As he stood there, scattered firing arose from the enemy lines; they were taking potshots at the light. Just as it started, the lights were extinguished – apparently Bayflight had reported that it had returned over the island and was headed south.
Landry went down into the bunker and lay down on his cot, for another couple of hours’ sleep.
Aboard Charlemagne, Sam came on deck just before first light. The Puffin LR was idling alongside, running up its engine for a takeoff run. Its orders were to overfly both Pirate dhow formations, as well as the theater of ground ops on Mafia Island, and take aerial photos. Sam was a visual person, and he wanted to see what was going on, not just read sitreps.
Sam glanced ahead, and could see the Pirate formation he had fought all the previous afternoon hull-up, sailing on a broad reach north-north-easterly now, toward Mafia. As he suspected, the enemy intent was to add the invasion flotilla’s gun-dhows to its strength, then challenge him again.
He also assumed that the general he had imagined in overall command, who had so disastrously tried to fight at sea with a land formation, had gone ashore with his landing force, and was now commanding in his comfort zone, on terra firma. That meant – if this scenario he held in his head was actually true – that he, Sam, now faced sea-captains, commodores, with experience in warfare at sea, and he could not expect any more such gifts as his (putative) general’s head-and-horns formation.
He was tempted to interfere with whatever the enemy’s current plans were with an airstrike, but he wanted to wait until he at least heard what the Puffin LR had to report, if only by radio. Film would have to be returned and developed, which would take until noon, probably.
“Boer, this is Gannett. Enemy main body appears to be intending to join up with invasion flotilla, break. The two formations are now in sight of one another, break. Several dhows pumping out in main body but under sail and proceeding unassisted, over.”
The callsign “Gannett” meant Eloy was once again flying the LR. He had begged to be allowed to fly more during combat ops, and Sam, when Todd bucked the decision up to him, said yes.
Gannet continued to report on the slow closing of the two bodies of enemy dhows, and the directed his attention to the island. One of his reports puzzled Sam: the landing beaches, he said, appeared to be littered with stores or wreckage – from his altitude it was difficult to make out just what – and many men working among or with this detritus.
He was directed to fly lower – the enemy could hardly have AA guns of larger than rifle caliber – and get good photographs. He further reported that the litter was indeed stores – crates, barrels, sacks – and the men working were breaking bulk and assembling small one-man loads. A steady stream of fighters emerged from the bush, shouldered a load, and returned, presumably to their units inland.
Sam concluded that the invasion dhows had dumped all the stores for the landing force on the beach. The enemy, faced with trackless bush, and with neither vehicles nor pack animals, had to hump everything through the jungle to the front-line troops. He wondered if Captain Landry knew this.
“Todd, draft a message for Doring, informing him of the situation on the beach.”
“Aye aye, Commodore.”
Sam then turned his attention to the day’s battle – or rather, series of hit-and-run skirmishes – with the combined enemy fleet. Landry would have to deal with the situation ashore.
Landry had been “dealing” since the early hours of the morning, when he had been called from his cot with reports on a developing pattern of enemy patrol activity. It had become plain that the Pirates were going to attempt to turn his southern flank and roll up his line until he was forced into the narrow northern tip of the island.
At the same time, the reports from Boer, relaying aerial reconnaissance of the beaches, made it very tempting to mount an effort to destroy the enemy’s supply stockpile. With the invasion fleet away fighting Taffy One, any significant reduction in the Pirates’ flow of food and ammunition would be immediately felt on the battlefield. Dependence on man-porterage must already be causing shortages on the line.
But Landry had to dismiss that as a distraction from more immediate concerns, as tempting as it was; he could not allow the Pirates to turn his flank, and stopping that would require all his resources.
He had already ordered an attenuation of his line in order to beef up the southernmost end. To accomplish this, all units were shifting to their right, stretching out the length of front for which they were responsible. He had dispatched his landing force of seaman-gunners, the only reserve, on a forced march southward once patrols had confirmed the massing of a large number of Pirate fighters at the southern end of the enemy line.
