REDUX: Place In The Sun: What If Italy Joined The Central Powers?

Chapter XIII.1: In Pursuit of Justice

Chapter XIII.I

In Pursuit of Justice


Standing on the bridge, Mediterranean salt spray blowing in his face, danger just around the corner. Not so different from being five thousand feet up Karakoum, or the thick of an Arctic winter. If I can get myself out of a land where the sea freezes around my ship, I can do alright three hundred miles from home. He wiggled the two stumps on his right hand- an adventure behind each.

Vice-Admiral Prince Luigi Amedeo smiled. "No sign of them?"

"Negative!" The first mate lowered his telescope, view clear in the still Mediterranean evening. As far as technology had come in three hundred years, finding the enemy on the empty high seas was hard. "Should I send a ship-to-shore back to Naples?"

Amedeo nodded. That was something he hadn't had as a young man. Being able to talk to the officers back in Naples without telegraph wires was like magic. Of course, the French could do the same exact thing with their men in Nice. And the people of Cagliari had died no matter how fast their plea for help had travelled. He remembered the stench of smoke wafting from the island, the stone-faced reports from the seaplane pilot who'd flown over the city... "Si, signore. Tell them our search was fruitless today." Disgust piled up in his stomach. What justice was there in the world, if the French could destroy innocent Cagliari and get away scot-free? If I do not secure justice, it will never be done. "And tell them we'll keep looking and chasing until word comes otherwise." Amedeo went belowdecks, forced down dinner, and tried to sleep.

Scout cruiser captain coming over, very good. He's seen something.
Cagliari dancing, going to Mass, going to market, children playing-- my God what's that?
Screaming screaming, all of a sudden everything falls down, little child in the street, his eyes wide.
The rest of the world doesn't know yet. To the French it's just a job. But to Cagliari the day of judgement has come. And they are found wanting.
And he couldn't protect them.
Seaplane buzzing overhead, controlled- nonono!


Amedeo woke with a yelp. The cabin seemed very dark, yet he dared not get out of bed to turn on the light. If he slept, the nightmare would return. Amedo breathed slowly, reminding himself he was aboard the Conte di Cavour, the French were nowhere in sight, and it wasn't his fault. Animal fear faded, and he carefully lit a candle, then a cigar. It was only ten-thirty.

Someone knocked, making him jump. He hurriedly threw on a shirt. No need to fear, remember you are safe. "Enter!"

"Sorry to disturb you, Vice-Admiral", the first mate said, "but we'd like you on the bridge. Scout cruiser Quarto has just returned from reconaissance, as you requested. The captain's seen something."

Amedeo swallowed his fear as he walked into the night.

"Found the French." The captain was grinning like a schoolboy, despite the heavy bags under his eyes. "Not easy, Vice-Admiral, but I did it." Amedeo nodded. "Heading north by northwest at about... twenty knots. Probably trying to get home tomorrow even if it costs fuel. Doubt we could catch them now. We would have to move just as fast and chase them to their coast..." The captain shrugged. "Permission to return to my ship?" They exchanged salutes, and Amedeo went to the map room, lost in thought.

Could he catch up to the French tonight? How much fuel would it cost? How would his gunners, unused to night battles, perform in pitch darkness? Could his ships communicate without being able to see semaphore flags? Their men would be tired after a day's sailing... but so would his. Eighteen hours ago they had been in Naples when the word came: the French were pounding hell out of Cagliari and they needed to sortie immediately. If he waited until morning to close the gap, where would the French be? Amedeo stared at the map, pencil and ruler in hand. Right now, friendly Sardinia and hostile Corsica were equidistant. In ten hours they'd be sailing past Ajaccio, the south of France practically in sight. Doubtless the French would hug the Corsican coast, just in case they were being pursued. Continuing the chase ran the risk of striking a mine or three. And yet...

If they get to port they are home safe. And there will be no justice for Cagliari. Amedo could taste the cordite, hear the shells crashing and klaxons blowing. And perhaps fifty years hence, they would remember him as the man who won the Battle of the Ligurian Sea, Italy's greatest naval victory in centuries. But it wasn't a game. Five thousand feet up a mountain, a single slip could mean death. Here, it could mean death for everyone. The men of the Regia Marina didn't deserve to die just because it was honourable, or glorious. This war had seen too much of that already. But what if you really can win? If the French got away, Amedo would spend the rest of his life wondering what might have been. After a few moments, he stood up.

