Assault on Zanzibar

by E. C. Williams

  Flag “foxtrot” soared up the carrier’s signal array, and she turned into the wind, to starboard, to create a lee for launching two planes on her port side. Once they were on the water and taxiing away into the wind on their takeoff run, she wore ship to enable a turn to port and create a lee to starboard to repeat the process. Then “foxtrot” came down smartly, Charlemagne re-started her engines, and resumed the formation base course.

  “Get Commander Schofield on the phone,” Sam said to his radio talker, who quickly made the call, and notified Sam when he had done so.

  “Dave, switch off the external speaker on the Air Shack and put your voice radio contact with the strike element on the inside speaker. Then leave this phone circuit open, so I can follow the action from here. Over.”

  “Aye aye, Commodore.” Some clicks and a “thunk” followed, and he then began to hear what was going on inside the Air Shack; for a while, nothing but coughs, low voices, chair legs scraping the deck. Then a few exchanges between Red Leader, and callsigns Red Two through Red Four doing radio checks. Then nothing for a long while from them – Red Flight had ninety sea-miles to cover to reach the Pirate formation, and that would require about forty minutes’ flying time.

  When routine exchanges began between Mother and the Puffin LR returning to refuel, Sam, bored, took off his headset.

  The Puffin appeared, orbited the carrier while she stopped engines, turned in to the wind, and alit on the surface, skimming across the wave tops of the four-foot sea now running. Once settled, she turned and taxied toward Charlie, which had fallen turned to windward to make a lee to port. The Puffin LR was hoisted aboard, and a bustle of activity showed she was being re-fueled and her engine given a quick check and an oil change. As this was happening, her observer came aft, shoulders slumped in fatigue, and spoke briefly to Todd Cameron, who then sent Sub lieutenant Eloy forward on the double. Cameron then brought the Puffin observer over to the Commodore. Sam had recognized the young sub lieutenant, and, after scouring his memory, had come up with his name: Neville, one of a small group of Nosy Be volunteers for flight training on Reunion who had, on earning their wings, had delivered a Petrel to Charlemagne, and remained as a member of SBS-1.

  Cameron said, “Commodore, this is …”

  “Mister Neville, yes. I remember him. You are relieving Mister Eloy as staff aviation officer, I take it; why?”

  Cameron answered for him, since young Neville, apparently struck mute at being in the august presence of the Commodore, could not seem to find words.

  “Commander Schofield’s compliments, and the crew of the LR has been on duty for more than twelve hours straight, much of that in the air, so he relieved them. He needed Mister Eloy as pilot.”

  “Where’s the pilot of the LR – the one relieved?”

  “Getting his head down for an hour, sir – he was even more exhausted than Neville. He’ll relieve Neville after his nap.”

  “Very well. Welcome to my staff, Mister Neville, if only temporarily. Commander Cameron will explain your duties.

  The Puffin LR, now with Eloy as pilot and a new observer, was re-launched in a matter of minutes, took off into the wind, and dwindled, climbing, to the north.

  The last report of the recon plane, before leaving her station to refuel, had shown the Pirate fleet as seeming to be forming two separate divisions of roughly equal strength, each assuming different formations. The one to the west was taking the shape of a buffalo’s head with two projecting horns; the eastern one a more conventional, rectangular formation, narrower in front than in length.

  It seemed obvious to Sam that the western element intended to engage the little Kerg fleet, the horns sweeping in his schooners to be smashed against the head of the beast. This struck him as the tactic of a general rather than an admiral; as something that had worked on land so was assumed to work at sea, too.

  The eastern element seemed to intend to bypass the sea battle entirely; if so, it was clearly bent on an amphibious invasion of Mafia Island. This division of enemy forces struck him as a mistake on the part of the Pirate commander. Why not simply overwhelm the Kerg naval force with his full strength, then re-take Mafia at his leisure? But, given the huge disparity in forces, it was perhaps a mistake only in theory – either division was much more than adequate for its mission.

