4th Dimension said:
As someone said, compliments will get you anywhere, my good Sir !
Next update coming soon, switching back to America where the balloon is going up a bit, and to Germany where some of my plots are about to hatch.
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As someone said, compliments will get you anywhere, my good Sir !
Next update coming soon, switching back to America where the balloon is going up a bit, and to Germany where some of my plots are about to hatch.
Pandemonium said:Very much like your story.
Thanks a lot, Pand !
In the hope the rest of it won't disappoint, I invite you to comment, ask and criticize as much as you want !
CHAPTER 47 : HARDSHIP
A mountain trail in Bade-Württemberg, July the 17th, 1938
The Feldberg, whose mist-covered slopes are now home for Otto Skorzeny.
No sooner had he eased the straps of his heavy backpack that the dreaded voice he had been half-expecting all along boomed just behind him.
“I don’t remember saying you could take a short pause, mein Herr !”
As he crossed the bushes that hid Skorzeny from the main trail, Hauptfeldwebel Meier looked like contempt incarnate. The towering Prussian NCO’s blue eyes were fixed on Skorzeny as if he had been a mere pile of horse dung, and his lips were twisted in an expression of sheer disgust.
“I, ah, was using my initiative as group leader, Herr Feldwebel” retorted Skorzeny with a little smirk. Although he had been caught cheating, fair and square, he sure as Hell didn’t want Meier to enjoy his little triumph too much.
“Really” said Meier, his eyes narrowing on the Austrian like the sights of a gun. Unslinging his Mauser rifle, he threw it at Skorzeny, who had to dive on the hard rocks of the mountain trail to catch it before it hit the ground.
“Sloppy. Show me initiative by carrying my rifle on top of yours. Now get back on track” said Meier, pointing an imperious finger at the steep trail beyond the bushes.
Doesn’t the goddamn Prussian ever sweat ? thought Skorzeny as he walked past Meier, with a mixture of hatred and reluctant admiration. A few hundred meters above, he could see the rest of the men that composed his group. To make sure every man would be punished because of Skorzeny’s unauthorized breather, Spanglemann, the other instructor, had ordered them to run around him, arms raised over their head, hands clasped around their rifle.
“Well, look’s who’s here !”
“Yeah, nice of you to join us , Otto” managed to spit Krüger, shooting an irritated look at Skorzeny as Spanglemann ordered them in line.
“Silence !” snapped Meier, coming from behind Skorzeny. “Gentlemen, you know the drill….to the Feldberg ! And hurry up if you want to eat tonight !”
To keep his mind of the hundred cramps and muscle pains that punctuated his every step, Skorzeny thought about the coming mission.
Over the past few weeks, Skorzeny and the other six candidates for Operation Pallast had been entrusted to the less-than-tender care of Meier, Spanglemann and two others instructors from the vaunted 1st Gebirgsjägerdivision, the best Moutain Infantry unit throughout Germany and possibly Europe. Their instructors had immediately told them, without a hint of a smile, that the coming weeks would be a foretaste of Hell, and they hadn’t disappointed their pupils so far. Skorzeny and the others had spent their days running from the muddy banks of the Danube to the rocky summit of the Feldberg, some 4,000 feet higher, carrying backpacks full of stones to simulate the weight of the equipment they would carry with them once the real thing began. Food was scarce, and rest was given even more sparingly. At any time of the day or of the night, Meier could burst into the refectory or the dormitory and bellow “To the Feldberg !”, which meant leaving the banks of the Danube, where they had settled camp in a former boy-scout club, carrying backpacks so heavy the straps burnt the flesh after the first hour and climbing a steep mountain trail with two instructors hurling abuse at the trainees. Some nights Skorzeny could swear he heard the dreaded commands in his sleep.
Hauptfeldwebel Emil Meier, King of the Mountain and absolute tyrant for the “Pallast” operatives.
Still, if the training was hard, the other men reasoned, then the mission had to be very serious – and thus very exciting - indeed. Every night, before sheer exhaustion hit them like a ton of bricks, they traded comments about what the mission could entail. When they weren’t kicking their butts all the way to a mountain, the NCOs taught them to assemble, disassemble and repair rifles and radio transmitters, and to navigate on land or water with and without the help of a map. It was clear they were being prepared for a raid-like operation. Stosstruppen veterans from the Great War had come to teach them hand-to-hand combat, unarmed or with a knife or trench shovel, while their Mountain Infantry NCOs trained them in the use of Schmeisser submachine guns and hand grenades. To top it off, three of them, including Skorzeny and Krüger, had also spent ten days at a different camp for special training, but they had sworn not to reveal anything about the nature of their activities over there. When pressed by the others to disclose what they had seen, they winked and said they had spent some time with an angel-like babe and changed subjects.
“So, where do you think they’re going to send us, Hans ?” panted Manfred a few hours later, as they enjoyed a 15-minute break on top of the Feldberg. From their vantage point, one could see up to the Swiss and French borders, and as always it struck Skorzeny as an odd place to choose for the training of a commando that would soon be sent on a secret mission.
“I’m hoping the idea is to send us to Paris to sabotage something very big, very complicated and very likely to force us to stay there long and enjoy a few Parisian nights !” joked Krüger, lighting Skorzeny’s cigarette.
