Sam had, for his part, tirelessly repeated the indisputable facts: that the pirates were constantly improving both their vessels and their armament; that their three-inch bronze smooth-bores exceeded in smashing power, and nearly matched in range, Joan's one-inch rifles; that Lieutenant Commander Foch and Lieutenant Dallas had learned from the prisoners, through lengthy and patient interrogation, that the Caliphate was indisputably much more populous and commanded greater resources than Kerguelen; and that therefore the Kergs could win the war only through superior technology – and, specifically, greater fire-power.
Sam didn't win this argument; it was won for him by a series of disturbing radio messages from the schooner Frederick Bastiat, picked up and relayed to Radio Kerguelen by the powerful station on Nosy Be. The Bastiat had been attacked by two pirate dhows re-rigged as luggers just as she turned the corner off Cape Bobaomby, the northern tip of Madagascar, bound for Hell-ville. The master of the schooner tried to run for Nosy Be, but was dogged by the pirate craft, which were just as fast. The Frederick Bastiat was armed with a couple of seal rifles in addition to her useless Lyle gun, but one of the dhows was armed with a bronze three-incher, and stood off at its maximum effective range, pounding away. If the schooner had had a couple of marksmen able to make full use of the range of her seal rifles she might have survived by picking off the crew of the single pirate gun, but no one aboard was a very good shot.
All of this was relayed through Radio Hell-ville by a series of increasingly terse messages from the Frederick Bastiat. The last one read: “Vessel in a sinking condition. Pirates about to board. Tell our families we love them.”
Radio Hell-ville reported that the conclusion of the battle occurred within sight of Andilana, on the northwest shore of Nosy Be. Islanders watched helplessly from the shore as the schooner sank. As soon as the dhows had sailed away, small boats put out to search for survivors, but none were found.
Members of the Council committee on fisheries and maritime affairs, responsible for the infant Navy, were shaken and disturbed by these heart-breaking messages, and voted funding for the Joan's 37 mm gun without further debate.
The Albatros and the Joan had gotten under way from their anchorage off Point Le Clerc on an ebb tide, immediately after the seventh full day of the work-up followed by a few hours rest, at Sam 's orders. There was some grumbling at this among the crews of the two schooners – they had felt entitled to one last night ashore in French Port after their grueling week of training. But Sam had promised no such thing, and refused to entertain any complaints. In any event, the usual strain and hardships of a passage through the Forties soon kept all hands fully occupied, with no time for griping.
To the routine challenges of steep seas and high winds was added the tension of station-keeping. The Albatros, as flagship, at first had only to sail as usual, with the responsibility of keeping station on her falling on the Joan's deck watch. Sam watched with sympathy as the Joan struggled both with the wild weather and the need to maintain the specified distance and bearing on the flag.
Then, right after watch change, he signaled their consort to exercise a shift of flag – in other words, to pretend that Joan was now in command. The two vessels exchanged stations. It was now the turn of the Albatros's watch section to keep station on the Joan, by taking constant relative bearings, and distances off with the optical range-finder, trimming and easing staysail sheets – while simultaneously always guarding against the danger of broaching-to in the dangerous seas. It was a tremendous strain on the watch.
Sam ordered that his little squadron exercise change of flag every watch. In this way, because the watch system kept anyone from standing the same watch on consecutive days, the exercise would fall evenly on all watch-standers, all sharing the burden and all benefiting from the training. He was pleased to note steady improvement in the sailing and shiphandling skills this exercise demanded, so that by the time the squadron left the Forties, every watch section was capable of keeping station with the precision of a well-oiled machine.
It was early on their first day at sea that Sam learned of his new title. Lieutenant Christie, who was officer of the watch at the time, addressed him rather formally as “Commodore”. Sam, taken aback, stared at him and said sharply, “'Commodore'? What's this 'Commodore' business, Mike?”
Christie, surprised at his surprise, replied, “Sorry, sir, I thought you … that is, Captain Ennis passed the word to all the officers while we were at anchor that 'Commodore' was now the proper form of address for you, since you now command a squadron.”
