An idea that popped in my head last night, so I wrote this up to go with it.
The British are Coming
Lieutenant Commander Edward Fitzgerald countered the steel silhouettes steams across the calm water of Lake Huron. Three battleships—probably two of them were battlecruisers—three cruisers and nine destroyers. All of the ships were flying either British or Canadian colors. It looked as if every Limey and Tory ship on the lake was making their way to Mackinac Strait. Not only that, but the whole enemy fleet on Lake Huron presented Fitzgerald with a target he could not resist.
Since the war began a week ago, the USS Swordfish managed to send exactly one ship to the bottom of the lake. The lack of spectacular explosion lead the captain to believe it was just a freighter full of grain. That helped the war effort too; Canada would have a hard time fighting a war with its industrial east cut off from the bounty of the west. Some of his crew found it difficult to believe that something as remote as a succession crisis in Poland-Lithuania could spark a world war.
“Twenty degrees port,” Fitzgerald commanded, never taking his gaze away from the periscope. His brother told him he was nuts volunteering for submarines, and doubly so for volunteering to operate one of the Great Lakes boats. There was no place to run to on such a small body of water. The only advantage is, if he hit bottom near enough to shore, there was a fair chance of having less than a hundred feet of water between his crew and the surface.
“Twenty degrees port,” his helmsmen, another one of the lunatics that the submersible service attracted, echoed. Actually, the helmsmen was less a volunteer than most of the crew. A judge back in Ohio made him an offer he could not refuse.
Swordfish was the only boat standing between the enemy and Mackinac. If the British land there, as they had in the two previous wars, they could bottle up Vreeland’s fleet on Lake Michigan. Word had to be sent to Chicago that the British were on their way. Before Fitzgerald would send that message, he aimed to give a report with at least one less ship on it. He ordered his boat on an intercept course with the lead Limey. A second ship sailed between him and the battleship. Fitzgerald could make out the Tory flag and snorted in derision. How could any self-respecting nation use a maple leaf as their symbol?
“They don’t have a clue,” Fitzgerald muttered.
“Sir?” asked Lieutenant Elliot Fitzpatrick, his XO. There was a running joke back in port that the Swordfish was really an Irish boat in disguise. It was not far from the truth; every man on the boat had at least one grandfather come from the Emerald Isle, and his engineer was born near Dublin. Not a man onboard would shed a tear if the Limeys were finally ejected from Ireland.
Still not taking his eye of the prize, Fitzgerald explained. “The Limeys don’t have a clue there’s a submersible stalking them.” If he were commanding that small fleet, he would use the destroyers as a screen. Not that he was complaining by the British Admiral’s choice; he would just as soon not have those dropping ash cans on his head.
“How many of them you see?” Fitzpatrick asked.
The submersible commander listed his findings. “I aim to make it one less battleship when I have the report wired back to Chicago.” Fitzgerald knew his boat would only get one shot at the enemy. Even if the destroyers were not screening now, it would take them very little time to learn what happened. If one torpedo struck home, they might think it a mine long enough for Swordfish to make good on its escape. The only problem to that logic is that he wanted the ship sunk, not damaged.
“Prepare all tubes,” his order was carried out quickly. Though they only had a single kill under their belts, his crew trained tirelessly throughout the spring of 1913. Fitzgerald felt his fingers tingle with excitement as the adrenaline began to flow. Ahead of him lay a target about which skippers in his service dreamed. “Port three degrees.”
As soon as the lead battleship and its battlecruiser partner steamed into his arc of fire, Fitzgerald gave the order. “Fire torpedo one.” Though his fighting instincts were up and running, he forced himself to remain calm and professional. Immediately after hearing the hiss of compressed air, he order the second torpedo fire, followed by a third and fourth.
“Come on, hit home,” he prayed beneath his breath. Watching his fish steam forward was one of the hardest duties he performed. Even when he sank that freighter, it pained him to just stand there and watch. He let out a sharp curse the moment the enemy ships began to change course. They spotted the fish. So much for making a break. The first two torpedoes missed their mark completely; the British battleship turning before they could intercept.
He slammed his fist against his leg as one fountain of water erupted next to the battlecruiser, followed by a second. “Two hits! That Tory ship ain’t going anywhere for a while.” Despite their training, the crew let out their own whoop of joy. Fitzgerald would allow them their short celebration; after all, it was not as if the ships above could hear them. The Canadian battlecruiser slowed to a crawl as flames spouted from its stacks. When it did not list or break in half, Fitzgerald decided the hit was not fatal.
Enemy destroyers began to fan out in search of the submersible they were certain lurked below. For the first time since spotting the enemy, the skipper of Swordfish stepped away from the periscope. Any minute now, those destroyers would start rolling depth charges off their stern. He would have an uphill battle to keep his own ship from being cracked open like a walnut by a half-dozen angry tin cans. Only one task was left before he could go about saving his own crew’s hides.
“Take us up to transmitter depth,” he ordered. No matter what his fate was to be, Rear Admiral Vreeland needed to know what lay in store for him. He would not have much time for his wireless operator to tap out a message. It would mostly be numbers and types of ships. “Tell the Admiral—“ Fitzgerald paused for a second, trying to sum up the day in a short sentence. “Tell him that the British are coming.”
