“Mother, this is Gannet. Enemy still disorganized by wind shift, many larger dhows still in irons, break. Eastern division now appears to be attempting to diverge from western by falling off on the starboard tack, break. Gannet near bingo fuel state, returning to refuel, over.”
Sam grieved for the lost crew of one of the Puffins of Black Flight. At the same time, he was vastly relieved that it wasn’t Dave’s aircraft. As much as Schofield had irritated him in the preceding months, in his zeal in advocating for air power, Sam was aware of just how valuable he was as the Flag’s senior advisor on naval aviation.
He also knew that Dave was right about air power, in theory – it was just that they didn’t have, and would never have, the numbers of aircraft to use them as the ancients did. Every aircraft in the tiny RKN’s tiny air arm was an obscenely expensive, precious, practically hand-made object, probably the equivalent in cost and scarcity, given the differences in resources, of an entire 21st century carrier task force. They were so valuable that the loss of a single one was a serious blow.
But he hoped that Dave’s mind had been powerfully concentrated on the critical fact that this battle was, one, the key to victory or defeat in the war, and two, must be fought with the resources they had. Vessels and aircraft in the pipeline, or promised, did them no good at all. No losses could be replaced in time to make a difference.
Gannet’s report forced his attention back to the unrep operation now ongoing. Both vessels, all sails doused, were motoring into the now-mild south-south-westerly breeze, Charlemagne making a breakwater for Emma Lee against the still south-easterly force four sea, now becoming somewhat confused by the wind shift.
“Gannet, this is Mother. Report exact fuel state and distance off. Over.”
Sam recognized Lieutenant Ballard’s – Poet’s – voice; as squadron XO he was now Deck Boss in Dave’s absence. He sounded tired, even through the distortion of the radio speaker, as well he might; he had been flying or servicing aircraft since first light, and it was now – Sam glanced up at the Sun – past local apparent noon.
It was, in fact, about the time of day they had originally anticipated surface contact with the enemy. This had been delayed, for various reasons, which was just as well.
“Mother, this is Gannet. I have you in sight, break. Fuel state approximately ten percent, over.”
“Gannet, Mother. Orbit until unrep completed, break. If not completed by the time you’re at five percent, alight, taxi toward our stern, and take a towline. Over.”
Sam knew that this would be a desperation move. Puffins, and flying boats in general, were awkward beasts under tow, even in a flat calm. In this sea, and especially when Charlemagne made the one hundred and eighty degree turn she would have to do once unrep was completed, there was a very real risk the Puffin LR would be swamped. Without the aircraft’s power to taxi alongside, recovery would be a bitch, too.
So he was vastly relieved when Emma Lee recovered hose and tackle, and Charlemagne let her surge ahead, and then made her turn, after Gannet had made only a few orbits. The Puffin LR touched down, taxied alongside, and was recovered normally.
“Ask Mister Ballard to step aft when he has a free moment – and make sure to phrase it that way, and not as an order,” Sam said to his phone talker. The seaman, brow furrowed in concentration, and taking the Flag quite literally, said into his mouthpiece, “The Commodore asks Mister Ballard to step aft when he has a free moment and that ain’t an order.” Sam turned away, covering his mouth to stifle a laugh – both at the phone talker’s phrasing and the look of horror on Todd Cameron’s face as he overheard him.
Raised from a midshipman to believe that a superior officer’s wish – certainly that of one so superior as a Commodore – was his command, Ballard came aft promptly.
Sam was appalled at his obvious fatigue – shoulders slumped, face lined, shuffling walk – and exclaimed, “Mister Ballard, when was the last time you got any rest!”
“No rest for an XO, Commodore!” he replied cheerfully. “I can rest after the battle.”
“Speaking of which, Poet – if I may call you that – the surface battle will soon begin. As you will have noticed, the enemy’s eastern division apparently intends to avoid us and sail on to Mafia Island. We’ll have to let ‘em do that, at least for the time being, while we deal with the western division, which is pretty clearly coming straight for us.