He would spend the rest of the night on the bridge, and whatever happened tomorrow would happen for the glory of Italy.
 
I actually think the Italians may be able to take this. They have four dreadnoughts ready to four French, and six fast predreadnoughts to also six French. Their main disadvantage is that the Dantons are superior to the Elenas and Margheritas. But if Duilio is sufficiently worked up that Amadeo was able to bring her along…

Well. With one fewer Dreadnought, losing the scouting battle, and the touchy state of French powder, this has the potential to go very badly for the French.
 
Plus of course the French had been busy shelling; that means they have lower ammo stocks, and that all their gunners/loaders are more tired.

Of course it also means less chance of a random ammo blow-out.
 
I actually think the Italians may be able to take this. They have four dreadnoughts ready to four French, and six fast predreadnoughts to also six French. Their main disadvantage is that the Dantons are superior to the Elenas and Margheritas. But if Duilio is sufficiently worked up that Amadeo was able to bring her along…

Well. With one fewer Dreadnought, losing the scouting battle, and the touchy state of French powder, this has the potential to go very badly for the French.
I second this, an inarguable Italian victory would be really cool
 
Plus of course the French had been busy shelling; that means they have lower ammo stocks, and that all their gunners/loaders are more tired.

Of course it also means less chance of a random ammo blow-out.
Wouldnt you need to be completely empty for this risk to subside?
Anyways, great update, hanging on for the battle news.
On a different note, this was a terror attack on Cagliari of the first degree. Forget about being the good guys, I would even think USW would be palatable in the US when you are trying to fight back against mass murderers.
 
Wouldnt you need to be completely empty for this risk to subside?
Anyways, great update, hanging on for the battle news.
On a different note, this was a terror attack on Cagliari of the first degree. Forget about being the good guys, I would even think USW would be palatable in the US when you are trying to fight back against mass murderers.

the bombardment of Cagliari is ITTL version of this https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bombardment_of_Ancona only apparently much worse
 
Can't wait for the battle! But I'm a little sad that there will be not Austro-Hungarian in the coming battle.
Having the Regia Marina and Imperial and Royal War Navy fighting side by side would have been incredible.
Maybe in the future.
 
Can't wait for the battle! But I'm a little sad that there will be not Austro-Hungarian in the coming battle.
Having the Regia Marina and Imperial and Royal War Navy fighting side by side would have been incredible.
Maybe in the future.
Why risk the Emperor's precious vessels to help out Italians?
But rest assured, there will be one more big Mediterranean engagement, near the war's end, which will see both navies.
 

pls don't ban me

Monthly Donor
Why risk the Emperor's precious vessels to help out Italians?
But rest assured, there will be one more big Mediterranean engagement, near the war's end, which will see both navies.
i think that at this point since theyr are unable to coordinate they can reach and agreement about who what zone defends.
the best agreement i cna think of is:
-AH defends the Adriatic and part of the Ionian Sea
-Italy defends the Tirrenyan and Libyan areas.
 
Depends completely on which units engage but if the French are unlucky and it turns into a dreadnought v dreadnought especially with the Italians getting the possible drop then I feel quite bad for the French.
Edit: scratch that fuck them and their terror bombing.
 
Chapter XIII.2: The Battle Of The Ligurian Sea

Chapter XIII.II

The Battle Of The Ligurian Sea


7 DEC 1915
0400 HOURS

41.98W,7.78N FRENCH FLEET APPROX TEN MILES AHEAD-ACCELERATING TO ENGAGE-ABOARD CONTE DI CAVOUR-IF DEFEATED, FAREWELL.


Vice-Admiral Prince Luigi Amedo stepped away from the wireless telegraph. "That should keep Naples happy." He walked to the bridge.

Sweaty men and noisy machinery crowded the bridge, but it was all in order. He exchanged salutes with the Conte di Cavour's commanding officer. "When can we expect to close in on les ranes?" (1)

"Sooner rather than later, sir." The commanding officer swallowed hard, his eyes darting back and forth. He was a good man- he'd even fought the Turks- but this was something no one had ever faced. He led Amedo to a map on the wall. "French last spotted here an hour ago, after which we began accelerating. At our current speed, we should overtake them in... twenty-five minutes, give or take. All my men are at general quarters; I trust the other commanders have done the same."

