Omake: Eurobotes!
Skywalker_T-65
Writer with too many ideas.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- Plural/They/He/Her
Wheeeeee I am up entirely toooo late.
But I said I would get Eurobotes up, and I damn well meant I would get Eurobotes up. Nearly 10k words of it at that.
(so yes, this is rather...lengthy)
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The Mediterranean. Realm of the Regia Marina, home of many different nations and people's. Defenseless people save for the Italian Navy and those minor forces that could support her. An area that had seen much war and conflict. An area that, for all that the Pacific was more famous, saw more battles than any other in the Second World War. One that saw more than her fair share of death and bloodshed.
A target.
Ripe for the picking.
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An aircraft carrier, Georgios Averof reflected, was something was not familiar with. Even one so small as this one.
Greece, poor as they were, barely had an air force worth the name. Even when she had been in active service, this had been true. Compared to that of Britain or the United States, the Hellenic Air Force was small and outdated. Large by the standards of the Mediterranean, perhaps. Perhaps even large by the average European standard. But one that had neither need nor desire for an aircraft carrier.
So, standing aboard one? It was a new experience for the old cruiser, as her armor rattled with each sure step she took.
"Welcome to Cavour, Miss Averof."
Turning her head, the cruiser brushed back a stray lock of dark hair that had escaped her loose ponytail. Her grey eyes twinkled brightly. And her smile was the soft one of a philosopher, not that of the warrior she so resembled. "Thank you, it is an honor to be greeted on the flagship of the Regi..."
Averof shook her head, her halting Italian stumbling slightly. Italian designed. Italian built.
But she had not had to know the language in many, many years.
"Marina Militare," the old cruiser corrected herself, smile not once faltering even with her slip up. "I can understand how difficult it must have been, to allow this meeting."
The old man in front of her shook his head, his own lined face twisting into a sardonic smirk. The man wore the uniform of an Admiral, three bars along the sleeve of his jacket. An Admiral, greeting the old cruiser in place of sending a subordinate to do the job.
I am impressed. And honored.
"It was not difficult, Averof," the Admiral reached his hand out, nodding at the old armored cruiser to take it. Averof nodded back, her own larger hand gripping the Italian's. And despite the rippling muscle beneath her armor, Averof felt a strong grip, as the Admiral shook her hand up and down while continuing to speak. "In fact, this was my suggestion. Admiral Rizzo, commander of the Regia Marina. Or, at least, the ships that once served under the flag of the Kingdom."
So this was the commander of the Italian ship girl corps. Averof released his hand, her smile remaining firmly in place...but her grey eyes looking the man up and down. He was old, perhaps older than most Admirals. But the man showed no signs of feeling his age. No...no he did not.
In fact, she would dare to say the intelligence she saw behind his aged eyes was one rivaling the philosophers she attempted to live up to.
This was a man who knew what he was doing. Averof could see such, in his intelligent brown eyes. In the way he held his broad shoulders, the salt-and-pepper of his hair doing nothing that the lines in his face didn't already do. He was old, yes. But he was neither senile, nor bowed by his age. If anything...if anything at all?
He reminded her of herself.
"I see," the old cruiser nodded her head, impressed with the man in front of her. "And this is why you have requested I be here?"
Admiral Rizzo's sardonic smirk faded, replaced by an entirely serious frown, "Indeed it is. Cavour is...well, she is no use as a carrier any longer. However, she does serve as a rather efficient mobile base for our ship girl corps. And in this respect, I requested of both your government and that of the Turks to have a joint operation of representatives from all our navies. Not one of us can hope to hold the Abyssals alone, but operating in concert..."
"You hope to cripple their forces, while learning how well we can operate together," Averof finished, raising an elegant eyebrow. Her own smile faded slightly, a small sigh escaping the lips of the old warrior. "Am I correct?"
"Yes." Rizzo nodded, reaching his arm out to gesture down the hallway the two stood in. His face remained serious when he did so, though Averof could see the stress the man was under. "I am under no illusions we can cripple them, with the forces we possess. Slow them down and learn how to operate jointly, however, we can at least attempt. That is why I have you here, along with your comrades aboard Salamis."
"And the Turks."
Despite herself, despite her age and experience...Averof still felt a hint of annoyance at that. The days of Greco-Turkish wars were long in the past, so long that few if any living Greeks remembered them. But she did. She had made her name, so many years ago, in fighting the Turks. Lucky Uncle George...yes, she had fought the Turks and fought them well. The Balkan Wars. The Greco-Turkish War.
It mattered not which war it was, because she still remembered.
Averof doubted she would ever forget. She had been bought to fight Turks, she had fought Turks, and she had seen them as an enemy for nearly her entire service. Save for the Second Great War, but then...that was a hard time for everyone. Regardless...they were allies now. She knew this. But years upon years of service and conflict were not that easy to forget.
Even for her.
"The Turks, yes," Admiral Rizzo's soft sigh forced the old cruiser's attention from the past, as he rubbed his face. A frustrated expression had crossed it, even when he looked at the armored cruiser, "Averof, this is exactly why I called this operation together. To learn how to work together, despite our pasts. Can I trust you to do that?"
The cruiser looked at the man, knowing what he was asking of her.
And knowing that she couldn't say no.
Not when all their lives were in danger from the Sirens.
"Yes, I can work with the Turks."
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"I wonder why you assume I would have any issue working with the Greeks, Doria."
Placing her face in her hands, Sultan Osman I shook her head. Her fez stayed firmly planted atop her dark hair even with the movement, though it tilted dangerously to the side. Not that she could bring herself to care at this point. Sure, her Italian counterpart had flushed bright red and stammered an apology. But she had still been somewhat insulting, nonetheless. Implying that because she was Turkish, Osman would have any issues serving with the Greeks. Were she Turkish built and had she served in the Balkan Wars...perhaps.
But Osman was Brazilian ordered, British designed and built, and served in the Royal Navy as HMS Agincourt. She had never so much as seen a Greek ship in her short time in service. Most certainly she had never fired on one.
She was a Turk, but she held no enmity for their traditional foes.
"I'm sorry," Andrea Doria continued to apologize, her pale face flushed pink. The Italian, graceful and elegant as her hull ever had been, brushed brown hair from her equally brown eyes. And winced slightly at the look on Osman's face, stammering out, "I didn't mean it that way, I just assumed...since Averof is the way she is..."
Upon hearing that, Osman couldn't help but let out a short laugh, "Averof is not me, you do know that? Bloody hell, she's someone who did fight in those inane wars. I didn't."
And if her continued use of British colloquialisms was any indication, Osman truly didn't care for the Balkan Wars. Why should she, honestly? Turkish or no, she had no attachment to the Ottoman Empire and by extension to the hate for the Greeks. Even the Greco-Turkish War didn't really mean much to her, in the end. She was a battleship of Turkey but she was not one to use that for an old grudge she had no part in. If her Greek comrade still couldn't see past that...well, it was her problem. Not Osman's.
Not at all.
"I have to say, Doria, that you don't need to worry about me at all." The old battleship finished, her broad shoulders raising in a small shrug. There wasn't anything to worry about, when it came to her. "Averof is not my enemy and I have no issues at all with working on this with her. None at all."
Doria sighed softly at that, her own shoulders slumping down, "That is a relief. I didn't want to have to keep you two apart. The Lord only knows how many issues I have with Zara and Pola."
Even Osman winced at that.
Pola's...issues...were legendary in the European ship girl forces.
"Right...well, I assure you, that won't happen," Osman suppressed a shudder, turning her head to the door. "Now, do we know when..."
No sooner had that word left her mouth than the door opened, admitting Admiral Rizzo and a tall woman. A woman clad in ancient Greek armor, covering her broad torso and not much else. That she wore a skirt under it helped little, as her appearance was still quite...imposing. Osman was taller, yes, but this girl looked stronger and wiser. Osman's traditional Turkish dress was quite underwhelming in it's modesty, compared to the armor the other ship girl wore. Armor that rippled over her torso with each movement, as she turned sharp and intelligent grey eyes on the battleship.
Eyes set in a sharp featured face, narrow and beautiful. Olive-toned skin. Sharp aristocratic cheeks. Beautiful eyes, staring directly at the battleship.
So this was Georgios Averof, the foe of the Ottoman Navy.
I admit, she is more...impressive than I thought she would be.
Shaking her head, Osman climbed to her feet and walked up to the cruiser. She could see Doria casting wary looks her way as she did so, but it didn't matter. She bore no ill-will towards Averof. Did the Greek feel the same?
Evidence said no.
But it didn't matter.
They were all here to work together. If they were going to have any hope of stalling the Abyssals until more ships could return, let alone of beating them...they needed to work together. Osman knew how badly stretched she and her sister-in-all-but-blood Reşadiye were in trying to cover the Black Sea. She knew how much the Hellenic Navy had suffered to defend Greece. How tired Doria and the other Italian ship girls were, having to cover more than they were really capable of. Because the Royal Navy could not hope to provide enough assistance, not with the need to cover the Baltic and the rest of Europe in the lack of any German, Dutch or French support.
They had to work together, if they were to counter this problem.
"Georgios Averof," Osman squared her shoulders. She had height and pure power over the Greek. She had firepower.
But the Greek had a greater presence, not even counting the fact her armor rippled across her not-insubstantial bust.
