Sam forced his mind back to the ongoing battle. “Pass the word to Flight Ops – tell Bull to send a sit-rep,” he snapped to his phone talker. Not for the first time, he lamented to himself the inconvenience of the comms setup, and looked forward to the day when there was enough radio equipment available to allow him to communicate directly with all ships and planes from Flag.
Shortly thereafter, Sam heard Dave's voice over the loud speaker. “Charlie, this is Bull. The three-master Dragon hit is burning end to end – looks like they're abandoning ship. One of the two-masters is coming alongside her to take off survivors. One of the other three-masters is listing and pumping-out – damaged by our attacks. Pirate formation is maintaining course and speed.”
So, while the pilots of VBS-1 had reduced the odds against Taffy One somewhat, the enemy was pressing on. A surface battle would certainly follow the air attacks.
The loud-speaker crackled to life again. “Herd, this is Bull. Return to Mother for re-arming, break. I will maintain contact with enemy.” Schofield's Petrel had carried no armament and thus could take on more fuel; in addition, since the Stirling cycle engines grew more efficient with increased altitude and consequent lower ambient air temperature, he had burned much less while loitering at ten thousand feet than the attacking planes had running at full throttle right down on the deck.
Almost at once, three Petrels appeared, circled, and touched down on the surface of the sea – blessedly almost calm, for the moment. One taxied up along each side of the Charlemagne and took on fuel through hoses from the deck, while the armorers, working from boats, re-loaded belts of one-inch ammo and attached 100-pound bombs to the brackets under their wings. Sam marveled to himself at the ease and skill with which the seamen, working in two-man teams, while standing in a moving boat, hoisted the heavy bombs up to the wings of an afloat seaplane, moving as easily as if they were on land. He considered that if they dropped one of those bombs it would probably plunge right through the bottom of the boat. And they had only recently begun to service planes this way.
In under half an hour, the last of the three was airborne again.
Schofield's voice came over the loudspeaker minutes later. “Green flight, Bull: take out the cripple. Loverboy, see what you can do against the towboats.”
“Green, roger.”
“Loverboy, roger.”
Thereafter, the pilots forgot radio procedure in their excitement, and Sam heard only snatches of chatter.
“… that was a hit!”
“… Green, you got 'im – pick another target...”
“… think I just took out a towboat – yep, it's burning ...”
“… she's capsizing! Yeah! Just rolled right over!”
“… just took a hit in my port wing … still airworthy, 'though ...”
Sam, keyed up, snapped at his phone talker: “Flag to Bull: Gimme a SITREP!” He fretted while he passed this to Flight Ops, and then broadcast.
Minutes later: “Charlie, Bull. Scratch two of the three-masters – one just capsized and the other is burning right down to the waterline. Loverboy took out two towboats.”
At this point, a signalman presented his clipboard to Sam. The signal was from Albatros and reported visual contact with the enemy.
“Flag to Albatros and Joan: engage the enemy when in range. Alba … Joan is in tactical command. Repeat, Joan is in tactical command.” Sam had remembered just in time that Ennis, in Joan, was senior to Al Kendall.
Within a few minutes: “Flag, Joan. Opening fire at five thousand yards.”
Sam said, “Reply: 'Engage the enemy more closely'. And leave it flying.”
“Charlie, Bull. Herd is home-bound … say again, Herd coming home.” The squadron appeared overhead at once, so close now were Charlemagne and Roland to the battle.
“Pass the word to Air Ops: Commander Schofield to flag at his earliest convenience.”
Four Petrels touched down, one after the other, and taxied alongside Charlie. Sam said to his phone talker, “To Air Ops: refuel one Petrel and get it airborne again ASAP – no need to rearm it. Pilot to orbit over enemy formation and keep Flag informed of movements.” He paced impatiently until Schofield appeared, still in flying gear of coveralls and helmet, face already streaming with sweat.
“Dave, I've ordered one plane up to keep me in the picture. Have the other three fueled, armed, and ready to take off at once to assist Albatros and Joan.”
“Commodore, all four craft have shot holes in their wings – they have to be patched before they can take off again.”
“They flew home with shot holes, didn't they? Let that wait.”
