Against the Tide Imperial: The Struggle for Ceylon (The Usurper's War: An Alternative World War II Book 3)

by James Young

  While he wasn’t either of his brothers, Eric had spent just as many years bird hunting with their father as they had. Whether the Italian pilot inadvertently jerked or was incapacitated by the stream of bullets erupting through his cockpit floor, the Folgore suddenly tightened its turn, went into a spin, and then cartwheeled forward in a cloud of spray.

  “Blue Two, you owe me a drink when we get back to port!” Eric shouted into the cacophony of the squadron net. His hands were shaking with adrenaline as he pulled up alongside. His exultation died in his mouth as he looked over at the other Dauntless, Van Horn’s gunner slumped lifeless in a shattered cockpit.

  Dammit. Van Horn looked over at him and gave a signal indicating that he was all right, and Eric led them out towards the rendezvous point. Brown was strangely silent as they began climbing.

  “Brown, you okay?” Eric asked finally as several other Dauntlesses, as well as a couple of larger dive bombers in USN colors that he did not recognize, reached the rendezvous point.

  “Sir, have you ever considered that maybe I want to fucking survive this war?” Brown snapped angrily.

  I guess I asked for that, Eric thought. Still.

  “That makes two of us, Radioman,” Eric snapped back.

  “Well you sure don’t need me back here if you’re going to go looking for trouble, sir,” Brown replied.

  “What would you have had me do, Brown? Let the damn fighter shoot Blue Two into the water?”

  There was a long silence from the back cockpit. For several horrified seconds, Eric wondered if his tail gunner had actually wanted him to let Blue Two die so that they didn’t attract the fighter’s attention. Then the man spoke.

  “My apologies, sir,” he said sincerely. “It’s just…it’s kind of hard being back here, helpless, while you get to decide what in the hell we’re going to get into.”

  Eric considered Brown’s point.

  “I understand,” he replied. “I really do. We’ve been through a lot of shit together, though. Have I ever done something reckless?”

  “No sir,” Brown answered without hesitation. “But you do seem to have a way of attracting trouble.”

  “My last gunner thought so too,” Eric said somberly. “That’s why he’s now sitting the war out. So did my fiancée, and that’s why she ended our relationship.”

  Eric swallowed as he continued, sliding their Dauntless into a gaggle of VS-11 and VB-11 aircraft heading back towards Yorktown.

  “So if you want to switch planes and fly with someone else, or even put in for a transfer, I’ll understand.”

  I mean, if everyone else in my life is leaving me, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you do as well, Eric thought.

  “Sir, knowing my luck, they’d stick me with Lieutenant (j.g.) Read,” Brown said after a long pause. “If there’s one person who is unluckier than you…”

  “You know he’s dating my sister, right?” Eric asked.

  “Sir, a man hitting a jackpot just before his brakes fail is still unlucky,” Brown replied without missing a beat.

  “Did you just compare my sister to a jackpot, Brown?”

  The two of them were interrupted by a series of Morse code coming over the radio. Eric stopped talking so Brown could work on transcribing the report, as it sounded like a USN scouting code.

  “What’s the word?” he asked after a few moments.

  “Looks like the Italian surface fleet headed south,” Brown replied. “Also, did you know that we apparently had additional carriers in the area? The pilot is claiming to be from the U.S.S. Bonhomme Richard.”

  Eric smiled at that.

  “They mentioned something about don’t be alarmed if there’s a strange squadron making reports during the briefing last night,” Eric replied. “I wasn’t expecting John Paul Jones’ ghost, though.”

  “Explains the other dive bombers,” Brown noted.

  “Also the other fighters, although I just thought they were dark-painted Wildcats,” Eric replied. “Although if they’re new carriers, they must be Atlantic Fleet, which makes me wonder who is minding the store on the East Coast.”

  “Not my problem, but I assume we’re going back out?” Brown said.

  “Yes, I imagine so,” Eric replied with resignation. “Unless the surface ships catch them. However, think they’re going to need help with that.”