"Sultan Osman I," and Averof had no issues with using that presence. The Greek cruiser stood ramrod straight, looking up and down on the battleship. Her eyes hid whatever she was feeling, but her body didn't. Her arms were tight. Her fists clenched.
At least, until Osman bowed to the waist.
The entire room fell silent at that, from Doria's shocked little gasp to the sudden silence from the eager destroyers in their little corner of the meeting room. Even the sound of waves seemed to stop, as the tall battleship bowed to the powerful cruiser. Even Averof herself seemed stunned, backing up slightly in shock, her straight posture vanishing in the wind. Osman noticed this of course, but she did not move from her position.
She merely continued speaking in it.
"I know what you probably feel about me being here. Working with a Turk, even though I never served with the Ottoman Empire," Osman's voice was strong and steady. There was not so much as a tremor in her dulcet tones, the battleship getting what she needed to say...said. "And I understand it, I truly do. However, I have no conflict with you. My nation no longer has any conflict with Greece. While I cannot, and will not, ask you to let go of your feelings...at least put them aside, for the sakes of all the civilians we are protecting."
Pulling up from her bow, Osman's brown eyes narrowed at Averof, daring the girl to disagree with her.
"I will gladly spar with you after the war is over, if you must test yourself against a Turk. I am sure that my sister would do so as well. But for now, we must work together."
With her piece said, Osman pulled back and allowed the Greek space to breathe. But her eyes never once left Averof's face, waiting to see what her cruiser counterpart would do.
Would she cooperate?
Or would there be issues?
"I..." Averof shook her head, squaring her shoulders once more. The Greek may have been flustered, but not once did she loose that presence of her's. She was to the Greeks what the absent Yavuz was to the Turks.
And she showed it with her every action.
"I am glad you are willing to work with me. It is not easy to admit a Turk is in the right," Averof's lips may have twitched slightly upwards at that...but it was too quick to notice. She just shook her head, her ponytail flapping side to side, "But you are correct. Rest assured, I will work to my utmost to ensure we defeat the Sirens. Then, and only then, can we truly settle old grudges. Are we agreed?"
Osman smirked, a hint of challenge in her own eyes, "We are. Though, you may have to wait for Yavuz or Hamidiye for that. I, after all, never served in the Ottoman Navy."
A situation defused, but somehow...somehow Osman knew the rivalry would not die that easily.
But it could be pushed aside, as Admiral Rizzo cleared his throat, to begin the meeting.
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United they stand, divided they fall. A very human perspective.
Long, elegant bow slicing through the calm waters of the Mediterranean, a lean warship felt a surge of anger. Her massive hull, larger than any ship girl in the Sea could hope to match, was dark. She was 'corrupted'. Ruined.
And it was her very nature.
Just as the Mediterranean was her hunting ground. Others like her called the Pacific and Atlantic home. The fall of one had allowed for the rise of two others. Another licked her wounds after crippling Japan's defenders. And then...there was her. Larger than all but the fallen carrier. Larger than any European girl, save for the blonde haired leader of the Royal Navy.
The one she wanted to destroy.
Her four dual turrets gleamed in the sunlight, eager to taste blood.
Twenty-four boilers powered her steam turbines, slicing through the water at a steady twenty knots...nowhere near her top speed. The smoke, dark as night, from her twin stacks flowed over her hull.
But none of it served to sooth her anger. She was not blind. She knew what the hunted and their protectors were attempting. To unite in the face of her efforts. To hunt her escorts down and push them from the sea. And she would not allow that. They would not unite. She would rip and tear, force the Sons of Sparta and Osman to live their rivalries. Remind the world of what the Italians had done.
Sunder them and destroy them.
By her side, the leader of her escorts split off with her own formation. The battleship's own lean hull set course for where their foes had gathered, twin stacks pouring thick, choking smoke into the air. Their mission was clear. Their objective simple.
Force their foes to battle, and destroy their unity.
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The sudden sound of a blaring alarm cut into the meeting between the joint Allied ship girls. Admiral Rizzo's head snapped to attention, even as the ship girls themselves jumped to their feet. Decades of instinct in Georgios Averof had her rushing to the Italian's side, question clear in her grey eyes. A question that couldn't be answered, until a voice rang over the intercom in panicked Italian.
"Abyssals are attacking Malta! We can't get the numbers, but at least one battleship-class is present!"
"Malta..." Averof whispered, confusion clear in her tone. The mighty island fortress had seen few attacks to date, small in population and unable to do anything to support anyone but themselves. So why then...
Shaking her head, the cruiser pushed that from her mind.
It mattered not why the Sirens were attacking Malta. Merely that they were, and that it was her duty to stop that, no matter where or whom was attacked. Her duty remained the same.
"Malta," Admiral Rizzo repeated, his aged face sinking down. His lined expression was set in the deepest frown that the Greek had seen from the man, as he looked out at the ship girls surrounding him, "I hadn't intended for you all to go out this soon, before we even had a chance to train. But we have no choice...are you ready to fight together?"
The ship girls shared a look, from the tiny Folgore to Osman herself. And as one, they turned to their Admiral.
As one, they nodded sharply. Not one dissenting voice was raised. Not one complaint was aired. The girls were ready, come hell or high water, to fight the battle. Even if they knew not how to fight together, they would figure it out. Even if they had radically different abilities and personalities, they would make it work.
Averof felt a warmth in her heart, as she looked at that show of unity. No matter what, and no matter who she was working with...
It reminded her of the Wars against Persia. Disparate cultures and cities, coming together against a common enemy. And she could only hope they succeeded as her ancestors who bore the armor she wore had done.
And that we don't fall as Leonidas did.
Shaking her head to clear those thoughts, Averof turned back to Admiral Rizzo, her grey eyes narrowed seriously, "I speak for all of us, when I say we are ready, Admiral."
The Italian man nodded, turning to the intercom. The old man spoke into it, his voice sure and steady. There was no quake in it, the man firmly in command of the situation, regardless of the suddenness or his own age, "Head to Malta at best speed. Inform Salamis, Caio Dulio, Grecale, Aliseo, and Giresun that they are to stay in formation with Cavour. I know that our weapons are ineffective against the Abyssals, but we will not let them ambush us. Am I clear?"
"Yes sir!" The voice of the officer on the intercom was much stronger than the panicked tones he had previously held, the commanding voice of the Admiral buoying his spirits.
"Good," Admiral Rizzo allowed his shoulders to slump ever so slightly in relief. He nodded once more, turning back to the ship girls as he did so. The old Italian's face was drawn tightly, the lines standing out in stark contrast even to how they normally did. But his voice remained strong, "Head to the gangway, please. The moment we are in range of Malta, I need you girls to launch. Understood?"
"Understood!"
Each and every one of the girls snapped to attention, saluting the Italian in the manner of their own navies. They each had their quirks. Some of them quite strange.
But this was their duty. Malta had no defenses, save for her old forts. Those innocent souls were completely at the mercy of the Abyssals. And, at least for now, these girls could put aside their quirks. When they were on the water, they could allow for their fun. Not now. Not when everything hinged on working together. And for one of those girls? She wiped a stray tear from her eye.
Averof had never been prouder than she was at this very moment. Not once, in her long...long...time in service.
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For not the first time, Osman cursed her speed.
Her new comrades ranged around her in a loose formation, moving in proper battle formation at the least. Unfortunately, that meant the cruising speed of their slowest member. Her...and Averof. The two antique warships had forced the rest of their formation to move slowly, despite the sight of Malta burning in the distance. It was enough to make even the most stoic of girls cry out in frustration.
Her long, overly long, bow slicing through the waves did nothing to keep Osman from doing the same. Her fists clenched by her sides. Her brown eyes narrowed.
And she knew there was nothing she could do to go faster.
"This is just like Athina, correct?" Averof cut through the water by her side, the old cruiser's dull bronze armor gleaming in the sunlight.
Osman nodded unhappily, the smoke from Malta covering the island from sight, "Yes, it is. I was too slow then, and if you hadn't arrived...I wonder how your navy would have fared?"
"Not well," the cruiser shook her own head. Her grey eyes turned to the other part of the horizon, where Salamis, Giresun and Grecale had broken from Cavour to provide distant cover. Shaking her head once more, Averof sighed softly. "Not well at all, I fear. You are worried that Malta is gone."
It wasn't a question. Osman didn't bother answering, either. The sight of the island sheathed in smoke had her heart clenching. For all that she embraced her Turkish side with all that entailed, the battleship still remembered her time in the Royal Navy. Malta was British, even if they were independent now. And she saw it burning without being able to do anything herself.
Why would she not feel upset?
How could she not?
We have to get there soon. The Abyssals...
"Radar is picking up...something. Likely Abyssal."
Osman's head snapped up when she heard that, the radio she had been retrofitted with ringing in her ear. She didn't need to hear it though. Because her sharp eyes, ranging with the lookout in the highest point of her hull, saw. She could see in the distance...what the target was.
A lean battleship, belching thick black smoke from two tall stacks. Her hull sliced through the waves faster than Osman. Faster, indeed, than Averof. Four twin turrets gleamed in the sunlight, menacing barrels pointed directly at the united formation. Her hull bristled with secondary weapons, rotating in their sponsons. A squat bridge sat behind the turrets. The battleship's lines were lean and sharp, cutting through the water in a way that only a ship designed for the Med could do.
A way that only...
"My Lord..." Doria breathed, holding a hand to her heart.
