Dust Clouds of War

by John Wilcox

  ‘Absolutely nobody. I was very careful.’

  ‘Well, my love, somebody knew. We need to look into this when we get back. But for now, let’s get out of here.’ He looked behind him. ‘My word, the Calipha is a lovely sailor. She’s almost keeping up with us. But, as far as I can see, neither of us is being pursued. Now all we have to do is race past the German gun emplacements. Hold on to your hat, darling.’

  He opened the throttle and a white wake spread out behind them. Best now, he thought, to move away from the dhow in case the Germans somehow linked the two craft together. Mustapha would have a better chance on his own – and without Alice on board, of course.

  In the event, they sped past the only shore gun emplacement they could see without being challenged and then, once clear in the mouth of the delta, waited for the Calipha to appear. She did so in fine style, the sail billowing out and the lee rail kissing the top of the white foam she was creating. Alice went back on board, retrieved her few belongings, paid Mustapha the balance owed to him – plus a little extra – and rejoined Simon on board the launch.

  Alice’s main concern now was whether Admiral King-Hall had already revealed the discovery of the German cruiser to the correspondents all desperately waiting for news in Mombasa, while she herself was plodding round the delta villages. To her relief, he had not and, what’s more, the admiral – in gratitude for Fonthill’s work – allowed Alice to use the ship’s radio to send a brief cable back to her office in Fleet Street, announcing that the Königsberg had been found (although she was forbidden to say where) and that an attack was now being planned, although, again, she was not allowed to say how and when.

  It was just the exclusive that she had dreamt of and she was allowed to remain on board the Hyacinth to await the imminent arrival of the monitors.

  The strange vessels, looking more like floating gun platforms than ships, came ponderously into view two days later, behind their tugs, and Fonthill and Jenkins were immediately ensconced with their skippers to explain tidal times and channel depths. Almost as important as these maritime matters was the efficiency of the communications linking the spotter aircraft to the monitors, and exercises were conducted out at sea to test this.

  ‘Surely the Germans must know we’re comin’,’ said Jenkins to Simon.

  ‘Of course they do. The local natives will have told them of the arrival of the monitors and they will be improving their defences as best they can. The poor devils, however, can’t turn and run or twist and turn. That ship is stuck where she is now, like a fly caught in aspic. It’s just a question of how near the monitors can get before they can open fire.’

  He frowned. ‘And, of course, whether the monitors can survive the fire that the Königsberg will rain down on them. She has already proven that she has splendid six-inch guns. It’s going to be a terrific artillery duel and some battle, that’s for sure.’

  Fonthill reported that, depending upon the tides, the main channels were navigable by the monitors for a depth of some seven miles into the delta and it was decided that the two great gunships, the Mersey and the Severn, would, in fact, sail as far as possible down the northern of the two channels, the Kikunja, the one in which the Königsberg was moored, deep in the delta. Accordingly, they anchored some ten miles off the mouth on the night of 5–6th July and steamed off at 4 a.m. reaching the entrance of the channel just before light at 5.45 a.m.

  At roughly the same time, three ships of the fleet staged a diversion at Dar es Salaam and a plane dropped four bombs near the Königsberg. Under cover of this activity, the two monitors edged their way down the channel and, despite being severely attacked by field guns and machine guns from the shore, had reached their firing positions between five and six miles into the delta by 6.30 a.m.

  By now, Mizango had been paid off and thanked for his hard work. The German marks he received would, he grinningly announced, pay for at least four fishing boats. Simon thought it unfair to subject Mzingeli to the rigours and danger of a naval artillery battle and, overcoming the tracker’s objections, insisted that he should stay in Mizango’s village until the fighting was over.

  Alice’s fury at being ordered by the admiral to remain on his flagship was abated somewhat by the fact that she was the only newspaper correspondent to be present at the battle, albeit at a distance. Simon, however, insisted that he and Jenkins should be in at the kill and the captain of the Severn happily agreed to their presence on board his ship, not least because of the help they could offer with navigation as the gunship eased its way down the channel.

