Assault on Zanzibar

by E. C. Williams

  Aboard Charlemagne, Sam Bowditch heard the radio exchanges between Swordsman and Rowdy, then Schofield, in Air Ops, as he radioed, “Swordsman, fly cover for Rowdy. Keep those dhows away until the gunboats can pick him up!” This reminded Sam that the gunboats, still without radios despite his attempts to get them, could only communicate visually with their mother ships.

  “Flag to Joan: Send gunboats to rescue downed airman!” he shouted to his phone talker.

  Circling above, Ellis saw the leading two-masted dhow sailing directly for the spot where Rowdy's plane had just sunk. Without hesitation, he banked sharply and dived, leveling off for a bows-on attack. The dhow's AA fire was intense but, thankfully, wild. He released his two remaining bombs and broke sharply left, climbing at max power, his vision dimming from the g-forces. When at altitude, he banked again to look at the target. The tall splashes from his two bombs were just subsiding on either bow of the target vessel: near-misses. He hoped they at least did some damage.

  Joan frantically sought the attention of the gunboats with both flashing light and flag hoist, repeated by Albatros. From overhead, Ellis saw that the lead dhow, the one he had just attacked, was beating hard as fast as it could for the spot where Yates was treading water and trying to inflate his life vest. He estimated that it was no more than fifteen minutes away. It also looked as if the nearest Kerg gunboat would take a half hour or more even at full speed to reach Yates – the dhow, being much nearer, was going to win the race. Without hesitation, he dived on the dhow, firing his last five rounds of one-inch explosive shells. He had the satisfaction of seeing the foot of the dhow's forecourse come loose and flap wildly – he had succeeded in severing the foretack, at least.

  He climbed away, striving for altitude and jinking wildly as all four of the two-masters sent up a storm of AA fire. He had now spent all his bombs and one-inch rounds. He decided grimly that, if necessary, he would crash his plane into the dhow to buy time for Yates, and to hell with Dave Schofield's constant nagging about risking the plane – after all, he wouldn't be around to hear it, would he? It also occurred to him that he could land near Yates and pull him aboard his own plane. But then where would he put him? The Petrel was a single-seater, with barely enough room in the cockpit for the pilot and none for a passenger. Could Yates hang on to the exterior of the plane while it taxied away? The airplane could easily outrun any ship on the surface – but it would be a sitting duck for the dhow's guns. And a single hit from one of her three-inchers would smash the Petrel to splinters.

  While these thoughts went through his mind, he orbited the scene at four thousand feet, just above the effective range of the dhows' triple-A, and trying to keep the tiny dot that was Yates' head and shoulders within view. It helped that this dot was the point on which the enemy dhow and one of the RKN motor-gunboats – he couldn't tell which one -- was converging. As he watched, the gunboat opened fire, apparently just within range. A shell splash appeared close aboard the dhow's port bow. The dhow returned fire, but her rounds were short.

  Ellis decided to try to distract the dhow's gunners. He dived right down to the surface, pulled up, and made a run at top speed directly at the dhow. The bluff worked; the dhow directed all its fire at him now. He waited until the last moment before collision before pulling up sharply and banking away. The dhow seemed to flinch away from his attack – her helmsman must have let her fall off to leeward.

  His radio crackled into life. “Sword, God damn it, knock it off! If you lose that airplane, I'll … “A burst of static blanked the rest of the threat. Ellis grinned to himself; if he lost the airplane, there would likely be little Schofield could do to him – in this life, anyway.

  At that point, he saw a bright flash on board the dhow, and her foremast swayed, then toppled slowly to leeward, the big sail collapsing. Ellis shouted “Yes!”, and punched the air. The motor gunboat had scored a decisive hit, and would certainly win the race now. He decided that he would give a month's liquor ration for just three rounds of one-inch – or better yet, a single bomb – at this moment. The dhow, with half her foredeck covered with sail canvas and every hand scrambling to clear the wreckage was completely vulnerable.