“I drink to that” chuckled Poetzendorf, raising his canteen “But given our beloved Prussian’s obsession with the goddamn Feldberg I guess the mission will be about sabotaging a Swiss ski resort”
Smiling, Skorzeny thought about the man whose picture he had seen in Canaris’ office, wondering who he was. He didn’t like having to hide that piece of information from the rest of his comrades, whom he now regarded as true brother-in-arms, but he had sworn the Admiral complete secrecy, and he felt he owed it to himself as much as to the Abwehr not to betray this promise. So he let the other men chat.
“What about a Swiss chocolate factory” chimed in Poetzendorf. “God, I’ve almost forgotten the taste of chocolate”
“Chocolate ?” asked Dieter in mock puzzlement. “Chocolate – Mmmh, you know, I think I heard that word once, a long time ago…”
As the sun shone over them, Skorzeny felt a sudden sense of bonding with the young men who were lying on the grassy slope all around him. They were good people from all kinds of background, from farmhands to students and former industry workers. For all the bravado they tried to display as Abwehr operatives, they were above all decent and uncomplicated young men, enjoying simple pleasures like a canteen of fresh water on a sunny afternoon after an exhausting walk. And yet, in a few months, possibly even a few weeks, he would go to war with them.
The “Pallast” operatives enjoying a brief moment of rest and camaraderie.
Looking at a passing cloud, Skorzeny hoped none of them would ever have to pay for his mistakes.
****************************
The South Pacific, off the San Felix Islands, the same day.
As the sun slowly sunk into the South Pacific Ocean, the sea around the Almirante Simpson suddenly seemed to come alive with red fire. As Capitan de Corbata Ernesto Torre took a deep breath to get rid of the stench that rapidly permeated everything inside the 260 feet-long hull, he picked up his binoculars and surveyed the horizon to see if his prey was still where the lookouts had last spotted it.
Though it was the most recent addition to Chile’s submarine squadron, the Almirante Simpson already had a long history that linked the boat to the very creation of the Socialist Republic that had ousted Juan Montero’s oligarchic régime six years before. Under the authority of retired general Arturo Puga, who advocated a “Third Way”, the Socialist Republic had followed a prudent course, gradually implementing agrarian and social reforms without breaking the mold of the old Chilean society. But after a few years, it had become clear that far from leading Chile to a brighter future, the Third Way was basically a political impasse. It left everyone equally unsatisfied, be that the poor mestizos farmers who aspired to be freed from the latifundios farms system that exploited them to the wealthy landowners and businessmen who resented governmental intervention in the country’s economy which they regarded as their exclusively private affair. As unrest grew throughout the country, local Communist leaders had started receiving funds and political advice, both brought by special envoys sent from Moscow itself. A few weeks after, breaking news about a successful Communist revolution in Brazil despite Fascist aggression by the United States’ Argentine lackeys had been the proverbial match lighting the fuse of Chile’s Second Revolution.
To Capitan Torre, it was fitting that it was the Chilean navy that, like in 1932, had cleared the way for further social progress. In 1932, the Chilean Socialist republic had started with the "mutiny of the admirals" : aboard the venerable battleship Almirante Latorre and the brand-new subrmarine Almirante Simpson, the sailors had demanded greater social justice after years of eroding buying power that had left many military families on the verge of poverty. And in 1938, it had been the Republic’s own Defense Minister and chief of the Air Force, Colonel Marmaduke Grove, who had taken the lead to move the Socialist Republic out of the corner Puga had painted it into. Another mutiny broke out among the naval base of Coquimbo, as Puga was visiting it. Loyalist ships had rapidly been put out of action or forced into surrendering by the combined might of the Latorre battle group’s guns and Grove’s biplanes. As for the Almirante Simpson, Capitan Torre had been tasked with blocking Coquimbo should Loyalist ships try to flee to the open seas. Two torpedoes fired on Loyalist cruiser Esmeralda, sinking her with all hands after her captain had stubbornly refused to cease fire and surrender, had shown the rest of the crews the mutineers were deadly serious.
Chile’s Second Revolution came from the sea.
And Captain Torre was equally serious now, as he put down his binoculars. The submarine squadron had been sent by General Secretary Grove with the delicate task of helping the blockade runners who, operating from Japan, the Soviet Union or neighboring countries, were bringing much-needed weapons to help defend the Revolution and the People. After a series of naval engagements with the Brazilian navy, which it had easily won, the Argentines were now raiding the approached to the Chilean coast, on the heels of the international squadron which implemented the naval blockade inspired by the United States. Argentine destroyers and cruisers were roaming the South Pacific sea lanes, looking for isolated freighters to sink, without interference from the United States’ Navy. The increasing rhythm of these attacks had prompted Grove to dispatch his own fleet to find the enemy raiders and destroy them. Torre’s orders were very strict : no attack was to take place against, or even in the vicinity of, any ship belonging to either a neutral nation or to a nation part of the International Squadron. Unfortunately for Chile and its General Secretary, these were orders Torre fully intended to disobey as he ordered the lookouts to go back inside the boat.
