Keynes' Cruisers Volume 2
- Thread starter fester
- Start date
- Status
If it wasn't worth reading, then it wouldn't have several hundreds of pages of dialogue and discussion over several years and multiple threads while also winning(?) awards in its category.
Of course, but just because it's won awards and has created plenty of discussions doesn't mean it's good or to the taste of everyone. You can find plenty of examples of fiction today where it's loved by some and hated by others. I just wanted to know whether my first impression of it being a self-gratification fix-it fic for the Wallies was wrong.
I guess you won't know for sure until you've read through a substantial part of this story, starting at the beginning of volume 1.
Wouldn't call it a fix-it since the Allies get more than their fair share of getting their ass kicked, especially in the early stages of the war. If anything, this TL mirrors otl in the fortunes and misfortunes of the Allies and the Axis. The difference is here the Allies have a better economy at game start, which has snowballed their otl OP into uber-OP.
But leaving the wank debate aside, I'd recommend reading this just for the day to day drama. That and the massive naval battles.
But leaving the wank debate aside, I'd recommend reading this just for the day to day drama. That and the massive naval battles.
Thanks for the actual answer, I'll probably read through until Pearl Harbor and see how it goes.
The later Pacific War battles are rather more spectacular than OTL. Worth persisting for a TL year or more after Pearl Harbour.
IMHO
Several years into the writing, I have 2 major decisions that I want back.
1) I buffed US ASW capabilities too much too early. I think the decision to build ALTOONAs (knock-off ERIE/TREASURY Class cutters) still makes sense as a limited run, but more than that was too much too early.
2) Finland. They should have had a much rougher set of decisions in May/June 1941 than they had with more severe consequences.
Story 2576
Newport, Rhode Island August 27, 1944
The pilot adjusted the flaps. The engines throttled down as the propellers bit into a little bit less air. A few heart beats later, the large patrol plane's wheels touched the runway. The brakes squealed and the aircraft soon slowed to a walking pace as a nineteen year old sailor holding large paddles directed the aircraft to a hard stand where the mechanics could access both the aircraft and their tools. Even as the crew chief started to speak with the pilot, the armorers began to remove the three whiz-bang "mines" and the few remaining sonobouys while the flight engineer and the systems operators each showed their gripe lists with the technicians who were now expected to work their magic overnight so that the patrol plane could again fly over the vast sea lanes of the western Atlantic and likely see nothing beyond friendly merchant ships, lonely fishing boats and broaching whales.
The pilot adjusted the flaps. The engines throttled down as the propellers bit into a little bit less air. A few heart beats later, the large patrol plane's wheels touched the runway. The brakes squealed and the aircraft soon slowed to a walking pace as a nineteen year old sailor holding large paddles directed the aircraft to a hard stand where the mechanics could access both the aircraft and their tools. Even as the crew chief started to speak with the pilot, the armorers began to remove the three whiz-bang "mines" and the few remaining sonobouys while the flight engineer and the systems operators each showed their gripe lists with the technicians who were now expected to work their magic overnight so that the patrol plane could again fly over the vast sea lanes of the western Atlantic and likely see nothing beyond friendly merchant ships, lonely fishing boats and broaching whales.
Sonar bouys and FIDOs - the North Atlantic patrol is now almost certainly a death sentence to a U-boat
No major change from OTL
I found this interesting on USN sonobuoy evolution.
Story 2578
Belvedere, South Rhodesia August 28, 1944
The air strip was busy. Half a dozen Tiger Moths were conducting touch and go's. Another dozen were engaged in very simple navigation challenges. The large grove of trees outside of the base was frequently used as a turning pylon as novice pilots learned to go both left and right in their simple biplane training aircraft. The complicated ballet continued until just before dusk as the last aircraft landed. Mechanics, both experienced trainers and men who had just passed their initial courses, scrambled over the dozens of aircraft. Tomorrow would be the same as today, and next month would be the same as last month as the Empire transformed raw men into attritional but skilled weapons of war.