"Very good." Amedeo's smile hid his own nerves. "And yes, all the others are ready. I would have it no other way. We are formed up nicely in a column- I ought to ask someone in the rearguard to check on that- just over a mile long. Nothing to do, then, but wait." A bit late to turn back now, eh? "Get me a cup of coffee and something to write on." He collapsed in the commander's chair, resting his arm on a metal pipe.

Nothing to do but wait. Despite the early hour, his eyes were wide-open. His war was only eighteen hours old- still fresh enough to be an adventure. Eighteen hours ago he'd been a uniformed bureaucrat when the message came: the French were destroying Cagliari. Rumour had it half the city was dead- probably false, but a measure of how bad it was. And like a knight sent to rescue his lady, he was off to avenge the crime. Where his ancestors- nine hundred years of Savoyards!- had carried sword and lance, he had ten battleships of varying quality and a myriad of lighter vessels. It is a great adventure, really, though the crime I am avenging is sickening. No less than in the Arctic or up some mountain, it is all in my hands. Amedeo smiled. It was an enormously complex problem, with his honour at stake, but one he could solve. He whistled a few bars of the national anthem despite himself before remembering where he was. The commanding officer chuckled. "I feel that way as well, Vice-Admiral." They were all in this together.

One of the ensigns yelled. "Commander!" All looked up. "French closing in!" Sure enough, grey silhouettes appeared on the horizon, growing closer by the moment. The big Courbets and Dantons looked like mountains; the cruisers and destroyers were the foothills. This is what the people of Cagliari saw, he fumed, at the end. The grey hulks nearing, and nothing they could do. Amedeo thanked God for the armour and guns between him and the French, but a moment later, felt naked. All that armour and all those guns were necessary- nowhere would take more fire than the bridge of a flagship. He felt a sudden urge to run, to hide in the galley or the barracks, to leap into a lifeboat or toss off his uniform. It was all a mistake, he wanted to cry, this war is all wrong! Steel melted honour.

"Good luck everyone." Klaxons hooted and men ran about on deck. "Fire at will!" A deafening roar tore through the bridge as thirteen twelve-inch guns opened fire. (2) Amedeo clutched his ears, wincing, and thirty seconds later they opened up again. "Hold position for now", he called. His main armament had two miles more range than the enemy- let them advance under fire. Amedeo counted six more shots from each gun before the French opened up. He was too far away to see the flash and noise on the bridge blotted out the whistle. The enemy 12-incher crashed into the sea a bare fifteen yards from Conte di Cavour. For a foolish moment, Amadeo wondered what it was. Under fire now for the first time in years. He'd forgotten how exciting it could be in the heat of the moment. "All ships, stay in formation and close range!", he yelled. The wireless telegrapher began clacking away, but every commander behind him knew the plan. If he could cut across the enemy 'T', he'd have double firepower and would soon win the day. Conte di Cavour manoeuvred furiously, trying to cut across the enemy lines while defending its own flank.

A deafening explosion shook the waves and sent green rings before Amedeo's eyes. He blinked hard, steadying himself against a metal pipe, and looked out. A fireball rose from the waves at two o'clock, billowing black smoke hundreds of feet into the sky. The bodies looked like ants from this height. A lieutenant walked in a moment later, clipboard in hand. "That was the Indomito", he said breathlessly. "One clean shot and- no more! Everything consistent with an ammunition explosion."

"Dio mio." Indomito was a big destroyer- he'd known the captain personally- and it was gone in the blink of an eye. The glass on the bridge suddenly seemed very thin. "Just stay in position, try to cut across them." He could see the French circling away, trying to do the same. Nothing for it except to keep moving. The deadly circle spun for several minutes more, all the while trading shots. A particularly hard one struck the starboard, shoving everyone aboard. Amedeo cursed and grabbed a pipe to steady himself. Emergency alarms blared, and damage-control men sprinted on the deck. He turned to the lieutenant. "Where did that hit us?"

