Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga

by E. C. Williams

  As the Pirates approached the beach, they must have been encouraged to see it empty of fortifications, defenders, or obstacles. When about a thousand yards off, they luffed up and began launching boats – those left intact by the motor gunboats, that is – filled them with fighters, and they started pulling hard for the beach.

  Hidden recoilless rifles opened up, their explosive shells sinking boats and doing great slaughter among their occupants. Sharpshooters began picking off coxwains and oarsmen, and anyone who appeared, through dress or weaponry, to be a leader. At five hundred yards, a comfortable range for the troopers’ 6.35mm carbines, a storm of rifle fire swept the boats.

  But the Pirates, with the fanatical courage they had often displayed in the past, kept pulling for the beach, fighters pushing dead oarsmen over the side and taking their oars; others, boats sunk under them, swimming strongly ahead. Boat after boat was launched from farther back in the formation, from dhows masked by their sisters from defenders’ fire. Heavily armed dhows trimmed in and sailed closer to the beach, then turned broadside to bring all guns to bear in a furious bombardment, now that they could see generally where the defensive fire was coming from. The Pirates were firing blindly into the bush at first, and hitting defenders only by random chance, but they soon learned to spot recoilless rifle fire by the muzzle flashes, and shells fell uncomfortably close. The reckless-rifle crews were soon forced to move after every shot, which greatly lessened their volume of fire.

  But the sharpshooters, carbineers, SLAR men, and, especially, the one-inch semi-autos, with more discreet muzzle flashes and well dug-in, continued to do wicked work. The mortars, too, with camouflaged spotters up trees calling their shots, were destroying boats and killing Pirates. The beach was soon carpeted with corpses and wounded.

  But the stream of Arab fighters over the beach seemed unending, and inexorable pressure all along the the line – the Pirates had landed on a broad front, engaging all three defense force divisions – soon led to a withdrawal by the defenders to a prepared second line of defense. An orderly retreat under fire is one of the most difficult maneuvers any troops ever face. But the allied defenders, the Kikosi, the NBEF, and the MTF, had drilled it over and over, because everyone – at least, everyone from sergeant up – knew that it was something they would have to do, successfully, multiple times, outnumbered as they were. One disorganized, panicky withdrawal under fire and the battle was over, the island in the hands of the Pirates.

  By squad and platoon, the allied troopers leap-frogged back to the second lie of entrenchments, maintaining a continuous fire all the time. Once into the bush, the leaders became uncertain and slowed, and their late-coming mates began to bunch up behind them. This caused them many more casualties until their noncoms and officers took control, got them to spread out, and advance using all available cover.

  The enemy was delayed considerably longer at the second line of defense, and their casualties continued to mount. Enemy troops were still coming ashore, however, in even greater numbers now that the beach was safe for them to cross, and boats survived to shuttle more fighters ashore.

  Toward sunset, the allies were forced to make another fighting withdrawal, this time to the line of entrenchments connecting the strong points. As darkness fell, the Pirates, having pressed hard against this withdrawal with mounting confidence, made a series of attacks across the cleared area in front of this third line. But the defenders used flares to light up the clearing, turning it into a shooting gallery for them, inflicting yet more casualties. Sensibly, the Pirates decided to dig in for the night, in the bush beyond the clearing.

  To seaward, the invasion fleet, having either landed all its troops or giving up for the night, withdrew well out. The motor-gunboats, short on fuel and ammo, retired to their base at Bweni, on the north-west coast of the island. Their crews, exhausted, would be able to catch a few hours’ rest.

  Landry and Richburg, within one of the bunkers forming Strongpoint Vetdruk, were considering the reports, delivered by runner, from the three divisions. They made somber reading: no one had anticipated having to fall back to the third line earlier than the second day of fighting. The casualty list was especially disconcerting, but the ratio of KIA to wounded was low, and the allied medical services were efficient at returning those less-seriously hurt to duty quickly. One bright spot was the small number listed as “missing”; that meant that nearly all the fallen, dead or wounded, had been taken away rather than left to the tender mercies of the Pirates.