No later than a month before, Torre’s sister and his nephews had been killed when an Argentine cruiser thought to be the Belgrano stalked and gunned the Chilean tramp freighter Libertador, which carried passengers as well as ammunition, off Iquique. Despite of the speedy arrival of the Orella and the Serrano, two Chilean destroyers, only a handful of survivors had been saved. Though heartbroken at the idea he'd never go fish again with little Sebastian, nor hold baby Jorge in his arms anymore, Torre would have been ready to accept the death of his relatives as the sort of tragedy that war always abounds in, if it hadn’t been for the fact ships from the International Squadron had been close to the Libertador when it had been attacked and had done nothing to rescue the castaways. To Torre, such inaction not only flew against the most elementary laws of seafaring, it also was the proof foreign Capitalists were supporting Argentina in its war of Fascist aggression. Pain turned into hatred, as it so often did in such cases. And now, for a hateful Capitan Torre, it was time for the Capitalists’ henchmen to pay for their crimes.
Taking one last lungful of fresh, bracing air, Capitan Torre climbed down the ladder and closed the hatch.
“Immersion to periscope depth” he ordered as soon as he stepped into the conning room.
Walking to the periscope a sailor pulled down, Torre waited for its visor to emerge from the water. Pivoting starboard, he found the Dutch light cruiser he had been tracking all day exactly where he had last seen it through the binoculars, just before the immersion.
“Engines, half-speed ahead. Helm, bring us to 45 north”
Almost immediately, he felt the Almirante Simpson list under his feet as she began her turn towards the Dutch ship. Torre lowered the periscope so the presence of his submarine would not be betrayed by its glistening or by the foam in its wake. Usually, it was the time when he’d step aside to let his second in command take his place, but Torre was an honorable man, and he didn’t want to put Ortega into trouble, or to have to shoot the man down. So he stayed at his place, apparently lost in thought while he was in fact plotting his attack on the unsuspecting cruiser.
Chilean Republic’s Ship Almirante Simpson as she began her anti-raider patrol on June the 10th.
Having encountered no Argentine ship since she had left Iquique five days ago, the Almirante Simpson still had her full complement of 14 torpedoes. The torpedo room crewmembers, however, had discovered two of their “fish” had defective detonators, which left the submarine with twelve torpedoes, out of which they’d be lucky if half of them hit anything. While the submarine herself was quite recent, having been built at the British Vickers shipyards just five years ago, the torpedoes were still hand-me-downs from the Great War, and lacked modern proximity fuses.
Still, that won’t be a problem as long as my target does not move, thought Torre.
The Dutch ship had dropped anchor in the wee hours of the previous night, and since then had not shown any intention to move. Presumably, it was on picket duty, used as a lookout by a more mobile units which probably were patrolling a large sector and relied on such “sentries” to detect suspicious activity.
“Reduce speed to one third” said Torre, raising the periscope again. Now was the time to deceive his crew, and he could only hope the brave, unimaginative lads would not see through the lies he was about to tell them.
“Engines, full stop !” he whispered urgently, pivoting the periscope wildly as if he had just spotted an unexpected target. The conning tower suddenly went very quiet, and Ortega took a step forward.
“Ortega, take the Target Book” Torre ordered. “Argentine battle flag, I count two short stacks aft of the central bridge. Length around 600 feet, three turrets with two, maybe three guns – looks like a cruiser. Number 85 or possibly 89 painted forward. What does it look like to you, Ortega”
“Capitan, it’s probably the cruiser ‘La Argentina’ !” said Ortega, excited at the prospect of attacking a ship named after his country’s enemy.
“Really ?” asked Torre, doing his best to sound surprised when he in fact had picked up the description of the Argentine ship to distract the crew, knowing the idea of sinking this ship would sweep away any of the doubts they might have had. Torre wasn’t sure he sounded as convincing as he hoped, but he could see his crew was starting to get to excited to notice anyway. “Torpedo room, prepare to fire a volley of two”.
“Can I get a look, captain ?” asked Ortega,
“Not now, Emilio, I must make sure we make no mistake”
Surprised by his captain’s rebuke, Ortega took a step back and turned to the petty officers to hide his embarrassment. The sailors were not used to Torre being so gruff either, but they knew about his recent loss and also figured he was eager, as they themselves were, to avenge the death of many Chileans.
“Capitan Torre, the torpedo room signals the fish are ready to be launched at your command, sir” said Ortega a few minutes later. The unusual formality in his voice did not escape Torre, who felt a pang of guilt.
I’m sorry, Emilio. But you are a good officer, and you’d try to stop me if you only suspected half of what I’m about to do.
“Helm, maintain our bearing. We don’t want our fish to miss such a target, do we, Emilio ?”
“No, Capitan, we sure do not want”
“Capitan !” hissed Guardiamarina Hernandillos, who was manning the boat’s hydrophones and radio, “Propeller noise, coming from the north, approaching rapidly !”
Damn ! thought Torre. Whether the approaching ship was a blockade runner, a real Argentine cruiser or another asset of the International squadron, its sudden appearance hadn’t been planned for. Now Torre had to decide immediately whether to abort or carry on his intended attack, as any delay incurred the risk his men would realize something was wrong.
“Fire the forward tubes one and two ! Emilio, emergency diving !” shouted Torre, leaning on the periscope. As the Almirante Simpson started taking a nose dive, he caught a quick glimpse of a rapidly approaching cruiser. Torre took his chronometer out of his pocket and made a quick calculation. From the distance he had fired the torpedoes, he estimated they would need 90 to 110 seconds to reach the Dutch cruiser. The sudden appearance of the second cruiser and the beginning of the evasive actions by his crew did not allow any more precision. Silently, he began to count down the seconds.
