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

burst off their port wing. The thumps of fragments slamming into the SBD’s side was accompanied by a curse from Brown, then it was too late to pay attention to anything else. Pushing over, Eric saw the battleship’s superstructure alive with flashes, its graceful lines already marred by two areas where bombs had hit her.

“You okay, Brown?” he asked, pushing his head forward to the bomb sight.

“Yes!” Brown replied, voice pained.

Ahead of them, Red Two disintegrated, some sort of shell touching off the SBD’s bomb. The sight caused Eric’s bladder to loosen, and he had a brief flashback to the death of his squadron leader off Ranger. Screaming, he forced the image from his mind and bore down on the target.

“Sir?”

“I’m fine!” Eric snapped. “Altitude!”

“Six thousand!”

We’re almost becoming experts at this, Eric exulted. There was a bright flash on the target as Lieutenant Commander Brigante’s bomb struck the forward turret. The explosion was spectacular, but Eric bet that the thick roof armor meant no real damage would be done. Tracers shot by their SBD, and Eric resolutely held his position. Then they were past two thousand feet and he was releasing, counting to two, then stomping rudder and pulling back hard on the stick. He heard Brown’s machine guns firing as the tail gunner sent some love messages back at the battleship’s gunners.

“Missed sir, close to port,” Brown said in between bursts.

Dammit. Eric picked a path out through the screen at just over five hundred feet. An Italian destroyer fired on him briefly, the medium AA gun’s shell exploding four lengths behind. Then they were through, and Eric was putting the Dauntless into a shallow climb to clear the area.

“Talk to me Brown,” Eric said, turning around in his seat.

“Just a fragment wound, sir,” Brown said. “I’m not even really bleeding.”

Eric put the Dauntless in a gentle turn and scanned for his wingmen. Both had managed to stay fairly close to Eric as he egressed, and rejoining was easy. With both ensigns gathered, Eric turned to look back at VB-11’s collective handiwork.

She’s going to spend some time in the yard, but she’s far from lamed, Eric thought. The vessel appeared to be of the Cavour-class, which meant she was the Giulio Cesare as the Conte di Cavour lay on the bottom of Gibraltar harbor. A major fire raged amidships, with a smaller blaze near her bridge, but she continued to steam south at near full speed.

Long day of chase for little gain, Eric mused, then grimaced as he looked south where two floating pyres burned. I doubt those carrier crewmen would agree that little was accomplished today.

In the end, Vice Admiral Fletcher stopped TF 25’s pursuit to the south due to fuel concerns. The Dido would live to see another day. The battered Sussex would not. With her machinery spaces holed and power knocked out by the rare event of functioning American torpedoes, the heavy cruiser had no means to stop the progressive flooding in her hull. Two hours after TF 24's air groups had departed, her amidships' bulkheads finally gave way due to inexorable pressure. As she rolled over, what Vice Admiral Godfrey dubbed “The Action of 4 August” and his Italian counterparts named “The Battle of Mogadishu” ended with a desultory whimper rather than a fleet action.

Morton Residence

1200 Local (1700 Eastern)

6 August

The knock on the door startled Josephine just as she was starting to slice into the tomato she was cutting for her lunch sandwich. The sharp sting from the fruit’s juice spilling on her finger was confirmation she had cut the digit, and Josephine took a moment to loudly curse her roommate.

Why, why, WHY must every knife in this house be so keen that chickens not even born yet are already bleeding in anticipation? Jo grabbed the nearby dish towel to staunch the wound.

It was a short walk to the front door, which explained some of Jo’s annoyance when the knock came again. That emotion disappeared as she looked through the front window to see a Navy commander and a pair of Marine noncommissioned officers standing in the doorway. The officer was in whites and his companions were in khakis, with the enlisted men bearing sidearms.

What in the Hell is this? Jo wondered after the momentary panic had passed. Casualty notifications, especially for officers’ families, were not done by enlisted men. That much she knew from recent, dark experience.

It seems like half this neighborhood got a visit after the Battle of Hawaii. It was an exaggeration, but not much of once. Pausing before she opened the door, Jo studied the men in front of her. The officer was very pale, the fairness of his skin causing his freckles to stand out even more. Jo noted that the man’s hair was a red so dark it was almost brown, yet his blue eyes were almost luminescent. Although she was quite taken by a certain dive bomber pilot, she could acknowledge that the combination was striking and memorable with his patrician features.

Well, guess I can’t make them stand out there forever, she realized. Taking a breath to steady herself, she opened the door.

“Can I help you, Commander?” she asked, clenching the finger tighter involuntarily.

“Pardon me, but are you Miss Morton or Miss Cobb?” the officer replied.

“I am certain that your mother told you it was impolite to answer a question with a question, Commander…” Jo began, then obviously looked at the officer’s nametag, “…Tannehill.”

The officer nodded, blushing slightly as he checked his notes.

“You are right, Miss Morton,” he said after a moment. Jo raised an eyebrow at the action, seeing both Marines looking at the officer as if he were an idiot.

“Please tell me the note did not say, ‘if she gives you sass, it’s Josephine,’” Jo stated. “Because there are numerous individuals, all of whom we are related to, who may have mistakenly wrote that down in a note.”

The officer’s blush deepened, and stammered over his words.

“N-n-no, Miss Morton, the notes actually say that you’re the