  The more he pondered the formation assumed by the western element, the more he was convinced that it was a product of the mind of a commander whose only experience was of land battle. It did not consider the fact that his little opposing force consisted entirely of powered vessels, and could maneuver at will; it was not helpless, like a force of infantry by land, to fall into this trap. Even if he could not have known that, a naval commander would have instantly grasped that Taffy One had the weather gage, and was thus free to accept or decline battle on the enemy’s terms.

  Finally, he was facing a commander who did not seem to grasp fully the advantage that aerial reconnaissance gave his enemy. That head-and-horns formation depended for its success on the enemy being ignorant of its existence until too late.

  So: a general rather than an admiral and thus inexperienced in war at sea, and inadequately briefed by his Zanzibari superiors. Or perhaps his Zanzibari employers – a mercenary commander? At any rate, this was another bit of intel – if merely a deduction – that might give the good guys another tiny advantage.

  A sudden thought struck him, and he donned his headset again.

  “Dave. Dave, can you hear me?” Nothing but the background noise of an Air Shack full of busy officers and ratings.

  Sam covered the mouthpiece and yelled, “Somebody go tell Commander Schofield to pick up the God-damned phone!”

  A staff runner dashed forward at top speed, and Sam heard Dave’s voice: “Sorry, Commodore!”

  “Dave, get on the radio and tell that strike element to concentrate on the western horn of the western division – the horns are just sticking out, begging to be hit!”

  “Horns, Commodore …? Oh, the extensions from the sides of the formation … roger that, sir. Right away.”

  Sam heard Dave pass that order over the radio to Red Flight, and Red Leader’s acknowledgement.

  A few minutes later, Sam heard, “Red Flight, this is Red Leader. Enemy formation in sight. Break. Target is westernmost projection of formation. Break. Rats appear to be grouped around those Triple-A armed, break; skip-bombing attacks indicated. Break. Red Three, over.”

  “Red Three, acknowledge westernmost leading rats targeted. Break. Skip-bombing attacks indicated. Over.”

  “Red Flight, Red Leader. Peel off and pick your targets, break. Attack at will. Red Four, over.”

  “Red Leader, Red Four. Acknowledge peel off, pick targets, attack at will. Over.”

  Sam could tell that the Squadron XO, Lieutenant Ballinger, was Red Leader, not Dave, through the correct use of radio protocol and the absence of pilots’ personal call signs and badinage. At sea level, or when not in command, Poet was as easy-going as Dave, but when in command, in the air, he was all business.

  As a result, Sam found the air battle, as followed through the radio exchanges among the pilots, surprisingly boring. There were only terse messages, such as: “Reds, Leader: clusters around AA rats spreading out, break. Dive bombing now indicated. Red Two, over,” followed by Red Two’s repetition and acknowledgement. Whenever excited pilots started to comment on the action, Poet’s sharp “Can the chatter!” cut it short.

  After a surprisingly short period of time, the pilots started reporting to Red Leader that they had exhausted bombs and gun ammo. After all three had done so, he ordered the flight to form up for the flight “…home to Mother.” Then came the one comment Sam had been waiting for: “Mother, this is Red Leader. Damage assessment, break. Five rats sunk or in sinking condition, break. Seven rats burning or otherwise visibly damaged, Break. Red Flight homeward bound and standing by this freq. Over.”

  Sam let out a whoop that coincided with one from the Air Shack:
twelve gun-dhows accounted for! That was far better than expected in a daylight strike against moving vessels, alert and with AA guns manned. And not an aircraft lost!

  Sam made a deliberate effort to contain his jubilation; after all, a dozen vessels lost was but another flea-bite to such an enormous fleet. Still, if Charlemagne could mount another air strike with similar results, before surface contact between the two fleets, and the enemy stuck to his apparent intention to divide his force, those losses could prove not inconsequential.

  “Mother, this is Gannett” Sam heard. “Reporting arrival over enemy fleet, break. Western horn all in a muddle now – rats taking crew off sinking rats, fighting fires on burners – Wah! – Sorry, Mother, a rat on fire just blew up rather spectacularly – flames must have reached her magazine. Took a couple of the fire-fighting vessels with her …”

  “Gannet, this is Bull. Slow down, babbelbekkie, and give your report in an organized manner, using proper radio procedure, over!” Dave sounded pissed. Sam thought it strange that Eloy, who was now Gannet, could be so voluble on the radio when he was so tongue-tied in person.

