Assault on Zanzibar

by E. C. Williams

  Of course, the movement of the seaman-gunners into their new position would have to be as covert as possible, undetected by the Pirates, or the exercise would be pointless. On Landry's orders, passed in whispers from man to man, the gunners faded back deeper into the bush and moved quietly around the perimeter of the clearing to the new position. This took some time, but eventually all ten of the gunners were spaced along the far side of the creek, under cover. Landry was with them, in the center of the line.

  There was some activity in the camp – Arab fighters moving into position for the breakout, Landry assumed. He didn't want to hold fire completely and make the Pirates suspicious, but he couldn't have his whole force blazing away and betraying the ambush. He passed the word that no man was to fire until the Arabs charged – even if he, Landry, fired. Landry sniped from time to time, at glimpses of movement in the camp, and prayed his men wouldn't get over-excited and start firing too. But the seaman-gunners were well-disciplined, and held their fire.

  A long, hot interval, more than an hour, then ensued. Then, with a suddenness that sent an electric shock through Landry, even though he had been expecting it, the incomprehensible ululating war-cry of the Pirates arose, and a dozen of them sprang up and charged out of the camp at the very point he had expected. Landry shouted “fire!”, but an order wasn't necessary. Every one of his men fired at once, in a coincidental volley, and it looked as if nearly every round found its target – five or six Pirates dropped at once, and others staggered, wounded, but kept coming. All were firing, some from the hip, one-handed, brandishing a sword in the other.

  The gunners were on the far bank of the creek, in the cover of dense bush. The creek wasn't much of a barrier – ten meters across, only knee-deep, and with a barely detectable current – but it slowed the enemy down, and at that range the gunners couldn't miss. Not one Pirate made it across. Nor did one run away, try to surrender, or falter in the attack until shot down. When the firing stopped – for lack of targets, not as the result of an order – dead and dying enemy fighters lay scattered from the edges of their camp to the eastern bank of the creek, some floating face down in the water.

  There was a long interval during which the gunners lay tensely in cover, rifles loaded and cocked, not believing the action was over. The usual cacophony of birds and insects, so ubiquitous in the tropical forest that one noticed it only when it stopped, and frightened into silence by the noise, gradually resumed. Landry kept waiting for the rest of the Pirates to reveal themselves – he estimated that there were at least two dozen effectives who had survived the earlier clash and stuck with the main body, maybe more. Finally, he stood up from cover and shouted, “Anyone hit?” The gunners rose cautiously, looking around at their mates.

  “Van's down, Chief. Over here.” Landry walked toward the man who had spoken, and looked down. Able Gunner van der Merwe lay as if sleeping peacefully, a hole in his forehead. He had not fired his rifle. One of the first, unaimed, shots fired by the Pirates had found him by the evilest luck. He was – had been – in his twenties but looked younger. Now he looked like a boy taking a nap, the neat bullet wound the only discordant note.

  The nearest gunners came over, and stood in silence. Van der Merwe had been a popular lad, cheerful and funny, a noted player of elaborate practical jokes. That he was struck down by the sheerest accident, after surviving an encounter with a Pirate blade, seemed enormously unfair.

  Landry looked up at a sound like a herd of water buffalo crashing through the bush. His reinforcements had arrived.

  LPO Fourie led the way, and a score of seamen-gunners followed, two of them heavily laden with a one-inch rifle and its tripod, its ammo presumably distributed among the rest of the section. Fourie came to a stop in front of Landry, chest heaving, streaming with sweat, a stricken expression on his face. He tried to speak, but couldn't summon the air.

  “Take it easy, Eddie. Catch your breath.” Fourie followed this advice, and after a few deep, shuddering breaths, said, “Sorry, Chief. We came as quick as we could. We started running when we heard the first shot.”

  “No worries, Eddie; you made good time. I wasn't expecting you earlier than this afternoon. Did you bring the Doc with you?”

  “Affirmative. He's already checking on the wounded Pirates.”

  “For God's sake, tell him to be careful! You know how they sometimes pretend to be hurt worse than they are, have a knife hidden … “.