As the dive became steeper, Torre caught one of the steel handles that were welded on the walls of the tower. Fastening himself to try to remain upright, he saw Ortega had walked to Hernandillos’ side, pressing the headphones of the radio transmitter against his ear.
Just as Ortega shot him a curious look and Torre reached 103, a tremor shook the submarine.
“Impact, one torpedo” announced Hernandillos, joyous.
Ortega, who kept pressing the radio headphones against his right ear, suddenly shot his head upwards, looking straight at Torre.
He knows, thought Torre. Probably Ortega had caught a distress signal sent by the stricken cruiser – if both torpedoes had hit their target, the Dutch crew wouldn’t have had time to signal the attack, and none of Torre’s crew would ever have been the wiser. But now, the cat was out of the bag.
“Impact, one torpedo, confirmed” said Ortega in a cold, disembodied voice. He kept looking at his Captain.
What have you gotten us into ? asked Ortega’s eyes, mercilessly, as Hernandillos announced the second cruiser was beginning to circle the area, clearly looking for the submarine.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Game effects : none as such, but it introduces some important changes that will affect the Crossfires timeline]
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From the Halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli...
Besides my expectant joy at the Marine Corps having its say in Southern Cone politics, both halves of the updates have me on tenterhooks.
Besides my expectant joy at the Marine Corps having its say in Southern Cone politics, both halves of the updates have me on tenterhooks.
Petrarca said:From the Halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli...
Besides my expectant joy at the Marine Corps having its say in Southern Cone politics, both halves of the updates have me on tenterhooks.
Well, this may be the time to whistle the Battle Hymn of the Republic indeed !
I kind of lost interest in this a while back when I read that the ridiciously over-rated Otto Skorzeny would be the one getting his very own special update (Seriously, we have a talented writer here who could churn out gold about Salazar, Churchill, Jean-Paul Sartre as the young leader of the french extreme left, Kim Phiby and his dad, agents and diplomats plotting over swedish metal and finnish minerals suited to fuel the rising forces of France and Germany, etc. But instead we get Old Otto, the Austrian Alsatian!)
But even he is made interesting in this story.
Atlantic Friend, how many times exactly have you restarted the game that this AAR is based on? I saw the number three mentioned earlier, is that it or are there more restarts?
But even he is made interesting in this story.
Atlantic Friend, how many times exactly have you restarted the game that this AAR is based on? I saw the number three mentioned earlier, is that it or are there more restarts?
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Eams said:
First, thanks for the compliments ! I hope the latest updates have rekindled your interest.
As for Old Otto, you'll have seen by now that I do not like supermen or übermenschen - or their opposites - as I think they tend to kill suspense and water down the story. Skorzeny will be given the same treatment as the others on this respect. I'll do my best to show him as a mere mortal, prone to rise as well as to fall, and to make mistakes as much as to do the right thing.
Having spent some of my weekend poring over the "History" notes of my saved game, I do have plans for Philby senior and Junior (having read 'Treason in the Blood' three or four times), and both Salazar and Caetano are just bound to appear in the story considering this week-end's game !
Also bound to appear at some point will be General Metaxas, Robert Schuman, Stepan Bandera and quite a few others.
I had to restart the game three times.
First time because I didn't get custody of the computer when me and the soon-to-be ex-wife parted ways.
Second time because of technical problems with my brand-new computer which had to be replaced after one month of sterling service.
Last time because I made a mess of everything when I tried to install Armaggeddon 1.1 - I finally succeeded, no small thanks to the patience of the Paradox and GamersGate hotline technicians, but at the cost of my every saved file. Good thing is, I have now a much better idea of what the Crossfires geopolitical situation should be in 1936, and I'll perfect the saved game should any of you want to try it, as France or as another nation.
As a result, the story as told differs from the current game's "History" records, even though the differences are more or less limited to similar events occuring at different dates, and also the units built are not 100% the same (I'm working on this one). I had to load as Germany to make the Anschluss not happen - because that was the result I honestly got in the previous game - and I loaded as various countries to stir things up in those places where usually nothing much happens, but apart from that the game is entirely genuine.
On grounds of historical realism, there are two "cheats" I may use at some points throughout the game :
- First one will be to load as some of my allies to make sure they liberate some of the countries they control if, and only if, it seems ludicrous to think said ally could have maintained absolute control over these nations. Example : if I am allied with Greece and they conquer Albania, then tough luck for the Albanians, they're part of Greece now. If I am allied with Albania and "they" conquer the whole of Yugoslavia because all Allied attacks origintaed from Albania, then Yugoslavia will become an allied puppet, possibly with some territorial reduction if the game allows it, and then be released as a fully independent ally. Not only does it feel more realistic, the France I'm playing isn't into world conquest.
- second will be to force my allies to accept some province sales, if, and only if, it seems ludicrous for said ally to cling to these provinces. I'll pay each province 5,000 units of every resource, including money, and I may end up giving away some French-controlled provinces
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Well then... all sorts of mayhem is springing up all over the place. Things are surely going to be quite eventfully dark for the next several years if not decades. Nice.
CHAPTER 48 : FATHOMS
Off the Chilean coast, July the 18th, 1938, 2:30 AM
“I think we’ve boxed the bastards in” said Captain Davies, addressing the officers that were huddled together in the bridge of USS Milwaukee.
