Assault on Zanzibar

by E. C. Williams

  “Well, dankie Heer, it won’t be my problem: seamen have always liked booze, and always will. That is my problem, and the eternal problem of all sea-officers. And the good Lord protect us from the Pirate’s magic potions.”

  Sam, always wary of causing gossip by paying too much attention to Marie, excused himself after this and returned to his ‘box’ on the quarterdeck.

  Seventeen

  The weather foretold by the falling glass the day before had not, to Sam’s relief, turned out to be a tropical cyclonic storm, so dangerous in these latitudes. Nevertheless, it was a storm: it had blown a full gale for most of the night, and of course Fat Boy did not trouble them.

  Sam came on deck in the morning to a world washed clean, a blue sky dotted with puffy little fair-weather clouds, and a rising glass. Aside from some smashed crockery caused by rolling at anchor (and carelessness on the part of the cook’s mate responsible for securing it), there was no damage to Charlie nor to Albatross. They would have to wait to hear how the vessels of Taffy One now at sea fared, but Sam wasn’t worried. When competently handled, a sailing vessel was generally safer at sea, during a storm, than in port. And RKN vessels were nothing if not competently handled.

  Forward, Sam saw Dave Schofield supervising the readying of a Puffin for flight. He supposed it was for the resumption of routine photo-reconnaissance ops, but walked forward to satisfy his curiosity.

  “Good morning, Dave,” he said. “What’s on for today?”

  “Morning, Commodore. A photo recce of Stone Town. I can’t wait to see what damage, if any, they suffered from last night’s blow. A lot, I hope.”

  “Unfortunately, probably just a lot of poor people’s huts blown away, Dave – nothing of military significance. But I take that back – don’t want to jinx your findings in advance!”

  “Please don’t, Commodore!” Both men laughed at such childish superstition. Each touched the nearest wooden surface so casually as to seem coincidental.

  “Are you flying this mission yourself, Dave?”

  “No, Commodore. Chatty – that is, Sub-lieutenant Eloy, your ASO -- is making this one. It’s his turn on the rotation.”

  Sam allowed Eloy to fly a few hours each month to keep up his skill. He thought ‘Chatty’ was a hilarious nick-name for the quiet young pilot who never used three words where one – or none – would do. He was a decided exception to the stereotype of the voluble, talkative Réunionnais.

  “Then please join me for breakfast when you’ve finished here, Dave. I’d like to hear more about the capabilities of the Puffin-B.”

  “Honored, sir.”

  On his way aft, met and exchanged ‘good-mornings’ with Captain Murphy, and impulsively invited him to breakfast, too. Somewhat to his surprise, he realized that his old fondness for the company of his brother officers at meals was returning.

  Late that same afternoon, Schofield approached him on the quarterdeck and said, “Commodore, Eloy and I have some very interesting aerial photos to show you, if you’d care to step below.”

  His curiosity piqued, Sam replied “Of course, Dave. Let’s go to the flag mess. If you don’t mind, I’ll ask Todd Cameron to join us.”

  In the mess, Sam looked at an enlarged photograph that at first made no sense to him. Dave handed him a large magnifying glass. “This will help, Commodore.”

  With the aid of the glass, Sam gradually made out details – it was surprising and gratifying how much better they’d gotten at aerial photography in the brief time they’d been attempting it – and could see that the central feature of the photo was the wreckage of a very large wooden building with its roof blown completely away, as well as one wall. Visible inside the wreckage was a mass of wrinkled black fabric with many broken frames poking through it. He stared at the picture for a moment, and it suddenly took coherent shape – the building was the large structure they had suspected was the hangar for Fat Boy, and the black fabric was the airframe of the zeppelin. The storm had wrecked both hangar and airship!

  Sam let out a whoop that could be heard at the mizzentop. Dave and Todd grinned broadly, and even the usually affectless Eloy allowed a smile to appear briefly.

  “Well, this’ll give us a nice long rest from Fat Boy’s kind attentions,” Sam gloated. “How long d’you think it’ll take ‘em to repair the damage and get her airborne again?”