“It can't wait, sir! If we fly with ‘em unrepaired, the shot holes will tear bigger and bigger until all the fabric blows right off the wings!”
Sam cursed and stamped the deck, but he knew he had no answer to that. “Okay, then – patch one up now and get her airborne to be our eyes. Ready the other three as soon as you can.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Far ahead of the Charlemagne, Captain Bill Ennis of the Joan of Arc ordered, “Ready the motor whaleboat for launching. And signal Albatros to do the same.” These motorized small craft were each armed with 75-millimeter recoilless rifles – or, as the sailors called them, “three-inchers”, and sometimes “reckless rifles”. They were powerful and deadly, but their back-blast made them too dangerous to employ on the schooners, because of the danger of setting alight the rigging and spars. However, on the small boats, mounted right aft on the stern so that they fired safely overhead with the back-blast directed safely away from the boat, they were highly effective. The RKN used them in combat, when the sea state allowed their use, to dart in and out of range of the enemy's big bronze three-inchers, keeping up a harassing fire.
Almost simultaneously, the 37 mm rifles on both vessels emitted their sharp barks. Their gunners had run each out onto its port side gun-balcony – a bump-out on each side allowing the guns to fire dead ahead or astern without endangering their own vessels. These weapons were more accurate and had a greater effective range than the enemy's standard three-inch guns, but didn't pack the same punch. Ennis saw their shell splashes seconds later – both near-misses. Good shooting at this range.
He kept hoping to see the Petrels zoom overhead and attack the Pirate dhows. He supposed Sam was keeping them in reserve along with the Roland, because he most protect the lightly-armed Charlemagne.
But he could use some help right now, his two schooners and pair of gunboats facing two big three-masted dhows, with their three-inch guns, as well as four smaller but almost as deadly two-masters. Certainly, the Petrels had greatly reduced the odds against him by taking out two of the original four three-masters, but he was still considerably out-gunned.
These were crucial moments, while the enemy's guns were still out of range but his own 37mm rifles could hit hard. If he could seriously damage the three-masters during this interval, he could even the odds somewhat. Ennis prayed for the 37 mm gunners of the Albatros and the Joan to shoot straight; a prayer promptly answered, as shell bursts appeared on both the enemy three-masters.
The gun boats were on the flanks and well in advance of their mother ships, already in the enemy's range and cutting sharp angles in their wakes as they chased shell splashes. Twin opposing arrows of flame – muzzle flash and back blast – appeared from their recoilless rifles at regular intervals, and they, too, appeared to be scoring hits. Their bow mounted one-inch rifles were speaking, too, but without visible effect.
But the Pirate gunners had now found the range, as shown first by shell splashes close aboard, then by a sickening blow to Joan that Ennis felt as if it were to his own vitals: a hit, apparently at the waterline starboard side forward. He saw the Boatswain muster the damage control party and hurry below. Soon after, jets of seawater squirted out to leeward as the Joan's pumps began to deal with the flooding.
“To Albatros and motor gunboats: boats attack enemy towing vessels, schooners engage th
e enemy three-masters,” Ennis snapped to his phone talker. As he spoke, the enemy, obviously aware of the vulnerability of their tow boats, had them drop their tow lines and scurry back to the dhows, where their crews made them up to port for towing alongside. There they would be somewhat less exposed to attack by the Kerg gunboats. The dhows then maneuvered, trying to keep their tow boats on their unengaged side. Then there began a stately dance, as the dhows turned and turned, while the quicker and more agile RKN motor gunboats raced to get clear shots at the tow boats, exchanging fire with the dhows all the while.
Ennis perceived a slight but definite change in the trim of Joan of Arc; she was down by the head. Ashe noticed this, he saw the Boatswain come on deck and hurry aft, obviously to report. Ennis strode forward to meet him. “What's the damage, Boats?”
“Big shot hole in the starboard bow, sir. We've slapped an emergency patch on it, but it’s right at the turn of the bow, but the shot bent a frame in bad, so we can't make it watertight. The pumps ain't coping, not quite, and we're down by the head. Permission to counter-flood, Cap'n? We gotta keep the waterjets submerged, sir.”
