The enemy was in sight before they had climbed through five thousand feet.
“Red Flight, this is Red Leader,” Dave broadcast. They had started over in the rotation of flight names. “Form line abreast, break. Attack rear of formation, I say again, we hit the rear of the enemy formation. Red Four, over.”
When Red Four had acknowledged, Dave again pressed his mike button. “Reds, Leader. See that gaggle of dhows not yet joined up, break. They’re our best targets.”
The former invasion force dhows were adding themselves onto the ends of the widely spaced columns of the main body, the simplest way to accomplish the join-up, but one that took some maneuvering at close quarters with one another. The “gaggle” Red Flight targeted was a cluster of dhows waiting their turn to sail across the rear of the main formation to their designated column. Their intervals while waiting looked to be as little as one hundred yards or less. The base course of the enemy was roughly south-east, putting them on a starboard tack and a beam reach, their best point of sailing, but proceeding with glacial slowness in the very faint breeze.
Red Flight flew over this un-joined-up cluster of dhows and released their bombs. Dave glanced over the side of his aircraft just in time to see a direct hit, unusual at this altitude – a dhow blown to pieces, obliterated at a blow. He did not know who dropped that bomb; he knew it wasn’t his plane. To Dave’s mind this was a wasted weapon: If it had fallen into the space between two dhows, it would have sunk both and probably damaged others, so close together were these vessels
As Red Flight returned to Charlemagne, and the observers squabbled among themselves over the radio about who would get credit for the direct hit, Dave considered that this was probably their last strike with the big 350kg bombs, now that the enemy commander had wised up and greatly increased the intervals between his ships. Given the severe restrictions the Commodore had imposed, how could the air arm be effective against the enemy now? Level bombing from fifty-five hundred feet with smaller bombs, which could damage enemy vessels only by direct hits or very near misses, would result in many fewer Pirate casualties.
As Red Flight was being recovered, Sam sent a signal ordering Taffy One to steer towards the enemy. Gannet reported extensive damage among the targeted group of Pirate dhows, but Sam realized that this was an opportunity unlikely to re-occur…or was it?
He saw Dave Schofield, still in flying gear, walking aft. He knew what he was going to say.
“No, you may not dive-bomb on your next strike, Dave. The rule still holds. In fact, let’s raise the minimum altitude to six thousand feet, just to be on the safe side.”
Dave, his mouth open to make just that request, closed it, recovered, then said, “Commodore, level-bombing from that altitude with fifty or hundred-kg bombs is not likely to be very effective.”
“Who said anything about smaller bombs, Dave? Tell your Air Boss to arm up with 350kg bombs as before, and stand down your air crews for a rest. And breakfast, since they probably haven’t had any yet. Await my orders.” Dave, confused, replied with a resigned, “Aye aye, sir,” and a salute, and returned forward.
Sam then drafted a long message for Bende, personal for the task group commander, to be encrypted, and prioritized it “flash”.
The wind had freshened slightly and settled in the south. The enemy was on the starboard tack on a beam reach, now with steerage way since the wind had freshened.
The schooners, motor sailing in line-ahead, with the relative wind on their starboard quarter and all sail set, made six knots even in the morning’s light breeze, steering a course that would bring them abreast of the enemy formation.
Sam donned his headset and selected the station that gave him direct access to the aircraft radio frequency. He told his phone talker to alert radio to this, then fingered his mike.
“Gannet, this is Boer. Wake up, you dozy bastard, you’re supposed to be keeping me in the picture, over.”
“Boer, Gannet. Sorry, sir, break. Invasion force still not yet completely joined up but now separated to main force intervals, break. Looks like the join-up is gonna take all morning – enemy vessels appear to be barely moving, over.” This was not surprising news; the dhows, even under full sail, could be making little more than a knot and a half in this breeze.
“Gannet, Boer. Interrogative what is Bende doing, over?”
“Boer, Gannet. Bende is reaching across the enemy front in line-ahead, over.”
“Gannet, Boer. Let me know when Bende alters course or formation, over.”
“Boer, Gannet. Roger, wilco. Over.”