  “They’ll have to rebuild the hangar first. We can keep track of their progress with our daily high-altitude overflights. And when the hangar’s almost complete …” a dramatic pause, accompanied by a sly grin, “...we bomb the shit out of it. Repeat as needed, et voila! A final solution to the Fat Boy problem!”

  “The hangar’s surrounded by AA sites, Dave. We don’t yet have enough planes to risk any in a bombing raid…”

  “It’ll be a night raid, Commodore. I’ve got another pleasant surprise for you. The first Puffin-B equipped with the new radio navigation system arrived early this morning. It’s already been tested extensively on Reunion – and they were so confident in it that it was delivered – safely -- in a night flight! The observer who operated it during the delivery flight is 99% sure he can find the target in the dark and return home, no problem.”

  “So … a single-plane attack?”

  “Oh, no, Commodore. The new Puffin-B – the one equipped with the nav system -- can show lights and stay in radio contact with two other Puffin-Bs, leading them to the target. The leader can then orbit above AA range, dropping flares, while the other two, which of course will show no lights, attack the hangar by dive-bombing.”

  Sam was silent for a long moment, thinking about Dave’s proposal. Finally, he said, “And you propose that this will happen only once they’ve almost completed re-building the hangar?”

  “For max frustration to the Pirates: yes, Commodore.”

  “In the meantime, I want proof-of-concept, Dave. How about training for this raid by planning and staging a night attack on the re-re dhows’ hidey-hole up Dar es Salaam Creek?”

  Schofield’s mouth fell open in surprise. He gaped at his commodore for an undignified moment, then recovered his poise.

  “An excellent idea, Commodore. I’ll start working up a plan with Todd and Chatty right away.”

  Three nights later, Dave taxied the latest Model B Puffin away from Charlemagne’s side toward the lighted take-off lane. Beside him, in the right-hand seat, was Lieutenant Techer of the Reunion Defense Force Air Corps, who had operated the nav system on the night delivery flight to Mafia, and was seconded to the RKN to train its observers in use of the system. Techer was a tall, handsome metis, and in their short acquaintance Dave had learned nothing much about him except that his nickname was Tetch and he wasn’t very talkative.

  The only external evidence of the new system on the airplane was the RDF loop antenna behind the cockpit, but inside, the observer’s set of co-pilot controls had been removed to make way for a large visual display and an array of knobs, switches, and indicator lights. Dave understood the general theory behind the system – a refined, more precise version of radio direction finding – but the operation of the gadget was a mystery to him.

  It occurred to him that he didn’t much like the possibility the gunner-bombardier-copilot role of the right-seater would be sacrificed on every new Puffin. He mused about the possibility of only one of four or five new Model-Bs being so equipped, to be pathfinders for night bombing, and possibly night fighters against enemy airships, if that problem resurged. He envisioned such a fighter vectored toward the general vicinity of a zeppelin by reports of detection or attack, then pinpointing its position by dropping flares from a higher altitude. They could then attack it by diving on it and firing the 37mm gun with explosive or incendiary rounds, or even – why not? – by dropping bombs on it.

  He arrived at the beginning of the lighted take-off lane, and turned his attention to getting his plane safely aloft. He turned side to side to be sure his wingtip lights – red to port and green to starboard – were lig
hted for the benefit of the two other Puffins making up the raid element.

  “Mother, this is Bull, Ready for takeoff, over.”

  “Bull, Mother. Clear for takeoff, over.”

  “Red Flight, Bull: report my visibility, break. Report readiness for takeoff, over.”

  “Bull, this is Poet. Eyes on you, break. Ready for takeoff, over.”

  “Bull, Crusher. See you clearly and ready for takeoff, over.

  “OK, boys. Follow me!”

  Dave advanced the throttle and the Puffin surged forward, gradually picking up speed through the water and rising onto a plane. He felt the sudden acceleration that meant the flying boat was airborne, and was free of the drag of water against her hull. He climbed to the pre-determined altitude of one thousand feet for the short flight to Dar es Salaam, and turned to the initial heading.