  It was, in fact, the Severn who was first into station and it was she who opened up the fire on the Königsberg, out of sight, of course, at a range of 10,600 yards. No hits were reported but the cruiser immediately responded, getting the range of the two monitors quickly, showing that the firing was being directed by observation platforms erected amidst the jungle onshore.

  In fact, it was the Mersey who suffered. Fonthill and Jenkins watched with horror as the monitor was straddled by a salvo from all five of the German ship’s starboard guns. One shell landed just short of the monitor’s quarterdeck, another destroyed one of her motor boats and a third put one of her six-inch guns out of action, killing most of its crew. A shell that was being loaded at the time exploded, and then another, and it was a miracle that the consequent fire did not flash down to the magazine below, so completely destroying the ship. As it was, the kapok life jackets worn by the crew to protect them from shrapnel splinters, caught fire, severely burning two men who were to die later in the day.

  It was enough, and the Mersey’s captain slipped her anchors and steamed 700 hundred yards downriver to escape the barrage, leaving Severn to bear the full brunt of the German firing.

  ‘I thought this bloody aeroplane was supposed to be directin’ our guns,’ wailed Jenkins as huge water spouts leapt up on either side of the monitor. ‘They’re ’ittin’ us, but are we don’t seem to be ’ittin’ back.’

  In fact, it emerged that the method of communication between the spotting plane and the guns down below had broken down, despite all the practice. One of the problems was that the pilot could not distinguish between the shells landed by each of the two monitors and so was unable to correct their fire.

  At 8 a.m., however, he was able to signal that Severn had hit the Königsberg, and Mersey then steamed upstream to rejoin the fray and anchored on the opposite bank, firing with her aft gun and registering a hit on the enemy ship. The Königsberg’s firing had now become a little less fierce, for she was forced to harbour her precious ammunition (it was revealed later that her highly competent gunnery officer had also been badly wounded). But she continued to fire and, at 3.30 p.m. the two monitors were forced ignominiously to retire to the mouth of the delta, blasting the still active German shore defences in a gesture of defiance as they did so.

  ‘Well, that’s wasn’t a great bleedin’ success, look you, now was it?’ Jenkins, his face a misery, was clinging to a stanchion as the ocean swell began to cause the Severn to pitch.

  Fonthill nodded. ‘Bloody awful, in fact. But at least the monitors got within range. You have to hand it to those German gunners. They stuck to their task and were damned accurate. We need to try and take out those gun-spotting platforms on the shore and find some better way of communicating with the aircraft. And I shall tell the admiral so. This is becoming a damned expensive way of destroying one stationary ship, I must say.’

  Simon requested an interview with King-Hall and was ferried to the flagship, where, of course, he was closely cross-questioned by Alice before he could see the admiral. He was suitably discreet with her, but not with King-Hall.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir—’ he began.

  ‘I will probably mind you saying, Fonthill,’ the little man barked. ‘I am bloody furious with those monitors. Didn’t do their damned job. One of the aeroplanes has just flown over the German ship and reported that only one of the Königsberg’s big guns has been put out o
f action.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I doubt if it was the fault of the monitors. From what I could see we were “out-spotted”, so to speak. The observation platforms onshore could see our monitors and report how the German shells were landing and our aeroplanes couldn’t do the same job for our guns. So we were firing blind.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘If the monitors can take it in turns to fire, then the spotting planes can report the results more precisely. And can your cruisers get close in, do you think, and put the German spotting platforms – the main one is on Pemba Hill – under fire?’

  ‘Humph. Already ordered that and we’ll bombard all the shore defences, too. But it’s a good idea to alternate the firing. I intend to have another go as soon as we’ve patched up the monitors. That’s going to take four or five days. But we will sink that bloody ship yet, I promise you, Fonthill.’

  On 11th July the breaking dawn saw the British offshore fleet steaming into position, much closer this time to the German shore. At 10.40 a.m. the two monitors hove into sight after their twenty-mile voyage from Mafia and, as they approached the entrance to the channel, the British fleet began their bombardment of the shore defences and the German observation platforms.