“Yes Captain, we sure have” approved Lieutenant Jennings in his Southern drawl, raising his head from the navigational charts he had been poring over, trying to plot the probable course of the submarine.
“Farragut and Worden are ahead of us, dropping depth charges at the outer kimits of the perimeter where the sub should be. The French Navy's Pluton is ahead, staying silent, all hydrophones alert. Behind us we have the Dutch Tromp and the British Caledon”
“Crippled as the Dutch ship may be, her commanding officer seemed quite keen to locate the ship and ram it if he could, if I understood his English correctly”
“What do you mean, if you understood his English correctly, Jennings ?” asked Davies in mock alarm. “Gentlemen, if a Second World War breaks out, Mr Jennings here will be the one to blame !”
USS Milwaukee embarks on a submarine hunt
As everyone, Jennings included, let out a burst of much-needed laughter after long hours of frustration spent hunting down an invisible enemy that seemed to play with their nerves, Captain Davies once again reflected about the difficulty of conducing naval operations with a multinational squadron. Even though the US Navy composed the majority of the international fleet sent to enforce the League-sanctioned blockade, he and his comrades had to take into considerations linguistic problems – some of the French and Dutch officers spoke next to no English - not to mention psychological ones as every nation’s officers were quick to take offence over rather trivial matters.
You’d think it’s the first time our navies have to work with each other. One of these days they’ll all have to solve that, if they ever want to get serious about this international blockade, thought Davies, looking into the blackened sea.
Outside of the light cruiser's dimly-lit control room, there was an ocean of darkness and silence. And there was one hostile submarine, supposed to be Chilean. That was enough for Davies to push back worries about international cooperation. Out there was an enemy boat, and he had the three best ships in the world to hunt it down – the rest of the guys were welcome to the party, but better be prepared to witness a shining demonstration of American know-how.
“Captain !” said Petty Officer Vandenberg, carrying a message “Farragut has detected the sub, 4 nautical miles east of us. It’s trying to break through our screen, sir !”
“All right !” exclaimed Davies, rising to his feet. “Gents, order everyone to battle stations ! The depth charge crew that nails the bastard will get free drinks on my tab next time we drop anchor at Pearl !”
The hunt is on ! thought Davies, ecstatic. For one blessed moment all the complex worries and duties of the commanding officer of a US Navy cruiser faded away, to be replaced by the sheer joy of the hunt. Even though he knew better, Captain Davies hoped he could cling to that moment forever.
Below the bridge, to the sounds of horns, the crew of the USS Milwaukee ran to the battle stations. On the dimly-lit deck, sailors rolled depth charges near the two dispenser racks, sorting them by depth of detonation. The midshipmen that were directing the manoeuvre tested the phones connecting them to the control room, and waited for the indications that would come from the bridge about the estimated depth of their prey.
Loading the depth charge racks
****************
Off the Chilean coast, 100 feet under the surface, 3:00 AM
“Bow up 5, stern up 10” whispered Torre in the silence of the control room.
“Bow up 5, stern up 10” replied a sailor, almost invisible in the dim red light that was the crew’s only source of light.
“We have reached periscope depth” said Ortega, squinting to read the manometer. Already the crew could feel the stirring sea that was on the surface rocking their boat harder.
“Level her off” said Torre, dropping the notepad he had used to chart an escape route that would lead Almirante Simpson back to Antofagasta.
As Torre scanned the dark and rough sea that was at the moment both his worst enemy and his best ally, Ortega stepped right behind him, putting his hand on the Captain’s elbow.
“In God’s name, who is above us Captain ?” he whispered, doing his best not to alarm the crew anymore than they already were after five long hours of pursuit. So far he had seen no point in contesting Torre’s story that there were Argentine ships above, and he had manned the radio station as long as he could, but Guardiamarina Gallego, whose task it was to send and receive messages, had found it strange to see the executive officer hogging his seat, and Ortega had had other duties to attend anyway as depth charges had been dropped close enough to shake the submarine.
Now I’m going to have to swear Gallego into shutting his mouth too, had thought Ortega, bitterly. Christ, it’s like a mutiny in reverse.
“Two, maybe three ships, Ortega. One cruiser for sure, two destroyers” murmured Torre. “I’m sorry”
“Stop being sorry and get us out of this mess” hissed Ortega, bending over the hunched captain so close no one could possibly hear. As Torre, though terribly pale, didn’t answer, Ortega gripped Torre’s elbow tighter.
Almirante Simpson in happier times
.“Captain !” called Hernandillos “Contact, propeller sounds to our south, it came out of nowhere. Jesus, contact is strengthening rapidly !”
Startled even though he had been expecting that all along, Ortega took a step back.
“A goddamn picket ship !” exclaimed Torre, walking to the navigational charts.
No sooner had Torre finished that a faint sound was heard, as if someone had let sand flow onto a sheet of corrugated iron. Torre had never actually heard the sound himself, but he knew what it was because he had met a few lucky German submariners who had heard the sound while on patrol and had lived to tell the tale.
ASDIC ! he thought with a chill running up his spine. The name itself sounded poisonous.
“Pump 150 liters forward, stern planes up 10, full speed ahead, right full rudder !” bellowed Torre as the frightened crew started executing his orders.
