Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga

by E. C. Williams

  Schofield throttled back and lost altitude and airspeed until his Petrel was almost skimming the wave tops. Then he appeared to decide and turned to touch down with the wind on his starboard quarter, and in the direction of the swell. The plane skipped across a couple of swells, then settled into the water and turned to taxi toward the Charlie. Sam stared anxiously through his telescope as one craft after another followed Schofield's lead. The landings were a bit rough – one Petrel bounced high a couple of times and settled with what must have been for the pilot a teeth-crashing bang – but all seemed to have gotten down safely, and taxied normally toward the carrier.

  Sam said to his phone talker: “To Charlemagne: report aircraft material condition”. Signal lights flashed back and forth, and after some delay the talker relayed the answer: “Aircraft and pilots nominal” – signalese for “everything's OK”. Sam heaved a sigh of relief that was audible across the quarterdeck, causing members of the watch to turn and stare. The Albatros returned to her station ion as guide. To conserve fuel, Sam ordered “secure engines” and “make all sail conformable with the weather”. The force then settled down to run north-westerly all night under sail, with air ops resumed at dawn.

  Sam suffered a restless night due to second thoughts about the gamble he was taking with the bulk of the Navy's vessels – and one hundred percent of its precious and costly air power. Was he moving too soon? Should he have waited until the force had conducted more training, risen to a higher level of readiness? And, most importantly, until it had more aircraft? But his mind always returned to his original calculus: the time to strike was now, as soon as possible. Every day that went by lessened the likelihood of their achieving strategic surprise, of catching the Pirates on the back foot. Every day increased the possibility of the Sultanate learning about the Navy's aviation capabilities and developing a defense. Attacking now was a gamble, but so it would be at any later time

  He awoke with the change of watch at 0400 and was on deck shortly thereafter. He paced the quarterdeck restlessly until dawn, and as soon as the other vessels were visible ordered “Take in all sail, proceed under power alone”, and “Charlemagne assume guide”. Sam ordered these signals made by flashing light and repeated by flag hoist. Strict radio silence was kept by the surface craft, and Sam intended to keep this up until the moment of the attack. He didn't know if the enemy had yet mastered the art of radio direction finding, but he knew they had radio, and he was taking no chances. Although he thought there was only a small likelihood that the presence of aircraft in Nosy Be waters had totally escaped the notice of Pirate spies, he wanted his initial air attack to be as great a surprise as possible.

  In the late afternoon of the fourth day after they had sortied from Hell-ville, Dave Schofield, leading a flight of three Petrels in a sweep to the northwest of the task force, saw what he had hoped for since their first day out: a pair of two-masted gun dhows. From five thousand feet, they looked like model boats on a pond, sailing along line-ahead. His first sight of the enemy from the air gave him a strange frisson; not of fear, exactly, but anticipation mixed with apprehension. This was one of the few contingencies allowing him to break radio silence. He quickly broadcast a warning to Taffy One, then: “Red Flight, this is Red Leader. Two enemy vessels bearing three-ten. Overfly and attack from the west. Red Two and Red Three, take the one to the north. I'll hit the other one. Follow me. Over.”

  “Red Two, roger.” “Red Three, roger.” Dave banked left and flew into the setting sun, then banked sharp left again to do a one-eighty and line up on the two dhows. He tamped down the rising excitement occasioned by attacking the enemy for the first time from the air and forced himself to stay calm and focused.

  By approaching from the west, he meant to put the sun in the eyes of the Pirate lookouts. Red Flight copied his maneuvers, then went into a shallow dive, attacking in an extended line ahead formation. Dave gave the northerly dhow a burst of three rounds as he overflew her, without visible effect, turned sharply to starboard, then was at the right down-angle and altitude to bomb the southerly vessel. He hastily released all four of his 100-pound bombs at once, then climbed sharply, weaving left and right to frustrate possible anti-aircraft fire. Back at five thousand feet, he banked left to go around again. He could see multiple splashes just subsiding on either beam of the vessel: four near-misses. He cursed himself for his impulsiveness in wasting all four bombs. Just as he looked, Red Two dropped two of his four bombs as he overflew the first dhow, followed closely by Red Three, who also frugally dropped only two bombs. All missed. Both dhows now lit up with muzzle flashes as seemingly every man aboard both was firing at them. As Dave banked around in a wide circle to return and strafe his target, he quickly radioed, “Charlie, send the whole flock. Need help here.”

