this just can't be made to work?”
Schofield shrugged, a bitter smile on his face. “Then you'll have a tough decision, sir. We can keep trying to bomb from altitude, a safe but relatively ineffective approach...”
“Or?” Sam prompted.
“Or go back to low-level, shallow-dive bombing, with the understanding that we'll lose aircraft and pilots at a steady rate until we have none left. That decision will have to balance the cost against the results – a choice for you to make, Commodore.”
“I can't imagine any situation so dire as to warrant risking our entire air arm. We would have to have many more planes and pilots before we could expend them so recklessly. No, even if attack from the air proves impractical, we've still got the overwhelming advantage they offer in distant reconnaissance, and gunfire spotting in a surface action.”
“I'm pretty confident we can make skip-bombing work, Commodore, with enough practice. We'll just have to see.”
The three officers turned their attention to the Petrels as one by one they taxied into the wind and arose from the sea. They circled until all five were airborne, then rose to seven or eight thousand feet. Sam noticed that each machine now had its tail painted a bright yellow, like Schofield's, but with the addition of a large block letter in dark blue shadowed in white. “You've painted their tails that way for recognition purposes, I assume?”
“Right, Commodore. We found our old system confusing. Now, each pilot has a radio call sign, a sort of nickname each chose, with no relation to the tail letter, so if the enemy overhears our radio comms they won't be able to tell which plane is saying what.
“I've had Sparks rig up a loud speaker outside the Air Shack, so you can hear the radio chatter during the exercise.” As if at Schofield's signal, the speaker came to life just then. “Herd, this is Loverboy. Line up for attack.” Although the words were understandable, distortion and static kept Sam from recognizing the voice.
“'Loverboy' is Jimmy Mallery, in the tower. 'Herd' is the collective call sign,” Da
ve Schofield said.
“Just out of curiosity, Dave, what's your call sign?” Sam asked.
“'Bull', of course,” Dave replied with a sardonic grin.
“Herd, Loverboy. Commence exercise,” came from the loudspeaker. A Petrel with the tail letter “B” roared low over the tower and lined up on the target, dropping right down to no more than twenty or thirty feet above the water. It released a bomb, and somewhat to Sam's surprise, it skipped over the surface toward the string of flag-festooned barrels. He hadn't really believed that could happen until he saw it.
“Dragon, that was short, a near-miss. You released just a second too soon,” the loudspeaker blared.
“'Dragon' is Petty Officer Kai,” Dave explained. “He's one of our best. And that was a very good result for his first run – as I said, we figure a near-miss will be highly likely to damage the target through blast effect.”
“Rowdy, you're up next,” the speaker announced. A plane with a bold “D” on its tail dove down out of the sun, straightened out just above the water, and released when very close to the target.
“Rowdy, that was an over – you released too late,” Mallery announced.
“'Rowdy' is Midshipman Yates. That wasn't too bad – I would have called it a near-miss,” Dave said.
“Swordsman, you're up,” the speaker said. The Petrel with an “F” on its tail dove, leveled off, and released. The bomb skipped once – twice – three times, and hit one of the barrel floats, smashing it.
“Touché, Swordsman! That was a direct hit!” Mallery's excitement was detectable even through the distortion of the amplifier. Dave pounded the rail. “Oh, well done, Danny!”
“Who?”, Sam asked.
“Lieutenant Danny Ellis is 'Swordsman'. He's good – as a flier, maybe second only to Kai.”
However, Swordsman's coup proved to be a fluke, at least for the time being; the next few drops were clear misses. But the squadron improved gradually with practice. Once the Petrels had dropped all four of the bombs that were the maximum load they could carry, they returned to Charlemagne. They had to be hoisted aboard to be rearmed, an arduous process, but one at which the Charlie's deck gang had become quite proficient. Dave excused himself and went ashore to take over the tower as spotter so that Mallery could get a turn at skip-bombing practice.
Just before sunset, Dave called a halt for the day, and the Petrels alit on the water and taxied to Charlemagne to be hoisted aboard. Mechanics swarmed around the planes, checking for defects, while the pilots gathered with Dave for a debrief of the day's training.
Sam suddenly realized that he was ravenous. Dinner had been a rice ball and a mug of coffee, taken on deck. “Ben, join me for supper? Don't know about you, but I'm starved.”
“Thanks, Commodore. Happy to.”
Sam passed the word for Ritchie, and ordered a meal for two. The two officers parted to go to their own cabins for a quick wash, then met again in the “flag mess” – until recently, the captain's mess – for a drink, while they waited for Ritchie to prepare their meal.
“What did you think of today's bombing drills, Ben?” Sam asked.
“Pretty impressive progress, Commodore, especially given only just half a day's practice.” He shook his head and chuckled ruefully. “I confess, I thought skip-bombing was une idée folle when I first heard it. I was amazed when it actually seemed to work, right from the first run.”
“Just between you and me, Ben? I thought the same. But I was ready to try anything. I was afraid the whole notion of naval aviation – attack aircraft, anyway – was a flop.”
“If you don't mind me saying so, Commodore, I've always thought – still do think – that our flying machines are too valuable as scouts and gunfire spotters to risk in any other role. At least until we have a helluva lot more of 'em.”