  “Reds, Bull. Head three three seven true. Repeat, three three seven true. Over.

  “Bull, Crusher. 337, roger, over.”

  “Bull, Poet, Steering 337, roger, over.”

  “Reds, Bull. Report my lights, over.”

  “Bull, Poet. Bright and clear, over.”

  “Bull, Crusher. Same here, over.”

  Dave could see the other two Puffins in his rear-view mirror, which, although partially blocked by the engine support and the vertical stabilizer, showed them at five and seven o’clock. They were lit up, too, so they could keep the tight vee formation they had decided was optimal. But everything about this operation was an experiment, so that could change.

  There was a sliver of a moon, just risen, offering a faint silvery path, like the track of a snail, across the sea toward the African main, dark and mysterious, to Dave’s left. If not obscured by cloud it would be helpful in confirming their dead-reckoning position when they reached the mouth of Dar es Salaam Creek. The cloud cover was presently five-tenths, however, and they couldn’t count on that.

  The radio navigation system relied on precise measurement of time and speed for distance traveled, to display an estimated position. It included a stop watch for the former and a Pitot static tube system for measuring air speed. These two instruments could be used separately for dead reckoning during periods of visibility or when the radio signal was unavailable.

  Dave thought he would never tire of the special thrill of night flying. He supposed it had something to do with the ever-present awareness of the extra danger it entailed over daylight flight, which kept the adrenaline level high and the senses sharpened. Or maybe the mystery of the darkness, enfolding his plane, making it easy to believe there was nothing else in the universe but him, his observer, and his own magic carpet.

  Anyway, he loved it.

  Flying time to Dar was not quite thirty minutes, so in what seemed like no time at all Techer spoke his first words of the flight: “Three minutes to the mouth of the creek, Dave.” The plan was to climb to six thousand feet, slow to just above stall speed, and drop flares at quick intervals beginning at the mouth of the creek, following the course of the creek to the approximate head of navigation for larger dhows, then turning and flying back to the creek mouth, still dropping flares; repeat until out of flares. Meanwhile, the other two Puffins would be attacking targets of opportunity.

  There should be plenty of targets. There had been no repeat of the successful joint-ops raid on the creek by land and water: Landry’s gunners coming ashore near the mouth and the motor gunboats proceeding up the creek, catching the Pirate re-re dhows hiding there between two fires. The Pirates rarely made the same mistake twice, and had forestalled any repetition of this raid by emplacing guns on each side of the mouth of the creek, and constantly patrolling off its mouth with gun-dhows. An attempt at another raid would have no hope of surprise, and would entail heavy losses for a certainty.

  This strategy involved some unavoidable risk from AA fire to all three Puffins; to Dave’s, because he had to keep his lights on so that the attack planes could find him; the other two, their lights kept on because of the danger of colliding with one another during their diving attacks on enemy vessels in the creek. But they all agreed that the risk should be minimal, since the gunners would have to distinguish their lights from the much-brighter lights of the flares -- a very confusing sight-picture.

  Dave passed the warning to the other two pilots, and began his climb to six thousand, at the same time flicking the safety cover off the bomb release button. Techer continued the countdown.

  At one minute, Dave looked down to the left, and caught a glimpse of sea and land, and thought he could make out the mouth of the creek, just ahead. Well, they would soon find out; the first flare would either show them the creek mouth or some anonymous stretch of jungle. In which latter case it was home to Mother, tail firmly between hind legs, to give this new system a serious re-think.

  When Tetch’s countdown reached “now!” Dave released the first flare, then looked down, watching for it to light up, while counting to himself: “One one thousand, two one thousand …”. At the same time, he throttled back to near-stall-speed. On five, the first flare’s parachute opened and its fuse reached its end. Suddenly, a miniature sun illuminated what was clearly the mouth of Dar es Salaam creek, so familiar to him from recon flights. He triggered the next flare.

