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

by James Young

  The Soryu's late turn saved her from being hit by Red One or Red Two. The next ten dive bombers scored a total of five hits on the already damaged vessel. Being in the midst of flight operations but with empty hangars, the carrier at least had the good fortune of not having ordnance strewn about her hangar decks to create secondary explosions. Indeed, despite the spectacular, fiery destruction imparted by the destruction of Isoro's wingmen and the three Zeroes below deck, the possibility of salvage existed through four of the big half-ton bomb hits. It was the last bomb, fuzed for maximum penetration, that ended Soryu's career. Detonating just above the carrier's fire main, the blast immediately dropped the pressure to the fire hoses and sprinklers. With blazes being fed by perforated avgas lines on the hangar deck, the carrier began the rapid process of transforming from man-of-war to crematorium.

  There you are, Isoro thought angrily, sighting the Dauntless that had attempted to shoot him down. Noting several more of the American dive bombers making their exit, he made sure none were in range while accelerating ahead of his prey. Zooming upwards, Isoro killed his speed then dived to come around in a high beam run. The dive bomber's tail gunner swiveled his twin machine guns towards the attacking bomber, but his burst went wide even as the Shiden's did not. Flame blossomed at the Dauntless's port wing root as Isoro pulled up and over the descending dive bomber

  He is finished.

  Isoro glanced back to confirm its destruction…then immediately snap-rolled to starboard as an American fighter and his wingman tried to kill him.

  Ah, new Grummans.

  Both fighters rushed past Isoro as the Shiden arced away from them. Isoro traded some altitude for speed as he increased the separation. A saner man would have run, but Isoro felt nothing but rage towards the Americans at the moment. The Grummans, for their part, whipped around in a tight turn that bled off their airspeed as they reversed.

  Today is a good day to die if it comes to that.

  Isoro’s face broke into a feral smile as he craned his neck to watch the two enemy fighters. As they finished their turn, Isoro went into a split-S to reverse his own direction, then chose an angle that would bring him into a head on run with the American leader from just above the same level. As the two fighters hurtled towards one another, Isoro saw the Grumman's nose start to come up.

  Too late for you.

  Isoro squeezed his trigger, the Shiden shuddering from his bust. The American responded just as Isoro's fire raked the Grumman's fuselage. There were several loud impacts on Isoro’s wing as he passed both Americans, but a quick glance told Isoro the damage was minimal. Another glance behind him showed only one Grumman that was running away at full speed and a crash site.

  Now where was I? Isoro thought, blood rushing in his ears as he did a quick scan upwards and around his fighter. A glance at his fuel gauge gave him pause, the needle pointing at 75 percent.

  Those idiots didn't fully fuel my fighter!

  Slamming his hand against his canopy rail in frustration, Isoro began cursing the men on the hangar deck…until he had a sobering realization.

  If they had fueled me fully, I would have probably still been on deck when the dive bombers arrived. Like my men were.

  He looked at the burning Soryu. The carrier was slowly drifting to a halt and obviously in distress. As Isoro watched, another eruption of flame burst from her amidships, splashing onto the destroyer attempting to come alongside.

  "All fighters, all fighters, immediately return to the Kido Butai by order of Vice Admiral Yamaguchi," his radio crackled. "Fly bearing oh eight oh true to be met by a navigation craft."

  Hope there aren't more Americans coming. Otherwise that order is condemning every individual aboard that cruiser and the two DDs to die.

  He watched as the Agano cut a circle around the burning Soryu.

  Once more looking around to make sure an American was not lurking to jump him, Isoro began heading out in the proscribed direction. As he began his journey, he looked back and saw a Shiden ditching next to the Agano.

  Must have been low on fuel. He did his own quick calculations.

  Half my fuel should get me to the task force with plenty of time to spare. I don't want to be here if there is another strike.

  U.S.S. Houston

  1515 Local (0705 Eastern)

  Goddammit these stitches still hurt, Jacob thought, clenching and unclenching his bandaged left hand. Houston’s skipper caught himself once more attempting to shift his new steel pot off swollen knot on his head as the XO gave him an assessment of the Houston's damage.

