“I like Two better. We must reduce the enemy combat force before we engage on the surface.
“And we can’t lose another schooner, either. Which reminds me: what about Buzzard One?”
“Blue Leader’s keeping her at an altitude too high to bomb from with any accuracy at all. Archer appears to be re-joining her.”
“Appears to be?”
“We’ve lost radio contact with Archer. I’m guessing that glancing collision with Buzzard Two knocked out his radio. He can communicate in a rudimentary way with Blue Leader using hand signals once he’s close enough, but we’re completely out of touch with him.”
“What if they run out of oxy? Or fuel?”
“Red Flight’s on its way home to Mother. We’ll turn around two of them ASAP, armed with anti-airship bomblets, in time to relieve Blue Flight.
“And Commodore: I’m confident we can get above Buzzard One; her ceiling can’t be greater than a Puffin’s with oxygen capability, even if she has a pressurized command cabin; I don’t believe she can bomb with any accuracy above fifteen or twenty thousand feet; nor do I believe she’ll try. I could be wrong, but I don’t think we need to worry about the second enemy dirigible.”
“Okay, Dave; you’ve eased my mind. Carry on.”
“Aye aye, Commodore.” Dave departed for the Air Shack, with the casual wave that passed for a salute with air crew.
Red Flight soon appeared, orbiting Charlie as they alit on the water one at a time and taxied toward her, rolling and pitching in the seaway. They were soon recovered, rearmed, re-fueled, and launched. One, armed with the anti-airship bomblets, flew away to the west-north-west to relieve Blue Flight in the climbing race with Buzzard One; three to attack the eastern horn of the western division of the enemy by level bombing.
Buzzard One, with Blue Leader climbing beneath it, had risen through twenty-five thousand feet when Blue Leader’s pilot – Lieutenant Piet Malan, callsign ‘Sailor’ – noticed he was almost out of O2. He had just about enough to breath during a controlled descent to an altitude at which the atmosphere was breathable. He cursed; he had plenty of fuel, and had expended no munitions; he had almost caught up with the dirigible and was certain he could climb above it if he just had a few minutes’ more oxy.
But he didn’t. In frustration, he nosed up and took a quick shot at the underside of the airship with his 37mm gun, aiming for the forward cabin or module, which he assumed contained the crew.
Awestruck, he saw his hit, his amazingly lucky hit, to the rear of the module. But he didn’t have time to stick around to gloat, not if he wanted to keep breathing. He put the Puffin into a steep dive and descended as fast as he could without tearing the wings off or blacking out. His oxygen gauge hit zero just as he passed through ten thousand feet, tore off his now-useless oxygen mask, and took a deep breath of icy air – which set off a coughing fit. When he recovered, he leveled off and looked up for Buzzard One.
To his surprise and delight, it was descending fast, as well. The forward module must have been the crew cabin after all; it had to have been pressurized; and his lucky shot had clearly caused a sudden de-pressurization.
Now, if the cabin had been equipped with emergency oxygen and masks for the crew for just such an eventuality, it would immediately start to climb again.
It didn’t. It leveled off a couple of thousand feet above Sailor’s Puffin.
Before Sailor could react, Archer zoomed by him, climbed rapidly above Buzzard one, went into a quick attack dive and released three bomblets onto the airship – which immediately dissolved into a fireball, with flaming debris dropping all around Sailor, making him duck reflexively. Luckily, nothing hit his aircraft.
Sailor pounded his cockpit coaming in delight. “Archer, jy gelukkig bastard! You just downed your second Buzzard!” he shouted into his radio.
The decks of every vessel in the task force went wild with joy. Officers and seamen threw their hats into the air, embraced one another without distinction of rank, and cheered and cheered again, causing the gulls who habitually flew in their wake to scatter in terror. First Albatros, then Charley, then the other surviving schooners let off a feu de joie with every gun to hand on their decks, making it sound as if the surface battle had commenced.
“Flag to Task Force: Belay that God-damned firing!” Sam shouted to his signals PO. The gunfire died away, first – and abruptly – on Charlemagne, then on the schooners, one by one as they received and obeyed the signal.
