Reposting this to put it in its proper threadmark order. One of the issues with the scope of the TL is me constantly telling myself, "Oh Yeah! I should write about this even though it is set before the last chapter." lol
SEPTEMBER 11, 1936
The R.U.S. Sweetwater slips beneath the waves at Port Pierce
Edgar Fishlove smiled to himself as he pinned up a picture of Juliet Bradshaw in his locker. The Kissimmee starlet was wearing a tasseled red evening gown and the hand-tinting of the picture really brought out the green in her eyes. Fishlove was one of many lonely young American marines and seamen stationed around the world with a locker full of actress pin-ups and chocolate bars. He grabbed one of the bars, a Sweet Victory-produced Bacco Bits, gingerly unwrapped the silver foil, and broke off a chunk of the real tobacco-infused chocolate. The smell of his hometown candy store back in Smithville, New Canaan, drifted into his nostrils. He sighed and took a bite, still staring at the actress' snapshot. Fishlove was never the ladies' man, and didn't even have a girl to write letters to every night like some of the other guys on the 600 foot long
R.U.S. Vulture, stationed at Port Pierce, still known by some of the gangly, local Infee laborers as "Santiago de Cuba," or at least, those of the foul prisoners on the penal colony that still spoke or even remembered their ancient Spanish tongue. The
R.U.S. Vulture was one of the two
Innsmouth-class "pinnacle dreadnought" vessels in Navy Group V, the main arm of American strength in the Caribbean. Fishlove was a Marine private who had joined up in 1934, and had been serving on the
Vulture since his graduation from boot camp. The other
Innsmouth-class pinnacle dreadnought battleship in Navy Group V, the
R.U.S. Peabody, with its likewise accompaniment of 14 inch Mach II triple guns--45 in caliber and with a range of over 20,000 yards--was anchored just a hop, skip, and a jump away, with its full compliment of 1,000 sailors, 100 marines, and 60 officers. The entrance to Port Pierce was defended by the very tip of Cuban landmass at Promontory Point, a shore battery and base forged from the ruins of the centuries-old Morro Castle. Promontory Point oversaw all traffic in and out of Port Pierce, and its excellent placement was ideal for the massive big-bore heavy cannons and howitzers stationed along its walls.
The
Vulture and the
Peabody were hardly alone in the harbor, however. Backing up the two pinnacle dreadnoughts were six battleships, namely the S
weetwater, Galveston, Ford, and
Virginia, with a further accompaniment of three submarines (
Donkey, Galahad, and
Talon), and 30 destroyers, as well as 35 smaller vessels. Navy Group V was in full form that day, September 11, 1936. While a young Chuck Oswald was studying away in a Benedict Arnold University dormitory, one day away from his fateful enlistment in the Navy, Ed Fishlove took another bite of his Bacco Bits bar. He smiled again, enjoying the pleasant pick-me-up. He had spent another boring day manning the radio room. The time was 3 pm when the buzz of foreign planes could be heard by the young marine.
At the same time that Edgar Fishlove was enjoying his afternoon snack, a 28 year-old Aeroforce Captain Franklin Mathew Johnson, son of long-time New Canaan Governor and Steele-supporter Sam Johnson, was overseeing the daily maintenance on the planes at the aerodrome inside Promontory Point. Franklin, known as Jumbo to his associates, was calmly sipping a coffee and enjoying the tropic sun. There were roughly 200 planes there, mostly M-1935 Hatchets, produced by Colonel Ford. Like the massive amount of navy ships present, the reason for the large buildup of planes at Port Pierce was the impending launch of Operation Manifest Climax, the Steele-ordered plan drawn up by Supreme Marshal Ambrose Jansen and the rest of the cabinet focusing on invading Colombia as a punishment for the humiliation of ORRA during the 1933 Maracaibo Incident and as the beginning of Steele's full occupation of the Americas. Little did they know that General Stanley Dale had betrayed the Republican Union and gave the Neutrality Pact a complete copy of Operation Manifest Climax in exchange for substantial economic reward. On July 31, General Dale, one of the foremost veterans of Lincoln's Hammer, had handed the files over to a Colombian spy in Philadelphia and from there the Neutrality Pact had drawn up their own plans of attack and defense.