“But I haven't been promoted!”
“Captain Ennis said that 'Commodore' is an assignment, not a rank, but that you should be so addressed as long as you command more than one vessel.”
Sam thought about that. Bill Ennis had been the Navy's informal arbiter of ceremonies, customs, and traditions since early in his tenure as Sam's XO.
“Well, if Captain Ennis says so … he's our expert on that sort of thing.”
But it took Sam a long time to get used to being addressed as 'Commodore' rather than 'Captain'. To his mind, there was no higher or more honorable title than 'Captain', one he had aspired to from boyhood and had been inordinately proud to achieve. He thought 'Commodore' sounded rather pompous and artificial; but he gradually became accustomed to it. He noticed, too, how much pride the crew of the Albatros took in being the flagship of their little squadron; of being commanded by a commodore rather than a mere captain, and this reconciled him to the title.
When the squadron had sailed far enough to the north to make a shift into tropical rig necessary, the growing distinction between the seamen-gunners and the balance of the crew became visually distinct. Instead of the greige linen slops of the other hands, the gunners turned out in their distinctive new dull-green uniforms, worn with stout ankle-high boots rather than shoes. The gunners had become something of a corps d'élite, and not only in their own minds. Recruiting only from sailors who had served in the Navy from its beginnings, the corps had had no problem doubling its numbers to provide a landing party for the Joan of Arc. Although the new recruits were subjected to a certain amount of hazing by their mates – for one, they had to remain in the regular seamen's garb until the time came to make their first landing – they were obviously proud to have been accepted into the corps. But as it happened, the newbies would not have long to wait to don jungle green.
As soon as the two schooners had reached out of the Roaring Forties into the more pacific waters of the thirties south latitude, Sam began to improvise drills to further exercise the crews. The first was a race between the two vessels to rig topmasts, gaff courses, and topsails, replacing the stumpy lower-masts-only and storm marconi sails appropriate to home waters and the Forties. The prize for the victor would be an extra day's leave or liberty for the entire ship's company, to be taken when operational necessity allowed.
An exchange of signals established the ground rules: each schooner could begin the race with all the necessary gear roused out of the holds and ready on deck. When each had signaled that this had been accomplished, the Albatros would begin the competition by, first, flying a preparatory flag for two minutes, then firing a blank charge from a one-inch rifle. No man was to go aloft before the gun. The first to complete the exercise – every line rigged, all sails set and drawing – would fire a second round. Since the schooners were only a cable's length apart, and officers of each vessel would be watching the other closely through their telescopes, cheating would be difficult.
Sam personally fired the gun without counting down or otherwise giving his own crew the advantage of any advance warning. On the report, both vessels burst into a fury of activity. Marconi courses came down and were stripped as sailors swarmed into the tops to hoist up and rig the topmasts. This was a tricky – indeed, quite dangerous – part of the exercise. Although the topmasts were of wood, rather than the columnar steel plate of the lower masts, one could still plunge through the deck like a spear if l
et go prematurely. Sam had prudently decreed that gaff and square topsails would not be set; it was still a bit too breezy for these to be set with safety.
The contest looked as if it might end in a dead heat when the cry went up from the deck of the Albatros: “Man overboard!” A sailor in the foretop, in his haste and excitement, missed his hold and fell. By great good luck, a providential roll of the schooner meant that he barely missed the rail and fell into the sea, thereby being saved from serious, perhaps crippling, injury. By another stroke of good luck, or alert seamanship, a seaman on deck immediately threw him a life ring, which the man in the water managed to grab, thus saving the Albatros from the necessity of launching a boat.
Nevertheless, that moment of confusion and distraction was just enough to cost the Albatros the contest; Joan fired a gun just as the Albatros's mizzen course was being sheeted in and Mr. Christie's finger was on the trigger of one of the one-inchers, ready to fire the blank charge.
Cheers resounded from the deck of the Joan, while the crew of the Albatros groaned, swore, and threw their hats to the deck in disgust.