  Ratmalana Airfield

  1130 Local (0200 Eastern)

  Colombo, Ceylon

  5 August

  “Sir! Sir! Wake up!”

  The furious pounding on his door was not how Russell would have preferred to be awakened. Indeed, for a brief moment anger washed over him as he swung his feet out of bed, then strode toward the door. It was only after he’d had a moment to recognize the panic in Pilot Officer Elliot’s voice that he stopped to get his temper in check.

  The man sounds positively manic, Russell mused, casting his eye at where his sidearm remained hanging next to his life jacket. Russell listened and did not hear any sounds of gunfire, explosions, or voices shouting in Japanese.

  Right then. He opened the door just as Elliot began another furious round of knocking.

  “Pilot Officer Elliot, I can only assume that Oliver Cromwell himself has appeared in the middle of the runway,” Russell drily observed. “To, no doubt, state he will not speak with anyone other than me with regards to dealing with the current menace inhabiting Buckingham Palace?”

  Elliot stopped, looking at Russell in utter befuddlement.

  “In other words, there better be a bloody good reason you’re knocking on my door, in that manner, less than six hours after I finally fell asleep.”

  Elliot looked sheepish, opening then closing his mouth. For a moment Russell feared he’d so disrupted the young officer that the teenager had forgotten his urgent mission. Thankfully, the man quickly recovered.

  “Sorry sir, but Wing Commander Hains stated it was of utmost importance that all, and he repeated, all officers report immediately to the tower.”

  “The tower?” Russell confirmed. “Why the bloody…wait, nevermind.”

  Forgot about the typhoon taking the roof off of wing headquarters, he recalled grimly. Thankfully they’re focusing on fixing the radar shack and hangars before getting around to nonessential buildings. Russell was thankful that it wasn’t any of his aircraft lost in the storm. A couple of the Spitfire squadrons had not been as lucky.

  “All right, I’m on my way,” Russell said.

  “Looks like going to a nocturnal schedule’s not working out all that well, eh?” Bellingsley noted as they walked.

  “There’s a reason I only shifted Baron Flight,” Russell replied sourly. “Bloody Japanese don’t have squadrons of 110s floating around in the dark, at least not off their carriers.”

  “Take a right idiot to try and fly at night off a flattop,” Bellingsley replied. “I remember a few of their blokes did it back in the Indies, but I’d love to know how many of them crashed because of it.”

  “Not enough,” Russell replied grimly. He noted that Wing Commander Hains stood atop one of the airfield’s 5-ton lorries. A Spitfire driver by trade, Hains had flown some missions in North Africa during the first phase of the war. From an upper class family, Hairns was surprisingly egalitarian in his treatment of the officers under his care.

  Man looks like someone has shot his dog, Russell thought.

  “Squadron leaders, do we have everyone?” Hairns called. Russell cursed inwardly, looking for his flight leaders.

  “Gratham present!” Flight Lieutenant Badcocke called from somewhere to his left. That started a bedlam of other flight leaders following the man’s lead. Thankfully, most of 505 Squadron was near Russell.

  “Jersey’s here, sir,” Flight Lieutenant Hibbert said, his distinctive Scottish accent setting him apart from many of the other voices.

  “Baron Squadron present, sir,” Russell called.

  The other fighter squadrons chimed in, and Hairns nodded grimly. Taking a deep bre
ath, he looked over the gathered group.

  “Gentlemen…” he began, then stopped to gather himself. “Gentlemen, it is with deep regret that I report Lord Winston Churchill died of his wounds approximately an hour ago in New York.”

  There was a ripple of shock and anger that went through the gathered group. Russell himself had trouble taking a breath, swallowing past the bile that rose in his throat.

  “I apologize for having to deliver you this news in this manner, but I wanted to make sure all of you heard things directly from me,” Hairns continued.

  Churchill is dead. The Lion has laid down his burdens indeed. Although he had not been keen on politics, Churchill had been a presence in English society for his entire life. Russell’s father had served in the Royal Navy throughout the entirety of World War I. A great uncle had fought in the Boer War. Both men had held Churchill in high regard, and the man’s ability to recognize the Nazi threat for what it was had always been appreciated by the Wolford family.

