Against the Tide Imperial: The Struggle for Ceylon (The Usurper's War: An Alternative World War II B by James Young (story reading txt) 📕

their range, the fifteen Sparviero torpedo bombers had been cobbled together from the survivors of the Allied carrier strike that morning. Despite a lack of familiarity with one another, the Italians managed to maintain a steady formation right up until the radar vectored CAP descended upon them thirty miles short of the surface group.

Looking more at their fuel gauges than their surroundings, the ten Folgores completely missed the mixed bag of F4Fs and Hellcats sent to intercept them. As a result, the twelve Grumman fighters executed a perfect bounce, coming in from upsun and above. Two of the Folgore pilots paid an immediate price for their inattentiveness, their fighters arcing down into the Indian Ocean below. They were joined by two of their charges, the Sparviero leader among them.

The American CAP converted their speed back into altitude, the eight Hellcats separating away from the four Wildcats as they did so. As a result, the Folgores had a brief advantage in numbers as they sought revenge. Unfortunately for the Italians, the flight of VF-3 Wildcats was led by Commander Jimmy Thach himself. In a demonstration of artful deflection shooting followed by excellent teamwork, the four Wildcats managed to avoid loss while picking off the lead Folgore and damaging another. Then the two flights of Bonhomme Richard fighters rejoined the fray, finishing the cripple and downing two more Folgores before the battered Italians broke off.

Gaining local air superiority was relatively pointless however, as it allowed the Sparvieros to continue unmolested towards TF 25. Descending rapidly, the bombers raced down either side of TF 25’s formation at twelve miles range with the two senior surviving officers hurriedly marking targets.

“Well, looks like it’s going to be Italians,” Commander Farmer observed from Houston’s bridge wing. The TF’s destroyers were already making smoke, the black obscuration pouring from their stacks as they surged forward through the placid Indian Ocean swells. Jacob turned to look at Repulse, the battlecruiser now in the van of the advancing formation. Houston’s 8-inch turrets were swung out and at the ready, Lieutenant Commander Willoughby prepared to try and splash the onrushing bombers with salvoes in their path.

You know, now that I think about it, we might need those shells if we catch the surface fleet, Jacob considered. Didn’t work in the Indies, probably not going to work here.

“Tell Guns to hold fire with the main battery,” he ordered. The talker at the bridge’s rear spoke rapidly, and the Houston’s forward turrets returned to the centerline. Jacob watched as the bombers finished swinging wide then turned more or less as one in towards the Allied formation.

There was no overt order to open fire. One moment the only sound was that of the cruiser’s engines pounding along and the rush of the wind. The next first the destroyers, then the cruisers, and finally the capital ships at the formation’s center began blazing away at the incoming Italians. The Houston’s 5-inch guns selected a group of three Sparviero charging in a vee from the port bow. The bomber’s goal was apparently the Massachusetts, their bombardiers not even concerned with attempting to reduce the battleship’s screen.

Come on then, you bastards, Jacob thought, the tri-motored Sparviero’s swelling in size as they crossed the danger zone. Initially the screen’s fire appeared to be behind the big bombers, but quickly corrected as the range closed down to 15,000 yards. At 10,000 yards from Houston, either one of the cruiser’s 5-inch shells or that from the destroyer Guest burst just beneath the starboard bomber in the vee.

Trailing smoke from the damaged engine, the Sparviero lagged behind its brethren. Ten seconds later, the H.M.C.S. Garland hit the bomber with fire from a Bofors 40mm gun just as the U.S.S. Hudson blew the leader’s cockpit in with 20mm fire. Both bombers slapped into the water, their crews dying as the hunchbacked aircraft disintegrated.

Let’s see how brave the last one is. He had his answer a moment later as the approaching bomber skidded to line up on the Tallahassee then hastily dropped its weapon.

Her captain is going to want to comb that track.

“Port thirty degrees,” Jacob said calmly as the weapon splashed into the water.

“Port rudder thirty degrees, aye aye,” the helmsman replied, spinning Houston’s helm. As the heavy cruiser’s bow heeled over, Jacob watched the torpedo start to make its run for the Tallahassee. The light cruiser’s guns continued to fire at both its assailant and a flight of three Sparviero’s streaking from starboard to port on their way out of the Allied formation post-drop. Despite the ferocity of fire, the trio of escaping Italians made it through the formation seemingly without significant damage.

The Italian pilots’ bravery was not matched by accuracy, as their attack yielded no hits. What it did do, however, was remove the American CAP from the equation while the strike from the carriers Dasher and Battler bore in. Rather than slaughtering the incoming Fairey Albacores, the Wildcats and Hellcats either turned for home or chased the departing nine Sparviero’s respectively. All but forgotten, the twelve Fairey Albacore biplanes continued determinedly towards where bursts of flak, smoke screens, and rising smoke columns from destroyed Italian aircraft marked the Allied formation. Their advance was lost in the confusion of the Italian attack.

“Aircraft, bearing two nine oh!”

The lookout’s cry brought Jacob’s head around from where he was trying to regain station behind the Tallahassee. For a moment Jacob thought himself hallucinating, the dozen biplanes approaching online like something out of a matinee movie on World War I.

“Bloody hell, Albacores!” Farmer shouted, recognizing the aircraft. As if his shout spurred cognition throughout the screen, the entire left side of the Allied formation, then all ships that could bear, opened fire.

Where did they come from? Jacob thought, then remembered the earlier report and kicked himself. We lost track of them in all the chaos.

“Hard to port!” he barked.

“Hard to port, aye aye!” the helmsman replied, spinning the wheel rapidly so the Houston could begin to turn her bow onto the approaching torpedo