Forward, Sam could see the XO and the Boatswain engaged in vigorous disputation. Kendall than came aft and said, “Commodore, the crew thinks there ought to be a rematch – that a man overboard was an unavoidable accident that should negate the result.”
Sam snorted in derision. “Al, I'm surprised you'd even come to me with this weak stuff. Obviously, part of the contest was for all hands to practice safety and good seamanship – and that includes the most basic sort: the requirement to fist on and hold fast when aloft! That man is an experienced AB, and has no excuse whatever for falling overboard in fair weather. No, the Joan won fair and square, and that's an end to it.”
“You're right, of course, Commodore, but they'll accept that only from you.” The crew did indeed accept Sam's decision, but not without a good deal of grumbling. He heard that the AB who had fallen overboard, Kruger, was ostracized by his mates for weeks as a punishment for his clumsiness. That's well. Teach him to be more careful next time, thought Sam. And a good example for his shipmates, too.
As it sailed northward, the squadron continued the drills it had begun in the Gulf before departure They launched improvised floating targets to exercise the marksmanship of their one-inch gun's crews, and in Albatros's case, that of the 37 mm gun. They gradually increased the distance from the targets until their gunners could score more hits than misses from the maximum effective range of their weapons. They also drilled in launching their powered and pulling boats, and towing with the powered boats – the motor sloop in the case of the Albatros, and the motor whaleboat carried by the Joan.
When the weather permitted, Sam frequently signaled for Bill to come aboard the Albatros and join him for dinner. After their meal, they planned more, and more challenging, drills for the squadron, and debated alternative itineraries for the balance of the cruise. One elaborate drill they devised involved a mock amphibious raid on a fortified land position – a preliminary rehearsal for the destruction of the pirates' advanced base, or bases, when discovered.
For the site of the drill, they selected Taolagnaro, a ruined and abandoned town on a peninsula very near the southernmost tip of Madagascar. It was a historic site for Kerguelenians, having been the first landfall of the first Kerg expedition into the Indian Ocean. The ruins had been thoroughly rummaged for usable salvage, a process that hadn't taken long since the town had apparently been very poor in late antiquity. Noted for future reference was the presence of bauxite, mined nearby in the pre-Troubles era. But so far the Kergs' needs for aluminum were still being satisfied by scrap scavenged from the ruins of ancient cities, and there was also the problem, as yet unsolved, of generating enough electrical power on-site to refine the ore. Aluminum prices did not yet justify transporting the raw ore to Kerguelen for refining. So the ruins had been left undisturbed by the Kerguelenians for a century or more. The fact of Kerg exploitation, however, meant that they had a fairly accurate, recently-updated chart of the area.
The scenario they devised included an assumption that any afloat enemy units would be defeated or driven away by the squadron, so that the combined landing parties of the two schooners could be put ashore to engage enemy forces on land, free captives and slaves, and set fire to the buildings and any vessels in harbor.
For the landing site, Sam and Bill picked a stretch of sheltered, sandy beach between the southernmost point of the peninsula and a smaller point that jutted into the sea in a southwesterly direction. For the purposes of the exercise, they assumed that on each point was an enemy battery of the pirates' now-standard three-inch bronze smooth-bores that would have to be reduced by bombardment before the landing could take place. Once the batteries were silenced, the riflemen would be landed, surf conditions permitting, by the motor sloop and the motor whaleboat, which would then stand off and on outside the surf line to lift the rifle squads once they had completed their mission.
The first task of the riflemen would be to occupy the batteries and disable the guns, if still operable, to prevent the pirates from putting them back into action. Then they would move on the town, search for captives as thoroughly as time allowed, do as much destruction as possible, and then retreat to the beach before the pirates (assumed to greatly outnumber Kerg forces) could rally and concentrate.
Sam and Bill had no idea if this was a very realistic scenario – they couldn't know until they had some intelligence about enemy bases – but thought it would provide useful and realistic training for all hands.