  "Sir, if I'm totally honest, Lieutenant Commander Sheldon thinks he can give you eighteen knots easy, twenty in a pinch," Commander Sloan said, speaking of Houston's engineering officer. The XO paused to wipe his face with a handkerchief.

  "But if Vice Admiral Godfrey is wanting someone to go hunt that light cruiser and the two DDs that are standing by that burning carrier, we'd have trouble catching anything besides the flu right now," Sloan finished grimly.

  Jacob pursed his lips, turning to look over at where the Repulse was also limping along behind the damaged Massachusetts. The signal from the British battlecruiser had led to a flurry of assessments among the task force. With both the Massachusetts and Repulse clearly worse for wear, Vice Admiral Godfrey was stuck on the horns of a dilemma.

  Have to send a strong enough force to overwhelm that light cruiser, but not so strong to overly thin the escort if the Japanese come back.

  Jacob tried to put himself in the Japanese cruiser captain’s shoes.

  However, I don't care what the Baltimore's pilot said, there's no way that cruiser is still going to be there in the over six hours it would take us to get there. Sucks for the men who are about to drown or be shark food, but have to save his own vessel.

  "Signal the Repulse that we can make only eighteen knots," Jacob ordered. "As much as I'd like to beat up on a couple of destroyers and a light cruiser, I'd also like to make some more repairs before that next round of storms catches up with us."

  "Aye aye, sir," Commander Sloan said, also turning to look off the heavy cruiser's port side at the advancing weather. The swells the Houston was moving through were starting to cause the heavy cruiser to pitch and roll slightly as TF 25 continued southwards. Jacob strongly suspected that the storm was only going to make that worse.

  Not quite looking like a gale, but certainly above a minor squall. Don't know how the fly boys are making it through that.

  The storm’s lightning was wreaking havoc with the task force's radars. The electronics had still worked well enough to track the USN's carrier strike both coming and going.

  Glad the flyboys stayed well clear of this task force. Gunners are a bit on edge.

  "Sir, the Repulse is replying," a lookout called out. Jacob turned to look at the battlecruiser as her blinker light sent a rapid message. As it reached its end, the Houston's master exhaled heavily.

  "Well that's sorted," Commander Farmer said sadly. "Thankfully it appears someone convinced Vice Admiral Godfrey it would be bad form to send a bunch of vessels on a sail to nothing."

  Here I thought you'd be the most eager for revenge.

  "I think that this battle is all over except for getting the cripples home," Jacob stated.

  "Burying the dead, sir," Commander Farmer noted morosely. Jacob watched as the man closed his eyes for a moment, visibly upset. "We still have to bury the dead."

  His service has been beaten bloody. At least one carrier gone from yesterday, another crippled. How much fleet do they have left?

  "Speaking of, sir, Chaplain O'Malley has finished the list of the dead," Commander Sloan said somberly. "Are you still wanting to conduct services at 1600?"

  Jacob looked over at the Repulse.

  I don't think there's anything else the flag is going to ask of us. At least, I sincerely hope not.

  "Yes," Jacob said, looking at the clock. "You have the Conn, XO."

  Twenty minutes later, Jacob gradually m
ade his way aft along the Houston's port side. The damage control parties had managed to clear the main deck, but the smell of burnt materials and flesh wafted upwards from below decks.

  We've been in a fight but we're far from out.

  Jacob nodded at work parties moving debris to be tossed over the side as he passed aft. The Houston's fires had gutted several storage compartments, and he tried not to think about the hundreds of dollars' worth of equipment the crew was committing to the Indian Ocean’s depths. Part of the starboard catapult had already been cut away in order to facilitate damage control, an act Jacob would not have believed possible before it happened.

  Even if we could have somehow salvaged some of the equipment, it's not feasible in the middle of combat. The only reason we're burying the dead now is the lack of anywhere to put forty-three bodies.

