Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga

by E. C. Williams

  Dave had just taken another sip of coffee – Ritchie’s marvelous brew was one of the positive benefits of a meeting with the Commodore – and paused to swallow. Then he replied, “Commodore, Poet and Crusher – pilots of the attack Puffins – were ordered to bomb or strafe only visible targets illuminated by the flares. That’s what they said they did, and I believe them. Their counts of dhows damaged or destroyed is obviously too high, probably due a bit to the typical over-optimism of combat pilots, but mainly due to overlap: they both attacked many of the same targets. We’ll have a better count after our next photo overflight of the creek.

  “Our photos taken during the attack were generally unsatisfactory, Commodore. But here’s one that came out well.” He handed Bowditch their best photo, the one of the dhow exploding.

  “Awheh! This is one for the Smooth Log!” Sam exclaimed, meaning in this context the enhanced version of the deck log, a complete voyage history.

  “And here are some, not so good, but they show dhows afire because of our attacks.” Dave handed him several of the ambiguous shots of lights along the creek.

  Sam shuffled through these last quickly and went back to the one of the exploding dhow. “Was this a secondary explosion?” he asked.

  “We think so – a cargo of munitions. This one was so loud I heard it from a mile high. And felt the shock wave. There was a string of secondary explosions, too – rounds or bombs cooking off sequentially. I think we can be glad this is one cargo that didn’t make it to Mafia, Commodore.”

  “Amen to that, Dave. This one hit made the raid a roaring success – no pun intended – from my point of view. So, yes, planning for your night raid on the zeppelin hangar can go ahead.”

  “Thank you, Commodore. I’m glad we can nip the Pirates’ airship project in the bud. It has occurred to me that a fleet of those things – larger, faster, longer-legged, with more, or more powerful, engines – could be extremely dangerous to us. They could bomb the Mascarene Islands, for example.

  “I have no evidence for this, just my deductions from what we’ve observed, but I think they’ve found a solution to the danger to the airship of the extreme flammability of hydrogen gas. I don’t know exactly how they did it, but I’m guessing that the gas bags are well separated from the outer shell, and that the fabric of the shell, or hull, is treated to be fire-resistant, as well as very stiff, to add rigidity. That’s why even our tracers don’t ignite the hull, and the air gap protects the gas bags, which themselves may be so treated.

  “And that’s why our one-inch and 37mm rounds do nothing but punch holes in the hull, and perhaps a gas bag or two – leaks they can cope with until they return to base. Without effective incendiary ammo – that we don’t yet have – the only way we can bring one down is for a Puffin to climb above it and dive-bomb it – a tricky maneuver we haven’t even practiced yet.

  “Keep in mind that there’s practically no altitude ceiling for these things, if the crew has oxygen. Our team of Puffins – it would take a team, including a pathfinder with the radio nav system to find it and drop flares to guide one or more conventional Puffins to it – would have to be oxygen equipped as well.

  “We can do all this, I’m certain, given time and resources. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if instead we could simply keep the Pirates from ever getting that far? We have this brief opportunity to strangle Fat Boy in his cradle!”

  “Reeds verkoop, Dave – you’ve convinced me!” Sam exclaimed. “Now go forth and make it so.”

  “Aye aye, Commodore,” Schofield replied with an ear-to-ear grin, and left.

  At that moment, at Camp van der Merwe, Captain Landry was reading a lengthy radio signal from “Vanilla Actual” – the call sign of Colonel Malherbe, CO of the Nosy Be force on the island.

  A grin gradually appeared on Landry’s face as he read. A patrol had made its way through dense bush to the summit of the hill on Mafia’s westernmost cape. There it had found and destroyed a well-camouflaged tower at tree-top height, with a powerful signal light on a platform at the top. At the bottom of the tower was a generator powered by a little one-cylinder diesel engine, and many small pottery containers, most now empty, that had held fuel for the MG set. There was also a camp showing evidence of long-term occupancy by one or a few men. A sample of the fuel was being sent to Landry by messenger.