By the time the squadron approached Taolagnaro, the planning circle had been widened to include the XO's of the two vessels, the plan had been reduced to writing in the form of an “operations order”, and officers and senior petty officers had been thoroughly briefed; they in turn briefed the men in their divisions and squads.
The day before the main part of the exercise was to commence – “D-1” in the terse jargon of the op order – the motor whaleboat reconnoitered the beach on which the force would land. This wasn't just for exercise purposes, but to be sure there were no hidden obstacles that could threaten the boats. This precaution paid off. The whaleboat crew found, and buoyed, an ancient wreck in the surf line that treacherously didn't quite uncover even at low water or when the trough of a wave passed; it would have ripped the bottom out of an unwary boat.
“D-day” dawned fair and bright, a beautiful tropical morning. But the crews of the two schooners were far too tense to enjoy the vistas of bright blue sky and sea, emerald jungle, and snow-white beaches; they were thinking only of making the exercise a success.
The exercise began at first light – Sam hoped to conclude it before the usual rising winds in mid to late afternoon made the surf high enough to be dangerous – with a bombardment of the two “batteries”. The two schooners sailed back and forth at a range of about 1000 yards, on a broad reach to the east, and a beat to the west, maintaining a steady fire. Arbitrary points had been selected to represent the enemy batteries – a tall tree, a prominent rock – and these were battered with 37 mm and 25 mm smoke rounds, a different color smoke for each gun, to track the accuracy of each gun's crew.
When Sam judged that the batteries had been subjected to enough punishment to have silenced them, he signaled the Joan to join Albatros at a point 2000 yards off the beach, where the boats would be launched. There he hoisted a signal not seen at sea for centuries: “land the landing force”.
The motor sloop and the motor whaleboat, each crammed to the gunnels with riflemen and crew, proceeded at their best speed into the beach, carefully staying clear of the buoy marking the wreck. Although the surf was gentle, the boats, as a precaution against being caught and thrown broadside onto the beach, turned just offshore and reversed into water shallow enough for the riflemen to disembark over the stern and wade ashore in water up to their thighs. They then moved back out beyond the breakers to wait until signaled to recover the landing force. So far, so good.
/> From that point, however, events seemed to Sam to move in slow motion, as if everyone were wading through waist-high molasses. It seemed to take forever for the riflemen to reach and “take” the enemy batteries. After they signaled completion of this task, a full two hours later than the timetable in the op order, they were supposed to link up and form a skirmish line, proceeding into the suburbs of the town. The link-up of the two parts of the force seemed to move even slower than had the previous parts of the operation.
But by the time the skirmish line was formed, and was beginning its movement toward the town, Sam could feel the increasing strength of the afternoon breeze, and the exercise was more than three hours behind schedule.
Sam turned to the watch officer and said disgustedly, “Signal 'FINEX', Mike, and recall the landing force. If we leave them on the beach any longer we'll have much heavier surf to deal with.”
The signal was duly made, and Sam watched through his telescope as the two units moved down to the beach – again, with what seemed to him agonizing slowness. He saw one man on an improvised stretcher, and two others being helped to walk by shipmates. Since nothing in the op order called for simulating casualties to own-force – a mistake, since no military operation however successful was ever free of casualties – he could only assume these men were really injured.
Sam realized that he should have recalled the force at least a half-hour earlier. The surf had already risen to such a height that the boats were having great difficulty in closing the beach to re-embark the troops without running the danger of broaching-to or capsizing. Finally, the coxwain of the motor sloop solved the problem by dropping anchor just outside of the breakers and then, by bending every fathom of line on board to her anchor rode, lengthened it enough to ease the boat stern-to toward the beach, into water shallow enough for the Albatros's landing force to board over the stern. The motor whaleboat followed the sloop's lead, and the riflemen began to board. Sam noted through his telescope how exhausted the men appeared; each had to be practically hauled aboard by the boat's crew members.
The Cruise of the Albatros: Book Two of the Westerly Gales Saga Page 24