  “Got that covered, Chief. A rifleman is with him, at the ready.” Fourie pointed, and Landry saw “Doc” Martin – Chief Surgeon's Assistant Georges Martin, just promoted to this new warrant officer rank – stooping over a fallen Pirate, with Able Gunner Dorie standing nearby, rifle cocked and aimed at Martin's patient.

  Landry walked over to them. “Be careful, Doc. And try to save at least one Pirate. We need intel – gotta know if we got 'em all, or if there's still some loose on the island.”

  “Roger that, Chief. And sorry about van der Merwe. He was a good kid.” For Martin had, of course, made sure that none of his shipmates needed his professional attention before starting on the enemy fallen.

  Landry mounted sentries around the perimeter of the clearing, and then turned the rest of his men to searching the Pirate camp. He had them not just look, but tear apart the flimsy huts and even look for freshly turned earth, evidence of anything – and any corpse – recently buried. An early positive result was the discovery of a large stock of rifles and ammunition, enough to keep a fair-sized guerilla force in the field for months. Landry's first impulse was to destroy it all, but on second thought he reflected that he could use these weapons to arm the African settlers, or some of them, creating a sort of self-defense militia. Whatever the effectiveness of such a force, this would certainly cement the Kergs' relations with the settlers. And, given a little time, he had no doubt that he and his boys could train them up to a respectable level of military efficiency.

  The search also turned up a sheaf of documents, which looked like letters, or memoranda, which, being in Arabic, Landry couldn't decipher. But he hoped that Intelligence could make something of them. The fact that none of the wounded Arab fighters survived to be interrogated made the papers even more important.

  Their importance was enhanced But they had found no bodies, buried or otherwise. This shot down Landry's preferred solution to the mystery of the missing Pirates – that they had suffered many more casualties from Kerg fire during the siege than he had realized.

  Landry's decision not to destroy the rifles and ammo created a problem, too – it was far too much for his men to carry back to base. He decided to leave a guard of a half-dozen gunners over it, and pay a column of settlers to go back with an escort to carry it all to the Kerguelenian base on Chole Bay.

  But a question continued to nag at him: where were the rest of the Pirates? He got a disturbing answer to that when he heard a shout from Furaha, who, with Kibwe, had guided the reinforcement party back to the enemy camp. Landry looked up and saw the African beckoning from the far side of the clearing. He went over to him, and saw what he had found: a trail of disturbed and broken brush and undergrowth, all too clearly the track of the main body of the Pirates. The attack the gunners had just defeated, at the cost of van der Merwe's life, had been a diversion, not an attempt at a breakout. True, it had cost the enemy nearly half their force, their base, and their reserves of arms and ammo. But the bitter truth was that the bulk of them had escaped – and, what was worse, had fooled Landry.

  Five

  “So, Dave, are you fully recovered from your ditching?”

  “Yes, Commodore – no problems. Just a bruise or two, and that weren’t from the ditching, but the jump from my wing to Buster's.”

  The task force captains, plus Dave Schofield and Chief Landry, gathered in Sam's mess room on board the Charlemagne. The occasion was after-action assessments of both the air raid on Stone Town and Chief Landry's running fight with the Arab settlers. Lieutenant Cameron and Midshipman Konyn sto
od by respectfully in the background, ready to pitch in with administrative support or intel as needed.

  “Give us a briefing on the raid and its effects, then, Dave.” In response, Schofield detailed the time line of the raid and described the damage he saw, using a chart of Stone Town harbor as a visual aid.

  “So, to sum up: two dhows sunk and a godown set afire. At a cost of one of our remaining Petrels – bringing the loss rate of this type up to damn near seventy percent. I'm once again reconsidering our use of airplanes as attack platforms. They're invaluable to us in the reconnaissance role, but the damage they inflict on the enemy doesn't seem to balance the danger to them. And from what you've told me, they can fly recon missions well above the range of enemy triple-A, while to attack they need to fly lower, where they’re in danger.”