The air strip was busy. Half a dozen Tiger Moths were conducting touch and go's. Another dozen were engaged in very simple navigation challenges. The large grove of trees outside of the base was frequently used as a turning pylon as novice pilots learned to go both left and right in their simple biplane training aircraft. The complicated ballet continued until just before dusk as the last aircraft landed. Mechanics, both experienced trainers and men who had just passed their initial courses, scrambled over the dozens of aircraft. Tomorrow would be the same as today, and next month would be the same as last month as the Empire transformed raw men into attritional but skilled weapons of war.
Story 2579
Central France, August 29, 1944
The mortars had started to bark a minute ago. They were laying down smoke shells. The battery that normally supported the battalion had started to fire five minutes ago. They were firing a mix of time fused and impact fused high explosive shells at the copse of trees that were the perfect spot for a rear guard to buy the Germans another four or five hours to dig in further east.
The platoon's machine guns started to fire. The gunners were sending two or three bullets down range in the general direction of where the French scouts that had proven their worth so frequently thought they had seen mottled unnatural colors and sharp lines where there should have been soft curves and mixed colors. They fired, and then took a breath, and fired again. The riflemen had fixed bayonets and had grabbed as many grenades as they could carry. They were advancing in a long thin line with enough space that a single mine or a burst from an aggressive gunner would only kill one man and perhaps wound another. Their veteran platoon leader had has hand on his carbine and looked to the right as the BAR teams were ready to fire at anything that threatened the pair of flame thrower teams. Those poor bastards were walking with targets on their back.
As the attack was getting within danger close of the artillery and mortar shells, there was an odd silence as the last shells exploded and the machine gunners took a two beat break before firing again. The LT looked through the smoke and noticed that the German tracers were high and to the right. That was odd. This should have been prepared ground where every position knew the slope in front of them and knew to fire down. That is how he would have done it. His thoughts were broken as a runner from the right wing squad tapped him on his shoulder.
"Boss, they're giving up."
He smiled. His boys did not need to get stuck in and die on a little woodlot in a dot of a village in France that a Parisian could not find. They might die tomorrow, but not today.
An hour later, one squad was clearing the German position of mines, another was escorting two dozen prisoners, none younger than thirty eight and many barely German to the battalion HQ where the MPs could deal with them, and the third were sorting through the boxes of ammunition that could have culled their ranks if fired through the three machine guns that were in good mutually supportive cross-fires. This was the sixth time the platoon had to clear a rear guard that was comprised of men who knew that fighting to the last bullet meant no prisoners were likely to be taken. As long as they fought hard enough to satisfy their honor but left crates of shells and bullets and grenades unfired and unthrown, they were likely to eventually survive the war after a detour to the cotton fields of Alabama or the forests of Alberta.
The mortars had started to bark a minute ago. They were laying down smoke shells. The battery that normally supported the battalion had started to fire five minutes ago. They were firing a mix of time fused and impact fused high explosive shells at the copse of trees that were the perfect spot for a rear guard to buy the Germans another four or five hours to dig in further east.
The platoon's machine guns started to fire. The gunners were sending two or three bullets down range in the general direction of where the French scouts that had proven their worth so frequently thought they had seen mottled unnatural colors and sharp lines where there should have been soft curves and mixed colors. They fired, and then took a breath, and fired again. The riflemen had fixed bayonets and had grabbed as many grenades as they could carry. They were advancing in a long thin line with enough space that a single mine or a burst from an aggressive gunner would only kill one man and perhaps wound another. Their veteran platoon leader had has hand on his carbine and looked to the right as the BAR teams were ready to fire at anything that threatened the pair of flame thrower teams. Those poor bastards were walking with targets on their back.
As the attack was getting within danger close of the artillery and mortar shells, there was an odd silence as the last shells exploded and the machine gunners took a two beat break before firing again. The LT looked through the smoke and noticed that the German tracers were high and to the right. That was odd. This should have been prepared ground where every position knew the slope in front of them and knew to fire down. That is how he would have done it. His thoughts were broken as a runner from the right wing squad tapped him on his shoulder.
"Boss, they're giving up."
He smiled. His boys did not need to get stuck in and die on a little woodlot in a dot of a village in France that a Parisian could not find. They might die tomorrow, but not today.