A way that only an Italian could do.
"Doria!" Osman shouted out, her crew already running through firing procedures as she turned her ponderous hull to bring her seven turrets to bear. She may lack in armor, but she did not lack for firepower. "What ship is that?!"
The Turk didn't recognize it. She could tell, even past the feeling of wrong bad get away don't come close that it was an Italian design. No other navy built ships with such elegance. Most certainly not ones that looked like her friend. And if Doria had that reaction to it...well.
It only served to confirm that theory.
"I do." Doria got out past the tightness in her throat, shaking her head to clear the sudden fear she felt. Crossing herself on instinct, the old battleship turned her own, larger, guns towards the horizon. "Francesco Caracciolo. My successor."
The name meant nothing to Osman. But the fear in her friend did.
"Break formation!" Averof barked out, the most experienced among them. "Destroyers, lay smoke. Cruisers, keep the Abyssals from getting closer! Osman, Doria, I need you with me!"
Lean bow chopping through the spray of white at her front, the old armored cruiser spun. Her rudders pulled hard a'port, the Greek angling her armor and her weaponry. Osman frowned at the move.
They needed to cross the Abyssal and properly broadside her. No matter the monster's own escorts...corrupted British cruisers.
That line of thought lasted only long enough for the horizon to detonate in fire and brimstone. Eight fifteen-inch rifles fired as one, blowing away the smoke from the Abyssal's stacks. Smaller weapons, popguns in comparison, fired from the cruisers and destroyers surrounding the Abyssal. But it was those mighty rifles that drew Osman's attention.
Even as she swung her own hull to the side, frantically pushing through the waves faster than she had moved since the Battle of Jutland, so long ago.
Those guns...only Warspite or Hood can match them!
Suddenly, her own firepower felt distinctly inadequate. For the Abyssal spoke with the rage of her kind. And with weapons far more powerful than the Turk, the Greek or the Italian.
"Straddle!"
That call from the Greek hardly mattered. Osman felt the impact from the shells around her. Her hull buckled with the overpressure of detonations in the water. Her head rung with the sound of those shells. And her hair was splattered against her face by the sprays of seawater.
Break formation!
Germans off the port bow!
Keep firing men!
For Invincible!
Osman shook her head, ghostly voices lingering with the ringing in her ears. Ghosts of Jutland. Of her past.
She would not be joining them. Not today, and not to a vile mockery of an Italian. Gritting her teeth, the old battleship flung her rudders again, her long body slicing through the water. Her props churned up the sea, sending sprays of water into the air behind her, even as her escorts began to return fire against the Abyssal cruisers. Eyes narrowed in anger, Osman paid no heed.
She continued to turn, her long hull serving just one purpose.
To carry firepower superior to any other Dreadnought in South America, and while that may pale compared to the Abyssal...
No one enjoyed having fourteen twelve-inch shells fired at them.
"Trento! Folgore! Baleno!" Osman barked, her voice carrying over the sound of shellfire and the rush of wind past her face. Her husky skin flushed red with anger when she looked at the Abyssals.
"Yes?" The cruiser in that group, Trento, called back. Her eight-inch guns smoked, flinging fire and lead at a twisted mockery of a County-class cruiser. "Do you need me to hit something?"
Ignoring the lust for battle in the Italian's voice, Osman flung her arm out, as she finished her turn. Grim determination lined her face, though she did not turn to look at the Italians, "Move up, Trento in front, Folgore on port and Baleno on starboard! Watch that battleship, but bloody hell, get up there and keep those cruisers off me!"
"Roger!" Trento fired off a snappy salute, her own lean hull slicing through the water faster than some destroyers. Thirty six knots. Her charges could make thirty-eight on a good day.
And today was a good day to fight.
Not that Osman noticed. Her own brown eyes had narrowed in determination.
Even when Averof shouted right back at her indignantly.
"Osman, you cannot countermand my..."
Whatever the Greek had been attempting to say was utterly drowned out. For when Sultan Osman I spoke in anger, no mortal or warship could be heard. Seven heavy turrets, the most ever put to sea on any warship, swung about. The gleaming turrets roared. Fire and smoke covered Osman, the effect that had gained the awed appellation that 'she resembled a battlecruiser blowing up'.
Through this smoke, shot fourteen heavy, twelve-inch, shells. Shells that cut through the air, directly into an Abyssal cruiser.
Osman was not the most accurate shot. She never had been and never would be. Firing all her weapons upset her rangefinders at the best of times.
But when fourteen shells fall on a ship, accuracy mattered relatively little. For the Abyssal shuddered in place, six twelve-inch shells all impacting in her citadel. Armor designed to resist eight-inch shells at best, could not hold against battleship-grade firepower. Dark plates shattered and fell into the water, shrapnel cutting down the observation mast on the cruiser sailing in formation with the unfortunate Abyssal.
Though she would soon find herself crippled. As raging fires, powered further by the high-explosive casing in Osman's shells, reached the Abyssal's magazines. Powder and shells alike blew apart in a massive fireball, shattering the cruiser completely, the pressure of the explosion bowing in the starboard flank of her companion.
"Well done!" Doria cheered, though she held her hands over her ringing ears. "Averof, we should push our advantage!"
And as she said that, the Italian ripple-fired her own turrets. Her slightly-larger thirteen-inch guns bracketed an Abyssal destroyer, the battleship left alone for the moment in the face of her escorts.
Averof though...she frowned heavily, "No, we should be careful. That Abyssal has more firepower than any of us, and..."
Once more, the Greek was cut off. For in answer to Osman and Doria, the Abyssal roared with her own fury once more. Shells flung into the air from her mighty rifles, aiming directly at the small little formation. Averof's eyes widened as she tracked those shells, turning hard to starboard as quickly as she could manage.
Not quickly enough.
Most of the shells splashed between the rapidly maneuvering ship girls, even with Osman's slow turning and Doria's relative inexperience. But one shell punched right through Averof's bow, her armor crumpling like so much tin foil. The plates on her chest bowed in, a cough escaping the cruiser, blood trailing down her face. Smoke rose from the hole in her hull...smoke and the cries of her crew.
Averof struggled to maintain her footing, water pouring in through the hole. Her already slow speed dropped yet further, the cruiser barely able to maintain formation as her crew tried to steady the damage. To pump the water out and patch the rend in her hull.
She had not been hit so hard in a very long time.
"Is...is that it?" The Greek forced her shoulders back, biting her lip to hold back a wince of pain from her chest. Her hand reached up, gingerly running along the dented plates of her Hoplite armor. It would, "Take more than that to put me down!"
She was the calm and collected philosopher no longer.
Now she was every bit the warrior she so resembled.
"Salamis!"
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"Is she insane?"
The XO of the frigate Salamis could not keep the incredulity out of his voice.
And with the request from Un...Aunt...George, Captain Nestor found it hard to dispute the point. To this point, the Greek Captain had held his frigate back with his Turkish and Italian counterparts. They were to block the route of escape for the Sirens, and to keep them far away from Cavour and her small escort group. The ship girls were the hammer, they were the anvil. Should that become necessary.
Having faced the Sirens in combat and nearly seen his own death- and witnessed the death of most of the crew of Salamis' comrade Elli -against the monsters of the deep...Captain Nestor knew better. If it came down to fighting the Sirens and attempting to halt them, they would fail. And yet...
Insane, but perhaps inspired...
"Inform Giresun and Grecale that we are leaving formation," Nestor called out, his bridge suddenly silent with the pronouncement. The Captain raised an eyebrow, turning to examine his crew. They stared back with wide eyes, fear plain as day on their faces.
They had all served with him at the last battle.
They all knew what the Sirens could do.
But...
"I know what you're all thinking," Captain Nestor sighed heavily. He brushed his short hair back from his face, while the powerful engines beneath his feet began to propel the German-designed frigate forward to her top-speed of thirty knots. The old Captain let out another sigh, sending his crew a care-worn smile, "And I agree. This is insane. However, we all know that Siren is more powerful than any battleship save Littorio or Vittorio Veneto. As neither of them are present, we must do what we can to help."
Nestor stood from his chair, walking over to the window looking out over the lean bow of his frigate. The five-inch gun on that bow slowly rotated towards the flashes of fire in the distance, smoke obscuring the darting forms of destroyers and light cruisers.
It was times like this, that Nestor truly wished that the old days would return. When his advanced technology worked. When missiles were the biggest threat.
Nothing for it. Those days were gone, and he had adapted.
"No matter what, that Siren must not escape. If she should do so, Malta will not be the only island to burn. Many more will perish than have already died this day," Nestor's voice steadily rose as he spoke. The Captain spun on his heel, staring down his crew fiercely. His voice reached a crescendo, his arm held out at the distant dark form of the battleship, "And we will not allow that! I swore when we were rescued by Averof. If she ever required my aid, I would gladly give it. Now. Tell me, proud sailors of Hellas..."
Nestor dropped his arm and thrust his chin forward, daring anyone to disagree with him.
"Are you with me?"
Silence greeted the Captain. His dark eyes continued to stare out at his crew, waiting for a response. He knew they would follow orders. They were sailors of Greece, and no matter what Europe thought of his nation...they were loyal. They would fight.
But he wanted them to do so on their own terms.
Not because he ordered, but because they were willing to do what it took to help.
And so he waited. Until one of the crew stood straight, bringing his hand up in a technically-nonregulation salute.