  Sam Bowditch, on Charlemagne's quarterdeck, had followed events through the reports of “Mauler” – Lieutenant Maury – who, unarmed, had dutifully orbited the scene at ten thousand feet and reported the action from his perspective, carrying out his function as scout-spotter but obviously unhappy at his passive role. As was standard procedure, he had, on first contact, assigned the enemy vessels letters from south to north, “Rat Alfa, Rat Bravo,” and so forth. Sam now heard his dispassionate voice describing the scene.

  “Rats Alfa and Bravo both still pumping, both have altered course to the north. Rats Delta through Foxtrot doing the same. Rat Alfa still clearing wreckage of foremast. Motor sloop stopped, maybe picking up Rowdy.”

  A moment later, Sam's phone talker said, “Albatros to Flag: Rowdy recovered; wet but happy.” Sam heaved a huge sigh of relief, then said, “Flag to Taffy One: concentrate all fire on Rat Alfa. Sink that bastard!” Since Albatros, Joan, and both motor gunboats were now in range of the unlucky rat alfa, she was quickly aflame from stem to stern, and her crew were abandoning ship.

  But the remaining Pirate vessels were retiring quickly from the scene, running free on the brisk southerly; even the damaged three-masters were making good speed, and were already at extreme range, if not out of range completely. Both Albatros and Joan were still making water and pumping for all they were worth to stay afloat. The motor gunboats were almost certainly running on fumes. The task force was down to three operational planes, and these survivors were so valuable as the eyes of the force that they could not be risked in combat.

  The battle was over, and while it was a tactical win for the Kergs in terms of relative losses, it was clearly a strategic victory for the Pirates; they had succeeded in frustrating the intended raid on Stone Town.

  As the tension he had felt for so many hours left his body, Sam felt a profound weariness. He wanted nothing more than to retire to his cabin and be alone.

  “Todd,” he said, “Lay off a course for Mafia Island. Then draft a signal to the task force for the course change. Execute when ready.” Then he went below.

  Three

  A week later, Sam stood on the quarterdeck of the Charlemagne, at anchor in Mafia Island's Chole Bay, watching through his telescope as a three-masted schooner carefully negotiated the south-west entrance. She was the Emma Lee, returning from Hell-ville and bringing much-needed supplies, especially fuel. There had been plenty of time to IFF the Emma as friendly, since she had arrived at the middle of the ebb tide, and had to anchor and wait for slack water. A tidal current of as much as two knots made the passage difficult to negotiate during the flood and the ebb; her deep draft and bluff bows made her somewhat under-powered when not sail-assisted. The Albatros's motor sloop was now helping her to her assigned anchorage within the bay.

  The task force had spent the week before working round the clock to repair battle damage. Their dead were buried at sea off the island, with due solemnity, and the vessel captains had the sad duty of writing letters to the next of kin of the fallen – thankfully, Sam was no longer included in that category, so spared this sad duty.

  The task force had anchored safely, and the island fell to the Kerguelenians with no significant resistance and no casualties to the landing party. The African settlers were ecstatic, and welcomed the Kerguelenians as liberators, as predicted by Ajali, the Mafia Islander brought back by the Scorpion from her reconnaissance mission to the island. Ajali, an enthusiastic volunteer rather than a prisoner of war, had served invaluably as pilot for the task force in its entry into the bay, and then as interpreter for Chief Landry's landing party of riflemen.

  The resident Arabs had run away into the forested interior of the island on first contact – sensibly enough, since they were few and out-numbered. Landry's men were hunting them down. Sam was hoping for
prisoners, because Emma Lee was bringing him something besides supplies: a staff intelligence officer trained and vouched for by Lieutenant (I) Hank Dallas. Sam looked forward to meeting this new officer, who Dallas described as an intelligence prodigy. He must be a child prodigy, because he was only a midshipman.

  He automatically surveyed his little fleet as he paced, missing Roland, which was cruising to the eastward to intercept any commerce raiders headed south, aided by solo reconnaissance flights from Charlemagne. He could also see a pair of small pulling boats engaged in surveying the bay bottom preliminary to laying out a buoyed taxi-way for the Petrels, one the fliers could be confident was free of underwater hazards.

  Sam heard a discreet cough at his elbow. “Commodore? You sent for me…?” It was Lieutenant Commander Dave Schofield.