Sam was as delighted as anyone else – but he resented the breakdown in discipline, however brief, represented by the wild firing.
“Mother, this is Red Leader: scratch one Buzzard. Break, coming home to re-arm for other targets. Over.” This, from the speaker outside the Air Shack; Dave had switched it back on for the benefit of everyone on deck.
“Red Flight, Mother: You will be welcomed with open arms! Bravo Zulu, Archer! Over.”
“Mother, this is Gannet,” Eloy’s voice broke in. “Lightly armed dhows at rear of western division breaking off and joining those at rear of eastern division, break. On closer examination, many of these appear to be troopships, judging by large number of people on deck. Over.”
Sam barely heard Schofield acknowledge the signal; his mind was racing at this news. Troopships and supply vessels, all joining the eastern division – the part of the enemy fleet destined for Mafia Island, if all his assumptions were correct. Every one of those dhows he could sink now would increase Landry’s chances of holding the island.
How many could Schofield’s airmen destroy before they were needed to support the surface action?
“Get Commander Schofield back here now!” he growled at whoever was nearest. His phone talker had just begun to say, “Lieutenant Commander Schofield, your presence is …” when Sam say Dave dash out of the Air Shack and run aft.
When Dave arrived, and before he could speak, Sam said, “How many of those troopers and supply dhows can your guys sink before you’re needed to support us in the surface battle? You know the closing rate …”
“And we don’t have much time, yes sir. Both Green Flight and Blue Flight are returning now to re-arm. We can turn them around quick – we don’t need to refuel either – and I can send them after those re-re dhows.”
“Green Flight …?”
“The Puffin I just sent off to relieve Red Flight on Buzzard One. And Red Flight should return right after … call it Black Flight … is launched. We’ll turn it right around, too, and we’ll shuttle-bomb the shit outta those dhows.”
“That’s all six Puffins in one strike, Dave.”
“Not really, Commodore. Only three at a time will be in the danger zone. And we’ll overfly the main body out of AA range, then attack out of the sun and level-bomb from four thousand feet or so – or skip-bomb or dive-bomb, if I judge it safe to do so.”
“You’ll judge its safety from here?”
“No, Commodore, I’ll be flying one of the Puffins in the first wave, and hang around to command the second.”
“Dave, no, I can’t risk losing you …”
“Commodore, I promise I’ll stay above four thousand feet, and boss the strikes from that altitude. I’ll be safe. But I have to be there, in the air, to ensure effectiveness.”
Both were silent for a moment. Then Sam laughed and said, “Okay, Dave. But if you’re killed, I’ll bust your ass right back down to midshipman!”
Laughing, too, Dave replied, “Then I’ll make sure not to be killed, Commodore. Now if I may be excused…?” And, still laughing, he waved and dashed back to the Air Shack.
Twenty
Blue Flight returned, and the two Puffins were hoisted aboard to be re-armed – Sailor had ditched his bomblets, now useless, into the sea before alighting. Archer was hoisted on the shoulders of aviation ratings and paraded around the deck to the cheers of the entire crew. When he managed to get their attention enough to point out that he must share the credit for Buzzard One with Sailor, because he could n
ot have done it absent Sailor’s improbable shot de-pressurizing the airship’s crew module, they then hoisted Malan on their shoulders and paraded him about.
A frustrated Dave Schofield finally managed to break up this celebration, shouting that the two Puffins had to be turned around immediately for a strike against enemy shipping, and promising to host a party himself after the battle, and the two pilots, with their un-credited and ignored observers, climbed back into their cockpits. They were soon re-launched, and climbing away to the north-west.
The single-Puffin Green Flight had touched down on the sea and had taxied around Charlie for a few minutes, ignored, until Dave finally broke up the celebration and got this aircraft aboard, serviced, and re-launched, Dave in the left seat, intent on catching up with Black Flight, of which he was now leader.