  Dave noted that the first flare was drifting northwesterly, diagonally across the part of the creek that ran north-south – clearly the usual south-easterly breeze was a bit stronger than expected. He adjusted for it by changing course to fly several miles west, parallel to the creek.

  Poet and Crusher had already found targets; Dave saw bomb explosions, sending up columns of smoke visible in the light of the flares. They continued their attacks, following the flare path up the creek. He could tell when they ran out of bombs – he could see the muzzle flashes of their 37mm guns as they did strafing attacks.

  Their success was marked by a series of fires along the creek. Wooden-hulled dhows, camouflaged with drying vegetation, caught fire easily. As Dave spared what attention he could from flying the plane and dropping flares to watching the light show on the ground, he happened to catch a spectacular, rippling secondary explosion, the sound of which was audible even at his altitude. Smaller explosions, inaudible to Dave, continued. Obviously, the flames on a burning dhow had reached a cargo of munitions, with dramatic effect. Dave laughed out loud at the sight.

  Tetch, looking up from his instruments, said, “What?”

  “You’re missing the show of a lifetime, Tetch! Take a

  look down there!”

  “Sainte mère de Dieu! We did that?”

  “Fuckin’ A we did that, mon tigre! And we couldn’ta done it without you and your magic gadget.”

  “Incroyable,” Techer said quietly. He had many hours of flight time, both as pilot and observer, but this was his first combat flight. He was deeply impressed.

  “Red flight, Bull. Last flare, break. When it dies form up on me. We’re going home. Break. Bravo zulu. I say again, well done, boys! Very fokken well done! Over.”

  “Bull, Poet. Acknowledge form up on you, break. Thanks for the sweet talk, skipper! Over.”

  “Bull, Crusher. Acknowledge, follow you, break. Bet you say that to all the girls, Dave. Over.”

  Dave descended to one thousand feet and orbited lazily over the creek mouth. As the flares went out one by one, both attack Puffins made a last pass along the creek, but appeared to find no targets, since they did not fire a round or drop a bomb. As the last flare died, Poet and Crusher formed up on Dave as he gradually increased speed and headed south.

  “Reds, Bull. Report remaining bomb load, over.”

  “Bull, Poet. Zero bombs remaining, over.”

  “Bull, Crusher. Dropped all of mine, over.”

  “Red flight, Bull. Then it’s home and bed for us, lads. Initial course one five seven true. Repeat, one five seven true. Over.”

  The next morning, the three pilots and their observers examined prints of the photos the observers had snapped at inter
vals during the action. They were, mostly, disappointing.

  Every shot that included a burning flare was simply white, every detail overwhelmed by the light. Others showed darkness with dots of light – presumably burning dhows, but in black and white, with no detail at all except the slightly different shade of gray that was the creek, they could have been anything; the cook-fires of forest dwellers, or torches of night fishermen. The limitations of night aerial photography were plain.

  One amazingly lucky shot, however, had captured the instant the dhow with the cargo of munitions exploded, all details illuminated by a flare above the altitude of the photo. Bits of hull and spars, and even a human body, were visible, thrown high in the air. It was perfect.

  “This one’s perfect,” Dave said, repeating what everyone else was thinking. “This is the one I’ll show the Commodore.

  “And before you start, I won’t ask who dropped this bomb, or who took this shot; all the credit belongs to both crews, as I will inform the Commodore, so can it.”

  Later that morning, in a meeting with Bowditch and his CSO, Todd Cameron, Dave said, “I think it’s safe to say that the concept has proved successful, Commodore. That is, we found our way to Dar es Salaam Creek in the dark, attacked the dhows holed up there with some success, and found our way home, all without losing a plane.”

  “I agree that proof-of-concept has been accomplished, Dave. But you said you attacked the dhows ‘…with some success.’ How much success? Were your boys bombing blind, and got some lucky hits? Or …”? Sam’s voice trailed off, leaving the obvious question hanging: just luck, or deliberate aimed attacks on visible targets?

  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.