  This time, Fonthill and Jenkins were invited to board the Mersey as she led the two gunships over the bar and into the channel. Immediately, she was put under fire from a German shore-based field gun and three men manning her aft six-inch gun were wounded. Simon and Jenkins took shelter behind steel shields mounted on the deck and bent their heads as machine gun bullets pinged off their shelter.

  As the shells from the British cruisers began to find their targets, the fire from the shore began to lessen and the two monitors continued their laborious progress down the channel unhindered. Eventually, the Mersey swung into position broadside onto the Königsberg on the other side of the island. Immediately she came under fire from the German ship but, this time, thanks to the fleet’s targeting of the spotter platforms, it was noticeable that the enemy firing was far less accurate, and she opened up her big guns in retaliation.

  As she did so, the Severn moved around her sister ship 100 yards upriver, so drawing the German fire. As soon as the Severn was in position, Mersey ceased firing and the Severn began. But the German guns had got their range now and the Severn came under heavy fire.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins, poking his head above the steel shield, ‘we seem to have chosen the right ship. They’re gettin’ plastered, look you.’

  Water spouts were rising vertically all round the monitor and the clatter of shell splinters could be heard from her sister ship as they struck the deck and superstructure of the vessel. Somehow, however, she did not receive a direct hit. She continued firing and it was clear that the more precise reporting of the origin of the British shells from the aeroplanes up above was working, for, at 12.35 p.m. the Mersey’s guns gained their first direct hit on the enemy ship. Immediately a column of black, oily smoke rose from the other side of the island and a great cheer went up from the crews of both monitors.

  It was soon noticed that the accuracy of Königsberg’s firing began to falter. Severn now took over the bombardment and the spotter plane signalled two more direct hits and reported that only three of the German ship’s guns were still firing.

  At that point, however, one of the last of the cruiser’s shrapnel shells exploded in front of the aircraft’s nose, just before it climbed into clouds at 2,400 ft. Immediately its engine cut out and it began to glide down towards the river, it’s observer still coolly recording Severn’s hits as it descended. It hit the water near Mersey, sending one of its crew catapulting into the river. The other, still wearing his safety harness, was trapped under the wreckage.

  ‘Oh my God,’ wailed Jenkins. ‘The crocs will ’ave ’em.’ But the reptiles had long since been sent packing by the noise of the shelling and both men were eventually pulled on board the Mersey, where they coughed up a considerable amount of the Rufiji’s brown waters before being given hot tea.

  Now Severn was scoring hit after hit on the Königsberg and a huge explosion was heard from the German ship, followed by another and then another. It was Mersey’s turn now to take up the execution and her skipper carefully conned her past her sister ship until she was within 7,000 yards of the enemy. The cruiser was still out of sight but the columns of smoke now rising made her a much easier target and the monitor ruthlessly continued firing until 2.45, when the ceasefire order was given.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ murmured Fonthill. ‘It’s not just the noise – I think I have already gone deaf – but I couldn’t help thinking of the poor devils on the receiving end of all those shells. I just hope the German captain got his crew ashore some time ago.’

  It later transpired that one of the many great explosions heard from the stricken vessel was caused by Captain Looff ordering the ship to be blown up by a torpedo warhead. But the tide was falling rapidly and both of the monitors had to retire downstream before any sort of examination could be carried out on the cruiser. It was clear enough, however, that nothing more would be heard from the Königsberg. It was the first time that aircraft had been used to spot targets for ships below them and, indeed, it was one of the longer continuous engagements in the history of the British navy. The smoke-covered monitors were cheered through the fleet as they emerged from the mouth of the delta and began their voyage back to their base at Mafia.

  In fact, the task of making absolutely sure that all was over with the cruiser fell to Fonthill and Jenkins. Continual rain had prevented air reconnaissance, but after six days, King-Hall ordered them to lead a landing party sent off down the channel in one of the captured German launches.