Within minutes, Red Flight returned from its latest strike, to be re-armed and sent off as soon as possible to join Black Flight. Their level-bombing attack on the eastern division of the enemy had been less successful than Dave had predicted – only three dhows sunk, for the expenditure of all their bombs. Under orders not to fly lower than four thousand feet, they had done no strafing. They reported that the AA gunners in that division, especially in the horns, which had been most frequently attacked, were getting better with practice, and were achieving a few near-misses. The extreme adaptability of the Pirates never failed to impress Sam, and was one characteristic that made them such dangerous enemies, despite the RKN’s continuing technological edge.
Sam noted that “as soon as possible” was not as soon as usual, in the case of re-launching Red Flight. The Puffins, sturdy aircraft that they were, had been flown hard now for most of the day, through several cycles of launch-attack-recovery, and they needed servicing. Too, fatigue had begun to set in among aircrew and aviation ratings alike. In the case of aircrew, this was exacerbated by their habit of pitching in to help fuel, rearm, and service aircraft, alongside the enlisted specialists. It was a tradition in the RKN that, when in action, officers, chiefs, POs, and seamen all bore a hand, without distinction of rank, at whatever needed doing, whether it was getting an aircraft launched or damage control or passing ammo.
Sam was beginning to worry, too, whether it was time for Charlie to allow Emma Lee alongside for unrep. The carrier must surely be running low on fuel and munitions for her aircraft. Underway replenishment, a complex and challenging feat of seamanship, had been perfected in drills but never performed in action. It had to be accomplished while Charlemagne’s aircraft were airborne, or at any rate, off the deck. If air operations were not to be interrupted, it required split-second timing to unrep between strikes.
Now was the time to do it – and the prep signal should have gone out five minutes ago.
“Flag to task force: prepare for underway replenishment of Mother,” he said sharply to his signals PO.
At this moment, he noticed the wind backing into the south-south-west, and beginning to weaken. This would force the enemy fleet to tack, a slow and laborious process for the conventional dhow rig; he hoped that these Pirate allies had not yet adopted the corsair modification that allowed quicker tacking. It meant, most importantly, that the closing rate of the two fleets had slowed, giving the RKN task force a little more time – perhaps enough time for one more air strike before surface contact; at any rate, plenty of time to unrep.
Additional time would be gained by the unrep tactical protocol; he schooners turned and closed on the carrier; the carrier turned into the wind on a close reach, and created a lee for Emma Lee to come alongside; once the stores ship was alongside, both vessels took in all sail and proceeded on power alone while heaving lines were thrown, messengers passed, main lines passed and rigged, and munitions and stores began passing from stores ship to carrier. This took place simultaneously at two different stations – one forward, passing a hose from Emma to Charlie’s fuel tank connection, and one aft, passing bombs and ammunition to Charlie’s after hatch leading down to her magazine.
The prep signal remained flying until all vessels were in their prescribed position, when it came down sharply, indicating “execute”.
Red Flight was re-launched seconds before Emma Lee came alongside Charlemagne.
“Black Flight, this is Black Leader. How copy? Black Two, Over.”
“Black Leader, Black Two. Read you loud and clear. Over.
“Blacks, Leader, close on me in arrowhead formation, break. Climb to ten kay, break. Course east-north-east, break. Black Three, over.”
After these routine exchanges, Dave sent, “Black, Black Leader, my intent is to approach out of the Sun and attack initially by dive bombing. Break. If AA fire is encountered, cease dive bombing and climb to four kay, repeat, DO NOT dive bomb if AA is encountered. All acknowledge. Over.”
Black flight was over the eastern division of the enemy fleet within minutes, drawing some ineffectual AA fire, then circled over the rear of the division, to give all aircrew a good look at the target.
“Black Flight, Black Leader. I’ll go first. Do not, repeat, do not attack until you see that I have not drawn AA fire. Break. All acknowledge, over.”
Once his order was acknowledged, Dave picked his target, a large three-master, her deck crowded with figures, far too many to be crew, so obviously a trooper. He banked sharply and dived on the target dhow, thinking, with wild exhilaration, that this was his first combat dive-bombing attack. When the dhow had grown in his windscreen to seem close enough to touch, he shouted “now” to Tetch, his gunner/bombardier, and pulled up sharply, his vision graying as he was on the verge of blacking out from G-forces. As he pulled up, he realized that he had lost consciousness for a few seconds; he glanced at Tetch and saw that he had, too. He banked sharply into a left turn and looked at his target.