The British are Coming
Lieutenant Commander Edward Fitzgerald countered the steel silhouettes steams across the calm water of Lake Huron. Three battleships—probably two of them were battlecruisers—three cruisers and nine destroyers. All of the ships were flying either British or Canadian colors. It looked as if every Limey and Tory ship on the lake was making their way to Mackinac Strait. Not only that, but the whole enemy fleet on Lake Huron presented Fitzgerald with a target he could not resist.
Since the war began a week ago, the USS Swordfish managed to send exactly one ship to the bottom of the lake. The lack of spectacular explosion lead the captain to believe it was just a freighter full of grain. That helped the war effort too; Canada would have a hard time fighting a war with its industrial east cut off from the bounty of the west. Some of his crew found it difficult to believe that something as remote as a succession crisis in Poland-Lithuania could spark a world war.
“Twenty degrees port,” Fitzgerald commanded, never taking his gaze away from the periscope. His brother told him he was nuts volunteering for submarines, and doubly so for volunteering to operate one of the Great Lakes boats. There was no place to run to on such a small body of water. The only advantage is, if he hit bottom near enough to shore, there was a fair chance of having less than a hundred feet of water between his crew and the surface.
“Twenty degrees port,” his helmsmen, another one of the lunatics that the submersible service attracted, echoed. Actually, the helmsmen was less a volunteer than most of the crew. A judge back in Ohio made him an offer he could not refuse.
Swordfish was the only boat standing between the enemy and Mackinac. If the British land there, as they had in the two previous wars, they could bottle up Vreeland’s fleet on Lake Michigan. Word had to be sent to Chicago that the British were on their way. Before Fitzgerald would send that message, he aimed to give a report with at least one less ship on it. He ordered his boat on an intercept course with the lead Limey. A second ship sailed between him and the battleship. Fitzgerald could make out the Tory flag and snorted in derision. How could any self-respecting nation use a maple leaf as their symbol?
“They don’t have a clue,” Fitzgerald muttered.
“Sir?” asked Lieutenant Elliot Fitzpatrick, his XO. There was a running joke back in port that the Swordfish was really an Irish boat in disguise. It was not far from the truth; every man on the boat had at least one grandfather come from the Emerald Isle, and his engineer was born near Dublin. Not a man onboard would shed a tear if the Limeys were finally ejected from Ireland.
Still not taking his eye of the prize, Fitzgerald explained. “The Limeys don’t have a clue there’s a submersible stalking them.” If he were commanding that small fleet, he would use the destroyers as a screen. Not that he was complaining by the British Admiral’s choice; he would just as soon not have those dropping ash cans on his head.
“How many of them you see?” Fitzpatrick asked.
The submersible commander listed his findings. “I aim to make it one less battleship when I have the report wired back to Chicago.” Fitzgerald knew his boat would only get one shot at the enemy. Even if the destroyers were not screening now, it would take them very little time to learn what happened. If one torpedo struck home, they might think it a mine long enough for Swordfish to make good on its escape. The only problem to that logic is that he wanted the ship sunk, not damaged.
“Prepare all tubes,” his order was carried out quickly. Though they only had a single kill under their belts, his crew trained tirelessly throughout the spring of 1913. Fitzgerald felt his fingers tingle with excitement as the adrenaline began to flow. Ahead of him lay a target about which skippers in his service dreamed. “Port three degrees.”
As soon as the lead battleship and its battlecruiser partner steamed into his arc of fire, Fitzgerald gave the order. “Fire torpedo one.” Though his fighting instincts were up and running, he forced himself to remain calm and professional. Immediately after hearing the hiss of compressed air, he order the second torpedo fire, followed by a third and fourth.
“Come on, hit home,” he prayed beneath his breath. Watching his fish steam forward was one of the hardest duties he performed. Even when he sank that freighter, it pained him to just stand there and watch. He let out a sharp curse the moment the enemy ships began to change course. They spotted the fish. So much for making a break. The first two torpedoes missed their mark completely; the British battleship turning before they could intercept.
He slammed his fist against his leg as one fountain of water erupted next to the battlecruiser, followed by a second. “Two hits! That Tory ship ain’t going anywhere for a while.” Despite their training, the crew let out their own whoop of joy. Fitzgerald would allow them their short celebration; after all, it was not as if the ships above could hear them. The Canadian battlecruiser slowed to a crawl as flames spouted from its stacks. When it did not list or break in half, Fitzgerald decided the hit was not fatal.
Enemy destroyers began to fan out in search of the submersible they were certain lurked below. For the first time since spotting the enemy, the skipper of Swordfish stepped away from the periscope. Any minute now, those destroyers would start rolling depth charges off their stern. He would have an uphill battle to keep his own ship from being cracked open like a walnut by a half-dozen angry tin cans. Only one task was left before he could go about saving his own crew’s hides.
“Take us up to transmitter depth,” he ordered. No matter what his fate was to be, Rear Admiral Vreeland needed to know what lay in store for him. He would not have much time for his wireless operator to tap out a message. It would mostly be numbers and types of ships. “Tell the Admiral—“ Fitzgerald paused for a second, trying to sum up the day in a short sentence. “Tell him that the British are coming.”