  “Could have been worse,” Landry remarked. “We ain’t beat yet. We inflicted far more casualties than we suffered. The motor-gunboats shot the shit outta the Pirate fleet before and during the landing, without a loss to themselves. How do you think it’ll go tomorrow, Rich?”

  “Frontal attacks all along the line, probing for weak spots. They’ll take a lot of casualties doing that, so if they’re not quickly successful, they’ll change tactics. If I were them, I’d try to turn our southern flank, then drive us north, pen us up in the northern tip of the island and take away our freedom to maneuver.”

  “They could do that with another landing, down south – say in Forbes Bay.”

  “If they still have troops embarked – enough for a landing in force. Or they could use forces already landed, those farthest south.”

  “That might open a gap in their line – one we could exploit to cut their forces in two. But we’ll have to wait and see what they do. Meanwhile, we’re sure to have some hard fighting tomorrow.”

  “And there’ll be some nasty little fights tonight; we’ll be doing patrolling for intel and prisoners all along the line, and no doubt they will, too.”

  “Well, Rich let’s have a snort – just one – and grab a nap while we can.”

  At Chole Bay, the little air det had quickly grown bored, as the only excitement had been the order for their single Puffin B to rejoin the squadron, to replace Reiver’s.

  In the morning, while a great sea battle was proceeding without him, Lieutenant Tony Faure, callsign Forger, officer in charge of the detachment, sat in his deck chair and gazed at Soet Melissa.

  His three aircraft -- a Pathfinder converted back into a Puffin B, another Pathfinder partially converted (no gun, two bomb points), and a Petrel – were fueled up and armed, but were presumed to be available for only a single mission. There was no room at the inn, so to speak; Charlemagne, with seven aircraft of her own to keep airborne and fighting was unlikely to be able to refuel and rearm them after a strike.

  Yet there was a fat schooner, stuffed with stores of every kind, very much including ample aviation fuel and bombs of all sizes. Trouble was, how to get that stuff from Melissa’s hold to Tony’s planes.

  Melissa was a merchant schooner whose only concession to her new role as a naval stores ship was the substitution of deep tanks for holds. He mission was simply to ply back and forth between Chole Bay and Hell-ville with fuel and stores to re-stock Emma Lee. Like Emma, her crew was made up of civilian mariners, and like Emma, she was in no way capable of acting as a seaplane tender.

  Ammunition for guns was not a problem. Tony did not yet know about Dave Schofield’s thunderous ass-chewing from the Commodore, but he had seen one result of it: an order to all aircrew to never, under any circumstances, drop below 5500 feet while attacking enemy vessels known or suspected to be equipped with triple-A. This order ruled out strafing, and the enemy air threat had been eliminated. So, guns un-needed.

  Melissa, as a cargo carrier, was equipped with steelyards and union purchase, so bringing bombs up from her hold was no problem at all. How to get them from her rail to the aircraft, and lock them into the bomb points under the wings, was a thorny problem. But he remembered seeing aviation ratings do this from small boats in a calm anchorage, to save time – a marvel of balance and precision, and a dangerous one, since a dropped bomb, even though not yet armed, would plunge right through the bottom of any small boat.

  Could merchant seamen and aircrew manage
this feat? Maybe. With a lot of practice.

  Fuel was the thorniest problem. It was normally transferred from Emma Lee to Charlemagne, and aircraft were refueled from Charlie’s tanks by specialist ratings using hoses with nozzles adapted to aircraft fuel tank fittings and equipped with shutoffs at the nozzle.

  Emma Lee took fuel from Suet Melissa using her own high-speed pumps and large-diameter hoses for fast loading. So far as Tony knew, Melissa was in no way equipped to discharge fuel on her own, much less directly to aircraft.

  He decided to pay a visit to Melissa’s Master, and especially her Engineer. The rest of his day, and that of his brother airmen, and of a large proportion of Melissa’s crew, was very busy.

  Tony realized that all this work was paying off when, after dark, he received a brief radio message, via Melissa, from Doring. It was, finally, a mission for his detachment, and a challenging one.