"Starboard, obviously, sir. Damage-control men are doing their work now, and until I get their analysis there's nothing more I can say." Amedeo nodded, hating how little he could do. Not as bad as that. It simply means if I am killed we'll lose regardless.

A lieutenant, jg, cried out: "We're listing starboard, Vice-Admiral!" He stared with horror at the panel of instruments before him as Amedeo walked over. "Not by much- six point o-one degrees- but it's there. The result of taking on water from that last hit."

"Merda", Amedeo whispered. "Someone tell damage control to hurry up!" They'd drilled this for weeks in Naples- why was it taking so long now? Of course, if they hadn't drilled, how long would it have taken? "Where are we with the French? Close to cutting them off?"

"Yes, Vice-Admiral", another lieutenant said. "With Benedetto Brin still behind us, we have a chance to cut them off there." He pointed at a gap, perhaps four hundred yards wide, between two French battleships. "They've been slow and we could cut through. We would have to move fast, though. And I don't know how well our destroyer escorts would do."

At last, some bloody good news. "Alright. Never mind the escorts- if they cannot keep up, we'll do without them. This is our chance- accelerate to attack speed!" Conte di Cavour charged ahead at twenty-four knots (the hit to its starboard having slowed it down) with the rest of the battleships behind it. The destroyer escorts steadied themselves for a fight they'd probably lose. They were metal sacrifices, dying so the big ships might live. Amedeo grabbed the microphone. "This is the Vice-Admiral", he said over the din of engines and guns. "We fight for Italy, for honour, and for Cagliari." Like hell. We fight for survival. We're animals with big guns. "Good luck everyone... and do your duty!" The grey hulks drew nearer. From this distance, they looked just like his own ships, with their own lines and white-clad men running about. And at the moment, he only had to worry about two. This would be easy.

The Italian battleships crossed the 'T' between the French ships Condorcet and Voltaire. Both were of the Danton-class, France's second-heaviest ship type. Engine troubles had delayed Voltaire, but the Condorcet's commander had refused to slow down. Now, six dreadnoughts and a slew of lighter craft were about to make them pay for that mistake. Both sides fired at point-blank range, less than a quarter-mile. The twelve-inchers on both sides could ordinarily fire two shots a minute; the crews managed to get off three. Heavy cartridges crashed to the floor, and shell-jerkers frantically loaded the next. Every shot fired gave the enemy a chance to deduce their position and shoot back, but they couldn't care. Shells sailed across the open ocean, and punched their way through sheet metal before exploding. Men screamed as metal and flesh were thrown back on the deck. Fires spread across all the ships, but the French caught the worst of it. Though each Italian ship took fire from both Condorcet and Voltaire, they were only under attack for a few moments before passing through. The French ships had to face every Italian vessel, and could only use their forward and rear guns respectively. Voltaire died first. Its forward gun was killed at 0521; ten minutes later the Dante Alighieri put two twelve-inch shells into its bridge. Voltaire sat in the water like a decapitated giant. Junior officers gave the command to abandon ship as the other French tried to move around it. The French admiral ordered a torpedo boat to scuttle it.

"Very good." Exhausted but relieved, Amedeo collapsed in his chair, panting. "Damage report."

"We took three hits, Vice-Admiral, and that list is getting worse. But it is still manageable." Another officer walked up a moment later. "Benedetto Brin took more of a pounding- a lucky shot knocked out one of her main guns. And some of our destroyer escorts got picked off. But we must have damaged them very severely."

"Buona. Now we do it again- circle round and try to cut them off elsewhere, preferably to the north. We can't let them escape back to Nice."

Conte di Cavour made a hard left turn to go north. As it did, more water flowed into its starboard 'wound', tilting it even further. It slowed from eighteen knots to sixteen despite the engine room's best efforts. As their leader slowed, so did the rest of the Italian fleet. The French admiral noticed this, and ordered all ships to sprint towards the lead vessel. Those who'd been ahead of Condorcet followed him, those cut off behind the stricken Voltaire moved in the opposite direction. But the Italians only saw the first column.