“Very well, make it so, Boats. Keep working on that patch. Keep Joan from sinking!”
“Aye aye, sir. Certainly, sir.” The harried warrant officer saluted and hastened back forward.
Ennis visualized the interior layout of the Joan, with which he was as intimately familiar as he was his childhood home. The lowest deck aft was a stores space. As far as he could recall, it was full of cabin stores – mostly food for the crew. The barrels full of salt potatoes and fish and pickled cabbage would resist salt water intrusion for a while, and so might be salvageable later. Flooding would ruin everything else there. But their next month's meals would have to take a lower priority to keeping the Joan afloat and fighting.
The gunboats had by now succeeded in disabling the tow boats attached to the two three-masters, which now would have to maneuver under sail alone – a great advantage for the Joan and the Albatros. But the two-masted gun dhows, which for lack of tow boats had been lagging, had now managed to catch up, and threatened to outflank the two Kerguelenian vessels.
“Signal the gunboats to engage the two-masters,” Ennis said, and his phone-talker repeated. This was a tall order for the little gunboats: each with its single recoilless rifle against a much larger vessel with at least two, and possibly three, long bronze three-inchers. Not that Joan and Albatros were in much better straits.
Aboard Albatros, Al Kendall gasped in shock as an enemy shot scythed across the weather deck striking down a half-dozen seamen. Blood covered the deck, causing sailors to slip and fall as they hurried to the aid of their felled shipmates – aid that was, in most cases, too late. twice at the waterline, and four streams of saltwater jetted from her lee side as her pumps tried to cope. Damage control crews had patched both shot holes but they were both leaking, and one of them had been in way of the engine spaces. The black gang was working in a foot of sea-water, and the engineer had reported that another few inches would short out electrical connections, leaving the waterjets without power.
Of course, the enemy had not come through unscathed; both three-masters had lost their towboats and, judging from the jets of water they emitted, were both holed at or below the waterline. But the four two-masters, now closing fast around the center of the battle, were so far apparently undamaged despite the furious fire kept up by the gunboats. Al Kendall tried to suppress the feeling that the task force was on the verge of defeat.
Sam Bowditch, pacing furiously on his patch of the Charlemagne's quarterdeck, was in an agony of indecision. A combination of terse reports from Joan and impressions of the surface action radioed by Mauler, circling above, gave him a clear picture of the battle. Although all four of the major combatants – Joan, Albatros, and the two surviving three-masted dhows – were damaged and making water, and the dhows' towboats were out of action, the four two-masted dhows appeared undamaged and were closing on the two Kerg schooners. Perhaps the Kerg gunboats could turn the battle around by taking out one or two of the two-masters. But if they could not, or couldn't in time to prevent them from joining the big dhows in putting Joan and/or Albatros out of action completely, then the battle was over, won by the Pirates. He decided: this was the critical moment.
“Put a two-plane strike mission up, Dave. Tell 'em to hit the big ones first.”
Schofield, still in flight gear, had been pacing with Sam as they listened to Mauler's running commentary from the flight shack loud-speaker.
“Aye aye, sir,” he said, waving a hasty salute, and ran forward, shouting to catch the attention of the deck crew.
“Two planes readied for launch! Rowdy, Swordsman, to me!”
All three of the planes still on board had been patched up and were ready for launch. After a hasty brief by Dave, Yates and Ellis climbed into their planes which were at once hoisted over the side. Within minutes of Sam's decision, the two were airborne and climbing toward the surface battle, now visible on the northern horizon. Ellis was the senior of the two lieutenants, so Schofield had dubbed this mission “Sword Flight”.
“Rowdy, Swordsman: you bomb first. Take the southerly of the two big ones.”
“Gotcha, Swordsman. Here I go.”
The two Petrels, having got the morning sun at their backs, now dove right down onto the surface of the sea and raced toward the nearest of the three-masters. As expected, met a storm of AA fire. But the one under attack masked the fire of the second three-master, and the two-masters straggled into a north-south line-ahead formation; without towboats, they had been left behind by the bigger, towed dhows. Only the nearest of the two-masters had a clear angle of fire at the two planes.