  He concluded by saying that he had left a temporary guard on the site to prevent its re-occupation and re-construction by Pirate guerillas, and recommended making this a permanent post, utilizing Mafian askari.

  He liked that bit about sending a sample of the fuel: the engineers had been wondering forever just what the hell the Pirates were burning in their smoky diesels, and this would answer that question. He also pondered for a moment the sweat and perseverance needed to hump this heavy gear through the bush covertly. The Pirates never failed to amaze him with their dedication to the sacred mission of killing kafirs.

  His smile broadened at “…utilizing Mafian askari”. Malherbe was a fire-eater, raring to get his force into offensive action on a large scale now that it was rated combat-ready, and didn’t want even a dozen of his troops tied up in a static defensive position. But Lieutenant Colonel Malherbe was junior to Captain (L) Landry and he would damn well man that position if ordered.

  He replied with a “well done” for Malherbe’s boys, and asked that he divert the fuel sample, if possible, to the fortified camp on the shore of Chole Bay, for immediate forwarding to the flag ship. He also tasked the NBEF with manning the captured tower site “…for the time being.”

  Landry knew that the Nosy Be force was in the beginning phases of its sweep north, so Malherbe’s headquarters was likely somewhere else by now. The message would find him, but it might take a day. For now, he hoped that the Nosy Be militiamen were busy flushing out and killing Pirate guerilla fighters.

  The first – and so far, only – Captain (L) in the RKN spent most of the rest of his day overseeing construction. He had decided to put two key facilities – the camp’s radio station and the ammunition storage hut – in separate below-ground-level bunkers, as a precaution against further zeppelin bombing raids. One bomb on the ammo storage hut would set off secondary explosions that would devastate the camp, a possibility that had him gnawing his nails in anxiety all through the last raid. And, of course, without radio, their only comms would be messages carried by runner.

  This work had been going on since that raid, and hard, hot, tedious work it was, and highly unpopular with the troops. The compacted red earth did not give way easily to pick and shovel, despite being well-watered by the copious sweat of the diggers. In the interests of morale, Landry was meticulous about dividing the effort equally between askaris and the sailor-gunners of his landing force, and for this reason he personally supervised it.

  A sunset signal brought more good news as well as relief from his self-imposed but boring task; the Reunion force was at last under way for Mafia.

  The lengthy signal, when decoded, told him that the force, called simply Task Force Mafia, consisted of three rifle companies – one-upping the Nosy Be crowd in that respect – plus a “Combat Support Company”, including heavy weapons, field logistics, and something called “scout-snipers”; and a platoon-sized “Headquarters and Intelligence Element”; all commanded by a colonel. A full colonel, who would outrank the NBEF’s CO – another bit of one-upmanship? Maybe -- the Réunionnais certainly had plenty of notice of the organization of the Nosy Be force.

  He hoped this wasn’t a predictor of competition for glory and credit. Cooperation would be the key to success in these allied operations, in his opinion, and competition for who gets the plaudits would be death to inter-allied coordination and cooperation. He foresaw a need to manage these two units carefully.

  That last bit of news, specifying the rank of its CO, came as something of a relief to Landry. He had feared that James Hunter, CO of Reunion’s Defense Force, would want to lead this element of it himself. He held the rank of Gen
eral, and that could have been embarrassing, since he would out-rank everyone in the Mafia Island theater of operations, including the Commodore, and most definitely including Captain (L) Landry, whose rank was the naval equivalent of full colonel. He wondered if that consideration had counted in Hunter’s decision not to command the expedition, or if he had simply decided that he was needed more on Reunion. Whatever his motive, it was a fortunate choice.

  The Task Force’s ETA at Chole Bay was a week hence, so he needed to complete his planning for their employment. Luckily, the NBEF was out of school now, and all the trainers and interpreters he had used in training them could be re-deployed to the MTF – with the advantage of now having gained extensive experience in teaching wageni how to move and fight in the Mafia bush.