  “Sir, our total losses of both types combined remain well below seventy percent! And it seems to me that we've shown the devastation we can bring to the enemy by air attack! We just need more planes and pilots.” Dave's voice was rising in pitch and volume. He considered the value of aerial warfare an indisputable fact and felt any disagreement as a personal attack.

  “Pre-Troubles navies – armies, too – used aircraft in the attack role, often decisively,” Bill Ennis interjected diplomatically, sensing that Dave was on the verge of losing his temper. “But they had scores, even hundreds, of airplanes to throw at the enemy. We don't, and likely never will. On the other hand, the Pirates have none. So far.”

  “So far,” Sam said. “That's the key phrase. They will have them, eventually. Recall, too, Bill, that pre-Troubles navies boasted scores, even hundreds of ships, too, while we have a handful. It's a matter of scale. We're not rich enough nor are there enough of us to ever rival the ancients in any respect – not in our lifetimes, surely. We must make do with what we have. And what we have are not enough airplanes to risk in combat when they're so valuable in the scouting role.”

  “Commodore, I'll concede that air attacks on targets like Stone Town aren't worth the risk – although the Puffins came through this last one unscathed – but I respectfully submit that patrol planes should be allowed to attack targets of opportunity, such as gun-dhows heading south for commerce raiding.” Dave was still stubbornly contending for at least some combat role for his beloved airplanes.

  “But won't flying recon patrols fully armed lessen their range?”

  “Staying at max altitude, where their engines are most efficient, and flying at loitering speed will compensate for that, sir.” To some extent, anyway, Dave added to himself, but didn't say out loud. “And consider that just spotting a gun-dhow doesn't guarantee we'll bag it on the surface – they're generally faster than our schooners.”

  Sam thought that over for a moment, then conceded. “Okay. Arm the patrol flights, for attacks on commerce raiders. Work up search patterns and patrol schedules. I'll lend you back Mister Eloy for the grunt work. Remember that we want to keep an eye on Stone Town – overfly it every other patrol or so. At a safe altitude, mind.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Dave replied, in a tone of resignation.

  “If I may interject, Commodore…?”

  “Certainly, Chief.”

  “I'd like the island – Mafia Island, itself – included in the patrol pattern, sir, if possible, with the fliers instructed to search for any sign of Pirate guerillas.”

  “That a problem, Dave?”

  “Can do, Commodore. And Chief. But if Mister Landry could brief my guys on what to look for...?”

  “Absolutely, Commander Schofield. I'm at your service.”

  “Probably best to make those schedules random, so the enemy can't predict when our planes will appear and arrange their ops around our recon patterns. And while we're talking about the guerillas, Chief, why don't you go ahead and brief us on your encounters with them.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Landry went on to describe the Pirate raid on the settler village, the chase through the bush, and the siege of the Pirate camp. He concluded with the frank admission that “…they fooled me, sir – faked me out completely with that diversionary attack. And most of ’em got away.” He described the cache of arms and ammunition, and his plan to arm and train a settler militia. “Sir, I'm afraid the word got out about my idea, and the elders of nearly every village sent me groups of their young men as volunteers. I didn't want to issue weapons to them without your approval, so I set them to work cutting back the brush around the Pirate base to enlarge the clearing, building a boma around the camp, and digging a well within the perimeter. Unless otherwise directed, I plan to turn the Pirate camp site into an advanced base to use for tracking down and eradicating the guerillas. Sorry if I've exceeded my area of responsibility.”

  “Not at all, not at all, Chief – I approve everything you did, as well as your plans to take the battle to the guerrillas. As for the settler militia – I think that's 'n wonderlike idee. Make it so.”

  “Just one more thing, Commodore. I've got something of a manpower problem now. Do you suppose that the Nosy Be regiment would be willing to send us a cadre of experienced non-coms to train the volunteers? And lead them in action, temporarily, until they can produce their own officers and non-coms? That would be a tremendous help – it would free up all my men to find and fight the Pirates.”