“You may be right, Ben. I've pondered that myself. It's just that I had such high hopes that attack aircraft would prove to be the weapon that ends the war – a decisive blow that would convince the Pirates they couldn't beat us, and would have to talk. Looking back, I realize now that was unrealistic. There's no magic sword that'll win this thing for us – we just gotta persevere.
“So, I agree with you – the handful of planes we have now are too precious to risk. If this doesn't work – if skip-bombing proves to be too risky to pilots and machines – I've decided to stop using them offensively altogether.”
At that point, Ritchie interrupted them with a laden tray that gave off delightful smells, and they devoted the next twenty minutes or so to eating, during which “shop talk” was taboo. Then, after an after-dinner drink, they parted for the evening, Murphy to take a turn on deck, Sam to confer with Dave Schofield.
When Schofield arrived in flag country promptly, Sam said, “How do you think it went today, Dave? Are you still confident skip-bombing can be an effective tactic?”
“Oh, yes, Commodore – definitely. In fact, I think one, maybe two, more days of practice are all we need to be ready to attack.” Sam pondered this for a long moment, staring at Schofield. Then he said abruptly, “Dave, you'd better be right. If it doesn't succeed, I've decided to stop using the planes for offensive ops – to use them only for gunfire spotting and reconnaissance. We have so few we can't risk losing any.”
“Commodore, I understand, but I'd like to quote your own axiom: a weapon too valuable to risk is no weapon at all.”
“That’s right, Dave. But to put it another way, a platform so much more valuable for other roles may just be too valuable to risk using as a weapon.
“Tell me this: we have five operational planes. What's the least number we would need for maintaining a constant airborne early warning, a hundred miles or so ahead of the task force?”
Schofield considered this, then said reluctantly, “Three, at an absolute minimum.”
“Then we can only afford to lose two planes, whether in combat or by accident. If, God forbid, we lose two planes, we'll no longer risk the rest in battle.” Dave considered this in silence, then answered only, “Aye aye, sir.”
“On another topic,” Sam went on. “I've decided I need another staff officer, so we can stand a round-the-clock flag watch. Also, I think it would be useful to have an aviator on the staff. You have eight pilots but only five operational planes, so you ought to be able to spare a pilot for reassignment. Pick one, and send him to Cameron for briefing first thing tomorrow.”
“But sir, I've been rotating all eight through the flying roster so they'll all be current. If I have a sick or injured pilot, I'll need a spare. Plus, we hope to get more Petrels – Charlemagne has the capacity for eight, with additional booms – and we'll need trained pilots for them.”
“You can give up one for now, Dave. If necessary later, my aviation staff officer will be reassigned to flying duty. But I want to see a pilot on deck in flag country right after morning colors tomorrow. Clear?”
“Aye aye, sir,” Schofield's face plainly showed that he felt he had been the recipient of a double-barreled volley of unwelcome news, but Sam was adamant. As my old Gran used to say, into each life some sleet must fall, he thought pitilessly.
“Well, that's all, Dave. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
The next morning, when Sam came on deck, he found a young officer talking to Lieutenant Cameron, who broke off the conversation when he saw Sam.
“Sir, this is Midshipman Eloy. He says he's been seconded by Commander Schofield to flag staff ...”
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Eloy,” Sam said, offering his hand.
“Honored, sir. Hope I can be of use, sir.” Sam reflected that this diffident and somewhat nervous boy hardly fit the stereotype of a pilot: brash, almost arrogant self-confidence. It was easy to see why, of eight pilots, Dave found Eloy the most dispensable.
“Todd been putting you in the picture?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are you from?”
“Reunion, sir.”
Sam
waited a moment, expecting him to volunteer more information about himself, then despairing of starting a conversation with the monosyllabic lad, ended the attempt by saying, “Well, you and Todd will stand watch and watch for the time being. Todd will draft some standing orders for the flag watch. In addition, you're to be our staff aviation expert. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Carry on, then.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Sam then turned to watch the planes of the squadron circling and diving, one after another, in mock attacks on the target. He found that, by using his telescope, he could spot the splashes the dummy bombs made as they skipped across the water. He couldn't always tell whether a drop was a hit or a miss, but the radio communications between tower and planes was still being broadcast through the speaker on the Air Shack, so he could follow their progress. As the day progressed, the ratio of hits or near-misses to outright misses increased steadily.
Each Petrel dropped one bomb on each attack run. Once all four had been dropped, the aircraft had to alight and taxi to the Charlemagne to be re-armed. Sam noted that, instead of hoisting them aboard, aviation techs were servicing the planes while afloat, from the Charlie's boats. This made the bombing-up process go much quicker, once the deck crews got accustomed to doing their work while standing in a small boat that was moving underneath them. He made a mental note to congratulate whoever had come up with this idea. Of course, it was only possible in the relatively calm waters in the lee of Mayotte. The airmen could do it in the open sea only in a nearly flat calm, with minimal swell.
Sam spent the rest of that day alternating between observing bombing practice and conferring with Lieutenant Cameron on night standing orders for the flag watch, and arrangements to set up a chart desk in flag country, below, where staff officers could keep their own plot of task force movements – a space to be designated “flag plot”. Toward sunset, the squadron completed operations for the day, and by full dark the last Petrel had been hoisted aboard.
Assault on Zanzibar Page 4