  “Red leader, this is Red Two. Be advised, the dhows are firing back with what appear to be large caliber breech loaders on high-angle mounts.” Dave groaned to himself. The muzzle flashes he had seen and puffs of smoke on the deck of his target – obviously fire aimed at him – he had assumed was only small arms, from which he was relatively safe. If the Pirates had improvised anti-aircraft mounts for bigger guns, that meant they were expecting attack from the air. So much for surprise.

  On his second approach, he met a storm of fire from the now fully alert target dhow, both from small arms and larger caliber weapons. Before he could line up for a strafing run at low altitude, he felt rather than heard several hits to his Petrel: tiny shudders as if its forward progress was momentarily arrested. He aborted his intended run without firing, banked sharply right and climbed to four thousand feet at the plane’s maximum rate of climb. He glanced left and right back at his wings, and could see multiple holes in the fabric of each. They must be using only solid shot, not explosive shells – thank God; otherwise both his wings would be gone.

  The rest of his Flight dropped their remaining bombs, all of which went wide – the return fire from their targets apparently rattled them enough to spoil their aim – and attempted strafing runs that were met with the same storm of AA fire from the dhows. Each pilot aborted his strafing run at the first risk of a hit by fire from the dhows – Dave had stressed that they could run no risk of losing even one of their precious handful of planes before the attack on Stone Town. But this caution meant they had little chance of sinking a gun-dhow now that the Pirates were armed with anti-aircraft guns and alert to the possibility of aerial attack. This brought home to Dave the truth of the military axiom that an asset too valuable to ever risk was no asset at all.

  He now saw with surprise that the dhows had each launched a small boat. Both were powered, judging from their quick motions and their emissions of black smoke, clearly exhaust from engines of some sort. The boats each took a line from a dhow and began to tow their bows around to the north – the enemy vessels were making a run for home.

  He was startled out of his fierce concentration on the target by a voice from his headphones: “Red leader, this is Red Two. I took a hit to my engine – gotta go home to Mother.”

  “Roger that, Red Two. Good luck.”

  Moments later: “Red Leader, this is Green Leader. Orders?” The second flight had arrived.

  “Green Leader, be advised: the dhows have effective anti-aircraft weaponry. Stay above five thousand feet. Repeat, stay at five kay. Try level bombing from that altitude. Over.”

  “Roger, boss. Bomb from five kay, aye. Greenies, you heard the man. Follow me.”

  Dave, having dropped all his bombs and fired most of his one-inch ammo, now saw that his fuel gauge showed below sixty percent. He knew that the rest of the Flight must be in the same state. They'd have to return to Charlemagne soon, but first he wanted to see how Green Flight did. He climbed to six thousand feet and flew a wide circle around the scene of action. The three Petrels of Green Flight lined up on the enemy vessels and made a bombing run from precisely five thousand feet, as ordered. Every bomb from the first two planes was over, exploding harmlessly well ahead
of the fleeing dhows. The pilot flying tail-end, seeing this, tried to correct, but only succeeded in over correcting. All four of his bombs fell short. Dave swore to himself in frustration, but knew it wasn't the fault of the pilots of Green Flight; they had never trained in bombing from level flight, nor at this altitude.

  “Squadron, this is Leader. Red Flight, let's go home. Repeat: Red Flight home to Mother. Green Flight, observe enemy movements until you're at sixty percent fuel, then come home. Acknowledge.” After each of the remaining four planes rogered, Dave and Red Three flew off to the south, bound for the task force. All the way back, Dave anxiously scanned the sea, looking for Red Two or any sign of it, fearing that its pilot, Lieutenant Jimmy Mallery, was forced to ditch short of home. To his great relief, he saw as he approached the task force that a Petrel was on Charlemagne's flight deck, one that could only be Red Two.