"Sir, yes sir!" The young man barked out, no eagerness in his voice. But no fear either.
Like a dam had broken, the rest of the bridge crew did the same. They were resigned, yes. They were not eager to charge into combat. But they were not going to back down. Even if this ended with the sinking of Salamis, they would not back down. For Aunt George, any Greek sailor would gladly lay down their life. Come hell...or high water. And for that, Nestor smiled.
They make me proud, every day. Now...to make sure they survive this.
Smile remaining in place, Captain Nestor returned to his seat, looking out at the Siren in the distance. Seven kilometers away, well within the range of his own gun. And, of course, her guns. But if the Siren had made any signs of noticing Salamis, they were minor. Her weapons continued to fire at the ship girls. The concussion of those rifles was enough to make the Greek wince, even from the great distance they held between one another.
The cruisers he had fought previously were nothing.
Not compared to this monster.
"Firing solutions, Ensign?" Nestor turned his head, looking at his gunnery officer. The man looked back at him, his eyes weary but focused.
"Locked on the Siren's bridge, Captain. Are you...?"
Nestor didn't comment on the question, instead, his smile turned feral. "I am certain. We can't penetrate that armor. But even Sirens notice when their bridge is crippled, and not even their magic is enough to spoil our aim."
If nothing else, that was true. Missiles. Torpedoes. Anything with a ballistic guidance system failed against the Sirens. But the old rangefinders on Salamis would not fail. Yes, they couldn't kill the Siren with their popgun. But there was no need to kill...
When cutting her tendons was enough.
"Fire when ready." The Captain spoke, eyes locked onto the Siren.
Every instinct screamed to not look at the monster. It didn't matter.
He would watch, and see if this crazy idea of Averof's would work.
"Firing!"
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If it were possible for an Abyssal to scream in pain, the battleship most certainly would have. Osman could tell that much, as she favored her right flank. Saturday turret was blown apart. Sunday crippled. But she still had five batteries to fire. And Doria remained in peak condition, while Averof had recovered enough to bring her own nine-inch guns to bear.
And a good thing that was, for the Abyssal shuddered in place. Rapid fire five-inch shells slammed into her bridge, her turrets, and her other superstructure. Fires burned on her deck. Salamis could never hope to sink the Abyssal, not with a five-inch gun, Harpoons that could never hit...and antisubmarine torpedoes. But, by God, she could bloody well cripple her.
"Averof, you are a genius," Osman got out, past a wince as her turn to avoid another salvo strained her side.
"Thank you, Osman," Averof had put aside her petty rivalry, all her own attention focused on the Abyssal. "It will not last forever. You and I both know that the Sirens will recover quickly from even that damage, and Salamis will draw her ire."
Even as she spoke, the mighty turrets on the savaged Italian battleship had begun to turn, spitting fire at the rapidly retreating Greek frigate.
"I know," the Turkish battleship let out a frustrated sigh. But her face had set in a determined frown nonetheless. For despite the pain it brought, she had begun to turn into a proper broadside.
Her firepower was lessened, but still far more than enough.
Doria had done much the same herself, the cheerful battleship's own eyes narrowed at the mockery of her unborn successor. A mockery that she would not allow to continue. "I'm ready to fire when you are. Just tell me when."
Osman turned her head, raising an eyebrow at the Greek.
And Averof grinned grimly, raising her battered arm as her guns rotated in their mountings. British guns for an Italian built Greek.
"Fire!"
Guns that roared with righteous fury, followed soon after by Osman's rifles and Doria's larger counterparts. Nine, twelve, thirteen-inch. Three different calibers, all more than capable of gutting the Abyssal at the range they fought. And gut her they did. The monster, stunned from Salamis' fire and unable to turn in time, shuddered in place.
Averof's shells punched through her thin bow armor, holing her beneath the waterline. Water poured in through those rends, just as it had done on the Greek...giving her a rush of satisfaction.
Andrea Doria's shells punched through the relatively thin side armor of the Abyssals fore turrets. The turrets were physically torn asunder by the kinetic energy of the Italian shells, even before they detonated. Pillars of flame and smoke shot skyward from the point of impact, Doria's explosives cooking off the ready ammunition in the batteries of the Abyssal. The turrets were shattered, never to fire again.
For the shells from Sultan Osman I punched through the citadel of the corrupted Italian battleship. The ten twelve-inch projectiles had flown straight and true, pounding through armor and hull. Burrowing deep into the Abyssal, two detonating in her machinery spaces, crippling the battleship. A further shell blew a hole clean out the other side of the battleship, allowing water to rush into her dark and ruined holds.
It would have been the death of a thousand paper cuts. A slow, drowning end for the monster wearing an Italian's skin.
Were it not for two of Osman's shells coming to rest in the forward magazine spaces.
Invincible...
In a sight all too painfully familiar to the Turkish battleship, the Abyssal seemed to freeze in place for a split second. Smoke rose from numerous rends and tears in her hull. Fire from Salamis, from Doria and from Averof crippled her. And then...
Time returned, with a titanic flash of fire and debris, the Abyssal's bow vanishing in a shockwave of death and destruction. Sympathetic detonations rang throughout the rest of her hull, the monster settling down by the bow in the water, rapidly taking on so much liquid she could never pump it out. Even if there were anything left resembling a bow...when everything fore of her conning tower was gone.
The Abyssal was dead, and those few survivors of her escorts fled under fire from Trento.
"We did it...we did it." Osman breathed, letting her arms fall to her sides.
Her first real baptism of fire since Jutland.
And this time, it had been her foe who had decisively lost.
________________________________________________________________
Istanbul
News of the victory had reached the ancient capital of the Roman and Ottoman Empire's, buoying flagging spirits in the coastal metropolis. Turkey was not under siege. Nor was she reliant on sea trade. But having such a crucial city at the mercy of the Abyssals...had never been looked at fondly. Despite the risks and the little reward expected, the Turkish Navy had- as such -been attempting to summon their old warships, or even those of the Sultan, since the Abyssals first made their presence known.
None had returned, save for Sultan Osman I and Reşadiye. And they had returned to England.
But...a victory had been won. A victory in large part by Turkish arms, in the form of Osman herself. Perhaps, then, it was worth trying again?
Such was the logic that found Reşadiyestanding in front of a dock in Istanbul's harbor, her blue eyes staring out at the water. Beside her, Admiral Sadik of the Republic of Turkey's Navy stood by her. The two stared out at the water, while an Imman chanted prayers. Prayers pleading for the return of their fallen warriors, to defend the Republic against the enemy of all mankind.
Not a task traditionally accepted by any of the Abrahamic religions.
But each and every nation summoned differently, and this was how Turkey had chosen to attempt it themselves. Prayers and calls for the return of their warships, along with calling on the pride of their nation.
Reşadiye could not quite understand it herself, having spent her entire life as HMS Erin. She would accept it though, should the summoning work.
"Do you think this will work, Admiral?" Her British accented-voice asked, the battleship turning her olive-skinned face at her Admiral.
For his part, the Admiral sighed, "I hope so, Reşadiye. I truly do."
"And do you think it will be..."
"Yes."
The Admiral's voice was quite clear when he said that. Be silent, and observer. Reşadiye bit back her own sigh, but did as asked. She could only hope that...that Turkey's warriors were hearing the call to arms.
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Long had she served, longer than any of her comrades. Her family had long since been scrapped or turned to rust on the ocean floor. The foes she had been designed to face, themselves faced the cutting torch. And still she had endured. When the navies of the world had passed her by. When she had lived long past her usefulness as a warship.
Still, she had watched over her adoptive home.
When her belt rusted away and her crew became lenient in their duties, she still watched.
While her home struggled to free itself from her Imperial past, she gave them hope. A symbol they could rally around.
She had loved them for the great lengths they went to, despite the economic suffering incurred, to bring her back into service once again. Despite the fact she was not, truly, one of them.
German?
Or Turkish?
German. Turkish. German. Turkish German Turkish
In the end, it had not mattered. It never had mattered.
She had been a drain on her new home, but they had still taken her in. When her family had been scrapped, scuttled, sunk as targets...she had been lovingly rebuilt.
Where her foes had been overtaken by time, she had endured, eagerly protecting her new home.
Despite everything working against her. Despite her age and infirmity compared to more modern warships. Her home had showered her with love, their Guardian. Their flagship.
Her adoptive homeland.
Her home.
They had loved her. Through good and bad, they had loved her. She was The Battleship, no matter what she actually was. When a Turkish ship was mentioned, they meant her. She had once been one among many, overshadowed by her sister and those who came after. In Turkey, she was special. The one everyone looked up to. The one everyone wanted.
When the time had come to scrap her, she had not cried. She had not complained. Her life had been long and happy, longer than any of her designers could have dreamed. She was ready to move on...even back to Germany, if that had been the case.
But Germany had not wanted her back.
And Turkey had done everything for her.
She was...she was...
Their Pride. Their Yavuz Sultan Selim.
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Forgotten.
Her home. Her people. Even her comrades. They had all forgotten her, the cruiser always overshadowed by the battlecruiser. Oh she had been a loyal companion. Always fighting, always doing her duty. The Mittelmeerdivision. A grand name for a formation of just one cruiser and one battlecruiser! But they had been together from the start. Even if they could never contest the Royal Navy or the Marine Nationale. It didn't matter, because they were the forward hand of the Kaiserreich, and they would prove themselves in battle one day.
