Bowditch and Kendall were sharing a late, working supper in the Commodore’s mess aboard Charlemagne. Al Kendall was feeling a further sense of relief; the Commodore had found no fault with either his or his late successor’s actions.
“This just underlines what I’ve said over and over before: aviation alone is not the magic bullet that will give us victory,” Sam continued. “Perhaps if we had hundreds of planes we could simply overwhelm them from the skies, but we don’t, and we have to accept that, realistically, we never will.
“Nevertheless, even a handful of airplanes are invaluable to us in the recon role. They can give us early warning of dhow sailings and their tracks, and support Chief Landry’s ops ashore. This will be an edge we can use to offset their great advantage in numbers – so long as we don’t fritter them away in attacks that never do enough damage to the enemy to offset the great cost to us of losing even a single plane and pilot.”
“And that just give their AA gunners more practice, Commodore,” rasped Kendall. “Notice how their shootin’ seems to get better with every engagement?”
“Merde, you’re right, Al! I hadn’t thought of that – the only realistic practice they get is shooting at our planes! Well, we’re going to deprive them of those training opportunities, starting now.”
“Does that mean we’re not going to build more planes -- or more types of plane?”
“Not at all. Airplanes are machines, and machines wear out. They crash, too, sometimes, even in the absence of enemy action. And the Puffin seems to me to be a useful plane for recon, although maybe the boffins can make some improvements in the way of navigation and range.
“They should continue to be armed. Lone corsairs don’t seem to have AA guns – at least not yet. They’d be easy victims for a Puffin. And the guerilla fighters on Mafia don’t have AA. We haven’t even considered the possibility of using Puffins in the ground attack mode in direct support of Landry’s operations. But we just won’t put as high a priority on building more.
“And even low-risk combat roles like these will have to wait until we have many more planes.”
“I guess that’ll be a long time in the future, then, Commodore. At a lower priority, and all.”
“Not necessarily a long time, Al. Series production of Puffin engines and sheet aluminum has already begun on Kerguelen, to be shipped to Reunion. This will allow in turn series production of Puffins, rather than the way they’ve been individually hand-crafted up ‘til now.”
“What’s the highest priority right now, then, Commodore?”
“Right now? Turning Tommie Sue into a warship – a bigger generator to support water jet auxiliary propulsion, gun balconies and a 37mm gun, more berthing, and so forth. That’s under way now, with every yard in Hell-ville contributing workers.
“And that reminds me: we’ve gotta come up with a better name for her! How can anyone not giggle at the notion of a warship named Tommie Sue, for Christ’s sake!”
Kendall had Wasp and Scorpion much on his mind lately, earnestly willing them fair winds and record speeds north to Mafia, so a possible name popped into his head without conscious thought. “How about Hornet, Commodore?”
“Perfect! Al, that’s the perfect name! Then we’ll have three Stingers! Hornet it is!”
“And when we have all three here with the task force, we’ll have a better chance to choke off reinforcement and re-supply to the Pirates on Mafia.”
“You’re right, Al,” Bowditch replied soberly. “That, really, is our priority – holding Mafia Island. Losing our base here would be disastrous.
“Which reminds me: how are Landry and his boys doing ashore?”
“They’re struggling, Commodore, but apparently still holding. Chief Landry wanted to be here to brief you himself, but said he couldn’t possibly leave the field given the current ops tempo.”
“Then I’ll go see him. Where, exactly, is he?”
“Last I heard, at Camp van der Merwe, managing things from there. But Commodore, I don’t recommend that you go ashore now, given the level of Pirate activity – it’d be very dangerous. We don’t want to lose you now that we finally have you back.”
“No problem. I’ll take a couple of gunners with me.”
“But really, Commodore – reports are that the bush is swarming with Pirates. And it’s a long, hot trek to the camp. You must not go, Commodore!”
“Kàn lín lāu-bú, what in the hell are you doing here, Commodore!” shouted Landry; Bowditch’s sudden appearance in camp, sweat-soaked and mosquito-bitten, had shocked from him a Hokkien obscenity he rarely used.
