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

“Miss Cobb is my subordinate, Gunnery Sergeant,” Frances said, his eyes narrowing as he stepped past the edge of the drafting table. “A very important one, I might add.”

“Understood sir,” the gunnery sergeant said, neatly stepping forward another step and blocking Frances’ path towards the door.

Well this can’t be good. Butterflies starting to flit in her stomach.

“I was told to assure you, Miss Cobb, that I am not with the chaplain’s office,” Commander Tannehill said easily. “The woman who gave me that instruction also said, and I quote, ‘stop sharpening the knives, the animals are already dead when the butcher sells them to us.’”

That last comment brought a titter of laughter from several of the women present. Patricia rolled her eyes, as only one person would make that complaint.

“I take it someone cut herself making lunch again?” Patricia said evenly as she stepped towards the door.

“Miss Cobb, I expect you back in ten minutes,” Frances said, starting to press past the gunnery sergeant. The look in the Marine’s eyes made the civilian reconsider.

“Miss Cobb will return when Commander Tannehill is done speaking with her,” Evanston said, fixing Frances with a firm look.

I wonder what has the Marine so cross with Frances? Patricia thought as she walked out the door into the hallway.

“Miss Morton said I should probably cut to the chase,” Commander Tannehill said after looking around to make sure no one was in earshot.

“I cannot imagine that Josephine would give such advice,” Patricia replied deadpan. Tannehill stopped, then clearly realized Patricia was joking. With a look that bespoke a great deal of exasperation, the Navy officer began his pitch.

“Would you like to work in a different office environment helping the war effort? Effective tomorrow?”

Patricia looked at him, furrowing her brow.

“Doing what?” she asked.

“Not having to deal with lecherous bosses who wear entirely too much perfume,” the gunnery sergeant stated, joining them.

“I think it’s called cologne on a man,” Patricia corrected.

“If half of what I’ve heard about Mr. Carter is true,” the gunnery sergeant said, “he’s no man. My platoon sergeant’s daughter was working here up until a few days ago.”

Patricia looked at the gunnery sergeant, then looked at Tannehill, then back towards the doorway.

“Commander Evanston told me he could not spare you,” Commander Tannehill stated. “I informed him that, based on your ability to draw diagrams and familiarity with geometry, he could spare you now or after I informed Vice Admiral Halsey himself about Mr. Carter’s predilection for preying on patriotic young women.”

“I have to admit, sir, I wasn’t expecting that out of you,” the gunnery sergeant stated.

“Miss Morton is correct in that I have yet to marry,” Tannehill stated. “That does not mean I do not have a sense of decency. In any case, would you like to come work for me?”

Patricia looked back and forth between the two men.

I feel like I’ve stepped into act three of a play as the lead actress, yet no one felt the need to give me my lines. She looked back towards the closed door.

“On one condition,” she stated at last.

I’ll not just leave those other poor women to suffer that fool’s hands.

“Mr. Carter will not be working here at the end of the day,” Tannehill replied evenly.

Why Old Scratch, you look quite differently than I expected, Patricia thought wildly. I always expected to meet you at a different locale.

“I am surprised that you are confident in that amount of power,” Patricia observed.

“The man smells of bourbon, is harassing women, and was sent out here from Mare Island with already two strikes against him,” Tannehill replied. “I did my homework before we came to talk to you. I’m also a man of my word.”

“Then yes,” Patricia replied. “Whatever you’re asking me to do, yes.”

U.S.S. Chenango

1745 Local (2345 Eastern)

7 August

Whomever said this was “just like riding a bike” has either never rode a bike or landed on a bobbing cork in the middle of the ocean, Adam reflected bitterly as he took the wave off. The FM-2’s engine roared as he advanced the throttle and began to circle out of the landing pattern. It was his third waveoff in as many days. The fact the rest of the squadron was even worse at carrier landings than he was did little to mollify his mood.

We’re extremely fortunate we haven’t inadvertently splashed any birds from fuel starvation. The Marines had managed to bend two of their FM-2s in hard landings, but the Chenango had sailed with four spares lashed to the vessel’s hangar deck ceiling. Still, both of the young lieutenants involved had been grounded by the Chenango’s captain, and Adam didn’t blame the man.

The LSO is God of landing, and thine shall obey his will when waved off. 2nd Lieutenant Greenwood had panicked due to the carrier being close to entering a squall. 1st Lieutenant Silverstein had simply ignored the wave off and come barreling onto the small vessel, just barely managing to avoid jumping the barrier and ending up into the aircraft parked forward.

At least I have a great view up here. Just wonderful scenery to possible die in. The Chenango and her two escorts seemed to be the only ships on the ocean. Adam had deep respect for Captain Damon and his command of the small task force. The two destroyer escorts had started the voyage being visibly lackadaisical about their duties. Adam had been on the Chenango’s bridge when Captain Damon had prepared and sent the signal about that.

“Red One, Home Base,” his radio crackled as he got ready to settle back into the landing groove.

Uh oh. Adam squinted into the setting sun, then looked around worriedly. Something significant had to be occurring for the Chenango to break radio silence.

“This is Red One, over,” he replied.

This is what I get for always letting the rest of the flight land first. Adam had always been very good at fuel conservation, and as an experienced flight leader always knew his wingmen used far more