His 100kg bomb had struck her squarely in the middle of her crowded deck, breaking her back. The water around her was filled with wreckage and human bodies, some swimming, most motionless. He saw no AA fire. The other two Puffins of Black Flight were both diving onto targets.
Within twenty minutes, Black Flight had expended all of their bombs, twelve of them, all direct hits or near misses, leaving a dozen dhows in a sinking or heavily-damaged condition. Trying to tack into what was now a light and weakening breeze left many Pirate vessels “in irons”, stalled head to the wind, sails flapping uselessly.
But a couple of triple-A equipped dhows, having managed to tack, were running back through the floundering main body with the breeze astern, and came within range of the Puffins.
Black Two, piloted by Sub lieutenant Charles Reverdin, callsign “Reiver”, with his observer, LPO Jon Guo, callsign “G-Man”, was near the end of a strafing run on a troop-carrying dhow, having caused great slaughter aboard her with the Puffin’s 37mm explosive rounds, when an AA round exploded directly over their cockpit. Shrapnel killed Guo outright, and mortally wounded Reverdin, who, despite his injuries, flew the aircraft directly into the dhow. The fumes in his three-quarters-empty fuel tank exploded, engulfing plane and dhow in a fireball that destroyed the plane and left the dhow aflame from stem to stern, incinerating the survivors of his strafing run.
Dave, spotting this, pulled his Puffin up sharply, shouting into his radio, “Climb, climb, climb -- ‘ware triple A!”, ignoring radio procedure in his urgency to warn Black Three in time. Both AA dhows were now firing at the two of them, but they were changing altitude too quickly for the gunners to adjust their fuses in time, and the black puffs followed them up, never quite reaching them, until they were out of range.
Dave was consumed with guilt over the loss of Black Three. He had not been particularly close to either Reverdin or Guo, who were relative newcomers to the squadron, but that wasn’t the point; they were his boys; he had ordered them into an attack that caused their deaths.
Numbly, he radioed, “Black Two, Leader. Cease attack, break. Return to Mother, over.”
“Leader, Black Two. Roger cease attack, return to Mother, wilco. Over.”
Dave switched frequencies and broadcast, “Mother, this is Black Leader. One repeat one Puffin inbound, over.” He didn’t want to give any listening Pirates the satisfaction of hearing him report Black Three’s loss over the air. But Charlemagne would assume a loss from that report.
“Black Leader, this is Mother. Can you give us prelim enemy damage assessment interrogative? Over.
“Mother, Black Leader. Thirteen, that is One Three, Rats sunk or in a sinking condition; repeat, thirteen Rats accounted for. Over.”
“Black Leader, Mother. Bravo zulu, break. See you soon. Over.”
At the cost of a Puffin B and two pilots? Thought Dave bitterly. Not so putain de merde bravo zulu, I don’t think!
Dave orbited the enemy eastern division at seven thousand feet, high enough to be beyond the effective range of enemy AA, but just low enough to tease the gunners into taking low-percentage shots and wasting ammo. This wild shooting spread throughout the division until he could barely see the enemy for the carpet of dirty black puffs between forty-five and sixty-five hundred feet. Finally, someone on the division flagship must have wised up and hung out a signal to restore sanity, because the shooting gradually died down, beginning at the van of the division and spreading aft as receiving dhows repeated the flag hoist. Watching this, Dave concluded that the dhows of the Pirates’ northern allies were not radio-equipped, valuable intelligence he should share right away.
“Mother, this is Black Leader. Enemy appears to be relying on flag signals alone for comms between ships, break. No evidence repeat no evidence dhows of northern origin radio equipped. Over.”
“Black Leader, Mother. Acknowledge, enemy relying on flag signaling alone, break. Red flight headed your way, break. Will CHOP to you on contact, over.”
“Mother, Black Leader. Acknowledge, Red CHOPs to Black on contact, over.”
Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga Page 41