“Came to see how you and your boys are doing, Frank,” Bowditch replied calmly. “I gathered you were too busy to come to me.”
Landry realized that his mouth was still hanging open in amazement, and shut it with a snap. “Come into the officer’s mess, Commodore, and have a cool drink. You look like you need one.”
“My escort could probably use one, too, Frank,” Bowditch replied, gesturing toward the pair of armed askari who stood impassively behind him, looking as cool and rested as if they had just awoken from naps, instead of walking the same kilometers of dense bush as himself.
“Don’t worry, they’ll get one,” Landry replied, and said a few words in Swahili to the askari, who left with respectful salutes.
In the crude hut Landry had called the “officer’s mess”, indistinguishable from all the other crude huts making up the camp, Bowditch downed a tall drink in one go, then remarked, “That went down without touching the sides. What’s in it? And how’d you get it so cold out here in the bush?”
“It’s water from our deep well, with just enough rum to kill all the bugs. We keep the rum down the well, too, to keep it cool. Refreshing, ain’t it?”
“Too right. Another?”
“Coming up, Commodore. Mess steward! Kinywaji kingine kwa ajili ya Commodore Kamanda.”
“Ndio, kamanda.”
“Your Swahili seems to have gotten better, Frank.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s necessary when dealing with the Mafia settlers. It’s the lingua franca along this stretch of the African main – even the Arabs use it.”
“How do you know that?”
“We can hear ‘em yelling back and forth to one another in close-quarters battle. In Swahili. Sometimes with a few Arabic words or phrases mixed in; they must have spoken it with the islanders, during the times when they had them reduced to serfdom.”
“Useful knowledge, I suppose…now, Frank, give me a sitrep. How’s the land war going?”
“It’s touch and go, Commodore. My guys are stretched thin. Seems like the rats attack a village every night, and the Pirates are still trying to land more fighters – and succeeding too often.
“Apparently, they’ve formed bands of newly-arrived fighters mixed with long-time Arab residents, to take advantage of local knowledge. They attacked this camp more than once, but we’ve succeeded in keeping them at bay. The SLARs we got from Nosy Be, plus one-inchers firing buck-and-ball, and some shotguns we’ve requisitioned from the task force, give us the edge in fire-power. We need more of them SLARs, Commodore – can you use your influence to get ‘em for us? And, by the way, to speed up the arrival of those extra troops from Nosy Be and Reunion we’ve been promised?”
“Not so fast, Frank – what the hell is a ‘slayer?’ And ‘buck and ball’?”
“SLAR – self-loading automatic rifle – automatic as in rapid-fire. And ‘buck and ball’ is a one-inch cartridge consisting of a mixture of one large ball and a lotta buckshot. It’s a real man-killer at close and intermediate ranges – which is mostly what we’re dealing with here in the bush.”
“Okay. I knew about Kendall’s request for troops from Nosy Be and Reunion, and that Mauritius volunteered a few, too. I underlined that request, and its urgency, in recent messages. I begged for at least a battalion apiece from the two richest islands – we know their own forces can spare that many. I also asked for a couple o
f Reunion’s fast motor gunboats, with their crews, to help Mafia Utukufu in the effort to cut off support to the Pirates here.”
“Wah! Two battalions! Who’s gonna be in overall command of all these troops, Commodore?”
“You are, obviously, Frank. You know the ground; you know our allies, the Mafians; you know the situation in the round – you’re the natural choice.”
“But I’m just a warrant officer. Majors or light colonels command battalions. How can I ‘command’ officers so senior to me?”
“Oh, no worries, Frank – that’s already taken care of. I put in the paperwork before I left Charlie. You’re now Captain (L) Francois Landry, the first commissioned officer in the RKN Landing Forces. That’s equivalent to the military rank of full colonel, so you’ll be senior to any officer the other islands might send with their detachments.”
Landry’s eyes grew wide. “But, but … Commodore, how can I be a Captain in the Navy? I’ve had very little time in charge of a watch, and my navigation is very limited – I don’t know any celestial!”