“My intention is to attack those two horns by which the enemy commander seems to think he will surround us, and smash them each in turn. My hope is that he will stubbornly keep to the same strategy and feed dhows into the horns from the main body to maintain their strength, and continue to try and turn our flanks – in which case we will keep engaging each horn in turn.
“If he’s smart enough and flexible enough to change his strategy, and try to overpower us by attacking us frontally with all his force – well, I’ll have to deal with that when it happens, probably by running away for a bit. If that happens, be assured it’s only a ruse.
“What I need you and your brave airmen to do is to support our schooners in the surface battle by level-bombing enemy vessels from a safe altitude, but beyond the line of battle, so as not to endanger our own ships. I’ve already briefed Dave Schofield on this strategy, but I wanted to be sure you understood my thinking, too, in case … well, in case you’re in a position where you need to. Is that clear?”
“Crystal clear, sir. And it makes perfect sense to me. You may rely on the squadron to support the surface force to the very best of our abilities, and to the last aircraft.”
“I know I can rely on you, and I appreciate your whole-hearted support.
“And now, I’m giving you a direct order to go below to your cabin and rest. You are not to turn another wrench or lift another bomb, and, most especially, you are NOT to climb into another cockpit until you’ve slept for at least one full hour.”
“But Commodore …”
“No buts, Lieutenant Ballard. This is for your safety and that of your shipmates. One full hour, understand – not forty-five minutes, not fifty-five minutes. And I’ll know to the minute. Got it?”
“Yes, Commodore … aye aye, sir. Going now.” He departed with a salute considerably crisper than one Schofield ever managed.
When Red Leader reported the arrival of the three Puffins that had been Red Flight on takeoff, they became Black Flight, and Dave took over.
“Blacks, Black Leader. Triple A dhows now thoroughly mixed with rear element dhows, break. We will attack by level bombing from line-ahead formation at five thousand feet, repeat altitude five kay, break. Form on me, break. Drop as you acquire targets, break. Black two, acknowledge, over.”
When the order was acknowledged, Dave led the line of Puffins diagonally across the rear element of the enemy division from south-east to north-west. Tetch, seat belt off, leaning perilously over the starboard edge of the cockpit down and ahead, triggered off the four 100 kilo bombs one at a time as targets came into view. He had become very good at calculating, in his head, the aim-off point at different altitudes that was optimum for a hit or a near-miss. Still, it was more art than skill, and an art acquired at the cost of many hours and much fuel flying over stationary targets dropping dummy bombs. These targets were moving, albeit very slowly relative to the aircraft, and the wind added to the complex relative motion problem the bombardier had to solve, very quickly, in his head.
Tetch, in his spare time, fantasized about a device that looked ahead through the bottom of the airplane, its angle of vision automatically adjusted for airspeed, windspeed and direction, and altitude as input by the bombardier, so that the bomb would fall with certainty on the target if the bombardier pressed the bomb release the instant the target came into view.
Helas, there was no such device, so he continued to do the best he could with the old Mark I Mod I human brain/eyeball combination.
Dave went around again, after Black Flight had dropped all its bombs, to double-check his e
stimate of the damage to the enemy; Gannet was off-station refueling, so there was no second, objective pair of eyes to verify it.
It was a little disappointing, even though they had bombed at an altitude that was dangerously just within the enemy’s AA envelope: Two dhows definitely sunk or sinking, two damaged. Four vessels, twelve bombs. Still, he hadn’t lost another aircraft, so it was a net gain for the good guys.
Another aircraft ... he depressed the speak button on his radio mike and said, “Mother, this is Black Leader, break. I recommend you order Puffin B from Chole Bay AvDet to rejoin embarked air group. Over.”
Aboard Charlemagne, a relatively junior lieutenant was now acting Air Boss while Ballard was on mandatory rest, and he kicked this decision upstairs to Flag.
Sam sometimes worried that, by keeping direct operational control of the embarked aircraft, he was getting too far down in the weeds, making decisions like this one, and infringing on Captain Murphy’s prerogatives as commander of the carrier. Yet the squadron was a discrete combat unit, rather like one of the schooners; he needed to control its use.