And then...they didn't.
They had fled. They had not faced Englishman or Frenchman in combat. And not only had they fled, they had not fled to Austria. No, instead of going to their allies, they had gone to Constantinople, to the Palace of the Sultan. Her crew had worn Ottoman Turk uniforms. Her proud Imperial ensign had been replaced by the Star and Crescent. She had lost her name.
SMS Breslau.
Midilli
Her crew was German. Her hull was German.
But she flew a Turkish Flag. Her brave men wore Turkish uniforms. And she bore a Turkish name.
She had never been comfortable doing so.
It had not stopped her from fighting. She fought so very hard. If she was going to fly a Turkish flag, she was going to be the best ship in the Turkish Navy! Along with her partner, of course.
Goeben would never see harm, so long as she fought by her side.
And fight they did! The two partners crossed arms with Russian warships multiple times, always coming off better for it. They took damage, but not once was either ship crippled. Not once was either truly in danger of sinking. They were the Mittelemeerdivision, under a Turkish flag or no, and they would not be beaten by the Russians. So Midilli had sworn.
In the end, she had kept that promise. It had not been Russian guns that had laid the proud cruiser low. She had fallen, in an attempt to force the British to battle, against the very weapon she herself had so effectively lain. Mines, crushing her hull. Blowing her apart from below the water line, where nothing could be done to save her.
She had watched her crew die. Wailed at the pain and unfairness of it all. Screamed at Yavuz to not leave her.
But she had never blamed Goeben. Even as she slipped beneath the waves, she had not blamed Goeben.
She was the cruiser. The escort. It was her duty to make sure her charge survived. And in the end, she had done so. She had fallen, her crew bleeding around her. But her charge, Yavuz, had escaped. In the end...that was what she had been meant to do.
But she could not bring herself to feel proud.
There was so much more she could have done. So much more the pride of the German Fleet in the Mediterranean could have done!
Midilli.
That was the name she had received, but it was not the name she wore.
She was SMS Breslau of the Mittlemeerdivision of the Kaiserliche Marine.
The call would be answered. But she would answer it as she was, not as she could have been. Goeben. Yavuz. It mattered not what her partner called herself. For SMS Breslau, the Forgotten Warrior, would always be by her side.
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"It worked..." Reşadiye breathed out, her eyes wide with shock.
And she could hardly be blamed for that reaction. For she knew who stood at the pier. True, she had seen neither warship in her past life. But she had seen their sisters. She knew them. Her Admiral had not realized, perhaps, but she had.
Because the tall, lean girl standing at the pier bore the lines of a battlecruiser. Her lithe body was tall and sinewy, rippling with power if one knew how to look. Legs that stretched on far more than Reşadiye's own more stocky pair. A torso thin and muscled, with only a small bust to show for it, especially compared to either the battleship or her sister. But for all that...
She radiated authority.
She was thin, looking quite underpowered compared to the old battleship above her.
But Yavuz Sultan Selim was not weak.
"I..." for her part, the battlecruiser brushed at her pale- German -face. Long brown hair fell down her back, held back by an officer's cap from flying in the breeze of the harbor. Bright blue eyes crinkled in a gentle smile when she spoke softly, "Yavuz, reporting for duty, Admiral."
There was no hesitation in her voice. No halting accent or butchering of the language. Yavuz spoke in pitch perfect Turkish, saluted perfectly, and showed no signs beyond her pale Germanic features that she was not Turkish.
No.
If anything, despite wearing a German officer's jacket over a Turkish tunic and long skirt, Yavuz was more Turkish than Reşadiye could ever hope to be. She held herself proudly. Her Turkish was flawless.
And she wore her reputation proudly.
"SMS Breslau, also reporting...Admiral."
The same could not be said for the girl by her side. Midilli, Yavuz's loyal partner. Or, was it Breslau? For she spoke in halting Turkish, badly mispronouncing her words. And while Yavuz wore her Turkish clothing proudly, the same could not be said for the cruiser. Breslau wore a traditional German dress, with only an officer hat to show her ship girl nature. And she wore that clothing almost defiantly.
Like she was daring someone to tell her differently.
Why?
"Welcome back, Yavuz, Midilli." That question would have to wait, as Admiral Sadik stepped forward. His face had turned into a genuine, happy, smile when he looked at the two girls. "Welcome back."
There was nothing but thankfulness in his voice, when he held out his hand to Yavuz.
"It is good to be back," Yavuz smiled back easily, taking the hand as she warily left the water. "I only wish I had returned sooner. Turkey is my home, and I will not let any harm come to her or my people."
And somehow...despite the sour look on the face of Breslau...
Reşadiye found herself believing the words of The Battleship.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Well, there we go.
Like I said, lengthy, but I hope everything worked out! More specifically, I hope I managed to get the characters right. Osman, Averof, Andrea Doria...I've written all of them before. But not Yavuz or Breslau. And that's where I really hope I didn't mess anything up, since I know we have Turks in the audience. So...again, I hope I did them justice there.
From what I know, Yavuz is to Turkey what Victory is to Britain. Or Constitution is to the United States. And I tried to capture that, while also acknowledging that for all that she is German built, she's a Turk at heart.
Breslau, but contrast, is German. She didn't stay in Turkish service long enough. She is typically forgotten in the face of Goeben/Yavuz. And I wanted to reflect that. Hopefully it worked.
Also, the Abyssal leader is my contribution to the Princesses.
All that said, I have one more thing here. A...preview of sorts for the next bit. Since I'm moving into the proper European plot instead of just snips. Germany still has a hard rule on summoning...but...well.
Sky had an idea.
I wonder how that is going to go over.
But I said I would get Eurobotes up, and I damn well meant I would get Eurobotes up. Nearly 10k words of it at that.
(so yes, this is rather...lengthy)
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Mediterranean. Realm of the Regia Marina, home of many different nations and people's. Defenseless people save for the Italian Navy and those minor forces that could support her. An area that had seen much war and conflict. An area that, for all that the Pacific was more famous, saw more battles than any other in the Second World War. One that saw more than her fair share of death and bloodshed.
A target.
Ripe for the picking.
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An aircraft carrier, Georgios Averof reflected, was something was not familiar with. Even one so small as this one.
Greece, poor as they were, barely had an air force worth the name. Even when she had been in active service, this had been true. Compared to that of Britain or the United States, the Hellenic Air Force was small and outdated. Large by the standards of the Mediterranean, perhaps. Perhaps even large by the average European standard. But one that had neither need nor desire for an aircraft carrier.
So, standing aboard one? It was a new experience for the old cruiser, as her armor rattled with each sure step she took.
"Welcome to Cavour, Miss Averof."
Turning her head, the cruiser brushed back a stray lock of dark hair that had escaped her loose ponytail. Her grey eyes twinkled brightly. And her smile was the soft one of a philosopher, not that of the warrior she so resembled. "Thank you, it is an honor to be greeted on the flagship of the Regi..."
Averof shook her head, her halting Italian stumbling slightly. Italian designed. Italian built.
But she had not had to know the language in many, many years.
"Marina Militare," the old cruiser corrected herself, smile not once faltering even with her slip up. "I can understand how difficult it must have been, to allow this meeting."
The old man in front of her shook his head, his own lined face twisting into a sardonic smirk. The man wore the uniform of an Admiral, three bars along the sleeve of his jacket. An Admiral, greeting the old cruiser in place of sending a subordinate to do the job.
I am impressed. And honored.
"It was not difficult, Averof," the Admiral reached his hand out, nodding at the old armored cruiser to take it. Averof nodded back, her own larger hand gripping the Italian's. And despite the rippling muscle beneath her armor, Averof felt a strong grip, as the Admiral shook her hand up and down while continuing to speak. "In fact, this was my suggestion. Admiral Rizzo, commander of the Regia Marina. Or, at least, the ships that once served under the flag of the Kingdom."
So this was the commander of the Italian ship girl corps. Averof released his hand, her smile remaining firmly in place...but her grey eyes looking the man up and down. He was old, perhaps older than most Admirals. But the man showed no signs of feeling his age. No...no he did not.
In fact, she would dare to say the intelligence she saw behind his aged eyes was one rivaling the philosophers she attempted to live up to.
This was a man who knew what he was doing. Averof could see such, in his intelligent brown eyes. In the way he held his broad shoulders, the salt-and-pepper of his hair doing nothing that the lines in his face didn't already do. He was old, yes. But he was neither senile, nor bowed by his age. If anything...if anything at all?
He reminded her of herself.
"I see," the old cruiser nodded her head, impressed with the man in front of her. "And this is why you have requested I be here?"
Admiral Rizzo's sardonic smirk faded, replaced by an entirely serious frown, "Indeed it is. Cavour is...well, she is no use as a carrier any longer. However, she does serve as a rather efficient mobile base for our ship girl corps. And in this respect, I requested of both your government and that of the Turks to have a joint operation of representatives from all our navies. Not one of us can hope to hold the Abyssals alone, but operating in concert..."
"You hope to cripple their forces, while learning how well we can operate together," Averof finished, raising an elegant eyebrow. Her own smile faded slightly, a small sigh escaping the lips of the old warrior. "Am I correct?"
