Assault on Zanzibar

by E. C. Williams

  “Forester, this is Bull,” the speaker on the Air Shack crackled into noisy speech, making Sam jump. “No eyes on Rat Alfa. Repeat, lost visual on Rat Alfa. Over.”

  “Bull, Forester,” Sam replied. “Can you navigate safely over the island? Interrogative, over.”

  There was the usual maddening delay as Sam’s phone talker relayed this message to central radio, which then raised Dave on the air frequency, passed it on, waited for a reply, then passed that back to Sam.

  “Forester, Bull. That’s affirmative; I can see village fires up and down the island. I can follow them back home. Over.”

  “Bull, Forester. Roger that. Keep searching for Rat Alfa as long as you’re confident you can find your way back. Over.”

  “Forester, Bull. Wilco. Bull standing by.”

  It occurred to Sam that he had not asked Dave if he had damaged the zeppelin. Then he considered that, given the alacrity with which she had carried out the maneuver that had shook off the searchlight beams, he hadn’t, or not much.

  He also pondered, not for the first time, Dave’s propensity for always being the pilot who took on the dangerous, single-plane missions, instead of sending one of his subordinates. Sam had considered ordering Dave to cease doing this – he was missing the opportunity to give other pilots valuable experience, and, more importantly, risking depriving the task force of a valuable senior officer.

  As opposed to these considerations, he respected Dave as a leader who would not order a junior into a situation of danger that he would not risk himself. He always temporized, leaving it up to Dave to make his own personnel decisions – his natural inclination, in any case.

  He had time for these thoughts because, as often during battle, nothing happened for what seemed like a long time.

  The sound of distant explosions broke the silence. The speaker on the Air Shack again squawked to life: “Forester, this is Bull. Rat Alfa is bombing a village. Repeat, Rat Alfa is bombing a village. Break. Still no eyes on enemy. Over.”

  The bastards! Sam thought. Bombing helpless civilians! But then he considered that this was of a piece with the Pirates’ terror strategy against the islanders, intended to drive a wedge between them and the Kerguelenians. And, of course, as a safety measure, the pilot of the zeppelin would not want to return to base with live bombs aboard.

  He had a sudden thought, and said to his phone talker, “Flash signal to Hedgehog: Enemy air attack eminent: douse all lights and fires. Repeat.” Camp van der Meer would be lighted as brilliantly as any village, and it was in danger if the enemy airship had any bombs left when it overflew the base.

  Sam hoped Chief Landry had gotten word of the zeppelin’s first attack the night before. If not, he might be so incredulous at the notion of the Pirates having aircraft as to suspect the message as enemy misinformation. But he must know by now; his intelligence network of village headmen connected by fast runners was as efficient, and almost as fast, as if connected by radio.

  He pitied the Mafia Islanders, subjected to this new terror from the skies, but he trusted Landry to take all precautions now needed by the air threat. He was probably even now sending out runners warning against open fires.

  The Air Shack speaker came to life again. “Forester, this is Bull. Village fires being put out, break. Returning now while I can still find my way home. Over.”

  “Bull, Forester. Roger that. Advise if you need us to light up Mother. Over.”

  After a longer delay than usual, the reply came. “Forester, Bull. Light her up now, if safe. Break. Compass very erratic, and not enough village fires left to navigate by. Over.”

  Ben Murphy, having of course heard Bull’s half of the exchange, left his station at the conn and walked over to the Flag Box.

  “What d’ you think, Commodore? Is it safe to turn on lights now?”

  “I think so, Ben. The enemy airship must be well north of us by now, and may well have dropped all her bombs. But she’s your ship – your call.”

  “I’ll light ‘er up, Commodore.” He turned and shouted the order as he walked back to his station, and lights began to switch on all around the carrier. The buoys marking the swept taxiway were also lit.

  He must have radioed a query to Dave, because Sam heard, “Mother, Bull. You are clearly visible now. Break. Thanks awfully, drinks on me. Bull standing by, on approach.”