  When Gannet came back up, he sounded abashed by Dave’s rebuff. He re-stated his first report in a more coherent form, and added that gun-dhows from the main body – the “head” – were changing stations to replace the losses in the western “horn”.

  Sam noted to himself that none of the replacements came from the second, easternmost division, the one he assumed was ordered to avoid battle with Taffy One and head straight for Mafia. Nor did the divisions re-merge, to deal with the RKN first, after all, which Sam thought any sensible officer would have seen from the beginning was the sensible thing to do. So the Pirate commander was not one to change his tactics when circumstances changed, despite the shock he must have received from the successful air strike. Stubborn, then. Or poorly advised by his staff, or both. Good to know.

  Todd approached the Commodore’s chair and said, “Joan of Arc reports unknown aerial object sighted over Zanzibar, bearing westerly and moving this direction; assumes it’s an enemy airship but can’t yet make out details.”

  Joan was the westernmost of the line of schooners sweeping ahead of Charlie. Her assumption about the nature of this “…unknown aerial object” was obviously correct. The Pirates had, after all, somehow built another zeppelin, and had sent it to attack Taffy One. He could only hope that it was not much improved in lethality over Fat Boy, which, despite all the drama it caused, had done them little damage – but they had to be prepared for the worst.

  Todd quickly returned with more bad news: “Joan now reports two aerial objects in sight, flying line ahead, apparently toward her.”

  Oh, merde, thought Sam. Is a whole fleet of the fokken things going to appear?

  No more were reported; Joan did confirm that the leader could be seen to be an airship with four motors and two cabin structures. Its lower half was painted a mottled sky-blue and white, and what could be seen of its topsides, sea-green – obviously not intended as a night raider, then.

  A subsequent report told them the second was identical to the first, and that both appeared to be heading directly for Joan.

  “Dave, are you getting this? Better scramble the last two Puffins to defend Joan!” But before he could finish the sentence he saw aircrew for the two aircraft armed for airship defense rushing to climb into their cockpits, and booms swung to pick them up and put them over the side. Dave had not even asked for the Charlemagne to stop engines. The two aircraft, already up to full power, dropped their hoisting tackle the moment they touched the sea surface and were swept aft, struggling to turn into the wind, pitching and tossing in the following sea. Sam held his breath as the one to starboard almost dipped a wing tip as she came broadside to the waves, but she – by inches – didn’t, and both were soon airborne and flying off to the northwest, towards Joan, just in sight.

  “Joan reports the lead airship is losing altitude … is starting a bombing run … still above AA range … Eina! She’s been straddled by two bombs…”. Todd had taken his phone talker’s headset and was listening directly to the relay of Joan’s broadcasts.

  “Mother, Blue Leader, approaching Buzzard Alfa, break … Buzzard Alfa climbing rapidly, Blue Flight following, over.” Blue Flight was the two anti-airship Puffin-Bs. This, from the Air Shack radio.

  “Joan reports she is taking on water at multiple points below the waterline … pumps not gaining … she requests immediate assistance,” Todd said.

  “Send Albatros!”

  “Aye, Commodore – signaling now …”.

  “Blue Two, Blue Leader – switch to oxygen, now! Over.”

  “Leader, Two, roger, switching to oxy, over.”

  “Mother, this is Blue Leader. Buzzard Alfa is climbing fast, break. We’re keeping up so far but not gaining. Over.

  “Blue Leader, this is Mother, query your current altitude, over.”

  “Mother, Blue Leader. Fifteen thousand and climbing, over.”

  Sam was no aviator, but he could tell that this was not good, very beaucoup not good. If the airships could outclimb the Puffins, how could they be attacked from above?

  And what was Buzzard Bravo doing? The question was soon answered: “Blue Two, Leader, get after that other zeppelin! It’s heading for Mother! Over.”

  “Blue Leader, Two, acknowledge my target Buzzard Bravo, wilco, over.”