According to the doctrine agreed upon by the Pact High Council, defeat was almost certain. They were well aware that defeat to the American people was a concept unheard of since 1812. With America as the New Jerusalem, victory in any conflict was certain and divinely-ordained. However, a crippling attack, fast and quick, and/or a never-ending guerrilla operation possibly force a truce, as seen in Ireland at the end of the Great World War. In fact, many of the Neutrality Pact nations, especially Colombia, saw Irish expatriates and exchange officers leading the way in military doctrine. War had been certain since Maracaibo, and Catholics and anti-Americans the world over had found their way to South America. Even a tiny surviving fragment of the old Mexican race served in the army of Gran Colombia. With all this mind, the main goal of the Neutrality Pact was to smash Navy Group V at Port Pierce with an overwhelming and devastating aerial assault. With many squadrons of M35 Hussars purchased from Europa, the light and nimble craft could prove deadly in the right circumstances. When paired with the M36 Cuirassier dive bombers, also purchased from the Empire and decked out in the yellow-blue-and-red and the Gran Colombian Republican Aeroforce, an assault on Navy Group V looked promising indeed. The Colombian Navy sported only one aerocarrier, the native-designed and rather slip-shod
Vitoria, but the Colombian planes were also carried to the point of operation by Peru's two carriers, the
Andes and the
Magnifico. With dozens of other smaller vessels in tow, the Neutrality Pact's Central Fleet Command would steam to Port Pierce and assault it with everything it had. While the attack commenced, highly-trained squads of paratrooper commandos would jump behind American lines and raise hell at the many, many Infee prisons and work yards on the island penal colony. With Cuba in full disarray and Navy Group V ablaze, it would possibly give just enough momentum to halt any Yankee advance along the Panama border. If the Pact could advance and take Georgetown, Panama, immediately, they could seize control over the canal. They would then rig the canal for detonation and leave it in ruins, crippling the ability of the American Navy to respond to further attacks.
And so we venture back to September 11, 1936, as the first Hussars and Cuirassiers buzzed across the horizon toward the anchored American warships. Ed Fishlove stopped chewing his Bacco Bits as he finally took notice of the unexpected din. Over the next twenty seconds, the drone of the engines grew only louder until finally they sounded as if they were right overhead. A massive explosion ripped through the
Vulture, sending Fishlove and hundreds of his fellow crewmen flying to the floor as debris shook from the ceiling and furniture and equipment overturned. As Fishlove pulled himself to his feet, he could tell the ship had not fully recovered from the blast. It was listing ever so slightly to the right. An Innsmouth-class was taking on water. Immediately, the claxons rang out and the petty officers took to the ship's intercom to announce:
"ATTENTION ALL CREW! ATTENTION ALL CREW! WE ARE UNDER ATTACK. REPEAT: WE ARE UNDER ATTACK. MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS! MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS! MAY JEHOVAH PROTECT US ALL AND TO HIM BE THE GLORY!"
As Fishlove grabbed his green-painted helmet and sidearm and ran into the hallway of the crew quarters and up to the deck, he could hear the gasps, cries, and howls of injured and dying sailors and marines all about. One sailor, wearing nothing but his boxers and a t shirt, came flying down the stairs from the deck, blood flowing like a fountain from the side of his head. Even more followed, pushing Fishlove out of the way as they scrambled for safety, some carrying the dead and dying. At the same time, however, a detachment of Marines were headed the opposite way, right behind Fishlove. When they all reached the deck, a horrific sight greeted them. A massive crater had been blown in the rear end of the
Vulture and water was pouring in. Overhead, like swarms of wasps, the Europan-made Pact planes buzzed and danced about, guns blazing. Bullets raked the deck of the
Vulture as a squadron zipped by in a strafing run. Not ten feet away, dozens of bullets eviscerated a group of sailors, turning their crisp white uniforms a pulpy red. As Fishlove tried to figure out where to go, he could see similar incidents unfolding all over the harbor. "
Oh God," he muttered to himself as he saw a direct hit from a Cuirassier send a small Yankee patrol boat to the locker, its crew--what survived--screaming and sputtering in the seaweed-tinted water.