He had no illusion his aging boat could remain undetected now that the British or American ship above had turned its sonic detection device. And he knew there was no way he could outrun a destroyer or light cruiser with the meagre resources at his disposal. Navigating on the surface, his enemies could make 30 to 35 knots per hour, when the Almirante Simpson’s 1300 hp engines , operating underwater, would be limited to 9, possibly 10 knots. As Torre saw it, his only chance was to keep steering away from the enemy ship’s wake, where the depth charges would be dropped, and to make a dash to a safer position, the roar of the submarine’s engines hidden by the devastating blow of the charges. From his new position he would adopt a slower and quieter speed and try to evade the deadly ring he was sure the surface ships had set up to catch his submarine.
Still, it’s going to be a brush with Death.
“Where did that ship come from ?” asked Ortega, startled enough to forget his hostility.
“It was just there on full stop, waiting for a contact. They’ve corralled us into an ambush for the past few hours” explained Torre “keeping us on the run with depth charges like beaters lead the prey to the hunters. This ship is the real enemy” explained Torre. Like a three-dimensional chess game, the situation was becoming more complex with every move.
As the submarine lurched forward, two detonations shook the boat, drawing cries of fear and anger from the crew who had hoped they had finally evaded their pursuers.
USS Worden drops her depth charges
“Quiet !” yelled Ortega “that was way behind and above us !”. As sailors regained their composure and resumed their urgent tasks, Ortega shot a glance at his Captain that mixed contempt and hatred in equal measure.
If we ever get out of this alive, that glance promised, I swear you’ll pay.
Shrugging as if to make Ortega understand he was aware of the fact, and beyond caring, Torre tried to turn his mind inward, to get a glimpse of the respective positions of his pursuers.
“Reaching 220 feet” announced Guardiamarina Moreno after a while, straining to keep his voice even in spite of the sinister creaking noises that ran throughout the hull.
Feeling the hull tremble through his feet, Torre nevertheless ordered to maintain the dive rate. When they had been laid off at the Vickers shipyards in England, the Almirante Simpson and her sisterships had been able to dive up to 270 feet, though in practice none of the boat had been tested to that maximum. Torre was aware of it, and he had to assume the officers of the ships that were hunting him were, too. Unable to outgun or outrun his pursuers, he had to outsmart then, and that meant using his boat’s abilities to the limit and beyond. As the gauge of the manometer kept its merciless course towards 250 and below, Torre knew he had to walk a very thin line. If the boat kept going down, at some point the hull, whose every square inch was being hammered by outside pressure, would fail catastrophically, and the submarine would be instantly crushed. But if he kept the submarine above critical depth, then eventually the destroyers above him would score a hit with their depth charge. And because of the way the British “Odin” class of submarines the Almirante Simpson had been modelled after had been designed, even a near miss could spell the end of his submarine. The Almirante carried its fuel on external tanks riveted to the pressure hull, like saddlebags on each flank of the horse. A depth charge exploding near them could shred the tanks and cause a massive explosion, blowing a large hole into the hull and killing the boat. A near-miss would tear the tanks open, leaving a tell-tale trail of diesel fuel the destroyers would only have to follow. So Torre had to make sure the submarine remained at near-fatal depth, even if that meant courting Death at every minute.
“Ahead two-thirds, Bow up 5, stern up 10” he said, with an assurance he was far from actually feeling.
“Reaching 250” said Moreno, an edge of fear in his voice. The eyes of every man in the control room were fixed to the depth gauge and to its small steel hand that was approaching red territory.
“Captain !” yelled Moreno, eyes wide open as he suddenly pressed his headphones to his ears.
This time, the sand poured longer on the steel sheet, and before the first sound even died a second one began.
“Full speed ahead, steer 90, keep her level !” bellowed Torre. But even though his voice carried the urgency of a man desperately trying to save his boat and crew, the cold professional within him knew the game was almost over. There was only so much pirouetting one could do with an aging boat when the other side had three, possibly four surface ships. With so many hunters after it, eventually the fox always tired, and the hounds always cornered it.
The twin detonation of the first depth charges, rocking the submarine, did not surprise Torre, who fully expected the move. Judging by the long distance, but short time interval between the two explosions, he surmised they probably were dropped by two ships, steaming to different bearings to form an angled barrage of fire to block his most probable escape route and to push the Almirante Simpson where, probably, the lead hunter was waiting for her. The next two explosions, both closer, confirmed to Torre the Almirante Simpson found itself inside the enemy "box". Now, the submarine’s only chance was that Torre’s orders, given just before the enemy ships had dropped their charges, would take them to the other side of the barrage. Torre felt confident that on silent speed, his sound signature hidden behind the tremendous detonations, his submarine would finally be able to clear the area and lead her crew to safety – and probably a court-martial for himself. Unfortunately, that mean sailing through a barrage of fire at a whopping 9 knots.
Blam-blam. The next explosions were closer, and the submarine was now shaking.
Blam-BLAM.
Scribbling furiously on the notepad, Torre estimated his boat was roughly heading for the point where the two lines of fire would meet. That meant he’d stay within the box longer, but also that he’d have more time before the explosions came really close. It was now a race between the Almirante and two destroyers who could not make full use of their higher speed because that would have meant leaving large intervals between two sets of charges. As adrenalin rush to his every nerve, Torre for a second felt as if he could see and hear everything, both aboard his boat and above the surface. He could see the exhausted crews loading the depth charges racks, losing a few seconds with every drop. He could see the phones buzz and growl from the destroyers’ bow to their control room, vital ASDIC information being traded. He could feel the frustration of the ASDIC and hydrophones technicians, their precise readings muddled by the explosions.