  Sam grabbed his telescope. The first enemy airship, Alfa, was so high that he could make out little detail, and Blue Leader, below it, was only a dot. Buzzard Bravo, however, was at a lower altitude and was clearly headed for Charlemagne; his view of her was bows-on. Astern of her was a dot quickly growing larger – Blue Two, chasing. Although significantly faster than Fat Boy, this new generation of enemy airships was still no match in airspeed for the Puffins.

  Buzzard Bravo seemed unaware of the Puffin on her tail. She was losing altitude, clearly for a bombing run on Charlie. Blue Two was climbing as she caught up with the dirigible. When directly above her target, the Puffin dived into her attack. As she released three bomblets, the airship’s pilot, suddenly realizing the danger, pulled up sharply, Bravo’s nose at what seemed an impossibly steep angle. The Puffin, pulling out of her dive, could not avoid a glancing collision with the upper slope of the nose of the zeppelin, the forward bottom of her hull touching, but flew on, seemingly undamaged.

  All three bomblets struck Buzzard Two with dramatic effect: three small muffled explosions within the hull were followed by an enormous burst of flame that immediately engulfed the entire aircraft. Skin, framework, and gas bags seemed to have been consumed instantly, and engines and crew modules plunged aflame into the sea. For a moment it seemed as if the Puffin, too, must have been caught up in this inferno, but then it appeared, still flying away.

  Cheers broke out on Charlemagne’s deck, the seamen dancing and waving their hats. Sam joined in.

  “Flag to Blue Two: Bravo Zulu! Repeat, Bravo Zulu!” Sam was pounding on the arm of his chair in delight.

  “Archie, jy dapper een!” This apparently from Red Leader, radio procedure forgotten in his joy.

  “Who is Blue Two?” Sam demanded of whoever in his staff was nearest.

  “Archie Veldhuis, callsign Archer,” Cameron replied promptly. “His gunner/bombardier is Al Duchamp.”

  “Archer deserves a medal, and so does his right-seater,” Sam said. “We don’t have medals yet, do we? Put that on your to-do list, Todd.”

  “Aye aye, Commodore.”

  “By the way, what’s the word from Joan?”

  “Sinking fast, sir – no hope of saving her. Albatros is taking off her crew.”

  Sam’s mood darkened at that news, all joy at the recent victory gone. Joan of Arc had been a very early addition to Kerguelen’s tiny Navy, and had served with honor. She now had the sad distinction of being the first commissioned warship lost to the Pirates.

  “Signal Albatros to make sure Bobby Munro comes away with his crew. I want n
one of this nonsense of Captains going down with their ships.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “And get Commander Schofield to come aft. I need to confer with him in person.”

  Schofield soon appeared next to the Commodore’s chair. Sam removed his headset and climbed down.

  “Walk with me, Dave,” he said, and led Schofield to the windward rail, but well aft of Captain Murphy’s accustomed place. Murphy was presently, at any rate, perched in his windward chair.

  “Dave, I’m worried that every further strike on the main body of the Pirate fleet increases the odds of losing aircraft – planes irreplaceable in the short run, which is the only time frame that matters now. Ideas?”

  “Two, Commodore,” Schofield replied promptly, suggesting that his thoughts had been running along the same lines. “One, Gannet reports that a large body of dhows bringing up the rear of both divisions of the enemy fleet appear to be unarmed, at least with triple A. I’m assuming they’re supply vessels. They would be easy targets, and sinking them would hurt the Pirates in their ability to long continue the battle.”

  “…But not their immediate combat capabilities.”

  “Right, Commodore. And we don’t know whether or not they’ve developed a method of underway replenishment, as we have. So it may not matter at all during the course of the sea battle.”

  “What’s ‘two’?”

  “Level bombing from an altitude at the edges of the AA envelope. We’ve gotten much better at that, and these AA gunners have no experience at all in engaging live targets. I think we can safely bomb from, say, four thousand feet. With 100 kilo bombs, we only need to hit within a hundred yards or so of a dhow – wooden-hulled AND wooden-framed as they are – to inflict significant damage, maybe not enough to sink her but enough to put her out of action. And closer than that and she’s bound for Davy Jones.”