  “I don't see why not. In fact, I think they'd jump at the chance to take a more aggressive role in the war, at least to this extent. I'll get a radio signal off to the governor and the colonel today.”

  “Thank you, sir – that'd be formidable.”

  “Now, what about the documents you recovered in the camp? Have you had a chance to look them over, Mister Konyn?”

  “Yes, sir. I'm still working on them, but I have made out that they're mostly communications from the sultanate's military HQ on Zanzibar. They relate to supplies of arms, lifting non-combatants off the island – women, children, the elderly and unfit – and, most importantly, a schedule of re-supply at regular intervals.” This last phrase sent a murmur of excitement through the group.

  “A schedule? With dates and times?” asked Sam incredulously.

  “Dates, yes, sir, but rather than precise times the times of moon rise and moon set for the day. The implication is that the re-supply vessel will approach during the moonless period.”

  “Did you check those with the almanac?”

  “Yes, sir. Each date is one on which there is a period of darkness before moon rise or after moon set.”

  “It's amazingly convenient that we have their full schedule of re-supply missions. Almost too convenient, ain't it?” Bill Ennis interjected.

  “I thought about that, Captain. Could these papers be a clever bit of disinformation?” Chief Landry said. “But I also considered that the guerillas are farmers and merchants, not soldiers. Leaving important intel behind when they retreat is the kind of mental lapse you might expect from civilians. I think the info is genuine.”

  “Genuine or not, they now know we have it. But the guerillas still must be re-supplied – and probably reinforced, with experienced fighters. And their need for darkness for that hasn't changed, nor has the orbit of the Moon. I believe the intelligence will still be useful in intercepting re-supply attempts. Sirs.” Konyn added the last word, blushing, when he belatedly realized that he, the most junior member of this august gathering, was rather too forcefully offering his opinion.

  “If I were the enemy commander, I'd certainly make every effort to support and strengthen the guerrillas on Mafia,” Sam mused. “This would keep us busy and distracted while an invasion force is assembled to re-take the island. And they must re-capture Mafia or give up their attacks on our shipping. What we need to do to win the war – or at least force an armistice – is stick it out here and keep interdicting the commerce raiders. But that may mean fighting off repeated attacks in overwhelming force.

  “Mister Konyn is right: we can probably still rely on this intelligence. Mike, take Roland to sea as soon as you can be ready, and cruis
e off the northern coast of Mafia Island. Be especially alert at night. Dave, brief your pilots to report all enemy shipping, however small and innocent-looking – including fishermen – southbound out of Zanzibar.

  “Chief, I know you're stretched thin right now, but you must keep up the pressure on the guerrillas. I'm guessing they won't wait for re-supply to continue their raids – if only to feed themselves, now that we've got their supply dump. Each single Pirate you capture or kill right now is a major blow to the enemy, because the surviving Arabs are the ones who know the island, and they'll be invaluable as a source of local knowledge to any reinforcements that manage to land.”

  After the conference broke up, Chief Landry and Dave Schofield greeted one another affectionately on deck. They were long-time friends, shipmates aboard the old Scorpion, the original RKN vessel of that name, now sunk.

  “Well, Chief, looks like you've made the full transition from aquatic to amphibian – the Navy's ships are just a means of transport for you now.”

  Landry chuckled. “And you, Commander – you're no longer aquatic but … avian. Is that the word? And how do you like being a bird man?”

  Schofield laughed. “I like it just fine. And I'm a sea bird, so I'm still afloat. How do you like slogging through the bush, chasing terrorists?”

  “It's more fun than you'd think – beats scraping and painting, anyway.”

  “So how can my guys help you with that? What should they look for during a sweep?”

  “Anybody who ain't a black African, or a Kerg of any color; Arabs. Seriously, though, tell 'em to look for stretches of disturbed bush, as if a group of men had moved through. Any sign of a camp – I'll give you a rough map with the locations of all the settler villages. Any settlements other than those bear a closer look. And make your overflights at random, unpredictable times of day. Tell your boys to take a closer look at anything suspicious, and report it. We'll follow up.”