Kendall was obviously using visual signaling with his Gangsters, to minimize radio transmission. Sam appreciated his concern for comsec, but found it annoying to rely on Eloy for information on his movements.
Sam’s order to Kendall had been mission-oriented in that it gave him a tactical goal to accomplish but did not specify how he should accomplish it. He knew better than to try and micro-manage the Gang with a wily and experienced Captain like Kendall in tactical command. He sat back in his chair to await events.
Al Kendall was pacing the windward rail of the quarterdeck of Albatros, periodically gauging the position of the the schooner line with regard to the enemy front. He was aided in this by a midshipman with a sextant, who, at intervals, estimated the range of the forward corner vessels of the enemy’s rectangular formation by vertical angle.
When Al had read the Commodore’s long signal, he had been puzzled at first, then his face gradually grew into a wicked grin as he realized just how he would accomplish this task. He almost hoped it didn’t work, since it would be so much fun if it didn’t.
When Kendall estimated that the Gang was roughly abreast of the center of the large Pirate formation, he signaled all ships to wear from the starboard tack to the port, and steer directly for the enemy in line-abreast.
“Boer, this is Gannet. Bende has turned ninety degrees to the left and is sailing toward the enemy in line abreast formation, over.”
Al would have preferred to wait to change formation until almost within range, for maximum effectiveness, but Bowditch had ordered him to telegraph his intentions in plenty of time for the enemy commander to read and react to them.
As soon as the turn was complete, Albatros signaled, by flag hoist, a formation they had exercised, but never used in combat, one which had to be slightly altered to account for the absence of Joan of Arc, may she rest in peace. Al waited patiently for his skippers to translate his flag hoist and, one by one, answer it. When all three had two-blocked it, he ordered Albatros’s hoist brought down smartly, the signal for “execute”.
Albatros maintained course and speed while Hornet took up a station right ahead of her and Wasp and Scorpion took up stations on her port and starboard quarters, respectively.
Gannet immediately reported the formation change to Boer.
“Gannet, Boer, which unit is in the lead position interrogative, over?”
“Boer, Gannet, Hornet, I say again Hornet, over.” The reply came promptly; Hornet, with her distinctive rig and elongated gun-balconies, was quite distinguishable even from altitude
Sam smiled. It was now clear to him how Al intended to amuse the enemy commander. This dart-shaped formation, at the standard close intervals of a cable’s length, was ideally suited to charge right down one of the broad lanes between columns of dhows, two-gunned Hornet firing both sides, Albatros having plenty of time to shift her gun from side to side between shots, and Wasp and Scorpion firing steadily from port and starboard balconies, respectively. If the enemy maintained one-mile intervals, their guns would be near their maximum effective range, while the Gang’s 37mm rifles were well within their comfort zone, scoring hit after hit. Opening up the formation on either side of the “dart” would only make two columns helpless to return fire for long minutes as they diverged slowly in the light breeze. That left the Pirate admiral only one option.
Sam said to his phone talker, “Order the Air Boss to call air
crew to immediate readiness for a mission.” “Immediate readiness” meant pilots and observers in their cockpits, strapped in, engines running.
Al Kendall slowly scanned the enemy front line, left to right and back again. He was looking for the first flag signal, which would indicate the Pirate flagship. If it were in the middle of the fleet, he would not be able to identify her exact position in the formation. But if she were in or near the front row …
The two formations sailed toward one another, closing the distance between them; it would take the perhaps three-quarters of an hour for the schooners’ 37mm rifles to be within range.
Bingo! After fifteen minutes, the big three-master heading the middle column raised a multi-flag signal hoist. Got you, you bastard, Al exulted.
He broke radio silence now. “Gang, Bende, mark well that three-master in the middle of the front row that just hoisted a signal: that’s their flagship! Break, first skipper to sink the connard never pays for another drink! Hornet, over.”