“Frank, you missed the significance of the ‘L’ after your rank. You’ll be like an engineer or an intel officer – or Doctor Girard – you’ll have command responsibility only within your branch. But you’ll have the same pay and perks as any other captain.
“You mentioned once that junior officers had no interest in serving with landing forces, because they didn’t see it as career-enhancing. Well, now they can aspire to as high a rank as any in the Navy. And we can take Mids who have little or no experience at sea, but want a career as a Naval officer. Also, you can recommend for midshipman warrants or direct commissions any of your petty officers you regard as officer material – a reward for merit and an incentive for the ambitious young PO.
“So, Captain Landry, you now owe your brother officers of the task force a wetting-down party. But we’ll belay that until you’re not so busy. Better start saving up that bump in pay, ‘though – your colleagues are a thirsty bunch.
“But enough about your future financial obligations, Captain – continue with your sitrep.”
“Well, Commodore, we’ve had an increase in attacks, o’course, both the frequency and intensity, usually on villages. The Pirates have inflicted a lot of casualties, both on the village guards and civilians, but so far, they haven’t taken and held a single village – and they’ve sustained a lot of casualties themselves. It’s hard to tell how many, since they go to heroic efforts to carry away their dead and wounded.
“They actually held one village under siege for a couple of days – Bweni, a fishing village on the north-west coast, one of the largest and oldest settlements. Bad choice for the Pirates, ‘though: since it’s right on the coast, it was easy to reinforce by water, and we quickly broke the siege and chased the drols back into the bush.
“Besides better weapons and discipline, we only have one other advantage in this funny kind of war – ‘guerilla war’ Mister Cameron called it. The villagers are one hundred percent on our side. They hate the Arabs, and refuse them any aid at all, whether food, intelligence, or anything else. The Pirates have tried terror – for example, they kidnapped a headman’s teen-aged daughter and threatened to have her gang-raped and then murdered if he didn’t cooperate. He strung ‘em along – and then his village guardsmen tracked her to where she was being held, and killed every single Pirate involved. This put a damper on that tactic – many of my askari are not just farmers, but hunters, too, and their tracking skills are another edge we have over the Pirates.
“Every village now has a stout thorn boma, and an armed village guard, trained and led by a veteran askari. That don’t mean the Pirates can’t take one by superior force, and burn it, and slaughter the people – it has happened – but it takes more attackers than the usual half-dozen or so, and bigger groups are always quickly detected by my roving patrols; they don’t risk it often.”
An armed askari entered the hut without ceremony, and spoke at length with Landry in Swahili. Sam, who had yet learned only a few words, understood nothing of it. Landry replied tersely, apparently issuing orders, and rejoined Sam.
“Here’s an example of what I mentioned earlier,” he said. “He brought a report that multiple small groups of Pirates are forming a larger force, only a few klicks away, apparently to attack a village near here or mebbe even Camp Van. I’ve sent runners to warn the two nearest villages and ordered the camp put on full alert.
“I’ve expected this for some time, ever since I made this camp my HQ, and we got a radio here. I’m pretty sure Stone Town must have intercepted our traffic, and seen this location as a high-value target. That’s why it was very, very unwise for you to visit me here, Commodore. I gotta go out, now, and see to our defenses. You stay here, and keep your head down. Glad to see you’re packing heat today. You may need it.” With that, he left the hut.
The “heat” Sam was “packing” was his 9mm revolver. He had cursed the impulse – sheer macho swagger, since two armed guards accompanied him -- that had made him wear it, as it seemed to gain weight on his hip with every meter he slogged through the bush, its leather holster a focal point for sweat and heat rash. Now he was glad he had it.
Not one to take orders from his subordinates, Sam downed the rest of his second drink and left the hut. He found a frenzy of activity, with askari who had been off-duty hurrying to don equipment, draw their weapons from their sergeants, and man their posts. On the perimeter, many were busy improving their fighting positions – digging deeper the rifle trenches they had prepared, right up against the thorn boma, and using the excavated earth to build up the low ramparts in front of them. Others were taking buckets full of water up to the line, leaving one or two at every rifleman’s position; to keep them hydrated, Sam supposed.