  Sam considered that if the zeppelin’s pilot had been foxy enough to reserve a few bombs, and make a wide circle back, he could send Charlemagne to the bottom of Chole Bay right about now. If he hadn’t thought of it this time, it was a ploy certain to occur to him, or a superior officer of his, sooner rather than later.

  So far, there was no score in the Pirate zeppelin vs. Taffy One game. But the task force would have to come up with new defensive tricks just to keep it that way – and an effective offense to get on the scoreboard.

  Sixteen

  The sun was a misshapen red blob low on the western horizon. Francois Landry, former Chief Warrant Officer, now Captain (L), RKN, walked around Camp van der Merwe inspecting the arrangements for air defense with his de facto adjutant, Company Sergeant Major Richburg, RRNB.

  Landry had ordered slit trenches dug throughout the camp, near every action station and behind the boma. He saw to it, as well, that buckets of sand or water were placed near every hut, ready for use in fire-fighting.

  Dinner was cooked early and served out to the troops so the cook-fire could be doused well before dark. The askari were now cleaning up after it, except for the few who had stood-to during the meal and were now eating theirs. The one-inch rifles, and the single SLAR the camp boasted, were manned and ready, resting on their improvised bamboo AA mounts. (The camp did not yet have searchlights, although they had requested, so its gunners could only fire at Fat Boy when they saw it silhouetted against the stars; if the night were overcast, they were helpless.)

  The NCOs, both CSM Richburg’s cadre and the askari who had earned three stripes, had dined separately in the Sergeants’ Mess, and were now supervising all this activity.

  “Suppose Fat Boy will hit us tonight, Rich?” asked Landry. “Fat Boy” was the radio code word for the Pirate zeppelin, and had become their usual term of reference for it.

  “I think it’s our turn, Chief,” Richburg replied, using Landry’s still-preferred form of address, despite his recent promotion. “He’s attacked the vessels in Chole Bay for three nights running, then gave up and concentrated on the islanders’ villages – we’re still tryin’ to convince ‘em to cook only during daylight and douse all fires by dark. But it’s long been their custom to relax and socialize around the cook-fire while eating, after a day’s work. And they’re reluctant to give up any work that can only be done in daylight.”

  “I think they’re probably contemptuous of Fat Boy’s bombing accuracy, too,” Landry replied. “He ain’t had much success actually hitting a village since that first night, when he had the advantage of surprise.”

  “But he’s gettin’ better with practice – that’s what they don’t seem to grasp.”

  “You’re not wrong there, Rich. I’m afraid it’s gonna take a village bein’ devastated before the islanders start taking Fat Boy seriously.”

  A call from the lookout stationed in the tall, rickety tower Landry called the “maintop” broke in to this exchange. Richburg yelled back “wapi?” – “where?” – the only word in the exchange that Landry understood. The lookout replied in a rippling flow of Swahili. Although the Chief could speak and understand enough Swahili for his purposes, he still had trouble following rapid speech. Richburg had acquired near-native fluency from his frequent contact with the troops.

  “What’d he report?”

  “He said he saw movement in the bush,” Richburg replied. “When I asked him where, he replied, ‘All around the camp in every direction’.”

  “Not good,” Landry replied, a hint of alarm in his voice. The last air patrol of the day over their end of the island, less than an hour
before, had reported nothing unusual. Were the Pirates planning a night attack on the camp, knowing that he could not count on air support in the darkness?

  “Let’s patrol aggressively all around our perimeter through the night. Whatever the Pirates are up to, I want us to be able to break it up before it starts.”

  “Roger, Chief. I’ll see to it.” Richburg dashed away, shouting “kikosi cha viongozi!” (“squad leaders!”).

  Several things then happened simultaneously, or nearly so. Teams of askari assembled quickly under their own NCOs, no longer dependent on the Nosy Be cadre for leadership at this level, and given sector assignments. The sun dropped below the horizon, and darkness fell.