"Yes." Rizzo nodded, reaching his arm out to gesture down the hallway the two stood in. His face remained serious when he did so, though Averof could see the stress the man was under. "I am under no illusions we can cripple them, with the forces we possess. Slow them down and learn how to operate jointly, however, we can at least attempt. That is why I have you here, along with your comrades aboard Salamis."
"And the Turks."
Despite herself, despite her age and experience...Averof still felt a hint of annoyance at that. The days of Greco-Turkish wars were long in the past, so long that few if any living Greeks remembered them. But she did. She had made her name, so many years ago, in fighting the Turks. Lucky Uncle George...yes, she had fought the Turks and fought them well. The Balkan Wars. The Greco-Turkish War.
It mattered not which war it was, because she still remembered.
Averof doubted she would ever forget. She had been bought to fight Turks, she had fought Turks, and she had seen them as an enemy for nearly her entire service. Save for the Second Great War, but then...that was a hard time for everyone. Regardless...they were allies now. She knew this. But years upon years of service and conflict were not that easy to forget.
Even for her.
"The Turks, yes," Admiral Rizzo's soft sigh forced the old cruiser's attention from the past, as he rubbed his face. A frustrated expression had crossed it, even when he looked at the armored cruiser, "Averof, this is exactly why I called this operation together. To learn how to work together, despite our pasts. Can I trust you to do that?"
The cruiser looked at the man, knowing what he was asking of her.
And knowing that she couldn't say no.
Not when all their lives were in danger from the Sirens.
"Yes, I can work with the Turks."
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"I wonder why you assume I would have any issue working with the Greeks, Doria."
Placing her face in her hands, Sultan Osman I shook her head. Her fez stayed firmly planted atop her dark hair even with the movement, though it tilted dangerously to the side. Not that she could bring herself to care at this point. Sure, her Italian counterpart had flushed bright red and stammered an apology. But she had still been somewhat insulting, nonetheless. Implying that because she was Turkish, Osman would have any issues serving with the Greeks. Were she Turkish built and had she served in the Balkan Wars...perhaps.
But Osman was Brazilian ordered, British designed and built, and served in the Royal Navy as HMS Agincourt. She had never so much as seen a Greek ship in her short time in service. Most certainly she had never fired on one.
She was a Turk, but she held no enmity for their traditional foes.
"I'm sorry," Andrea Doria continued to apologize, her pale face flushed pink. The Italian, graceful and elegant as her hull ever had been, brushed brown hair from her equally brown eyes. And winced slightly at the look on Osman's face, stammering out, "I didn't mean it that way, I just assumed...since Averof is the way she is..."
Upon hearing that, Osman couldn't help but let out a short laugh, "Averof is not me, you do know that? Bloody hell, she's someone who did fight in those inane wars. I didn't."
And if her continued use of British colloquialisms was any indication, Osman truly didn't care for the Balkan Wars. Why should she, honestly? Turkish or no, she had no attachment to the Ottoman Empire and by extension to the hate for the Greeks. Even the Greco-Turkish War didn't really mean much to her, in the end. She was a battleship of Turkey but she was not one to use that for an old grudge she had no part in. If her Greek comrade still couldn't see past that...well, it was her problem. Not Osman's.
Not at all.
"I have to say, Doria, that you don't need to worry about me at all." The old battleship finished, her broad shoulders raising in a small shrug. There wasn't anything to worry about, when it came to her. "Averof is not my enemy and I have no issues at all with working on this with her. None at all."
Doria sighed softly at that, her own shoulders slumping down, "That is a relief. I didn't want to have to keep you two apart. The Lord only knows how many issues I have with Zara and Pola."
Even Osman winced at that.
Pola's...issues...were legendary in the European ship girl forces.
"Right...well, I assure you, that won't happen," Osman suppressed a shudder, turning her head to the door. "Now, do we know when..."
No sooner had that word left her mouth than the door opened, admitting Admiral Rizzo and a tall woman. A woman clad in ancient Greek armor, covering her broad torso and not much else. That she wore a skirt under it helped little, as her appearance was still quite...imposing. Osman was taller, yes, but this girl looked stronger and wiser. Osman's traditional Turkish dress was quite underwhelming in it's modesty, compared to the armor the other ship girl wore. Armor that rippled over her torso with each movement, as she turned sharp and intelligent grey eyes on the battleship.
Eyes set in a sharp featured face, narrow and beautiful. Olive-toned skin. Sharp aristocratic cheeks. Beautiful eyes, staring directly at the battleship.
So this was Georgios Averof, the foe of the Ottoman Navy.
I admit, she is more...impressive than I thought she would be.
Shaking her head, Osman climbed to her feet and walked up to the cruiser. She could see Doria casting wary looks her way as she did so, but it didn't matter. She bore no ill-will towards Averof. Did the Greek feel the same?
Evidence said no.
But it didn't matter.
They were all here to work together. If they were going to have any hope of stalling the Abyssals until more ships could return, let alone of beating them...they needed to work together. Osman knew how badly stretched she and her sister-in-all-but-blood Reşadiye were in trying to cover the Black Sea. She knew how much the Hellenic Navy had suffered to defend Greece. How tired Doria and the other Italian ship girls were, having to cover more than they were really capable of. Because the Royal Navy could not hope to provide enough assistance, not with the need to cover the Baltic and the rest of Europe in the lack of any German, Dutch or French support.
They had to work together, if they were to counter this problem.
"Georgios Averof," Osman squared her shoulders. She had height and pure power over the Greek. She had firepower.
But the Greek had a greater presence, not even counting the fact her armor rippled across her not-insubstantial bust.
"Sultan Osman I," and Averof had no issues with using that presence. The Greek cruiser stood ramrod straight, looking up and down on the battleship. Her eyes hid whatever she was feeling, but her body didn't. Her arms were tight. Her fists clenched.
At least, until Osman bowed to the waist.
The entire room fell silent at that, from Doria's shocked little gasp to the sudden silence from the eager destroyers in their little corner of the meeting room. Even the sound of waves seemed to stop, as the tall battleship bowed to the powerful cruiser. Even Averof herself seemed stunned, backing up slightly in shock, her straight posture vanishing in the wind. Osman noticed this of course, but she did not move from her position.
She merely continued speaking in it.
"I know what you probably feel about me being here. Working with a Turk, even though I never served with the Ottoman Empire," Osman's voice was strong and steady. There was not so much as a tremor in her dulcet tones, the battleship getting what she needed to say...said. "And I understand it, I truly do. However, I have no conflict with you. My nation no longer has any conflict with Greece. While I cannot, and will not, ask you to let go of your feelings...at least put them aside, for the sakes of all the civilians we are protecting."
Pulling up from her bow, Osman's brown eyes narrowed at Averof, daring the girl to disagree with her.
"I will gladly spar with you after the war is over, if you must test yourself against a Turk. I am sure that my sister would do so as well. But for now, we must work together."
With her piece said, Osman pulled back and allowed the Greek space to breathe. But her eyes never once left Averof's face, waiting to see what her cruiser counterpart would do.
Would she cooperate?
Or would there be issues?
"I..." Averof shook her head, squaring her shoulders once more. The Greek may have been flustered, but not once did she loose that presence of her's. She was to the Greeks what the absent Yavuz was to the Turks.
And she showed it with her every action.
"I am glad you are willing to work with me. It is not easy to admit a Turk is in the right," Averof's lips may have twitched slightly upwards at that...but it was too quick to notice. She just shook her head, her ponytail flapping side to side, "But you are correct. Rest assured, I will work to my utmost to ensure we defeat the Sirens. Then, and only then, can we truly settle old grudges. Are we agreed?"
Osman smirked, a hint of challenge in her own eyes, "We are. Though, you may have to wait for Yavuz or Hamidiye for that. I, after all, never served in the Ottoman Navy."
A situation defused, but somehow...somehow Osman knew the rivalry would not die that easily.
But it could be pushed aside, as Admiral Rizzo cleared his throat, to begin the meeting.
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United they stand, divided they fall. A very human perspective.
Long, elegant bow slicing through the calm waters of the Mediterranean, a lean warship felt a surge of anger. Her massive hull, larger than any ship girl in the Sea could hope to match, was dark. She was 'corrupted'. Ruined.
And it was her very nature.
Just as the Mediterranean was her hunting ground. Others like her called the Pacific and Atlantic home. The fall of one had allowed for the rise of two others. Another licked her wounds after crippling Japan's defenders. And then...there was her. Larger than all but the fallen carrier. Larger than any European girl, save for the blonde haired leader of the Royal Navy.
The one she wanted to destroy.
Her four dual turrets gleamed in the sunlight, eager to taste blood.
Twenty-four boilers powered her steam turbines, slicing through the water at a steady twenty knots...nowhere near her top speed. The smoke, dark as night, from her twin stacks flowed over her hull.
But none of it served to sooth her anger. She was not blind. She knew what the hunted and their protectors were attempting. To unite in the face of her efforts. To hunt her escorts down and push them from the sea. And she would not allow that. They would not unite. She would rip and tear, force the Sons of Sparta and Osman to live their rivalries. Remind the world of what the Italians had done.
Sunder them and destroy them.
By her side, the leader of her escorts split off with her own formation. The battleship's own lean hull set course for where their foes had gathered, twin stacks pouring thick, choking smoke into the air. Their mission was clear. Their objective simple.
Force their foes to battle, and destroy their unity.