Both the allied and the Pirates’ lines were more or less anchored, at their southern ends, on the shores of Forbes Bay. Landry had ordered the motor-gunboats to get under way at dawn from their base at Bweni, and proceed at top speed to Forbes Bay. There, they might be able to provide gunfire support to the defenders. But they would need spotters to achieve any sort of accuracy, and their only means of communication with friendly forces ashore was semaphore or flares. Semaphore would be dependent on a clear line of sight between boats and shore, which may not be available. Flares – red to mark enemy positions, green for friendly – could appear ambiguous as to position from a position afloat on the bay. In short, Landry was not at all sure the gunboats could be of any help.
But there was his tiny air force, afloat on Chole Bay, just a hop from the southern end of the front lines. And he had received a most surprising message from its CO after its wee-hours raid on the invasion flotilla.
Landry had been told that the Chole Bay air det was a weapon with only one round in its magazine, and, knowing little or nothing about aviation, took that as gospel. And he had rather resented Boer for making him expend that single round on what he thought of as a marginal target. But ‘Bay Leader’ had reported that it would be ready for another mission by mid-day! Landry had no idea how that could be possible, but he was quite willing to accept the air det CO’s word for it. That meant the possibility of close air support for his southern defenders.
That still left the tricky communications problem – made even trickier now by the need to coordinate the actions of ground, sea and air elements.
He finally hit on the least bad of the various solutions that occurred to him. He ordered Wyd to extend a fixed line of defense inland from the current end of his line as far into the bush as he could spare troops for, using the seaman gunners as well as his own soldiers, and recurving back northwards at its end, forming a fishhook shape. He also ordered Wyd to equip this new line lavishly with heavy and automatic weapons.
The new line was to be clearly marked by yellow panels on the ground and yellow flags in trees, and in addition use green smoke, as necessary, to minimize friendly fire incidents from the bay or the air. It was to be stoutly defended, and aggressive counter-attacks were to be mounted as necessary.
He copied the Chole Bay det on these orders, and added that it should be prepared to provide close air support to defenders as soon as humanly possible. To his surprise and gratification, an immediate reply told him that the detachment was now ready to mount a strike, but to note that time between strikes would necessarily be lengthy.
Landry immediately went to the command-and-communications bunker, which he shared with Vetdruk, and ordered voice contact established with Seemeeu Actual. This took a few minutes, since contact had to be made through Handelaar while Seemeeu was afloat at base.
“…this is Seemeeu Actual, over.”
“Seemeeu, this is Doring actual, break. Scramble one aircraft to reconnoiter the situation just north of Forbes Bay soonest, break. Patch his report through to me, over.”
“Doring, Seemeeu, roger that, break. Recon flight will be airborne in three minutes, break. Not sure how to patch his reports directly to you, break. Note however that my chief radioman reports you have access to aircraft frequency at
Vetdruk, break. You can listen directly, over.”
Landry had known that, and cursed his own memory lapse.
“Seemeeu, Doring, Duh, I knew that, brain fart, break. My personal thanks to you and your guys for your extraordinary efforts. Doring standing by.”
“Doring, Seemeeu, thanks for those kind words, sir. Seemeeu standing by.”
Sub lieutenant (L) Donnie Rigal, OIC of the detachment of seamen-gunners, double-timed at the front of his small command through the thick bush behind allied lines, heading south. They were following a narrow path, blazed by engineers behind and parallel to the lines He could hear gunfire, increasing in volume as they approached Forbes Bay. Apparently, the Pirates had had the temerity to start without him.
Already on their way when Doring’s message ordering an extension inward of the line of defense had been promulgated, Rigal and his boys had of course not gotten that word and only knew that they were supposed to hustle their asses down south ASAP, and bear a hand.