"Fishlove, man, snap out of it! We need to man these AA grinders!" bellowed Private Henry Lincoln Johnston, one fellow marine from Appalachia whom the New Canaan-born Fishlove did not particularly care for. While before they had been rivals and had even thrown hands at each other, they were now brothers in arms. Fishlove raced to Johnston's side and the blonde-haired marine yelled out, "Feed me, Fishlove! Let's show these Infees what pure fluidation looks like!" Without hesitations, Fishlove began feeding ammunition into the heavy anti-aero grinder. Within seconds, they had scored their first hit, downing a Hussar and sending it smashing into the sea, its inexperienced Colombian pilot bailing out, parachute deployed.
Just a few seconds' walk down the length of the ship, another Hussar, plummeting aimlessly with its left wing gone, slammed into the central smokestack, another smashing blow to the
Vulture. Pillars of smoke and flame rose from the beautiful ship as it fought back with all it had against the foreign hordes. But it was not enough. Just ten minutes later, another Cuirassier bomb hit the forward end of the ship. With water pouring in from both ends, the captain of the Vulture, Frank Falconburg, announced over the remaining ship speakers:
"ATTENTION ALL CREW! WE ARE GOING UNDER! I REPEAT: WE ARE GOING UNDER. ABANDON SHIP, BUT CONTINUE THE FIGHT! ALL HAIL!"
The R.U.S. Vulture slips to the seabed at 3:45 pm
As Fishlove and the other surviving sailors and marines headed for the lifeboats amidst the hail of gunfire and bombs, Captain Falconburg stood watching in the conning tower, just behind the fiery, crippled smokestack. With debris and wreckage blocking the way out, Falconburg, a 28-year veteran of the Union Navy and a veteran of the Great World War, drew his cutlass from his belt, saluted the flag that still raggedly hung in the breeze before him, screamed out "
VIA, VERITAS, VITA!" and then forced the cutlass into his own guts. The white-and-gold uniform, propped against the command table, soon was set alight by the fires. The
R.U.S. Vulture was gone. As the crew scrambled to the hopeful safety of the nearby
Peabody pinnacle dreadnought and as the destroyer
Sweetwater steamed over to deliver covering fire for the escaping
Vulture crew, the Colombian aerocarrier
Vitoria opened up an intense barrage from its deck guns, sending more shells raining down on the shocked Yankees.
While the
Vulture sank beneath the gentle Cuban waves, Captain Jumbo Johnson was frantically ordering every available plane into the air. The atrocity unfolding before him was unbelievable, and he knew he had to do something and do it right now. Leaving Colonel Buford Lang in charge of the ground operations, Jumbo Johnson sprinted aboard a state-of-the-art CGE A-12 Soaring Eagle, a beefy bomber and aerial gun platorm, and ordered the crew to fly straight for the
Vitoria. Ed Fishlove and his mates watched in awe as the Soaring Eagle and its squadron of M-35 Hatchets rocketed off toward the enemy, guns blazing.
Within thirty minutes of the beginning of the attack, the control of the skies had shifted toward the Union, blowing the untrained and young Colombian pilots out of the air by the score. Thirty-five minutes after the
Vulture dipped below the waves, Johnson's Soaring Eagle was dropping its full compliment of bombs onto the
Vitoria, detonating its ammo cache and forcing the poorly-made ship into a retreat, flanked by several gunboats and a destroyer. Johnson was well aware that two more Peruvian aerocarriers, the
Andes and
Magnifico, were still steaming about, but was unsure of their locations. With bullet holes peppered throughout the plane and his right gunner slumped over the belt-fed coffee grinder, Johnson, manning the left gun, ordered his pilot to fly him back toward the harbor. On their way back, another American plane was struck by enemy fire and slammed into the side of the A-12, killing its pilot. Saying his last prayers, Johnson, the last surviving crewman, headed for the exit and jumped out, deploying his parachute ten seconds after. As he drifted through the smoke and clouds, he saw dozens of planes in every direction. Plumes of smoke and flame rose from Promontory Point and the aerodrome. a quarter of the American planes within were destroyed. To the left, the
Peabody, Galveston, and
Sweetwater circled around the lifeboats of the
Vulture, desperately trying to rescue their patriot-comrades. Seemingly out of nowhere, the
Sweetwater's hull tore open like a can of soda, sending water gushing in. A Peruvian submarine had just blasted a hole in the destroyer's side. The
Sweetwater would be the second major vessel to be destroyed that day. All about, gunboats and support vessels were strewn about like bath toys, tipped every which way. Bodies drifted on the water like ragdolls, some missing more pieces than others. Colombian pilots and American seamen both were washing up on the sunny shoreline. Just before Johnson hit the water, he saw a Yankee minelayer, the
Tea Party, detonate with all hands aboard. Jumbo had tried his best to turn the tide of battle, but things were still grim.