BLAM-BLAM
BLAM-BLAM
BLAM-BLAM
The Almirante Simpson had almost cleared the point of junction of the two lines of fire when the last depth charges exploded directly over her stern. To Torre and his crewmembers, it felt as if a gigantic hammer had struck their boat full-force. The submarine was suddenly pushed forward and downward, men falling on the floor amongst cries of pain and anguish. Torre felt himself pushed aside as if by a giant, and he hit the plotting table head-on, breaking his nose and two teeth in the process.
When he got on his feet again, and despite of the swelling waves of pain that seemed to radiate from his face, Torre felt the Almirante listing heavily to the starboard beam, which was a bad sign. The Almirante Simpson also seemed to have trouble remaining level, which worried him a lot more.
“All compartments, report damage !” he ordered, spitting blood and teeth fragments.
The coming minutes could be vital, or fatal. He had to try to wrestle control of the boat from the chaos that was surrounding him. Tossed aside by the terrible explosion that had struck the submarine, many of his officers and Midshipmen presented light injuries. He had to get them working, or moving out of the way of more able seamen who were urgently needed everywhere. Half of the lights had been blown up by the shockwave, and the floor was covered with charts, food, and shards of broken glass. Water gushed from the main pipe that carried it from stern to bow to control or accelerate the boat’s dive, and the air was filling with an acrid smoke coming from the aft compartments that clearly indicated the electrical engines had been either immersed or drenched by leaking water. From the torpedo room, news came that one of the readied weapons had fallen from the rail leading to the bow caps, crushing the legs of the Guardiamarina who was trying to fasten it. The conning tower seemed intact, but the fuel gauges showed a steady loss of pressure from the portside saddle tank.
Time to call it quits, thought Torre. As soon as the leaks would be repaired, he’d bring the boat to surface and surrender. That, at least, would save his crew.
As sailors armed with large wrenches started fighting the high-pressure leak, trying to tighten the bolts of the loosened pipe despite of the water jets that were painfully hitting their faces, Ortega reappeared, pale as a ghost.
“Capitan, we are losing the engine room” said Ortega.
“What ?” exclaimed Torre, who felt an icy grip squeeze his heart.
“The outside hull has been fractured ! We are taking water by the gallons, well over a hundred liters per minute, and half of it is getting into the engine room”
“Christ. Bow up 10, full speed ahead ! All ballasts set to blow !” bellowed Torre. “Ortega, if we lose power now…”
“I know, Capitan. And the men in the engine room know that too”, replied Ortega. In the way he said that last part, Torre realized there was but one option to take now.
“Close and lock all accessible compartment doors aft of the control room” he said, with a heavy heart. While it might save the boat, this command sentenced to death the crew of the engine room.
“Yes, Capitan”
Mortally stricken, the Almirante had to run one last and vital race, rushing to the surface at an angle of 45 degrees with all the power available to her. The depth charges had struck the submarine at 4:03, at a depth of roughly 260 feet. At 4:15, Torre ordered the crew to brace themselves and prepare for an emergency surfacing. He didn’t know how long the engines would remain operational, and thus had to try one mad dash upwards. At 4:17, the boat passed 240, when suddenly it ran out of pressurized air to empty its ballast. Somewhere in a now half-flooded aft compartment, the pipe bringing the high-pressure gas had failed and burst open. At 4:25, as the submarine reached 190, it shuddered with a sinister creak and its bow suddenly tilted upward, indicating water was now flooding the aft compartment at a much greater speed. At 4:29, the Almirante reached 185. At 4:31, the power of the electrical engine proved insufficient to lift the submarine any further. Burdened by tons of water that had flooded half of the boat, the Almirante remained motionless for a minute, hung in water like an upright cigar, her bow almost vertical, and then, slowly but inexorably, she began to go down. At 4:34, she had gone back to 200. At 4:38 she passed 225. At 4:42, her propellers still turning in a futile attempt to fight gravity, she passed 250.
At 4:46, as it reached the 300-feet threshold it had theoretically been built for, the submarine’s battered and weakened hull imploded, and the Almirante Simpson started her last voyage to the depths of the abyssal plain, many fathoms down. Above her, the elation of the hunt exploded and died down, as seamen from four nations had a thought for their fallen enemies and their stricken boat.
*******************
The Oval Office, the White House, Washington, July the 18th, 9h00 AM
“Mr President, this was an act of war, no, worse, an act of piracy !” said Frank Knox, downing his cup of coffee in one gulp.
“I hear you, Frank” said Landon, as he put down the report that had been telexed from the US Naval base of San Diego which served as the headquarters for the South American blockade. “We must react, but at the same time we must make sure our action does not further the destabilization of the subcontinent”
“Mr President” said War Secretary Stimson, “allow me to emphasize what Frank just said. One of the ships operating under our command has been attacked without provocation by a submarine, which given the location of the attack was very probably a Chilean boat. This is beyond a simple case of blockade runners, and we must now show the world we were dead serious when we said there would be serious consequences to pay for those who’d break the rules the great democracies have made clear”
Nodding approvingly, Knox looked at Stimson in a new light. From the first day he had been asked to build an army practically from scratch, the man had immersed himself into technical reports, dealing with practical issues such as defining an appropriate calibre for tank guns to how many types of planes it was advisable to put into production at the same time. Now he saw Stimson was equally at ease when it came to devising an appropriate doctrine to use the American weapons he was forging. Such a skill would be useful to the country and the Republican Party in years to come, and to Knox personally in less than two years, when it would be time to announce his own decision to run.