  And the tower lookout shouted down, “moto katika kichaka!” Landry understood this clearly: “fire in the bush!” He gazed around, and although he could not yet see flames from ground level, he could see multiple faint glows, and pillars of smoke directly above them. He turned in a full circle, and saw that fires were springing up all around the camp. He at once grasped the danger they represented.

  “Rich!” he shouted, running toward the camp mustering area, from which the patrols were already dispersing. “Rich, tell your patrols to put out those fires! Make that their primary mission – engage Pirates only as necessary to do that! Got it?” Gasping those last words breathlessly as he reached the area.

  Richburg was already recalling the patrols; he, too, had apparently seen the point of the fires. None of the patrols had reached the boma surrounding the camp yet, so the recall was successful, section leaders given their new tasking, and sent off again.

  The last patrol had just penetrated the bush when the radio runner approached Landry with a signal. It was from Mafia Utukufu to all stations, and it reported that they had heard and sighted Fat Boy passing overhead less than a minute before.

  An aerial view of the camp unfolded in his mind: a circle of fire, the center of which was Fat Boy’s target for the evening.

  The patrols had to reach and put out those fires, and soon, or the zeppelin would hit Camp van der Merwe hard, if not destroy it entirely.

  He could hear, in the distance, the crackle of small arms fire. He could distinguish the sharp crack of the Kerg carbine from the duller report of Pirate smooth-bores; the fires were defended. These sounds gradually spread. Landry could imagine the desperate little battles fought in the darkness, each over a brushwood fire, each as fierce as if the fate of the camp were at stake. Which it was.

  Then he heard the sound he was dreading, despite the gunfire, heard clearly because it was overhead: the clatter of Fat Boy’s noisy diesels. The air raid gong sounded right afterwards, warning all hands not essentially to take to the slit trenches

  The first stick of three bombs fell, two exploding in the clearing outside the boma, the third going off just inside. No damage to the camp – yet.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder. “Kamanda, kuchukua bima!”, shouted into his ear by an askari, demanding that he take cover.

  He shook off the hand. “Hapana, lazima kuona” – “No, I must see”, he responded. He intended to personally lead the defense of the camp, not hide in a trench, but his Swahili was insufficient to explain this to the well-meaning askari.

  The camp erupted in a storm of one-inch and small arms fire, directed upwards. “Cease fire, cease fire!” Landry shouted. Then “Komesha risasi, komesha risasi! – stop shooting!” He heard CSM Richburg shouting the same thing from the other side of the camp. Rich had realized, too, that this random firing, with minuscule chances of a hit, only allowed Fat Boy to pinpoint the camp by the muzzle flashes. Both ran from position to position, ordering the gunners to fire only when they clearly saw the airship.

  Which they were unlikely to do tonight. The day had been clear, but as often happened in these latitudes, clouds boiled up from the east as soon as the sun set. It was now completely overcast. Fat Boy would enjoy total invisibility, with neither stars nor moon visible.

  The zeppelin came around and dropped another stick of three, this time far more accurately; one blew apart a section of the boma, the second exploded harmlessly in the cleared area between boma and camp -- but the third hit a hut on the edge of the camp squarely, blowing it to shreds of bamboo and flaming thatch. The askaris whose duty it was to fight fires dashed toward every burning ember with their buckets and quickly extinguished all of them. Fire, whether accidental or through enemy action, was a grave danger to the camp, constructed as it was in local style, so a trained and alert fire watch was always on duty.

  “Casualty report!” Landry shouted. The destroyed hut was a barracks, and so should have been unoccupied – but he had manned the boma all around the perimeter with riflemen, in case of guerilla attack. Reports came back quickly, and Landry was relieved to learn that there were no deaths, only a few minor injuries; the askari manning that section of the boma had apparently dived into their trenches just in time.

  Landry looked around the perimeter of the camp, beyond the boma. He saw that some of the encircling fires were put out. Victories in vicious struggles in the dark – at what cost?

  In the momentary silence as the zeppelin made its ponderous turn for another bombing run, the sound of small arms fire was once more audible. As he watched, he saw another of the fires gradually die away, then vanish completely. The circle of fire around the camp was now broken and incomplete – a semi-circle with gaps.