  As soon as Green flight had touched down and been recovered, Sam ordered the force to heave to, and flew the signal: “Captains repair aboard flag”. He added an order for Lieutenant Commander Schofield to come with his captain. He saw Roland, with her usual alacrity, quickly launch her motor whaleboat, and Joan's and Charlemagne's followed moments later. Sam walked forward to greet the three captains and Schofield at the port side pilot ladder. He watched with admiration as Bill Ennis, as senior captain, came up the ladder first. He ascended with quick agility, apparently hampered not at all by the lack of a left arm. This evidence of a recovery from the triple blow Ennis had suffered of losing his arm, wife, and newborn child, all in quick succession, pleased Sam.

  “Good to see you so spry, Bill,” Sam said as he shook his hand.

  “Well, I'm not quite ready yet to climb to the masthead, but I can manage a pilot ladder,” Ennis replied with a chuckle. His color was good and he appeared to have regained most of the weight he had lost during his convalescence.

  Commander Benoit Murphy, promoted to command of the Charlemagne after his short but successful stint as captain of Roland, with an extra stripe and his new rank made permanent, followed. Dave Schofield was next, and then Mike Christie, who now commanded Roland.

  “Ben, Dave, Mike – welcome aboard. Now let's adjourn below to my cabin, where Ritchie has, I hope, laid out some light refreshments for us.”

  Ritchie had indeed prepared refreshments, but they were hardly “light”: there was enough food for the assembled officers to have their supper if they chose. A couple of the remaining bottles of fine old aged rum, gift of the governor of Nosy Be, accompanied the repast.

  “Given the late hour, let's get right down to business,” Sam said. “I'm afraid you'll have to return to your ships in the dark as it is. Dave, start us off with a report on your fliers' attack on those two dhows.”

  Schofield related the details of his attack on the gun dhows, then summarized by saying, “Lessons learned: the unwelcome news is that the Pirates have obviously gotten intel that we have airplanes. They were ready for us with improvised anti-aircraft guns. Of course, their shooting was poor – they could have hardly had much time to train in bringing down planes, and what would they have used for targets? But the mere volume of fire they put up was enough to spoil our attacks, given our orders to take no chances with our airplanes. And they managed to score once. Red Two's engine problem was due to a hit that passed through her starboard wing, then pierced the engine nacelle. It was nearly spent by then, or it would have destroyed the engine. As it is, Jimmy Mallery nursed her home with little to spare, right down on the deck, to take advantage of wing-in-ground-effect, and she'll be out of service for a long while. The engine will need to be torn down completely and rebuilt. We're down to five operational machines for the near future.” Dave paused at this point and looked down at his hands, clearly discouraged.

  “And the powered boats they were towing with … can you give us any details about them?”

  “Not much. Except that, from the volume of black smoke they made their engines couldn't be too efficient. I'm guessing they're diesel powered, and crude diesels at that.”

  “What about any tactical implications?” Sam said. “Any ideas about how you might attack with greater success?”

  “Not yet, Commodore. I didn't have time for a full debrief of the pilots – I was just starting when we got your summons – so I ordered them instead to sit down and write a full report of their individual experiences and impressions, while it's all fresh in their minds. I'll resume the debrief when I get back to Charlie”

  “Sorry, Dave – guess I called this conference prematurely.” Schofield, gaze still lowered, did not reply. Sam hoped his obvious demoralization wouldn't last.

  “And now, of course, we should assume that this encounter has alerted Zanzibar,” Sam continued. “Our radio people picked up an enemy broadcast just as you were attacking, Dave. The Pirates have changed their code again, so we couldn't break the message at once, but the general content should be obvious. We can look forward to two battles now. Every available armed dhow will sortie to meet us before we reach Stone Town.”