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The sudden sound of a blaring alarm cut into the meeting between the joint Allied ship girls. Admiral Rizzo's head snapped to attention, even as the ship girls themselves jumped to their feet. Decades of instinct in Georgios Averof had her rushing to the Italian's side, question clear in her grey eyes. A question that couldn't be answered, until a voice rang over the intercom in panicked Italian.
"Abyssals are attacking Malta! We can't get the numbers, but at least one battleship-class is present!"
"Malta..." Averof whispered, confusion clear in her tone. The mighty island fortress had seen few attacks to date, small in population and unable to do anything to support anyone but themselves. So why then...
Shaking her head, the cruiser pushed that from her mind.
It mattered not why the Sirens were attacking Malta. Merely that they were, and that it was her duty to stop that, no matter where or whom was attacked. Her duty remained the same.
"Malta," Admiral Rizzo repeated, his aged face sinking down. His lined expression was set in the deepest frown that the Greek had seen from the man, as he looked out at the ship girls surrounding him, "I hadn't intended for you all to go out this soon, before we even had a chance to train. But we have no choice...are you ready to fight together?"
The ship girls shared a look, from the tiny Folgore to Osman herself. And as one, they turned to their Admiral.
As one, they nodded sharply. Not one dissenting voice was raised. Not one complaint was aired. The girls were ready, come hell or high water, to fight the battle. Even if they knew not how to fight together, they would figure it out. Even if they had radically different abilities and personalities, they would make it work.
Averof felt a warmth in her heart, as she looked at that show of unity. No matter what, and no matter who she was working with...
It reminded her of the Wars against Persia. Disparate cultures and cities, coming together against a common enemy. And she could only hope they succeeded as her ancestors who bore the armor she wore had done.
And that we don't fall as Leonidas did.
Shaking her head to clear those thoughts, Averof turned back to Admiral Rizzo, her grey eyes narrowed seriously, "I speak for all of us, when I say we are ready, Admiral."
The Italian man nodded, turning to the intercom. The old man spoke into it, his voice sure and steady. There was no quake in it, the man firmly in command of the situation, regardless of the suddenness or his own age, "Head to Malta at best speed. Inform Salamis, Caio Dulio, Grecale, Aliseo, and Giresun that they are to stay in formation with Cavour. I know that our weapons are ineffective against the Abyssals, but we will not let them ambush us. Am I clear?"
"Yes sir!" The voice of the officer on the intercom was much stronger than the panicked tones he had previously held, the commanding voice of the Admiral buoying his spirits.
"Good," Admiral Rizzo allowed his shoulders to slump ever so slightly in relief. He nodded once more, turning back to the ship girls as he did so. The old Italian's face was drawn tightly, the lines standing out in stark contrast even to how they normally did. But his voice remained strong, "Head to the gangway, please. The moment we are in range of Malta, I need you girls to launch. Understood?"
"Understood!"
Each and every one of the girls snapped to attention, saluting the Italian in the manner of their own navies. They each had their quirks. Some of them quite strange.
But this was their duty. Malta had no defenses, save for her old forts. Those innocent souls were completely at the mercy of the Abyssals. And, at least for now, these girls could put aside their quirks. When they were on the water, they could allow for their fun. Not now. Not when everything hinged on working together. And for one of those girls? She wiped a stray tear from her eye.
Averof had never been prouder than she was at this very moment. Not once, in her long...long...time in service.
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For not the first time, Osman cursed her speed.
Her new comrades ranged around her in a loose formation, moving in proper battle formation at the least. Unfortunately, that meant the cruising speed of their slowest member. Her...and Averof. The two antique warships had forced the rest of their formation to move slowly, despite the sight of Malta burning in the distance. It was enough to make even the most stoic of girls cry out in frustration.
Her long, overly long, bow slicing through the waves did nothing to keep Osman from doing the same. Her fists clenched by her sides. Her brown eyes narrowed.
And she knew there was nothing she could do to go faster.
"This is just like Athina, correct?" Averof cut through the water by her side, the old cruiser's dull bronze armor gleaming in the sunlight.
Osman nodded unhappily, the smoke from Malta covering the island from sight, "Yes, it is. I was too slow then, and if you hadn't arrived...I wonder how your navy would have fared?"
"Not well," the cruiser shook her own head. Her grey eyes turned to the other part of the horizon, where Salamis, Giresun and Grecale had broken from Cavour to provide distant cover. Shaking her head once more, Averof sighed softly. "Not well at all, I fear. You are worried that Malta is gone."
It wasn't a question. Osman didn't bother answering, either. The sight of the island sheathed in smoke had her heart clenching. For all that she embraced her Turkish side with all that entailed, the battleship still remembered her time in the Royal Navy. Malta was British, even if they were independent now. And she saw it burning without being able to do anything herself.
Why would she not feel upset?
How could she not?
We have to get there soon. The Abyssals...
"Radar is picking up...something. Likely Abyssal."
Osman's head snapped up when she heard that, the radio she had been retrofitted with ringing in her ear. She didn't need to hear it though. Because her sharp eyes, ranging with the lookout in the highest point of her hull, saw. She could see in the distance...what the target was.
A lean battleship, belching thick black smoke from two tall stacks. Her hull sliced through the waves faster than Osman. Faster, indeed, than Averof. Four twin turrets gleamed in the sunlight, menacing barrels pointed directly at the united formation. Her hull bristled with secondary weapons, rotating in their sponsons. A squat bridge sat behind the turrets. The battleship's lines were lean and sharp, cutting through the water in a way that only a ship designed for the Med could do.
A way that only...
"My Lord..." Doria breathed, holding a hand to her heart.
A way that only an Italian could do.
"Doria!" Osman shouted out, her crew already running through firing procedures as she turned her ponderous hull to bring her seven turrets to bear. She may lack in armor, but she did not lack for firepower. "What ship is that?!"
The Turk didn't recognize it. She could tell, even past the feeling of wrong bad get away don't come close that it was an Italian design. No other navy built ships with such elegance. Most certainly not ones that looked like her friend. And if Doria had that reaction to it...well.
It only served to confirm that theory.
"I do." Doria got out past the tightness in her throat, shaking her head to clear the sudden fear she felt. Crossing herself on instinct, the old battleship turned her own, larger, guns towards the horizon. "Francesco Caracciolo. My successor."
The name meant nothing to Osman. But the fear in her friend did.
"Break formation!" Averof barked out, the most experienced among them. "Destroyers, lay smoke. Cruisers, keep the Abyssals from getting closer! Osman, Doria, I need you with me!"
Lean bow chopping through the spray of white at her front, the old armored cruiser spun. Her rudders pulled hard a'port, the Greek angling her armor and her weaponry. Osman frowned at the move.
They needed to cross the Abyssal and properly broadside her. No matter the monster's own escorts...corrupted British cruisers.
That line of thought lasted only long enough for the horizon to detonate in fire and brimstone. Eight fifteen-inch rifles fired as one, blowing away the smoke from the Abyssal's stacks. Smaller weapons, popguns in comparison, fired from the cruisers and destroyers surrounding the Abyssal. But it was those mighty rifles that drew Osman's attention.
Even as she swung her own hull to the side, frantically pushing through the waves faster than she had moved since the Battle of Jutland, so long ago.
Those guns...only Warspite or Hood can match them!
Suddenly, her own firepower felt distinctly inadequate. For the Abyssal spoke with the rage of her kind. And with weapons far more powerful than the Turk, the Greek or the Italian.
"Straddle!"
That call from the Greek hardly mattered. Osman felt the impact from the shells around her. Her hull buckled with the overpressure of detonations in the water. Her head rung with the sound of those shells. And her hair was splattered against her face by the sprays of seawater.
Break formation!
Germans off the port bow!
Keep firing men!
For Invincible!
Osman shook her head, ghostly voices lingering with the ringing in her ears. Ghosts of Jutland. Of her past.
She would not be joining them. Not today, and not to a vile mockery of an Italian. Gritting her teeth, the old battleship flung her rudders again, her long body slicing through the water. Her props churned up the sea, sending sprays of water into the air behind her, even as her escorts began to return fire against the Abyssal cruisers. Eyes narrowed in anger, Osman paid no heed.
She continued to turn, her long hull serving just one purpose.
To carry firepower superior to any other Dreadnought in South America, and while that may pale compared to the Abyssal...
No one enjoyed having fourteen twelve-inch shells fired at them.
"Trento! Folgore! Baleno!" Osman barked, her voice carrying over the sound of shellfire and the rush of wind past her face. Her husky skin flushed red with anger when she looked at the Abyssals.
"Yes?" The cruiser in that group, Trento, called back. Her eight-inch guns smoked, flinging fire and lead at a twisted mockery of a County-class cruiser. "Do you need me to hit something?"
Ignoring the lust for battle in the Italian's voice, Osman flung her arm out, as she finished her turn. Grim determination lined her face, though she did not turn to look at the Italians, "Move up, Trento in front, Folgore on port and Baleno on starboard! Watch that battleship, but bloody hell, get up there and keep those cruisers off me!"
"Roger!" Trento fired off a snappy salute, her own lean hull slicing through the water faster than some destroyers. Thirty six knots. Her charges could make thirty-eight on a good day.
And today was a good day to fight.
Not that Osman noticed. Her own brown eyes had narrowed in determination.
Even when Averof shouted right back at her indignantly.
"Osman, you cannot countermand my..."