The firing was reaching a crescendo, suggesting that they were where they were needed. A hoarse voice ahead shouted “Halt! Who goes there!” The source of the voice had such a strong Réunionnais accent Rigal did not at first understand the words – but he recognized the tone and that the phrase was a question, and instantly shouted back, “Friends! Friends! Don’t shoot!”
A sweaty soldier in jungle green and a broad-brimmed straw hat – the uniform of the allies, differing between divisions only in insignia -- emerged from the bush and shouted, “Who la putain de merde are you lot?”
“We’re reinforcements, sent by Higher. Take us to your unit CO.”
Without a word, the swarthy Réunionnais turned and darted back into the bush. Rigal followed, waving on his men. They didn’t need to be told to keep their heads down.
They quickly came on a small group, consisting of a young subaltern conferring with a sergeant, and a couple of riflemen who were clearly guarding them.
Rigal quickly introduced himself to his counterpart, and placed himself and his men at the young officer’s disposal.
“Join my counter-attack,” was the reply.
“When is it starting?”
“Right now! Edge out to the right of my line and join in as they attack.”
He sent his sergeant off to the left, then waved Rigal away to the right, or east. Rigal turned and rapped a few quick orders to his CPO, Chief Turpin, then waved at his group to follow him. The Chief passed the orders on to the four LPOs who were section leaders on the run.
Gunfire reached a peak to his left, and he saw Réunionnais troopers falling back, firing as they did so. This looked like as good a spot as any to join the counter-attack, so he shouted at his boys to fix bayonets, and led them in support of the retreating Réunionnais.
The seamen-gunners spread out and leap-frogged forward by the numbers, firing from cover, then dashing forward when it was their turn. The Pirates, in their white gowns, were easily visible in the bush, and Rigal’s boys were deadly marksmen. They soon drove the enemy back. Rigal called a halt to the attack when he realized that he was getting ahead of the allied troops to his right and left, leaving his flanks open, and ordered his detachment to take cover and dig in to the extent possible.
His boys had just managed to scratch out shallow firing positions when a runner who said he was from the MTF company commander who was the subaltern’s boss transmitted oral orders to Rigal to fall back to the “MLR” – the Main Line of Resistance. This was, he said, just out of sight in Rigal’s rear, about a hundred meters away.
The detachment then made a fighting withdrawal, leapfrogging to the rear by the numbers, maintaining a steady fire against the Pirates, who, seeing the retreat, attacked again. The RKN sailors quickly reached the so-called “main line of resistance” – which turned out to be a thin line of Réunionnais soldiers, digging in frantically. Rigal’s little command joined them in alternately digging and shooting, and the line held, barely. After taking multiple casualties, the Pirates retired deeper into the bush to regroup.
A subaltern, a different one and apparently even younger than the first, approached Rigal and said, “The line must be extended further. Move to the end, and extend it. More troops are coming to take your place here, and extend the line beyond your segment. Stretch your part of the line as far as you think you can hold with the troops you have.”
Rigal was getting tired of being ordered around by boys. “Listen, boetie, I outrank you. I need to hear my orders from your company commander.” Rigal had been Chief Rigal until very recently, and he had never, at any rank, been one to suffer young officers’ arrogance gladly.
“These orders ARE from my company commander, sir! They were passed along to me to give to you. So, monsieur le Lieutenant, I respectfully request, on behalf of my superior officer, that you carry them out. Sir.”
“Okay. But nobody likes a smart-ass, kid.” He turned away as the boy, unfamiliar with Kerg slang, tried to work out whether or not he had just been insulted, and yelled at Chief Turpin that they were on the move again. They moved back from the line until they were in deeper cover, then double-timed along it until they were definitely at its end.
And immediately had to resist a Pirate attack aimed at turning the flank.
Rigal led a counter-attack that succeeded, but at the cost of two wounded. Fortunately, their wounds were relatively minor, and both refused to be sent to the rear for more medical attention than their SBA, PO Dickens, was able to give them.