He wandered about the camp, watching the defense preparations with keen interest, thoroughly enjoying his first eyes-on experience of the beginnings of a military operation ashore.
“Yoh! Fokken hel, Commodore, I thought I told you … I mean recommended that you stay in the officer’s mess! The shooting could start any minute.” This, from Landry, at point-blank range, full volume, over his left shoulder.
“That’s why I’m out here. Did you ever know me to take cover below when the shooting started, at sea?”
“Why, of course not, Commodore! But this is different. We’re not at sea now …”
“But you and your troops are still under my command, Captain Landry. Despite your recent promotion, I still out-rank you. Don’t worry – I don’t intend to take over from you, or second-guess you, or even issue you any orders. But I am by God going to observe the action.”
Landry sputtered, red-faced, for a moment, then apparently decided that silent acquiescence was the wisest course. “Yes, sir,” was all he said. But his thoughts clearly showed on his face: on your own head be it!
They heard scattered gunfire in the distance, apparently from the bush surrounding the camp.
“Why no return fire, Frank?” Sam asked.
Landry grinned. “My askari are well-trained in fire discipline – they never shoot until they can see a target, unless ordered to do so.”
“Why the big grin?”
“Because the Pirates just demonstrated their lack of discipline: there hasn’t been nearly enough time for more than a couple of bands to rendezvous and approach the camp. The one or two already here spooked at our obvious defensive prep, and opened fire prematurely. Let’s hope they go ahead and try an attack, too – we’ll be able to wipe ‘em out as they assault in dribs and drabs, while the others come up.”
“So: a victory for die goeie ouens, then?”
“Never say victory before it’s won, Commodore; no worse luck than that,” Landry said, rapping on the wooden stock of his carbine. “But I do believe we’ll have some fun. So, if you’re hell-bent on getting’ your ass shot off, follow me! Sir.”
Fifteen
“Nique ta mere!” Al Kendall shouted, startling everyone o
n Charlie’s quarterdeck – shocking them, too. Kendall often swore, but rarely used such an extreme obscenity.
“The Commodore’s at Camp van der Mere – and it’s under siege by the Pirates!” Kendall waved the radio signal form he had just radio, his raspy half-whisper rising to a screech in his excitement.
“Nique ta mere, vraiment,” muttered Dave Schofield, who happened to be on the quarterdeck, in the Flag Box, for a routine report to the acting Commodore.
Kendall was beside himself with a combination of extreme anxiety and rage at Sam Bowditch, for exposing himself to danger in such a reckless and irresponsible way. “What the hell can we do?” he cried out. He hadn’t meant to say this aloud – the question was rhetorical, or addressed to the Lord; he certainly had no hope that there was anything the task force could do in time to save its commanding officer – hell, the whole fokken Navy’s commanding officer.
But for Dave, this was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. “Sir, we can provide direct air support to the camp. I’ve got one Puffin ready to go – I just need to have it re-armed appropriately. We can give nearly-continuous, air cover during daylight if it becomes necessary, by shuttling our Puffins one at a time over the target area. Now that we have radio comms with the Camp, we can coordinate closely with Chief Landry. It means giving up recon flights for the time being, but I think the sacrifice is worth it.”
“Do it, by God! I’ll pass the word to Landry. Make direct contact with him as soon as you’re airborne…” Schofield was already running forward, leaving with a wave that was apparently intended as a salute.
“Looks like I spoke too soon, Commodore,” Landry shouted over the noise of gunfire. The two crouched at the thorn-and-earthwork boma, behind a sharpshooter and his spotter. The spotter was scanning the edge of the bush, seeking a target for his partner. Puffs of white smoke arose from the undergrowth, marking the location of Pirate shooters.
“What, then?” Sam shouted back.
Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga Page 30
