Larry thought quickly. “Nine enemy fighters, so nine crates of beer for each mothership. Plus one crate for each fighter pilot who got a kill. Total, 33 crates. We'll be staying with you until the Navy arrive, there are F2Hs and F9Fs closing on you now. Resume course for home, we have you safe.”
“Thirty three crates it is. We're from Maine. You want Canadian or American”
Larry thought that was a dumb question. “Canadian of course. Thanks Big Sister, See you later.” Time to be retrieved by the mothership and gas up.
Bridge. USS Timmerman, DD-828, Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West
“Sink her with torpedoes.” By giving the order himself, Admiral Theodore had meant well. This was the hardest moment possible for any commander. Captain Madrick looked over at the wreck of Shiloh. She was deep in the water now, her hangar deck portside awash, he starboard side barely more than that. Yet she was going down painfully slowly. It was time to change that. In common with most of her class, Timmerman had lost five of her designed outfit often torpedo tubes in exchange for additional anti-aircraft guns and improved radar. Five would do. Captain Troy Matthews gave the necessary order and the quintuple mount swung out to bear on the blazing hull. It was dusk now, a fabulous, spectacular sunset whose rich colors seemed to reflect the fires that had consumed Shiloh. Another order and the mounting started to discharge its torpedoes.
The first slid into the sea and disappeared without trace. Motor failed to start. The second ran straight and true, striking Shiloh under the island with a dull thud. Fuze failure. The third ran straight and normal for about half its run then started to lose direction and curve off. Gyro failure. Everybody held their breath as the runaway headed straight for Fargo. For the second time that day, the cruiser dug her stern in as her engines went full aback. The torpedo passed about 20 feet in front of her bows. A few seconds later her signal lamp started to flash.
“Message from Captain Mahan on Fargo sir. Message reads, 'Do that again and you will have to marry me'. Message ends sir. Any reply sir?''
Captain Matthews made an indecipherable noise, threw his cap on the deck and stamped on it. Meanwhile number four torpedo discharged. This one managed barely a third of the distance to Shiloh before it broached, threshed on the surface for a moment then sank. Depth keeping failure. The fifth and last torpedo was a great disappointment to the crew, it simply followed the first, sliding into the water and disappearing without trace. Captain Matthews kicked his battered cover into a corner, American torpedoes were notoriously unreliable but that was ridiculous. He guessed the Admiral must be watching for a few dozens of yards away, Susan B Anthony was firing. A few minutes later, there were two explosions and water columns against the hull of Shiloh. She started going fast now, perhaps being betrayed by her friends had made her give up. As she slipped under, Madrick could hear the mournful blasts of the sirens around the gathered squadron, paying their last respects.
Then there was vibration under his feet as the destroyer started to pick up speed. Captain Matthews came over, speaking quietly so nobody else could overhear. “Message from Admiral Theodore, Kevin. Washington wants a full report on what happened. The Admiral says to be careful what you say and suggests getting a lawyer might be a good idea.”
Madrick nodded and looked towards the setting sun. Shiloh had gone.
Forward 3 inch 50 battery, USS Kitiyhawk CVL-48, Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West
Lieutenant Wijnand leaned on the steel splinter plating and looked out and the ball of deep red now setting in the west. He'd started off bandaging wounds and setting breaks, done so well that he'd been put to harder cases. For hours. This was his first break. He had ten minutes then would have to go back. Somewhere behind him his SEAL escort was watching but Wijnand didn't mind. He'd have done the same if positions were reversed. He'd never really known wounds could be like this. The butcher's bill from Shiloh was dreadful, certainly over a thousand dead, maybe more. Something else had happened as well, something unimaginably terrible but nobody would say what it was. Whatever it was, what he'd seen here was bad enough. By the three inch gun in the growing gloom, Wijnand made himself a promise. He was going back to medical school and he was going to become a doctor. And never, never again would he touch a weapon.
Soldatnsender Nottingham, Occupied England.
David Newton snuggled the butt of the Delisle into his shoulder, picked out the guard on the left of the gate. A gentle squeeze of the trigger and - almost nothing, [f it hadn't been for the recoil he could have sworn that nothing had happened. The Delisle was so near to being silent it was eerie. Over by the gate, the chosen guard had slumped to the ground. Newton worked the bolt, even that was silent, and took down the second. Two guards down and nobody was even slightly alarmed. The resistance group moved forward. They'd used the dusk to shift position and it was the work of moments to get over the road and through the perimeter. The doors of the radio station were open. Inside there was a girl behind the reception desk and a guard dozing in one corner. The woman squeaked, waking the guard but both had common sense. The girl put her hands up, the guard put his Stg-44 down. His men would take them to the canteen, that was the best place to hold the prisoners.
The canteen was empty also except for the Women's auxiliary girls cleaning up after a hard day's use. Three of them, they joined the two prisoners. The resistance fighters spread through the building. It was the night shift on duty, the place was almost empty. Just three more station personnel and five guards. Eight in all. That was what the briefing paper had said. Now, it was time to get to the radio studio.
The door in lead to the control booth. There were two men and a woman in there, all quickly put their hands up and were taken to the Canteen. Newton lead the way into the studio section itself. If he had to shoot somebody over the air, the Delisle was the best weapon to use. A woman was preparing to read the English announcements while a man was readying for the German transmission. Two more for the canteen. And that was it. Newton dispersed his force, the RPG-2 teams to cover the road into the station, the rest to set up a perimeter defense. “Now, it was 2057, just ten minutes since he'd dropped the guards.
The station was playing the traditional Lilli Marlene. Newton could hear it as he pulled the plug at the precise moment required. “Mich dir Lilli Marlilli Marlene” That stutter was the only indication the transmission had switched from a small radio station in the UK to a flying radio station over the North Atlantic. And then a very familiar voice, one rich and well-lubricated by brandy and cigars started to speak.
EC-99E “Rivet Rider “ orbiting over the North Atlantic.
“You're on sir.” The Air Force Sergeant chopped downwards with his hand. In the seat next to him Winston Spencer Churchill put down his brandy and started his speech.
“Almost seven years have passed since an act of treachery by a few misguided fellow countrymen condemned our country to occupation and forced its citizens and armed forces to seek sanctuary abroad. These seven years that have passed have seen very terrible catastrophic events in the world - ups and downs, misfortunes - but all those listening to this broadcast tonight should feel deeply thankful for what has happened in the last few hours and resolve to use them to achieve a very great improvement in the position of our country and of our home.