Yates triggered the release of the two outboard bombs on his wings, and at the same time shouted into his radio microphone, “Break! Break!”, banking sharply right and climbing as he did so. Ellis, just over his head, had been firing steady three-round bursts at the target vessel during the bombing run. He banked sharply left at the word, and climbed, the acceleration forces almost making him black out.
Ennis, on Joan, did not see the planes of Sword Flight until they were in their attack run, and this was over so quickly that right after he glimpsed the planes, he saw two tall spouts of seawater arose alongside the target dhows. To his joy, he saw bits of wreckage blasted skyward, and the masts of the enemy dhow jerk sharply as the vessel listed first away from the blast, then, more slowly, righted herself and listed back over to port, obviously taking on water quickly. Ennis shouted aloud with joy, whipping off his hat with his one good arm and waving it at the planes. The crew of the Joan joined in cheering and waving. He watched excitedly as the Petrels quickly lined up for a run on the other three-master. More and louder cheering rose when they scored two more definite hits.
“Press on and finish 'em off!” Bill Ennis shouted to his phone talker, forgetting comms procedure. The AB manning his phones knew what he meant, however, and said calmly into his mike, “Joan to Albatros: Press on and finish 'em off.”
Overhead, and heard only by Charlemagne, Swordsman and Rowdy crowed jubilantly, forgetting radio procedure themselves and talking over one another. Then Ellis, remembering that the enemy was still afloat, still outnumbering their own force, and that he was flight leader, said “Poet, Sword: let's go after the two-masters and leave the big 'uns for the schooners to finish off. Take the southernmost one first. Your turn to bomb, my turn to fly top cover. Over.”
“Roger, Swordsman. I bomb, you cover me. Southernmost rat is target.” The two Petrels climbed sunward, then turned and dove toward the lead two-master. But the smaller dhows, unpowered and straggling after their bigger, towed sisters, had spread out into a line-ahead formation that, quite by accident, was the best air defense formation against skip-bombing. By attacking the lead dhow from abeam, Rowdy and Swordsman exposed themselves to fire from all four enemy vessels. They met a storm of lead, and before Yates could release his bombs, he felt his Petrel
check suddenly, as if it had flown into a wall, and simultaneously began to lose power. An enemy round had penetrated his fuselage from below, narrowly missed the cockpit, and hit the engine nacelle. The engine began to make a deafening racket, its death rattle. Yates banked sharply left and tried to climb, but didn't have the power. He released his remaining two bombs, not wanting to crash with those deadly eggs unlaid, and shouted into his mike: “Mayday, Mayday! Sword this is Rowdy – I'm hit and I'm going down.”
Yates flew directly away from the enemy and toward Charlemagne; although he knew he couldn't make it home he wanted to be as close as possible when he ditched.
Which was almost at once. The engine quit suddenly – blessed silence – and his plane glided steeply toward the sea. Yates took advantage of the bit of extra airspeed created by the shallow dive to get the nose up for a nearly-normal touchdown – normal, except much too fast. He hit the water with a bone-rattling crash, the plane bounced up off a wave and came down again with almost as much force, then came to a stop, throwing up a tall rooster-tail of spray behind. Yates could feel the plane settling, the sea pouring in through the shot hole in the hull, and struggled frantically with straps: first his safety harness, then his parachute, which was no good to him now. He climbed quickly out of the airplane and stepped into the water, now up almost to the level of the cockpit. The water felt shockingly cold at first – he was sweating with excitement – but that sensation didn't last. He swam away from his sinking Petrel, afraid of it sucking him down with it, then treaded water, turned, and watched the tail and the engine nacelle, last visible parts of the plane, disappear into the sea. He then remembered his inflatable life jacket, and detached the inflation nozzle and began to blow into it. He found that he was, quite literally, breathless – he had none to spare for the life jacket. He spat out the nozzle and continued to tread water while trying to take deep, calming breaths. He had almost succeeded when, unbidden, everything he had ever heard or read about the sharks of the Indian Ocean came into his head, and he began to wonder if, and how soon, he’d be rescued. These thoughts hindered his effort at normal breathing.
Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga Page 6