  Sam Bowditch had of course read these signals, too – he in fact was the addressee, while Landry was only copied. He was pleased to hear of the imminent arrival of the Reunion contingent, of course, but what really excited him was the news of the Pirate signal tower. He shared the latter with Cameron and Konyn at once upon receipt.

  “Congratulations, Mister Konyn. You were right. Well done,” Sam said. Konyn only blushed and looked at the deck, too overwhelmed to answer properly.

  “We have to anticipate that the Pirates won’t give up on this method, which worked so well for them for so long – they’ll inevitably try to establish another signal station somewhere else on the island,” Sam said. “We can’t rest on our laurels. And we obviously still have the spy or spies on the shores of the Bay, watching the elements of TF-1 anchored there, and the comings and goings of the cruising schooners for re-supply, and to use him, or them, the Pirates need some form of communication.”

  “What I still don’t understand,” Todd said “Is how the Pirates set up such rapid communication between Stone Town and the mainland station on the one hand, and between the island station and the guerillas in the north on the other. I can just about accept that a network of runners could accomplish it on Mafia – but how in hell could they do it on the other side fast enough to matter?”

  “The only feasible way would be a fast-sailing dhow, or relay of dhows,” Sam replied. “And it would have to sail close inshore of the mainland – going outside, around the island would take too long. The choke point, then, is the channel between Mafia and the African main. We need to plug that stretch of water up so tight a dolphin can’t swim through unseen. To do that, we need more motor gunboats.”

  “Good timing, then: a sister to the Mafia Askari gunboat has just been launched, and is working up as we speak. Her name is Mafia Baharia. Her armament and equipment are identical to that of Askari.”

  “Good. And we need another sweep, this time thorough and in force, of the Chole Bay coast line, to find the coast-watcher.”

  “If I may offer a suggestion, Commodore…” Konyn, who had finally found his voice, interjected.

  “Of course, Percy. That’s your job, after all.” Sam was becoming impatient with his staff Intel officer’s extreme diffidence.

  “I think the reason we haven’t found him out yet is that he is passing as a Mafia islander – or perhaps he is a Mafia islander, one who remains loyal to his former lord, for example. Or who converted to Islam, or both. I don’t think patrols of armed askari will find him, since he has maintained his cover identity with success so far.”

  “How can we smoke him out, then?”

  “Lieutenant (I) Dallas has at last arrived – he’s aboard the Soet Melissa, which entered the Bay on the morning tide. He has been successful on Nosy Be in destroying the Pirate spy network there. Perhaps he can do the same here.”

  “I doubt if Dallas speaks Swahili …”

  “I can interpret for him, and he’ll learn it quickly – he has a talent for languages.”

  “Okay. When he reports aboard, I’ll outline the problem, and assign you to second him. You can bring him up to speed on all relevant details.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  At that moment, Dave Schofield was studying the photos from yesterday’s overflight of Stone Town – specifically those of the zeppelin hangar site. The Pirates had obviously made the rebuilding of the structure a high-priority project – the walls were up, and rafters were being added. He could see, too, work going forward on the carcass of Fat Boy, despite the presence of the carpenters; he wondered how they kept out of each other’s way.

  Significantly, a new structure was, at the same time, going up next to the hangar – and judging from the size of its footprint, it was to be another hangar, except even larger. Were they planning to build a big brother for Fat Boy? Was it what Dave feared most – the beginnings of a whole fleet of bigger, more capable dirigibles?

  It was clearly time for the night raid on the hangar site. They had already planned it in every detail, war-gamed it over and over by pilots and observers around the officers’ mess table, with Dave playing the role of Devil’s advocate, trying to find weaknesses, points of failure. They had mounted a night rehearsal, picking as a simulated target the ruins of Kilwa Masoko, a port town on the African coast south of Mafia Island. The rehearsal went well; they had found the target using the radio nav system, illuminated it with flares, and made simulated dive-bombing attacks. They were as ready as they would ever be.

  Now if I can just get the Boss to pull the trigger … Dave thought.