Since the carrier’s sole purpose was to support the aircraft, its subordinate status was rather like that of Emma Lee. He decided that an officer of Ben Murphy’s caliber, in his present role always under Sam’s eye, was somewhat wasted as CO of Charlie. Perhaps he’d be of better use as skipper of one of the gun-schooners, with a more junior officer commanding the carrier. He put this thought aside for the moment; the middle of a battle was no time to be playing musical captains.
“Very well; make it so, Todd,” he said. When the Puffin B arrived, the embarked air det would be back up to the carrier’s full complement of six aircraft.
“Flag signal from Albatros, Commodore,” his signals PO said. “’Enemy in sight’”.
The moment was near when the surface battle would begin – a gunfight against fearful odds.
“Radio signal to Bende: Prepare to attack enemy’s horns, break. Expect air support. End.”
Task Group 1.1 consisted of the schooners, collective call sign Bende (“Gang”) now down to four with the loss of Joan. Its commander was Captain Kendall, and Sam’s first signal using the task group’s signal address activated it.
Closure between the two forces meant flying time between them had gotten very short; Black Flight quickly returned to Charlemagne to refuel and re-arm. While his Puffin was being serviced Dave came aft to confer with Sam.
“Guess the surface battle’s about to kick off, Commodore…?”
“Roger that. As soon as you’re airborne again, establish radio contact with Bende in order to provide him with close air support. As before, take no unnecessary chances with aircraft, but take calculated risks if necessary to save a schooner. Got that?”
“Aye aye, Commodore,” Dave said, and ran back to his waiting Puffin, thinking to himself, take no chances, but take some chances, but don’t lose any airplanes – thanks for that crystal-clear guidance, Boss!
Captain Al Kendall stood on the quarterdeck of the RKNS Albatros, wearing a sound-powered phone headset. As soon as the Commodore had informed him and the other captains about his intended task group set-up, he had instructed his radio division to arrange for him to communicate, by voice radio, directly with either aircraft or schooners. His phone was patched in to the radio shack (actually a compartment below), and he could ask to be patched in to either radio frequency.
He felt a heavy responsibility; Sam Bowditch had entrusted him with tactical command of the battle as it developed from this point, both air and sea, and he would remain in command until he was killed or wounded, or Sam relieved him for incompetence.
Or the battle was won. If it were lost, he would be dead. But Al didn’t think the battle would be won or lost this day, not if things went according to plan.
Of course, wise commanders knew that no plan survives contact with the enemy.
Kendall asked to be switched to the surface-vessel voice freq, then said “TG 1.1, this is BOER; close on me. Hornet, over.” When Hornet acknowledged, he sent “Execute”.
The wind was now blowing a steady force two to three out of the south-south-east. The enemy had finally succeeded in getting all vessels onto the starboard tack, on a close reach. The Task Group, motor-sailing on the port tack with the relative wind on the quarter, had both a speed and freedom of movement advantage over the enemy. The schooners came up into the wind and scooted over to join Albatros very quickly, forming a line abreast at the standard one cable’s length intervals, then resumed base course.
Kendall switched to the air freq, and said, “Bende to Charlie’s Birds. Where are you, lads? Over.”
“Bende, this is Black Leader. We’ll be over your head in two or three minutes, sir. Orders interrogative? Over.”
“Black Leader, this is Bende. Dave Schofield, right? My intent is to attack enemy’s eastern horn, break. Would be helpful if you and your boys could even the odds a bit for us as we come into gun range. Over.”
“Bende, Black Leader. Yes, this is Dave, Captain. We will do our best to help you out, sir. Break. Good luck, Over”
“Black Leader, Bende. The very best of luck to you and your boys, Dave – and thanks for the help. Bende standing by this freq.”
At that moment, Black Flight flew over the schooners and was almost immediately upon the enemy. Concentrating on the first line of dhows, and level-bombing from five thousand feet, the Puffins had no direct hits but multiple near-misses, causing damage all along the enemy’s battle line. They then circled and, when out of range of enemy AA, dropped right down on the deck, so low that each left a wake on the sea surface, and did a line-abreast formation strafing run, focusing on damaged dhows.