  Jacob tried to keep his face impassive as he thought about the cruiser's dead. In a way the Houston had been lucky, as none of the torpedoes that had missed the Massachusetts had carried on to hit the heavy cruiser. Still, as Jacob considered the four neat rows of canvas arranged on the vessel's stern, a brief wave of melancholy caused him to pause and regain his composure.

  They died under my watch. Even having done everything we could to train and prepare, there are still almost fifty telegrams that will be getting sent out sometime in the next thirty days.

  "Make way!" someone shouted from a hatch behind Jacob. Jacob turned to see a Chaplain O'Malley holding one end of a stretcher bearing yet another casualty. The man's face was red, and Jacob could tell it wasn't only from the exertion of carrying yet another victim of the Japanese attack.

  Forty-four confirmed dead, four missing. Sixty-two…no, sixty-one wounded, ten of those critically.

  "Sir, we have one more coming from the wardroom behind us," Captain O'Malley stated after setting the stretcher down. "One of the new mess stewards."

  Forty-five. For what? So some young woman can eventually get married and give birth to different children than the man who sitting on a throne in England?

  "Thank you, chaplain," Jacob said, glancing over at Repulse.

  "Poor bastards," O'Malley said, also looking over at the Houston's companion.

  Jacob looked to make sure none of the crew were in ear shot.

  "I'm not feeling very sympathetic," he replied. "Indeed, I'm feeling a lot like a lieutenant who is now eating his food through a straw because his buddy got mouthy on shore leave."

  O'Malley looked pensive for a moment.

  "Well, sir, if you don't mind me saying so, that's a relatively asinine way of looking at it," O'Malley replied.

  "Excuse me?" Jacob said, turning to glare at the chaplain. The priest did not flinch, meeting his captain's gaze with his own.

  "You can lash me to that damn mast if you want to, sir," O'Malley said, gesturing forward. "Won't change my mind, and won't have me think any less of you if you can't tell the difference between the two sides in this little discussion our species is having."

  Jacob was about to speak, but O'Malley clearly wasn't having any of it.

  "I mean, those men over there?" the priest said, nodding angrily towards Repulse. "Their government is led by some right assholes, and I'm not saying that because their 'royal' forebears beat, starved, and generally acted like bastards towards mine."

  O'Malley gestured towards the bodies on the deck, then stopped, clearly gathering himself.

  "But the shits who did this?" O'Malley hissed. "They raped and murdered their way across most of China before the Russians beat their ass back in '41. My brother was a missionary in Nanking, and he can tell you stories that would make you puke."

  The chaplain gestured vaguely to the northwest.

  "Those other sons a bitches they work with? They gassed women and children in one of the world's finest cities. So, no, I'm under no illusions which side I want of fight with."

  O'Malley fixed Jacob once more with an unrepentant, determined look.

  "I don't think anyone who calls themselves a civilized man should have to think long and hard about it either, sir."

  Jacob was surprised to find that he was not angry at O'Malley's near insubordination.

  Sometimes a person can get lost in their dejection. Strange how chaplains always seem to know how to bring a person out of it.

  "I think Senator Lindbergh would be quite surprised to find out you consider him uncivilized," Jacob replied drily.

  "Senator Lindbergh is making me sympathetic towards the man who kidnapped his baby," O'Malley said, then covered his mouth. "Sorry sir."

  "I don't think I'm the superior you need to apologize to for that one," Jacob said, slightly aghast. "But I'll chalk that up to the stress of today."

  Before O'Malley could reply, there was a very loud round of thunder from the approaching storm.

  That line is probably closer than I thought. Maybe thinking it's not going to be a gale was too optimistic.

  Looking at the surrounding swells that were also starting to increase, Jacob pursed his lips.

  "Well, I guess we had better hurry chaplain," Jacob said.

  There were roughly twenty or so sailors milling about the canvas shrouds. Some were leaning down to say final goodbyes, tears running down their cheeks as they kneeled down next to what used to be their friends. Jacob watched as O'Malley gently, but firmly, got the gathered group together with a couple of chief petty officers' help.