  “Oh, yes, Dave. I'd like a status report on your birds.”

  “I'm sorry to say it's still the same, Commodore – three operational. And all with patched shot holes in wings and fuselage.”

  “What I really wanted to know is how you're coming along with repairing that plane that was our first casualty. Mallery's machine, was it?”

  “Right, sir – Loverboy's. Well, I do have a slight bit of good news there. The techs now say she's fixable with the resources we have on hand. The original diagnosis was we'd have to wait for a new engine, but after they tore it down they got more optimistic.”

  “So … when, Dave? How soon will it be flyable?”

  “The chief tech says a week or more.”

  “Not good enough. I want that airplane aloft in the next few days. They'll have to bear down. Tell 'em that and come back with a ready date I'll like better.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the by-now familiar note of resignation in Schofield's voice. The Old Man always wanted everything done by yesterday.

  “I do have some good news, Dave, so don't look so glum. I got a radio signal from Rao this morning, with an update on the new flying boats he promised.”

  Rao was the self-taught aeronautical genius, a Reunionnais, who had designed and flown the first heavier-than-air flying machine in the Kergosphere, and went on to come up with the Petrel, build the prototype, test-fly it, then oversee production. He had been aboard the Charlemagne for the initial period of pilot training in the waters off Nosy Be, overseeing the maintenance of the planes and training the technicians at the same time. But he stayed behind when the task force sailed, returning instead to Reunion to manage the continued development and production of warplanes.

  “Rao finally has our promised two more planes ready, and they're flying out to join us. We should see them tomorrow.”

  Schofield frowned in puzzlement. “I don't see how that's possible, sir. The Petrel has an un-refueled range of less than five hundred nautical miles. Even with a refueling stop at Nosy Be, they couldn't make it.”

  “I know; I stepped off the distances after I got the message. It's nearly 650 miles, great circle, from Reunion to Nosy Be, and about that from Nosy Be to here. But that's the word from Rao. The signal clearly said they were flying here, and to expect them tomorrow. He says they're new, improved versions of the Petrel – he called 'em 'Puffins' in the message – so perhaps they have larger fuel tanks, or something.”

  “Terrific news, Commodore!”

  Sam paused, then added, with a sly grin, “Well, the news from Rao is even a little better than that. We can expect a second pair of new Petrels – Puffins, I mean – to arrive day after tomorrow. Lord knows where we're going to put 'em.”

  Schofield's face lit up like a small boy's on Christmas morning. “Four new planes! Don't worry, Commodore – I'll stow 'em in my cabin if I have to! Just think – that'll give us eight operational airplanes once Mallery's machine is fixed!”

  “Right … “

  “And I know just how to use 'em! I'm thinking of repeated air raids on Stone Town, Commodore – bomb the ragheads until they come to their senses. And, you know, Stone Town isn't really stone, sir, not most of it. It's wood, and it'll burn like crazy if we come up with incendiary bombs.”

  Sam winced at this. “Burn people's houses? With children in them, maybe? That'll just make 'em hate us even more, Dave. I don't think so.”

  “Well, you're right, Commodore. I didn't think of that.” Schofield paused, and from the look on his face he was considering, and rejecting, running the risk of incinerating children.

  “But the harbor district, maybe, the godowns and wharves, and vessels working cargo,” he continued after a moment's reflection. “That's all wood, too. That would hit 'em in the pocketbook.”

  “Okay, I'd go along with that. But I still don't want you to take unnecessary risks with the airplanes. We don't have them to waste – not to mention the pilots. And I thought your guys had problems hitting targets from altitudes above AA range.”

  “Hitting a moving ship from six thousand feet or more is still difficult, Commodore, but we're getting better. Stationary targets are another thing altogether – much easier to hit. And we can practice bombing from altitude here.”

  Sam pondered for a few moments. Then he said, “Well, okay, you can go ahead and put together a training plan for high-altitude bombing. I'll think about your idea of an air raid on Stone Town.” Schofield took this as a dismissal, and made his departure with a sketchy salute that was essentially a casual wave – what Sam had come to think of as the “birdman salute.” Aviators seemed to have an aversion to military correctness. Bill Ennis, the Navy's expert on, and exemplar of, Naval customs, ceremonies, and traditions, would most definitely not approve. But Sam had long ago decided that fighting efficiency was more important than spit and polish and saluting.