An hour later, one squad was clearing the German position of mines, another was escorting two dozen prisoners, none younger than thirty eight and many barely German to the battalion HQ where the MPs could deal with them, and the third were sorting through the boxes of ammunition that could have culled their ranks if fired through the three machine guns that were in good mutually supportive cross-fires. This was the sixth time the platoon had to clear a rear guard that was comprised of men who knew that fighting to the last bullet meant no prisoners were likely to be taken. As long as they fought hard enough to satisfy their honor but left crates of shells and bullets and grenades unfired and unthrown, they were likely to eventually survive the war after a detour to the cotton fields of Alabama or the forests of Alberta.
Story 2580
Central Belgium, August 30,1944
The provost took a breath. The young officer in charge of the truck convoy had a compass, a map and a timetable. He was dangerous.
"No sir, if you take a right, you'll end up in a Jerry prisoner pen. We have some scouts that way, but nothing much beyond that. "
"My map tells me I need to take a right to get to the supply dump. They need the shells that my trucks are carrying."
"Sir, can I take a look at your map, as sometimes there are discrepancies."
The young officer huffed and then looked down at the enlisted man who was in a dirty uniform with a Sten gun that would not passed even the most lax inspection.
"Very well" He handed the map over to the provost.
The provost suppressed a chuckle. Yes, the convoy should have taken a right eighteen miles ago. They were supposed to drop off shells and supplies in another hour to the 59th Division in preparation for another day of fighting but they were at least a good three hours behind the table once the convoy could turn around and get itself sorted out. They were in the wrong corps area at the moment. The crossroads that they should have turned at had a sign that could be hidden by trees blowing in the wind and the current crossroad town had a name that was only off by a single vowel. This was not the first time a driver had made this mistake.
"Sir, I think the map is a bit off. " His index finger traced the correct route and within minutes, the convoy drivers had finished brewing up some tea that they then shared with the section of provosts before re-mounting and slowly turning the entire seventy vehicle convoy around.
The provost took a breath. The young officer in charge of the truck convoy had a compass, a map and a timetable. He was dangerous.
"No sir, if you take a right, you'll end up in a Jerry prisoner pen. We have some scouts that way, but nothing much beyond that. "
"My map tells me I need to take a right to get to the supply dump. They need the shells that my trucks are carrying."
"Sir, can I take a look at your map, as sometimes there are discrepancies."
The young officer huffed and then looked down at the enlisted man who was in a dirty uniform with a Sten gun that would not passed even the most lax inspection.
"Very well" He handed the map over to the provost.
The provost suppressed a chuckle. Yes, the convoy should have taken a right eighteen miles ago. They were supposed to drop off shells and supplies in another hour to the 59th Division in preparation for another day of fighting but they were at least a good three hours behind the table once the convoy could turn around and get itself sorted out. They were in the wrong corps area at the moment. The crossroads that they should have turned at had a sign that could be hidden by trees blowing in the wind and the current crossroad town had a name that was only off by a single vowel. This was not the first time a driver had made this mistake.
"Sir, I think the map is a bit off. " His index finger traced the correct route and within minutes, the convoy drivers had finished brewing up some tea that they then shared with the section of provosts before re-mounting and slowly turning the entire seventy vehicle convoy around.
Story 2581
Syrencot House, Figheldean, Wiltshire August 31, 1944
The staff had just arrived a week ago. A third of the fighting strength of the new, multinational corps were in the process of arriving back from the Continent. The American components had already set up camp in Berkshire, and the Poles were due in Reading next week. Even as rest, recuperation and reinforcement operations were being undertaken, the corps staff had half a dozen contingencies to plan. Thankfully, one of the Americans majors had the excellent foresight to requisition several hundred pounds of Brazilian beans. That would be enough for the week, they hoped.
The staff had just arrived a week ago. A third of the fighting strength of the new, multinational corps were in the process of arriving back from the Continent. The American components had already set up camp in Berkshire, and the Poles were due in Reading next week. Even as rest, recuperation and reinforcement operations were being undertaken, the corps staff had half a dozen contingencies to plan. Thankfully, one of the Americans majors had the excellent foresight to requisition several hundred pounds of Brazilian beans. That would be enough for the week, they hoped.
- Status