  It was easier than Dave had feared: shown the photos, Bowditch had said simply, “Go ahead.”

  That same night, Dave was airborne. In addition to Crusher and Poet, he had a third Model-B Puffin, call sign Thunder, manned by her delivery pilot and observer, both of course Réunionnais. It, and they, had arrived just in time to be read-in to the operation, and take part in the rehearsal. It would be the first combat flight for them, but both had hundreds of hours in the Puffin-B, and had done very well in the simulated attack. Dave chose them over pilots who had some combat flying under their belts because of their familiarity with the B model, and had every confidence in them.

  They were flying at ten thousand feet, in a tight vee formation, with Dave at the point of the vee. All were showing lights, and there was, theoretically, some danger of being spotted after they went “feet dry” and before reaching the target. But the lights were dimmed, and, at that altitude, nearly invisible to a viewer on the ground not already alerted where to look.

  They went “feet dry” at precisely the predicted time, and soon Dave spotted the lights of Stone Town, the only urban area bigger than a village on the island. They had worried about a larger error in the radio beam because of the greater flying distance. Dave had even laboriously calculated the error introduced by the fact that radio waves travel along a great circle rather than a rhumb line.

  Although he was confident of the general accuracy of the radio nav system – he could see Stone Town, after all – he hoped it was right to within a degree of azimuth. Because if the hangar complex under construction was blacked out, an error of just a couple of degrees would make it damned hard to find without wasting a lot of flares.

  Tetch reached the end of his countdown to the target, based on his timer – again, his first words of the flight – and Dave triggered the first flare. He radioed “Red flight, Bull. Climbing, over.” He made a climbing turn of another thousand feet, then throttled back to just above stall speed to orbit the area. He then looked over the cockpit coaming and saw, below, brightly illuminated, the construction site exactly as he had seen it in the photos that morning – bang on! Almost too good to be true!

  “Poet, attacking,” he heard through his headset, and saw a Puffin go into a dive below him. Poet pulled up aa couple of hundred feet and released two bombs. Dave saw that they were dead on target.

  Dave kept orbiting and dropping flares at frequent intervals. The three attack Puffins dived repeatedly until they had dropped all their bombs, then did a few strafing runs on the triple-A sites that had opened fire after the first flare – fruitlessly, as the aircraft only appeared below the fla
res, and illuminated, for seconds, at the bottom of their dives. Too, the flares seemed to both dazzle and confuse the gunners; often they seemed to be aiming at the flares themselves, hopeless targets.

  Dave cheered them on from above, and wished fervently that he had exercised his prerogative as squadron CO and swapped places with a pilot in one of the attack Puffins.

  He realized the fun was over when he triggered the bomb release and nothing happened. “Red flight, Bull: Out of flares, boys. Break. Form on me. Over.”

  Dave advanced his throttle, dropped a thousand feet, and turned southwards. The three fighter-bombers converged on his tail-light, and formed a tight vee. The radio came alive with excited cross-talk between pilots, bragging about their accuracy and talking about taking out AA sites with gunfire.

  “Red flight, this is Bull. Can the chatter. Observe radio discipline. Remember, the rats are listening. Over.”

  The red glow from the two flaming construction sites stayed in his rear-view mirror for a long time. Dave would have to wait for a photo-recon flight before he could assess the damage.

  But he knew one thing for sure: this raid had seriously delayed the Zanzibari airship project.

  Unfortunately, a low overcast prevented a photographic assessment of the effects of the raid for several days. When clear photos were finally possible, much of the wreckage had was cleared. Re-building did not appear to have started. Within the footprint of the original hangar, nothing recognizable remained, not even the engines, whose blocks should have survived the fire.

  Still, as Konyn observed pithily at the meeting, absence of evidence was not evidence of absence; the Pirates could have restarted the project somewhere else entirely. Zanzibar was a big island, and the Sultanate also included the smaller island of Pemba, to the north. A site on the African main opposite the islands couldn’t be ruled out.

  Dave groaned aloud at that; his aerial surveillance mission had just grown exponentially.