  By now, Emma had anchored, and Sam, glancing in her direction, saw a small boat put off from her side and pull toward the Charlemagne. As it drew nearer, Sam could see that it held a passenger, in addition to the coxswain, rowers, and bow hook. The Charlie's port lookout shouted, “Boat ahoy!”

  “No no,” was the answer returned, meaning the passenger was a petty officer or midshipman, and thus entitled to no boarding honors. The boat pulled around to the port side, ruling out honors in any event. The boat was now just out of Sam's view. He heard a splash and some yelling; apparently someone had fallen in the water. Since the excitement died away quite soon, Sam assumed no one had drowned.

  Shortly, Todd Cameron appeared on the quarterdeck, accompanied by a dripping wet midshipman, short, weedy, and wearing eyeglasses; looking thoroughly abashed. From the thickness of the lenses in his glasses, it appeared that he was foresighted enough to fit them with a sail-twine lanyard, thus keeping them during his dunking, else he probably would have been blind.

  Cameron, who looked as if he was keeping his blank business-like face only with heroic effort, said, “Commodore, may I present Midshipman Konyn, who is reporting aboard as staff intelligence officer.”

  “Welcome aboard, Mister Konyn,” taking the boy's damp hand. “How did it happen that you fell into the water?”

  “My … my foot slipped on the rung, sir. The ladder was wet, sir.”

  “Pilot ladders are very often wet, Mister Konyn, due to their being rigged over the side into the water. You must learn to hold on tight with both hands and place your feet carefully.”

  The boy blushed a startling shade of red, and looked as if he were about to burst into tears. Sam at once regretted his sarcasm.

  “Well, then, again, welcome aboard the Charlemagne, Mister Konyn, and welcome to my staff. Mister Dallas tells me that you have mastered Arabic very quickly.”

  “Yessir. I can speak it, and understand it when spoken, and read and write in Arabic, Commodore. I can also speak Swahili. If relevant, I also speak, read, and write English, French, Afrikaans, and Hokkien.”

  “You can read and write Hokkien? That's a rare accomplishment … “

  “Well, actually, sir, since all Chinese dialects use the same written language, it would be more technically correct to say I speak Hokkien, and read and wr
ite Chinese.” Sam looked at the boy with a new respect.

  “How much do you know about the Caliphate, and the Sultanate of Zanzibar? Politics, economy, history?”

  “A good deal sir – all I could pick up, and read in available books.”

  “How about ships, navigation, armament – sizes and ranges of guns, that sort of thing?”

  The boy blushed again. “Aside from basic seamanship and navigation, most of those aspects, sir, I have yet to learn. I had hoped to do it on the job, so to speak, sir, since I had neither materials nor teacher ashore on Nosy Be.” Sam could well believe he had no teacher; Dallas himself was made the Navy's first intelligence staff officer because, although brilliant, he was no seaman nor likely ever to make one.

  “Well, never mind, Mister Konyn – we'll teach you all that stuff. By the way, what's your Christian name?”

  The boy gulped, and blushed yet again. “Percival, sir.”

  “Well, Percival, I'm glad to have you on my staff. Go with Todd, now, and he'll show you your berth and you can change into some dry clothes.” As the two young officers saluted and turned to go, another question occurred to Sam.

  “By the way, how did you master Arabic so quickly? And Swahili?”

  “I was a Zanzibari slave for two years, sir.” Sam stared, taken aback by this plain statement.

  “How were you captured?”

  “I was a cadet on the schooner Cher Marie, on my first voyage, when she was sunk off Toamasina. The Pirates fished the survivors, including me, out of the water, and I spent all my time as a slave on board the Pirate dhow that sank us. My shipmates were all sold in the Stone Town slave market. At first, I was the owner-master's personal servant, but once he learned that I knew a little navigation, he gave me that responsibility. I picked up spoken Arabic quickly, and began to teach myself to read it. My captain then made me the ship's clerk, responsible for the accounts – he himself could barely cope with the simplest arithmetic.”