  Hairns let the men have their moments, many of the younger pilots openly sobbing or crying in response to the news. After about five minutes, the Wing Commander gestured for the men’s attention.

  “I am afraid that we must carry on,” Hairns stated. “For the other news is that the Imperial Japanese Navy has been sighted in strength at various locations entering the Indian Ocean.”

  This statement brought a response of a totally different sort from the gathered men. Suddenly the group became silent and pensive, looking at one another.

  “Gentlemen, I do not believe I need to tell you what this news means,” Hairns said. “I can only assure you that all of our services shall be involved in making a concerted effort to keep Ceylon free.”

  I think he just informed us that the Navy is taking steps to come meet the Japanese, Russell thought.

  “I will need to speak with all squadron leaders after this,” Hairns finished. “I have spoken with the quartermaster and headquarters. Other than designated alert pilots, all duties for today are cancelled and the first round of drinks is on me. For the Queen!”

  “For Her Majesty!” the gathered men thundered back before dispersing. Russell was headed for the Wing Commander Hairns when the unit adjutant intercepted him.

  “Sir, mail for you,” the man said, handing over several wrapped letters. Russell recognized the scent on them even before he turned the envelopes over to see Maggie’s neat cursive.

  This will have to wait. He tucked the post away as he headed for where Hairns clambered down off the truck. Russell watched the man struggle with his own emotions before adopting a closed expression. It took ten minutes, but eventually the five fighter squadron leaders stood alone before Hairns and his adjutant.

  “The Navy liaison has informed me our old friend Ozawa is bringing his larger, angrier brother Vice Admiral Yamaguchi with him,” Hairns stated.

  I guess we get our chance to see what the Japanese fleet carriers can do. I’m sure the Americans will be thrilled to find out that the Japanese decided Ceylon was more important than Hawaii.

  He listened as Hairns detailed what they were facing. Five, perhaps six, carriers between the invasion force sighted leaving Staring Bay and striking element that had transited the Straits of Malacca. Likely accompanied by four battleships. The troops on transports were, at that point, a discussion of overkill.

  “I will be frank,” Hairns said, grimacing. “The governor considered evacuation of all military forces before the Japanese get here.”

  Russell bared his teeth in anger at that. Hairns nodded as he continued.

  “Then Governor Sampson recalled ‘we were men charged with maintaining Her Majesty’s possessions.’ Furthermore, ‘he’d be damned if he was going to have to explain his actions to King George upon reaching the Pearly Gates.’”

  There was a smattering of laughter at that.

  “The expectation is that the Japanese will be here within a week,” Hairns said. “The Americans will, if they move expeditiously, arrive roughly two days after that. Our orders are to inflict as many losses as possible to the Japanese carrier groups in order to support the battle that will ensue.”

  Hairns looked at the gathered group.

  “I intend to do this by forming up into a wing before attacking the incoming enemy group.”

  Have you gone bloody mad? Russell marveled. The First Battle of Britain had seen a very vigorous debate between proponents of wearing down the German escorts by attacking as squadrons came available and those who believed a large mass of interceptors did more damage than dribs and drabs. The Second Battle of Britain had put paid to the latter argument, as the Germans had turned their own escorts loose to hunt their British counterparts.

  This is how one runs into a buzz saw of Japanese fighters and never gets near their bombers, Russell thought.

  “Sir, does that include Baron Squadron?” he asked. There was a moment’s silence as everyone turned to look at him.

  “No, it does not, Russell,” Hairns replied. “In talking with Air Marshal D'Albiac, the intent is to hold Baron Squadron back as a long range strike asset against the Japanese.”

  Don’t fancy our odds if we have to attack during the day, Russell thought. The Mosquito’s primary advantage was that it was fast, with the ability to carry a large bombload a close second. Neither of those would matter one bit in a general melee.