  "Friends, we are gathered here to say goodbye to our comrades and fellow sailors," O'Malley began. "Let us pray…"

  As O'Malley recited the Lord's Prayer, Jacob considered the man’s earlier words.

  He is right. We are truly the side fighting against an evil ideology. Doesn't mean we're ideal.

  Jacob considered the dead steward’s canvas shroud as a corpsman finished sealing it.

  Hell, that young man he just brought out here would have to get up and move to a different car if he was catching a train from Portsmouth to Charleston. But at least we wouldn't shoot him out of hand like the Germans would.

  "Sir, would you like to say any words?" O'Malley asked. An almost immediate peal of thunder and freshening wind caused a few nervous titters among the group.

  "I don't know whether to take that as a sign of endorsement or warning, chaplain," Jacob said. "But a few short words, yes."

  As the gathered enlisted men looked at him, Jacob keenly felt the weight his position.

  A prudent captain speaks seldom and chooses his words carefully, Jacob recalled a mentor advising him at the War College. Like flooding, unwise speech will pass through a vessel with great speed and threaten her stability worse than any tempest.

  "Gentlemen, we say goodbye to our friends and comrades today secure in the knowledge that they have passed in achieving a great victory against the forces of tyranny," Jacob began, briefly glancing at O'Malley. "It is not my place to speak to you of our foes' depravity, for it is well documented. Nor will I attempt to assuage your grief, for that can only be done with the passing of time."

  Jacob paused to meet every man's gaze.

  "What I can tell you is that as long as I am privileged to be the captain of this fine vessel, I will do my utmost to make sure we employ her in defending liberty, righteousness, and all that is right with mankind against those who would drag us into barbarity," he finished. "Due to circumstances, we must commit our comrades to the depths this afternoon. May our actions always rise to the standards set by their sacrifice. Chaplain."

  Looking at the gathered throng, Jacob was unsure if he'd reached the men. However, the increasing wind and first drops of rain told him that he certainly wouldn't be finding out that afternoon.

  "May our comrades find repose with the sea in which they gave their lives so that others might live in freedom," O'Malley said solemnly. "Into thy hands, oh Lord, we commend the soul of thy servants departed, now called unto eternal rest, and we commit their bodies to the deep."

  At the chaplain's gesture, a chief petty officer began
to play taps from beside Houston's aft turret. As they did so, the funeral detail set about their grim task. Jacob noted with satisfaction the efficiency with which each litter team solemnly placed a corpse on the litters, then under American flags, secured the ensigns, then waited for the signal from the senior chief in charge of the ceremonies. Behind him, the Houston's Marines fired three volleys, each timed with the deposit of bodies into the vessel's wake, then stood at attention as the final series of burials took place.

  It's a small thing, but I'm glad someone properly weighted the bodies.

  As a young ensign, he'd been part of a burial at sea where the canvas wrapped corpse had bopped for what seemed forever before finally sinking into the Atlantic. Although Jacob had not seen it, one of his fellow officers had sworn they'd sighted a dorsal fin during the proceedings the body had taken so long to sink.

  It's not like the bastards will feel it, but I'd rather not get sharks used to the taste of human. Not even Japanese.

  I.J.N.S. Akagi

  1715 Local (0905 Eastern)

  The door to Vice Admiral Yamaguchi’s day cabin opened.

  I am sure that what I am about to hear is no good news. Then again, if it's word of an attack perhaps I may still perish in battle.

  "Sir, the Agano reports that the Soryu has been scuttled," Rear Admiral Kaku said solemnly.

  Yamaguchi continued to stare at the map in front of him, nodding once because he did not trust his voice.

  My first flagship. Is this how it feels to hear that your childhood home has burned to the ground?

  "Captain Takashige is among the dead," Kaku continued. "The fires trapped many of the command team on the Soryu's island, and he elected to remain with the Emperor's portrait."

  Yamaguchi took a deep breath, biting back the angry words that nearly spilled out. The pen in his hand began to bend ominously, and he set the writing implement down.