  He then heard the unmistakable sound of the airship’s diesels as it made its approach for another bombing run. A part of Landry’s mind – the seaman’s part – noted that Fat Boy always made his run from the north, directly into the mild southerly breeze. This hinted to him that the zeppelin was somewhat underpowered – the breeze was less than ten knots – and it needed to power into the wind to keep precise directional control. He filed that away for his post-action report to Flag.

  This attack was the most devastating yet. This time, Landry unashamedly dived for cover in the nearest trench, the airship’s diesels sounding directly over his head, almost close enough to reach up and touch.

  All three bombs fell within the camp, across the western edge, destroying three barracks huts and a stores hut – all blessedly unoccupied. But he heard cries of pain, and knew that there must be casualties from flying debris. Askari rated SBAs – the kikosi now had its own trained medics – converged on the bomb sites with stretchers and medical bags. Landry vaulted out of the trench and joined them.

  He learned that there was only one death – an askari struck down by a bit of metal, probably from the bomb casing. He looked down sadly at the young man on the stretcher – barely out of boyhood.

  “Jina lake lilikuwa gani? – what was his name?” Landry asked the medic who was reverently covering the body with a sheet.

  “Sefu alikuwa jina lake, Mheshimiwa.” His name was Sefu. It meant “sword” in Swahili. A good name for a soldier.

  Landry searched his limited Swahili vocabulary for something appropriate to say. Finally, he found the words.

  “Kupumzika kwa amani”, he said. Rest in peace. Apparently, this was the right thing, or close enough. The medic replied, “Amina.” Amen.

  That turned out to be the last attack of the evening. Thirty minutes later, a signal arrived from Mafia Utukufu reporting detection of Fat Boy overhead, apparently headed north. The raid was over.

  The next morning, aboard Charlemagne, Commodore Bowditch entertained the officers of his staff at breakfast. As soon as they had finished eating, and the remains of the meal cleared away, all small talk ended, and the social occasion abruptly shifted gears into a staff meeting.

  “Todd, let’s discuss Captain Landry’s report on last night’s air raid on Camp van der Merwe.”

  “Aye aye, Commodore. One key takeaway is that Stone Town is still in effective communications with Pirate leadership on Mafia Island. The ring of signal fires, which aided Fat Boy’s targeting, was obviously coordinated by someone. We have yet to find out how they’re doing this.
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br />   “We don’t think it’s radio, because for the past month we’ve had a dedicated receiver manned round the clock, searching the entire range of frequencies ever used by us or the enemy, trying to detect Pirate transmissions. We know they’ve used radio in the past, but: nil results – not a peep. Yet how the hell they can accomplish such close coordination without radio remains a mystery.”

  “Avisos, perhaps?” Sam suggested. “Do we need to patrol the shores of the island more thoroughly?”

  “That could be, Commodore. They certainly use small craft for reinforcement and resupply – carrying messages as well would be a logical further use for them. But we catch and destroy so many of them that it seems a rather unreliable means of communication,” Lieutenant Cameron replied. “And we’ve never – not once – captured a dispatch from any of these vessels.”

  “Point taken, Todd. Any other ideas? Anyone?”

  Dead silence reigned. Sam let it stretch out – he was determined to encourage the more junior members of his staff to contribute their ideas, despite their reluctance to speak up.

  Finally, Sub-lieutenant (I) Konyn, newly promoted from midshipman and the staff intelligence officer, shyly raised his hand.

  “Just speak up, Percy – no need to raise your hand,” Sam said.

  “Well, it’s occurred to me, sir, I mean Commodore, that Mafia Island’s west coast is close enough to the African main for visual signaling by flashing light in hours of darkness. The shortest distance between island and mainland is only about eight and a half sea miles, from the western cape in the south.”

  All turned to look at the large map of Mafia posted on the bulkhead. It was re-drawn from an ancient nautical chart, with inland features added, such as the sites of villages and Camp van der Merwe.