Hornet acknowledged immediately, and shortly thereafter her drifter soared up, sheeted in so tautly that the clew was almost aboard. Commander Jake Mesny, skipper of the Hornet, was the youngest captain in the task force and the most junior commander among the captains. The rest of them, a bit jealous of the sailing qualities and firepower of his new command, hazed him unmercifully whenever all the vessel captains were together socially. The elegant vessel accelerated visibly; Mesny had clearly been operating his engine at less than full power, and luffing occasionally, to allow Hornet to keep station with her more sluggish sisters.
Now he obviously intended to be first in range, and blast the Pirate flagship out of the water with both guns blazing – for free drinks, but far more importantly, permanent bragging rights.
Kendall knew he ought to rein in his wild boy, if only for the sake of discipline – but perhaps not just yet. Hornet would be within range of her rifles in a few minutes, and Al thought he’d give him his shot at glory.
When within three thousand yards, Hornet tried a ranging shot – and by luck or marksmanship, hit the Pirate flagship dead on the bow, severing the foresail tack, causing her to come up into the wind. She then presented her broadside to Hornet, who fired three quick volleys from both guns; three of those six rounds hit her hull above the waterline and exploding, creating holes visible through Kendall’s telescope even from the three miles Albatros had been left astern. The Pirate flagship then fell afoul of a dhow responding smartly to the flag’s most recent order, which had obviously been to close up in response to the threat presented by Kendall’s “dart” formation.
“Hornet, Bende, reverse course, I say again, reverse course and rejoin Gang, over.” Jake Mesny had hit his target hard, and that was going to have to be enough; even if someone else finished the job, he would still give Hornet most of the credit.
Hornet neither acknowledged his order nor changed course, but kept charging onward, guns blazing. Now Al was getting worried; Pirate shell splashes were creeping her way; the dhows would soon be in range of her, and now that they were steadily closing in to close intervals, a half-dozen or more of them would be able to concentrate their fire on her.
“God damn it, Jake, reverse course NOW or I’ll have your guts for garters! I’ll bust you down to midshipman, I swear…!” Al was so angry he forgot all about radio procedure, and he fell into a stream of Hokkien curses, a language rich in obscenity, straining his raspy voice trying to shout down the radio.
When he finished his tirade, Al heard, talking over its end, “…Hornet, acknowledge reverse course, now complying, break. Sorry, Boss, a little radio problem, over.” Radio problem, my ass! thought Al, still fuming.
As he watched, Hornet doused her drifter in a run, and spun on her heels in as smart a one-eighty tack as Kendall had seen. Shell splashes were now appearing on both sides of her as the dhows came within effective range of their guns, but it looked like Hornet was going to make it.
Then two things happened almost simultaneously: Hornet’s main mast shivered violently, then her main topmast came crashing down, bringing with it her main square topsail.
Eight towering pillars of seawater rose in the air with a rippling, sequential roar among the dhows crowded together in the first few rows of the Pirate formation. Al looked up and saw four Puffins flash away, banking into a turn.
“Gang, Bende. Wasp and Scorpion cover us while I go to Hornet’s aid, Wasp, over.”
Wasp acknowledged, and both schooners hoisted their drifters and pulled ahead of Albatros. Al steered directly for Hornet. He could see her crew working desperately to clear the wreckage of her main top-hamper, which, hanging over the side, was hindering her ability to steer a straight course.
Fire from the enemy had died away after the shock of the air strike, giving Hornet a precious respite to clear away the damage and get back up to her best speed, given the canvas she still had to spread.
Wasp and Scorpion passed Albatros, the Hornet, firing steadily into the confusion of the first few rows of the Pirate formation. Undamaged or lightly-damaged dhows from outside or on the edge of the underwater blast radii were forcing their way inward and forward past crippled and sinking sisters, and would soon have clear lanes of fire.
Albatros came up right alongside Hornet on her port, unencumbered, side, her seamen lowering fenders between them, a a team of Albatros bosun’s mates leaped from one vessel to the other to lend a hand in the frantic work of clearing the wrack on Hornet’s quarterdeck. Al Kendall searched the stricken schooner’s deck for her skipper, wondering if he had escaped injury when the topmast came down on his head. Then he saw Mesny, apparently unhurt, working away alongside his sailors.