Dave, if challenged by the Commodore would call this a “calculated risk” in support of TG 1.1. By flying so low, they would be through the enemy formation before the AA gunners could depress their tubes enough to get a sight picture. Of course, at that altitude, the enemy’s anti-ship gunners would have a fair shot – well, that was the “risk” part of it. But the shock and surprise of the tactic was so great that not one tried it.
The flight expended 37mm ammo recklessly during this strafing run – there was no point in conserving, since Dave had no intention of trying the same trick twice in a row – and did considerably more damage among the front ranks of enemy dhows. A storm of AA fire arose from the horn as the Puffins pulled up from their run, but they waited until they were safely out of range to climb.
“BENDE, Black Leader. Hope that helped, Captain. Break. We’re home to Mother to rearm now, over.”
“Black Leader, BENDE, helped a lot – and it was a helluva lot of fun to watch! Thanks, and see you again soon, I hope. Over.”
“BENDE, Black Leader. We’ll be right back, sir. Black Leader standing by.”
A midshipman standing next to Kendall with a sextant in hand, tasked with continuously estimating distance of the enemy fleet by vertical angle between mast tops and sea-surface, said, “Just coming in to 37mm range now, sir.”
“Thank you, Mister Boyd.” Then, to his phone talker (for internal ship stations), “Tell Mister Amis he may try a ranging shot.”
The schooner’s 37mm gun, already run out onto the port gun balcony, barked once. A shell splash just off the bow of a dhow in the front rank indicated the accuracy of the Mid’s sight.
“BENDE to Gangsters: open fire.”
Five 37mm rifles barked almost in unison, followed in seconds by a shot from Albatros’s reloaded gun. Until the range closed another thousand yards or so, the RKN schooners had the advantage, since their guns outranged the Pirates’ three-inchers by at least that much. Hornet, with two light-weight semi-automatic 37mm rifles, kept up a steady fire in the brief intervals between shots from the other schooners as they re-loaded.
The enemy returned fire, all of which fell short. When a round splashed just ahead of Albatros, Kendall barked, “BENDE to group: reverse course. Hornet, over.”
As s
oon as Hornet acknowledged, he said, “Execute,” and the five schooners spun on their heels in near-simultaneity in a power-assisted tack, turning left nearly 270 degrees through the wind, then speeding away, now on a starboard tack. The enemy, unpowered, unable to sail any closer to the wind and unwilling to take the time to tack, was helpless to catch them. TG 1.1 was now motor-sailing across the enemy’s front, but out of the range of either side’s guns.
Many Pirate dhows had been hit, and, in addition to those damaged by Black Flight, needed the assistance of their sisters, either to take off the crews of those in a sinking condition, or to help fight fires or control flooding on those salvageable. As a result, the point of the western horn had been blunted considerably. Kendall’s intent was now to do the same to the eastern horn.
Black Flight returned to Charlemagne to re-arm, where Dave Schofield received the worst “re-calibration”, i.e. bollocking, of his naval career from the Commodore, delivered at full volume. Dave’s attempts to defend his strafing run as a “…calculated risk” were cut short by charges of being a sea lawyer, and threats to bust him down to sub lieutenant, or even midshipman, and give Ballard command of the squadron. The Commodore’s threats were sometimes hyperbolic, but not these; delivered at full voice in front of witnesses – an entire crowded quarterdeck full of them – they were deadly serious. As Dave returned forward, he knew that, while he had approached the precipice before, this time he had tip-toed to the very edge, and was staring into the abyss. He dared not provoke Bowditch again.
As he approached the aircraft being armed with the usual 100kg bombs, a sudden impulse made him shout, “Belay that – arm with the 300kg big boys!”.
The 300kg bombs were the newest addition to the inventory and the largest, not yet used in combat. Two of them were the maximum arms load-out for a Puffin B – they precluded even carrying ammunition for the 37mm nose gun. They were specifically anti-ship weapons, with a delay fuse that would set them off after a few seconds – in the water, only after they had sunk to a depth dependent upon the altitude from which dropped – at 6000 feet, five or six fathoms. In the case of a direct hit, they wouldn’t go off until they had crashed through several decks.
Assault on Zanzibar Page 42