  “One thing's different about this encounter, Commodore: the enemy retreated,” Murphy interjected. “They've never done that before – always pressed on until sunk, either by our fire or by blowing themselves up in a suicide attack. What do you suppose that means?”

  “Well, I hope it means that they're so short of vessels now that their skippers have orders not to waste 'em in futile attacks, or set off their magazines to try and take one of ours with them.

  “Anyway, Dave, Ben, your training period is over”, Sam continued. “From now on, we need to have aerial patrols out to the north-westward, to get as much warning as possible of the approach of an enemy fleet. Can you maintain constant air cover during daylight hours?” Dave considered this, then nodded slowly.

  “I think we can keep one machine patrolling a hundred or so miles ahead of the force. Especially if we increase its endurance by sending it unarmed.”

  “Unarmed? Won't it be in danger of being shot down? We have to assume the enemy will spot the aircraft soon after it spots them.”

  “No worries, Commodore – not if our guys stay above six thousand feet. Judging by their gunners' performance today, I seriously doubt that they can hit a target a mile high, moving at a speed greater than a hundred knots. The scout can radio a warning, and then we can immediately arm the remaining five and get them off to attack the enemy before they can get within gun range of the force – or even in sight of us.”

  Murphy laughed aloud, and the others looked at him quizzically. “Sorry,” he said. “But it just really struck me what an advantage our flying machines give us – we can spot the enemy a hundred miles out, before he's even within sight of us! I mean, I knew that, of course, but ...”. The other officers grinned and nodded in agreement.

  “That's if we can find the enemy first,” cautioned Schofield. “It's a big ocean to search, and we can see only so much of it at a time, even from six thousand feet. And we'll have to figure out some new tactics, some way to evade AA fire but still be able to press home attacks. But at least we know the threat vector – the enemy will come from the direction of Zanzibar, most likely. That's a help.”

  “Okay. From now on, we go at our best speed, which will probably require motor-sailing on a broad reach. Ben, Dave, can you launch the scout planes without turning Charlie into the wind?” Sam asked.

  Murphy and Schofield looked at one another, then Dave said, “I think so. Our practice of turning Charlie into the wind to launch is a safety precaution so the planes never need turn broadside to the wind and sea while taxiing, which could be dangerous in a significant sea state. But given the usual weather in these waters, we can launch from the lee side, and the aircraft can safely taxi around the stern, in the lee of the ship, to turn into the wind and lift off.”

  “We'll have to sail in a rather loose formation, for safety's sake,” Murphy added.

  “We can loosen up to give you plenty of sea room when you signal that you'r
e ready to launch or recover a plane,” Sam said. “Then we'll close in to resume a close protective half-circle. I'll lead in Albatros, and Joan and Roland will sail on each quarter of the Charlie.”

  “The lee side will be the starboard side, given the prevailing wind,” Murphy said. “Only the vessel on that quarter will have to haul out.”

  “Mike, Roland's just that bit handier than the rest of us,” Sam said. “You'll take station on Charlie's starboard quarter. On the carrier's prep signal, drop back about a thousand yards to give her plenty of sea room for launch or recovery, and act as plane guard.”

  “Launching and recovering all six – well, five now – from the same side will require a lot of handling on deck,” Dave said.

  “Can't be helped,” Sam replied. “I intend to keep our bows pointed toward Zanzibar and head there at our best speed from this point on. They know we're coming now, and every hour we give them to get ready for us will make our job that much harder.”

  The conference broke up, and Sam saw the captains over the rail and into their boats. Christie, as junior skipper, went first this time. Bill Ennis, as senior, was last, and he and Sam lingered a few minutes at the rail.

  “Sam, I haven't had a private opportunity to congratulate you on your marriage – such a crush at your dinner-dance, and it got pretty raucous. Best wishes, and all – she's a lovely girl.”

  “Thanks, Bill. Sorry we didn't invite any of the officers to the ceremony, even my closest friends, like you. Maddie wanted a small, private wedding. Just us and the witnesses.”