Kendall raised the small brass megaphone he always carried on a lanyard around his neck, and rasped, “Captain repair aboard Flag immediately!”
“But Commodore…!
“No buts, Captain Mesny! Now!”
Mesny reluctantly sheathed his knife, walked to the rail, and vaulted over onto the deck of Albatros. His face showed his dread of what he knew was coming.
“Below!” was all Kendall said, and led the way. When they reached his day cabin, Kendall faced Mesny and said, “Commander, once your vessel is underway again, turn over command to your XO and go to your cabin. You are relieved and IN HACK until I figure out what I’m gonna do about your goddamned “radio problem.”
“Commodore, I…”
“The only acceptable reply is ‘Aye aye, sir’!”
“Aye aye, sir,” Mesny replied, his face ashen, and turned to leave.
“In hack” was a punishment for officers; it meant confinement to one’s cabin, with no duties, meals brought to the room, and the unhappy subject allowed to leave only to go to the head or shower. It was usually only imposed on junior officers, Subs or Mids; it was effective because it was humiliating; it was a nonjudicial punishment; and usually no record was made of it. It was by no means the death knell of a career.
But for the captain of a ship, it was damned serious, since “no duties” meant being relieved of command. And there would be an official record of that, in the schooner’s log.
By the time the wreckage was cleared away, and the two schooners had parted close company, Wasp and Scorpion were within the Pirates’ maximum effective range and were engaged in a brisk gun duel. Kendall ordered the group to retire, and form a line abreast formation, now motor sailing on a starboard tack.
“Bende, this is Boer, Bravo Zulu, over.”
“Boer, Bende. Thank you, kind sir, over.”
“Bende, Boer. Damage to Hornet interrogative, over.”
“Boer, Bende. Lost her maintop, break. It was a close call, but we saved her, over.”
“Bende, Boer. If we ever get another chance to have a drink together it’s on me, break. Your trick worked like a charm.”
“Boer, Bende. And the beauty of it is it should work again, break. It presents the Pirate commander with a tough dilemma, break. And ain’t this ‘Bende,
Boer, Boer, Bende’ business silly, interrogative? over.”
“Obviously, Al; a clever tactic,” replied Sam, breaking radio procedure, sick, too, of the ludicrous callsign refrain. “I meant it about the drink. This is Boer standing by.”
“Bende, standing by.”
Red Flight returned and was recovered. Dave walked aft, and said, “Commodore that was un stratagème de merveilleux Captain Kendall came up with, but I flew over so high and so fast I didn’t quite catch how it worked.”
Bowditch explained how the tactic Kendall employed put the Pirate commander “… between a rock and a hard place” so effectively that it could possibly work again, even though the enemy had fallen for it once. They laughed together at the ingenuity of the trick, and Dave returned forward with orders to have his aircraft bombed up again with the big 350kg ship-killers, and stand by for another mission.
The enemy fleet had tacked and was now headed north, a five-knot breeze on their port quarter urging them along at two to three knots. Sam ordered the Gang to follow. Gannet had just requested permission to return to the carrier to re-fuel. Sam wondered what the Pirates were up to now: Were they headed for Stone Town, for re-fit and re-supply? Or did they plan to sail all the way back to Pemba? He would have to wait and see.
Sam also pondered his, and his enemy’s, end game. The RKN had put together a string of tactical victories that had deprived the enemy of both its new airships early in the action, and reduced the Pirate fleet by at least half, at a cost of one aircraft and one schooner. If he were brutally honest with himself – and he always tried to be, at least in naval if not personal matters – the victories had not been due to any strategic brilliance on his part, but to superior weapons and platforms; technology, in short. He had at his command powered warships with quick-loading rifled guns that out-ranged the enemy’s; they had sail alone for propulsion, and smooth-bore muzzle loaders. He had aircraft; they had lighter-than-air dirigibles that had proven inferior in combat. Every vessel in Taffy One was radio equipped, as was every aircraft; they apparently had few if any radio-equipped vessels and relied almost entirely on visual signaling.
Assault on Zanzibar Page 46