"Move faster, accidenti!", cried Amedeo. (3) "We have to cut them off again before they do it to us!" It would come down to a few hundred yards this time. Whoever ran the race would strike with double firepower. His heart raced, and fear crept in with frustration. They might not make it. Was it such a good idea to lead from the front? He could have put the flagship in the middle, sheltered by the other battleships. Come on, snap out of it. No time to fail now! The French were streaming into view, the massive Jean Bart at the column's head. Their twelve-inch guns were no different from his, but they looked like the biggest things in the world.

We've lost the race, accidenti. Now he would have to bear what he'd done to Voltaire. "Hard to port!", he cried. If the two columns ran parallel, they'd at least have equal firepower. He turned to face his bridge crew. "Prepare for attack!"

The Italian manoeuvre was successful. Conte di Cavour took a beating, but managed to turn ninety degrees. Both columns were running parallel in opposite directions, firing at point-blank range. Explosions shook the bridge, but Amedeo could see the French were getting it just as bad. Have to break off after this, he thought. Enough is enough. The battle seemed like a draw... when more French ships appeared out of nowhere.

The second column had arrived.

"Evasive action!', cried Amedeo, but it was too late. The second column crossed the 'T' on him, pounding Conte di Cavour with their side guns while the first column kept doing its dirty work. A terrific explosion threw all aboard to the floor and sent smoke rising into the dawn sky. As Amedeo got to his feet, the Conte di Cavour slowed to a halt. "What the hell? Get us mov-accidenti!" He clenched his teeth against another blast.

"Steering's going, sir!", cried one ensign. Another yelled out, "Engine room took a hit! And that list's only getting worse! We-" Another blast threw him to the floor. Slowly, inexorably, the Conte di Cavour began tilting. Pens and clipboards slid off desks and tables, men on the deck began, slipping, and Amedeo clung to a metal pipe. "We're going down, sir!"

"Abandon ship, get to the lifeboats!" Half the fucking boats will be submerged, anyway. Discipline dissolved. Sailors fled from the bridge, dashing towards the port lifeboats. A melee broke out as to who would get in. Gunshots rang out. Men cursed and cried, some clinging to the boats as they were lowered. Those on deck were already ankle-deep in water. "Shoot through the glass, break the windows, and get ready to swim!" It was the only thing he could think of.

"Aren't you coming, Vice-Admiral?", asked a lieutenant.

"Not me. I had a duty and I failed. But I still have my honour. Go!" The French had given up shooting at Conte di Cavour. Their vessels streamed north, many billowing smoke from fresh wounds. Amedeo knew nothing about his own fleet. Was Benedetto Brin still afloat? Did its rear-admiral have common sense enough to flee? Conte di Cavour capsised. Amedeo slid down the floor and landed hard on the starboard wall. Water trickled in through the smashed window.

The last adventure, he thought calmly. He'd seen too many good men die in the mountains, in the Arctic, in Africa. He'd always known it would be him one day. At least it's honourable. His feet were wet.

"The Lord ruleth me, and I shall want nothing." He breathed slowly. "He hath set me in a place of pasture."

I'm sorry, Cagliari. I tried for you.

"He hath brought me up on the waters of refreshment." Amedeo didn't appreciate the irony.

Good I saw the chaplain before I left. Surely, to kill in battle is no sin?

"He hath converted my soul. He hath led me on the path of refreshment for Thy name's sake."

He began treading water. "For though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death..."

A pipe burst. Metal fragments flew about the bridge, landing in the water.

"...I will fear no evils for Thou art with me." Water reached his chest.

What's the point? Why struggle when death is assured?

"Thou rod and thy staff..." He tasted salt water.

I'm going to die here. Forty-two years were about to come to an end. The twenty-second Psalm (4) seemed meaningless. He tilted his head to the sky, but all he saw was the opposite grey wall. His head brushed against a desk, and he tried to push off. Maybe I can still swim, maybe- He swallowed a big gulp of water and was submerged.

ScreaminghyperventilatingIcantbreatheohGodohGodwhyIcantbreathetheLordrulethmeIcantbreathewhy



  1. Frogs- j'apologise au mes liseurs françaises.
  2. The Conte di Cavour used Model 1909 guns; the Courbets Model 1906. Hence the slight Italian advantage.
  3. Damnit.
  4. Going by the Douay-Rheims translation here, with slightly different numberings; as a Catholic translation it's closest to what an Italian would've used.
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