  Sam Bowditch was called with the watch, just before midnight. The task force had been sailing south-easterly with the wind on the starboard bow since dark. The enemy had apparently reduced sail for the night – which, on a dhow, meant replacing large sails with smaller ones; they did not reef their lateen sails. They were now showing stern lights, for station keeping, and the way individual lights appeared to blink on and off, they were almost hull-down on the horizon.

  Mug of coffee in hand, Sam climbed up into his chair and sent for Dave Schofield. When he arrived, and they exchanged “good mornings”, Sam said, “Dave, I think it’s time we gave our Pirate friends a piss call -- they’ve slept long enough.”

  “Roger that, Commodore,” Schofield replied with a grin, and returned forward. Sam heard the shrill sound of the aviation bosun’s mates twittering in the air ratings’ berthing compartment midships, and their voices shouting, “hands to stations for launching aircraft, show a leg, there, drop yer cocks and grab yer socks” in the time-honored fashion of bosun’s mates.

  All aircraft had been fully serviced, fueled, and armed the evening before, and launching began in moments, as aircrew came pouring up from the officers’ mess, having been called early for coffee and a quick bite.

  The Puffin LR was launched first, now call signed Lucifer after its new pilot, Billy Luce. It carried flares all along its elongated wings, which coincidentally gave its callsign symbolic meaning. As it soared away toward the Pirate fleet, easily located by its sternlights, four Puffins were launched, each armed with two 350k bombs, and they followed the LR.

  The Puffin-B formation was over the enemy fleet in barely over a minute. Lucifer, orbiting at ten thousand feet, began dropping flares from ahead of the Pirate dhows, to allow the mild southerly breeze to carry them over the fleet. The enemy vessels were now huddled together in a shapeless blob rather than the rectangular formation of the previous day, probably because of the difficulty of station-keeping at night, or perhaps their Captains’ fear of becoming separated from the fleet.

  The bombers flew over the enemy, each dropped their bombs, and within minutes were returning to Charlemagne. Lucifer ceased dropping flares but remained circling above. Precise bomb aiming was impossible from five thousand feet, by the flickering light of flares and the odd shadows they cast, but it hardly mattered; the intervals between enemy vessels were so close that every bomb damaged at least two, and often three or four dhows by underwater explosions. There was no anti-aircraft fire. The Puffins were invisible above the falling flares.

  “Boer, this is Lucifer. Flashing light signals appearing throughout enemy fleet, break. Stern lights increasing separation as fleet apparently spreads out, break. No damage assessment possible yet, Over.”

  “Lucifer, Boer. Thanks, break. Keep us informed, over.”

  “Boer, Lucifer. Wilco. Lucifer standing by.”

  The four Puffins were quickly recovered, bombed up – refueling was unnecessary, given the very short flying times – and re-launched for another strike. Lucifer’s second round of flares showed a more orderly formation and a much greater interval between vessels. But they also showed numerous dhows aflame or apparently in a sinking condition, in either case with sister ships alongside rendering aid or taking off survivors.

  The Puffins made another bombing run, flying line-abreast over the formation and dropping as the observer/bombardiers acquired targets. Again, they were home to Charlemagne within minutes.

  “Lucifer, Boer. Drop flares as necessary to make best damage assessment, over.”

  Lucifer acknowledged, and while the Puffins were again recovered and bombed up, and Sam waited, more flares could be seen. Within a few minutes, Lucifer came back up.

  “Boer, this is Lucifer. Last raid less effective due to greater separation of targets, break. Damage assessment for both raids: seventeen, I say again one seven, dhows appear to be damaged, most in a sinking condition, break. Undetermined number have probably already sunk, over.”

  “Lucifer, Boer, good job, break. Return now. Over.”

  “Boer, Lucifer, new development, break; enemy force is reversing course and heading north.”

  Sam wondered what that meant – was the enemy in full retreat? Or – and this seemed likeliest – sailing for a rendezvous with the gun-dhows of the invasion force to add them to the strength of the main force, now that the landing had happened, and enemy troops put ashore?