  As they cautiously rounded the southern tip of Kikunja Island, an astonishing sight met their gaze. What was left of the Königsberg lay, submerged up to her upper deck, lying on her starboard side like some mortally wounded dragon, trails of smoke rising from her superstructure. The pennant of the Imperial German Navy still flew from her mainmast but the once proud warship was now a mass of twisted, black and grey metal. The channel banks on either side were scorched black where her protecting shore gun emplacements had been blown to bits and the jungle set ablaze.

  ‘We’ve seen enough,’ said Fonthill. ‘I don’t want to stand and gloat. Turn her round, helmsman, and let’s return to the mother ship. It looks as though the British Navy has won this battle at last.’ Then, quietly to Jenkins: ‘I wonder at what cost?’

  It was Alice, in fact, back on board the Hyacinth, who, by ceaseless questioning, managed to worm out from the admiral’s staff the cost, at least in ordnance, of the two days of the battle.

  In those two days, she told Simon, the monitors between them had fired 943 six-inch shells, 389 4.7-inch shells, 1,860 three-pounder shells, and 16,000 rounds from their machine guns.

  ‘Yes, but,’ Simon frowned, ‘you’re not going to report that the whole engagement was a disaster, are you? King-Hall has removed a prodigious threat to our shipping in the Indian Ocean and maybe even further afield.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know that. But there have been twenty warships of different types hovering about off the delta for weeks. Those ships and those shells could have been used in the North Sea or the Atlantic, where the German U-boats are beginning to prove a real menace. And our dear little admiral has earned the enmity of his captains by his brusque manner and blaming them for his own temerity. I don’t think he will get away from this lightly.

  ‘So,’ she continued, ‘I am itching to get back to Mombasa to file my report, because I am not allowed to do that now from on board. Don’t worry, I shall tread carefully between the daisies and my story will be censored anyway, so the true story can’t be told to the great British public. It will come out as a triumph for the British Navy once again.’ She smiled. ‘It wasn’t really, in my book, but at least that bloody ship is sunk.’

  They were talking in the wardroom of the Hyacinth, which, with the rest of the fleet,
was steaming back to Mombasa. The admiral, a stickler for rank, had banished Jenkins to the Petty Officers’ mess and Mzingeli to the Stokers’. Now Alice and Simon sipped coffee, sitting on the plush banquettes of the large cabin, in makeshift clothing provided by the navy, their tans still evident, and felt vaguely guilty at the distinction shown to them.

  Alice looked round and smiled. ‘Now, darling, what’s next for you, I wonder? A posting to be commander-in-chief of the British army in East Africa, at the very least? You jolly well deserve it.’

  ‘Good lord, no. I don’t want to be a soldier again, thank you very much. Particularly in this campaign.’ He frowned. ‘I fear it is going to be just as bad as the Western Front, from what I can see. The German leading their army here is proving to be one of the most able on any side in this bloody war. I don’t know how I can be involved now, at my age, but I certainly don’t want to sit on my arse for the rest of it. We shall see.’

  They anchored in the bay, off the harbour, and King-Hall summoned Fonthill. The little man rose from behind his desk, extended his hand and gripped Simon’s fiercely.

  ‘You’ve done a first-class job, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘In fact, I doubt if we could have got anywhere near the Königsberg if it hadn’t been for you.’

  ‘Delighted to have been of use, Admiral.’

  King-Hall coughed. ‘I have submitted a request that special payments of £50 and £100 should be made to your black feller and that remarkable … er … 423, or whatever his number is.’

  ‘352, sir.’

  ‘Ah yes. Now look here, I’ve looked at what we could award to you.’ The simian features screwed up into a scowl of embarrassment. ‘Trouble is – you’re a civilian, y’see, and it’s proving difficult. You’ve already got two DSOs and a CB. Short of making you Admiral of the Fleet and Viceroy of India I’m buggered if I know what we can do. But it doesn’t mean that your country – and me – are not profoundly grateful.’