The American Aerodrome at Promontory Point erupts into a gigantic fireball
Fishlove saw a bullet tear through Johnston's head beside him in their lifeboat. With a grimace, he tossed the dead weight of his comrade overboard. Seconds later, an Aeroforce officer splashed down into the sea, his parachute wrapping around some wreckage. After some short work with a knife to cut his cords, the officer extended a hand to Fishlove, who heaved him up to take Johnston's place. "Are you all right, sir?" Fishlove asked, his voice hoarse from screaming.
The captain drew his sidearm, a silver revolver, looked up at the sky, and replied, "No, marine, I am not 'all right.'" Jumbo Johnson raised his pistol and fired a bullet at a passing Colombian plane. Like an act of God, the bullet passed clean through the canopy and into the pilot's head, sending the plane sputtering into the Caribbean. Fishlove and the other men in the lifeboat sat, mouths agape at the trick shot. Johnson turned to Fishlove "I have had a hell of a fucking day, in fact, marine. But in New Canaan we always say when the going gets tough, the tough get tougher."
For a split second, Fishlove's morale raised. "You're from New Canaan, sir? Me too! I'm a Smithville boy, myself."
Johnson fired a few more stray shots before turning and saying, "My daddy's the governor. Sam Johnson. Good to see a fellow New Canaanite in this shitshow!"
As the lifeboat finally knocked against the hull of the
Peabody and the crew began ascending the rope ladders, Fishlove and Johnson grimaced and followed suit. The two were soon on the deck of the remaining
Innsmouth-class. The Neutrality Pact planes appeared to be pulling back to their own fleet, the few remaining American planes nipping at their heels. The attack seemed to be winding down. The
Andes had been spotted, swooping in from the southeast to allow the Hussars and Cuirassiers to land. The Magnifico still remained sight-unseen since the beginning of the attack. As one of the Aeroforce commanders on duty, Jumbo Johnson soon found himself in the conning tower of the
Peabody, blanket draped over his shoulders as Admiral William Huggins, the supreme commander of Navy Group V, asked him questions about the whereabouts of the
Magnifico. Telling Admiral Huggins he had no clue, both men feared another wave was coming. Little did they know that the
Magnifico had evaded the Yankee warships and had gone west, slinking along the coast. Every so often, shore batteries opened up and reported sighting a large foreign vessel, but it remained relatively stealthy. That night, several transport planes took off from the deck of the Peruvian ship and flew over areas well-known for forced labor camps and prisons. Commandos made the sign of the cross and the bailed out, on a mission from God to liberate the oppressed Infees of the Cuban Penal Colony. All hell was about to break loose.
"Citizens of the Republican Union! A great travesty has taken place upon our soil. This day, at roughly three in the afternoon in beautiful, sunny Cuba, swarms of South American planes, bombers, and ships descended upon Navy Group V, stationed at Port Pierce and our base at Promontory Point. Thousands of American lives have, in the span of just a couple of hours, been snuffed out like candles. Young men in their prime, cut down like rabid animals by Inferior mongoloid Hispanic gauchos and savages. Equipped with Europan planes and Europan bombers, the forces of Satan have leveled a devastating blow upon the New Jerusalem. Knowing that our victory is divinely ordained, Lucifer has turned the so-called Neutrality Pact, a gaggle of Inferior demons, against us! September 11, 1936: a day which will live forever in the hearts and minds of our countrymen! But we do not sit and reflect on the losses we have just sustained! We do not weep and gnash our teeth over our fallen sons! Rather we must meet the enemy, the forces of evil, with bayonets fixed! Full steam ahead! Mark the words of your President, Atheling, and Commander-in-Chief: The subhumans who did this to us, we God's Chosen Few, shall be hearing from all of us very, very soon! Enlist now! We will smash the Pact and bring glory to our memory. May the Blessings of Almighty Jehovah be showered upon our homeland. All hail!"
- Joe Steele's September 11 Address to the Nation