  “Understood, sir,” he replied.

  “I will not lie to you gentlemen,” Hairns said. “None of the senior leaders expect us to survive this fight. But we will make the Japanese pay dearly for this island.”

  The Feinting Gargoyle…

  Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as the night, and when you move fall like a thunderbolt

  Sun Tzu

  U.S.S. Houston

  1000 Local (0300 Eastern)

  5 August

  Was wondering when enemy aircraft were going to show up, Jacob thought as the Houston began accelerating. TF 25, for its part, was rushing south after the Axis fleet flushed from harbor. Radar had detected a large blip approaching from the northwest, roughly in line from Mogadishu.

  I am sure someday history will reveal whether the Italians were tipped off to our presence or they had just happened to be leaving Mogadishu for Mombasa when our strike showed up.

  The fleet had been sighted by a scout from the Bonhomme Richard roughly fifty miles south of Mogadishu heading towards Mombasa at fifteen knots two hours before. The joint British-Italian force had immediately sped up once it had realized TF 25 was coming south in full pursuit. Now, even as the Houston vibrated in a way that gave Jacob a great deal of concern, TF 25 wasn’t closing the gap very much.

  “When you said that Vice Admiral Godfrey would chase the Italians all the way to Mombasa, I did not think we’d get a practical demonstration,” Jacob noted to Commander Farmer.

  “It’s why I find it quite amusing the Italians have some Usurper vessels with them,” Farmer replied. “They built their own ships fast so they could always get away from the Royal Navy if it came to a fight.”

  I don’t blame them for running, Jacob thought. If I’d had four carriers launch that strike against my harbor, I’d probably try to fight another day as well. Especially with the wind out of the south letting their carriers get aircraft off as they run.

  “Massachusetts estimates the northern group at approximately thirty aircraft,” the talker reported.

  “Understood,” Jacob replied.

  “I guess your strike didn’t suppress the airfields as much as they’d hoped,” Commander Farmer observed grimly.

  “Hard for four carriers to tie down an entire base complex,” Jacob replied. “I don’t know how your vessels ever attempted it with those flight decks and smaller hangars.”

  “We usually stayed within range of our land-based aircraft.”

  “Kind of hard to do that without colonies, but I take your point,” Jacob said, then changed topic. “If it’s British birds, any insights you’d
like to give us?”

  Commander Farmer pursed his lips.

  “Well, I am already surprised that your lads ran into Spitfires and Hurricanes as well as Italian fighters. So it could be anything from Beauforts to some big bombers. Nothing specific though, no.”

  “Sir, the Tallahassee is reporting additional radar contacts from the south,” one of the talkers interrupted. “Range approximately seventy miles.”

  That would be the British carriers’ contribution to things. I am concerned at how well they’ve coordinated with the Italians. Admiral Hart’s forces had greatly improved since fighting in the Indies. They also had not started out the war bitter enemies. Could get rather, as the British say, ‘sporting’ the next time we come into the Indian Ocean.

  “Time for steel pots, gentlemen,” Jacob stated, very obviously putting on his helmet. The warm breeze from the Houston’s passage swirled around the vessel’s bridge, and he immediately felt like it was twenty degrees warmer inside the structure. Turning, Jacob looked towards starboard, keeping a keen eye on the Houston’s position relative to the Massachusetts and Indiana.

  Guess we’ll figure out how well those new ships handle. Well aware that his force had not had a chance to work together, Vice Admiral Godfrey had ordered a very loose circular formation in the face of the imminent attack.

  “Port ten degrees rudder,” he ordered the helmsman. “We’re already bow on to the folks from the south, but it looks like the folks from Mogadishu are going to get here first.”

  “Not surprising,” Farmer said. “The folks from the south are probably coming in biplanes.”

  That’s right, I forgot your navy hadn’t joined the modern world with regards to carrier aircraft, Jacob thought. Which is why our boys had to keep flying older models while Roosevelt gave you the newer production.

  “So, about the insights?” Jacob pressed. Farmer looked embarrassed.