Once again, Rigal’s gunners set to digging and shooting, alternately, as the enemy interrupted their efforts with frequent rushes to try and push them away before they got established. But the gunners’ superior marksmanship and weapons – most notably, their four SLARs, one per section – prevailed.
Rigal’s unit now held a stretch of bush a bit over one hundred and fifty meters long – roughly, a rifleman every three or four meters. The recently issued entrenching tools – actually miniature shovels that looked like something from a child’s gardening tool-kit – had proven their worth. They were well dug-in, with deep firing holes and ramparts built up of earth and brush; they fervently hoped, having dug in three times in less than two hours, that these positions would last a while.
Rigal placed two of his SLAR’s at the eastern end of his section of the line, to discourage Pirate attempts to turn their flank. This effort was aided, before they had finished digging in, by a platoon of Réunionnais soldiers who went past them at a trot, and extended their line even farther.
It looked like they would be fighting this position for some time. Rigal ordered them to continue to improve their fortifications. He and Chief Turpin had established a “command post” some ten meters behind, and roughly in the center, of the line. The “CP” was actually a hole just big enough for two, dug personally by its occupants.
Rigal scribbled a note to the effect that he would need ammo re-supply soonest repeat soonest, and added that some hot chow would be nice, too. He then sat back to await the next Pirate assault.
Twenty-two
“Doring Actual, this is Seemeeu two, over.”
“Seemeeu two, this is Doring. Stand by for Doring Actual, over.”
Then: “Seemeeu, Doring Actual, go ahead, over.”
“Doring Actual, Seemeeu Two. Enemy ground troops massing at southern end of battle front, break. Looks like an attack is imminent, break, break. Simba headed south nearing Forbes Bay, over.”
Simba was the collective call sign for the motor gunboats.
“Seemeeu Two, Doring…”
“Doring, Seemeeu Two, Update, Update. Heavy fighting appears to have broken out at the southern end of the front. Break. The battle seems to be spreading inland. Over.”
“Seemeeu, Doring. Do you see any orange panels or flags? Or green smoke? Over.”
“Doring, Seemeeu. Negative to both. Over.”
Dropping the microphone, Landry stomped the earthen floor of the bunker and shouted an obscenity so v
ile it even shocked the soldiers, accomplished swearers though they were.
The extension of the line had not been established before the Pirate attack, which apparently had kicked off at or shortly after first light. In the fluid situation that had developed, he dared not order either the gunboats or the aircraft to intervene, because the risk to allied troops from friendly fire was just too great. He could only hope the Pirates could be held long enough for the line to stabilize.
In spite of its long anticipation, in spite of Landry’s plans to stymie it, the enemy effort to turn his flank looked like having a fair chance of success.
“Boer, this is Gannet. Enemy main force has opened up to intervals of at least a mile. I say again, spacing between dhows in Pirate main body now in excess of one sea-mile. Break. Invasion force in process of joining rear of main force, break. Invasion force in disarray, intervals vary. Over.”
A four-plane strike was ready on Charlemagne’s deck, engines turning over, loaded with two 350kg bombs each. Sam now saw that the enemy commander had learned his lesson, and had increased intervals within his formation to minimize the damage from near-misses of the big bombs.
But he had a hammer ready, and the invasion force, if not the main body, still looked like a nail.
“Tell Commander Schofield to overfly the main force and hit the joiners while they’re still disorganized.”
“Aye aye, sir.” His phone talker passed on the message. Sam saw Dave turn in his cockpit and wave an acknowledgement.
“Tell the Air Boss to go ahead and launch.”
The four Puffin B bombers were quickly lifted off their cradles and released onto the sea surface. The slight morning breeze meant that Charley did not have to turn into the wind, and she slowed only for the minute and a half it took to offload all four aircraft. Each turned into what wind there was and flew off northward.
Assault on Zanzibar Page 45