  Whatever the reason, Sam and Dave had decided that further raids that night would have a declining return to resources expended, now that the enemy was on full alert. The two strikes had accomplished what Sam had intended: the Pirates were shaken up, scattered, and put on notice that there was no time of the day or night when they were safe from the air raids for which they had no effective defense.

  A summing up of all reported enemy losses to date suggested that the task force had totally destroyed the enemy force, and then some, a testimony to the accuracy, or lack thereof, of vessel and aircraft assessments of damage done in the heat of battle. Much “serious damage” must have turned out not so serious after all; many dhows reported to be in a “sinking condition” clearly had not sunk. Numbers of both were almost certainly over-estimated. At any rate, morning would bring opportunities for a more detailed and accurate assessment of the situation.

  Sam ordered the task force to reverse course and start engines; with the evening breeze now seemingly set firmly out of the south-west, the force would have the relative wind on the port beam, and should catch up with the enemy by first light.

  In Chole Bay, Tony Faure’s little flight of three took off at 0200, headed north. The two ex-pathfinders were armed with two 350k bombs each, and the Petrel carried only flares, in clusters of three at each underwing munitions point. Their mission was to bomb the invasion fleet, now standing well offshore, east of Mafia Island’s north-east beaches.

  This was going to be a navigational challenge. The would have to find their way north by following village fires, until they picked up the strongpoints’ searchlights, which, they were promised, would be turned on and aimed skyward, forming a line of three lighted clusters in what was nearly a north-south direction. By lining up on these, a ninety-degree right turn should aim them eastward, pointing them more or less directly toward the invasion fleet, loitering ten or twelve miles out to sea. When nearly overhead, they should able to see the dhows’ stern lights, although dim. If they flew for twenty-five miles offshore without spotting them, they would turn and sweep back along a reciprocal course. The Petrel had few flares to waste in the search for the fleet; most of them were needed to illuminate targets for the two bombers. If they didn’t spot the fleet on the first outward sweep, the odds of locating it at all diminished significantly.

  And Tony didn’t even like to think about the possibility of Bayflight getting lost in the darkness.

  As it turned out, he worried needlessly. The strong points’ searchlights lit up the sky right on time, and when they made the right turn, a cluster of dim lights appeared below in a matter of minutes.

  “Bayflight, this is Lucifer; prepare to
bomb from five thousand feet, I say again, drop from five kay, over.

  “Lucifer, Thunder; bomb from five kay, roger, over.”

  “Lucifer, Salty; drop flares when ready, over.”

  “Salty, Lucifer; dropping now over from south-west corner of enemy formation, over.”

  Since the dhows Bayflight was attacking had already landed troops and stores, and they only had four bombs anyway, Tony wondered why they were taking such chances for so little apparent return. The psychological effect, maybe? Anyway, ours not to reason why, he thought, as his observer triggered off one bomb after another. Then he was busy, first correcting the extreme list to port before the port bomb was dropped, and then the sudden gain in altitude of a couple of hundred feet as seven-tenths of a metric ton of weight was shed by the aircraft all at once.

  He looked down, and saw the sudden flashes of white foam as two tall columns of sea water leapt into the air in quick succession, then two more as Thunder released. He banked and orbited the enemy formation, trying to assess damage by the dying light of the flares, but they went out before he could make a count; it was difficult to tell if a dhow was damaged, anyway, from this altitude, and with the scattered and flickering light.

  “Lucifer, Bayflight; Piece of cake, boys, and well done, break. Home, now, and don’t spare the horses.”

  From the top of the bunker, Landry gazed up at the spotlighted sky, and wondered if the Chole Bay det had accomplished any results Olifant’s message had told him to use his little air force to do what damage it could to the invasion fleet. He wasn’t sure why, or why tonight, but he could guess: Bowditch anticipated the two fleets re-joining to increase the firepower facing Taffy One, and he wanted to trim it a little before that occurred. He didn’t know Tony Faure, and had no idea what kind of officer he was – but he hoped he was the sort who got shit done.