“Gentlemen”, said Landon after a short moment of reflection, “I concur that an attack on any of the ships of the international squadron is unacceptable, inexcusable and intolerable, and that there must be some form of retaliation. Chile’s main commerce ports and naval bases are in the northern half of the country, if I remember correctly. Well, Frank, you’re going to call that General Holcomb you bend my ear over last week, and tell him I want the United States Marine Corps to prepare for the forceful and complete occupation of northern Chile from Arica to Antofagasta. His mission will be to defeat all Chilean forces in this area, and to prevent any incursion in the area, whether by Chilean forces from the South or by Peruvian troops from the North. Henry, could you call the Chilean ambassador ? We’re going to make it clear it’s time they play ball”
General Holcomb, first US Marine to ever become a Brigadier General, is about to send the Corps to War.
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[Game effects : the United States declare war on Chile]
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Excellent description of why I would never want to serve in the Silent Service. So this was your invented reason for an ai-US DoW on Chile?
Vann
Vann
Vann the Red said:
Exactly ! After months of bitter fighting between Chile, Brazil and Argentina, the US AI out of the blue declared war on Chile, forcing me to really rack my brains about how to explain it in the developing story. Which is a really good exercise, in my opinion, for whoever wants to write.
Since it wasn't the Communist coup nor the war against Argentina, there had to be a "reason" to justify the declaration of war. Since the US have always been keen to protect freedom of the seas, the idea of Chile using its O'Brien-class subs against the blockading ships presented itself. And as it would have taken one demented Chilean President to order such a move, I went with the idea of a lone disgruntled officer.
HJ Tulp said:
Not quite yet, but stay tuned, as the attack on Tromp is bound to have repercussions !
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As a tentative reader I don't have the time i would like to use for reading this wonderful and many other good AAR-s. But when I do come here I never have to be dissapointed, because it is obvious how much effort you've put into making this AAR into a masterpiece.
The last update (submarine battlereport to be exact) was a wonderful piece of writing. Now I can only wait to see where will you take us next.
All the best,
D.
The last update (submarine battlereport to be exact) was a wonderful piece of writing. Now I can only wait to see where will you take us next.
All the best,
D.
Great up date... I notice what I think is an error.
Christ. Bow down 10, full speed ahead ! All ballasts set to blow !” bellowed Torre. “Ortega, if we lose power now…”
With this order the sub would be on a crash dive! Since the rest of the narrative is them struggling to reach the surface that doesn't seem probable.
Christ. Bow down 10, full speed ahead ! All ballasts set to blow !” bellowed Torre. “Ortega, if we lose power now…”
With this order the sub would be on a crash dive! Since the rest of the narrative is them struggling to reach the surface that doesn't seem probable.
Another excellent update! It will be interesting to see how France is going to take advantage of the US' actions (after all, French ships are part of the blockade force).
Is Knox really prepared to split the Republican Party in '40, or has Landon decided not to run for a second term?
Also, on "starting the Second World War", would it really be called that before it happened? I've come under the impression that before 1939, WWI was most often referred to as the Great War.
Is Knox really prepared to split the Republican Party in '40, or has Landon decided not to run for a second term?
Also, on "starting the Second World War", would it really be called that before it happened? I've come under the impression that before 1939, WWI was most often referred to as the Great War.
Eams said:
Thanks for the (much too) kind words !
I think so too, particularly since part of France's newfound prosperity hinges upon arms trade, a strategy that the French government embraced as developed in a much earlier update. I'm presently fishing for info in French history books and in Paul Kennedy's Rise and Fall of the Great Nations. Kennedy's thesis is that in the 1930s, France was the "arsenal of the democracies", so that should mean lots of arms deals.
France has interests to defend in South America and the Caribbeans against a pro-Fascist Argentina and a pro-Soviet Brazil. It also has one possible ally, Venezuela, which will need to be included in the defensive strategy France pursues. And there are some important deals made with a variety of Latin American countries - specifically, both Venezuelan and American oil are crucial to the French army. But then again, getting the US onboard is also a key to France's strategy, so whatever happens there has to be carefully thought over by the French government - with private businesses maybe more eager to cross the line into unacceptable behavior.
?
I don't know yet what the election result will be in 1940 in the game, bit isn't Knox an interesting character ?
I discovered he wanted to run in 1936, but chose to be VP on Landon's ticket instead, so I added an available Frank Knox as a Market Liberal, Flamboyant Tough guy just in case. Of course, FDR is still very much in the race, so all bets are on !
As the AAR is approaching a lot of key political moments (elections, the Munich conference, etc) I think it's time for me to show what the various opposition groups are up to, whether in France, England, Germany, the US, Japan...
I actually thought the exact same thing, but I couldn't come with a better way to express it - "starting a Greater War" didn't sound quite as right.
In France, WW1 was called the Grande Guerre, and I think Germans called it the Weltkrieg even before WW2. In the English-speaking world, it seems that US and British authors took to call it the World War in the early 1930s, probably as things began to look grim for peace. For what it's worth, Wikipedia quotes the diary of a British reporter who called it the World War in 1918.
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