Whatever the Greek had been attempting to say was utterly drowned out. For when Sultan Osman I spoke in anger, no mortal or warship could be heard. Seven heavy turrets, the most ever put to sea on any warship, swung about. The gleaming turrets roared. Fire and smoke covered Osman, the effect that had gained the awed appellation that 'she resembled a battlecruiser blowing up'.
Through this smoke, shot fourteen heavy, twelve-inch, shells. Shells that cut through the air, directly into an Abyssal cruiser.
Osman was not the most accurate shot. She never had been and never would be. Firing all her weapons upset her rangefinders at the best of times.
But when fourteen shells fall on a ship, accuracy mattered relatively little. For the Abyssal shuddered in place, six twelve-inch shells all impacting in her citadel. Armor designed to resist eight-inch shells at best, could not hold against battleship-grade firepower. Dark plates shattered and fell into the water, shrapnel cutting down the observation mast on the cruiser sailing in formation with the unfortunate Abyssal.
Though she would soon find herself crippled. As raging fires, powered further by the high-explosive casing in Osman's shells, reached the Abyssal's magazines. Powder and shells alike blew apart in a massive fireball, shattering the cruiser completely, the pressure of the explosion bowing in the starboard flank of her companion.
"Well done!" Doria cheered, though she held her hands over her ringing ears. "Averof, we should push our advantage!"
And as she said that, the Italian ripple-fired her own turrets. Her slightly-larger thirteen-inch guns bracketed an Abyssal destroyer, the battleship left alone for the moment in the face of her escorts.
Averof though...she frowned heavily, "No, we should be careful. That Abyssal has more firepower than any of us, and..."
Once more, the Greek was cut off. For in answer to Osman and Doria, the Abyssal roared with her own fury once more. Shells flung into the air from her mighty rifles, aiming directly at the small little formation. Averof's eyes widened as she tracked those shells, turning hard to starboard as quickly as she could manage.
Not quickly enough.
Most of the shells splashed between the rapidly maneuvering ship girls, even with Osman's slow turning and Doria's relative inexperience. But one shell punched right through Averof's bow, her armor crumpling like so much tin foil. The plates on her chest bowed in, a cough escaping the cruiser, blood trailing down her face. Smoke rose from the hole in her hull...smoke and the cries of her crew.
Averof struggled to maintain her footing, water pouring in through the hole. Her already slow speed dropped yet further, the cruiser barely able to maintain formation as her crew tried to steady the damage. To pump the water out and patch the rend in her hull.
She had not been hit so hard in a very long time.
"Is...is that it?" The Greek forced her shoulders back, biting her lip to hold back a wince of pain from her chest. Her hand reached up, gingerly running along the dented plates of her Hoplite armor. It would, "Take more than that to put me down!"
She was the calm and collected philosopher no longer.
Now she was every bit the warrior she so resembled.
"Salamis!"
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"Is she insane?"
The XO of the frigate Salamis could not keep the incredulity out of his voice.
And with the request from Un...Aunt...George, Captain Nestor found it hard to dispute the point. To this point, the Greek Captain had held his frigate back with his Turkish and Italian counterparts. They were to block the route of escape for the Sirens, and to keep them far away from Cavour and her small escort group. The ship girls were the hammer, they were the anvil. Should that become necessary.
Having faced the Sirens in combat and nearly seen his own death- and witnessed the death of most of the crew of Salamis' comrade Elli -against the monsters of the deep...Captain Nestor knew better. If it came down to fighting the Sirens and attempting to halt them, they would fail. And yet...
Insane, but perhaps inspired...
"Inform Giresun and Grecale that we are leaving formation," Nestor called out, his bridge suddenly silent with the pronouncement. The Captain raised an eyebrow, turning to examine his crew. They stared back with wide eyes, fear plain as day on their faces.
They had all served with him at the last battle.
They all knew what the Sirens could do.
But...
"I know what you're all thinking," Captain Nestor sighed heavily. He brushed his short hair back from his face, while the powerful engines beneath his feet began to propel the German-designed frigate forward to her top-speed of thirty knots. The old Captain let out another sigh, sending his crew a care-worn smile, "And I agree. This is insane. However, we all know that Siren is more powerful than any battleship save Littorio or Vittorio Veneto. As neither of them are present, we must do what we can to help."
Nestor stood from his chair, walking over to the window looking out over the lean bow of his frigate. The five-inch gun on that bow slowly rotated towards the flashes of fire in the distance, smoke obscuring the darting forms of destroyers and light cruisers.
It was times like this, that Nestor truly wished that the old days would return. When his advanced technology worked. When missiles were the biggest threat.
Nothing for it. Those days were gone, and he had adapted.
"No matter what, that Siren must not escape. If she should do so, Malta will not be the only island to burn. Many more will perish than have already died this day," Nestor's voice steadily rose as he spoke. The Captain spun on his heel, staring down his crew fiercely. His voice reached a crescendo, his arm held out at the distant dark form of the battleship, "And we will not allow that! I swore when we were rescued by Averof. If she ever required my aid, I would gladly give it. Now. Tell me, proud sailors of Hellas..."
Nestor dropped his arm and thrust his chin forward, daring anyone to disagree with him.
"Are you with me?"
Silence greeted the Captain. His dark eyes continued to stare out at his crew, waiting for a response. He knew they would follow orders. They were sailors of Greece, and no matter what Europe thought of his nation...they were loyal. They would fight.
But he wanted them to do so on their own terms.
Not because he ordered, but because they were willing to do what it took to help.
And so he waited. Until one of the crew stood straight, bringing his hand up in a technically-nonregulation salute.
"Sir, yes sir!" The young man barked out, no eagerness in his voice. But no fear either.
Like a dam had broken, the rest of the bridge crew did the same. They were resigned, yes. They were not eager to charge into combat. But they were not going to back down. Even if this ended with the sinking of Salamis, they would not back down. For Aunt George, any Greek sailor would gladly lay down their life. Come hell...or high water. And for that, Nestor smiled.
They make me proud, every day. Now...to make sure they survive this.
Smile remaining in place, Captain Nestor returned to his seat, looking out at the Siren in the distance. Seven kilometers away, well within the range of his own gun. And, of course, her guns. But if the Siren had made any signs of noticing Salamis, they were minor. Her weapons continued to fire at the ship girls. The concussion of those rifles was enough to make the Greek wince, even from the great distance they held between one another.
The cruisers he had fought previously were nothing.
Not compared to this monster.
"Firing solutions, Ensign?" Nestor turned his head, looking at his gunnery officer. The man looked back at him, his eyes weary but focused.
"Locked on the Siren's bridge, Captain. Are you...?"
Nestor didn't comment on the question, instead, his smile turned feral. "I am certain. We can't penetrate that armor. But even Sirens notice when their bridge is crippled, and not even their magic is enough to spoil our aim."
If nothing else, that was true. Missiles. Torpedoes. Anything with a ballistic guidance system failed against the Sirens. But the old rangefinders on Salamis would not fail. Yes, they couldn't kill the Siren with their popgun. But there was no need to kill...
When cutting her tendons was enough.
"Fire when ready." The Captain spoke, eyes locked onto the Siren.
Every instinct screamed to not look at the monster. It didn't matter.
He would watch, and see if this crazy idea of Averof's would work.
"Firing!"
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If it were possible for an Abyssal to scream in pain, the battleship most certainly would have. Osman could tell that much, as she favored her right flank. Saturday turret was blown apart. Sunday crippled. But she still had five batteries to fire. And Doria remained in peak condition, while Averof had recovered enough to bring her own nine-inch guns to bear.
And a good thing that was, for the Abyssal shuddered in place. Rapid fire five-inch shells slammed into her bridge, her turrets, and her other superstructure. Fires burned on her deck. Salamis could never hope to sink the Abyssal, not with a five-inch gun, Harpoons that could never hit...and antisubmarine torpedoes. But, by God, she could bloody well cripple her.
"Averof, you are a genius," Osman got out, past a wince as her turn to avoid another salvo strained her side.
"Thank you, Osman," Averof had put aside her petty rivalry, all her own attention focused on the Abyssal. "It will not last forever. You and I both know that the Sirens will recover quickly from even that damage, and Salamis will draw her ire."
Even as she spoke, the mighty turrets on the savaged Italian battleship had begun to turn, spitting fire at the rapidly retreating Greek frigate.
"I know," the Turkish battleship let out a frustrated sigh. But her face had set in a determined frown nonetheless. For despite the pain it brought, she had begun to turn into a proper broadside.
Her firepower was lessened, but still far more than enough.
Doria had done much the same herself, the cheerful battleship's own eyes narrowed at the mockery of her unborn successor. A mockery that she would not allow to continue. "I'm ready to fire when you are. Just tell me when."
Osman turned her head, raising an eyebrow at the Greek.
And Averof grinned grimly, raising her battered arm as her guns rotated in their mountings. British guns for an Italian built Greek.
"Fire!"
Guns that roared with righteous fury, followed soon after by Osman's rifles and Doria's larger counterparts. Nine, twelve, thirteen-inch. Three different calibers, all more than capable of gutting the Abyssal at the range they fought. And gut her they did. The monster, stunned from Salamis' fire and unable to turn in time, shuddered in place.
Averof's shells punched through her thin bow armor, holing her beneath the waterline. Water poured in through those rends, just as it had done on the Greek...giving her a rush of satisfaction.
Andrea Doria's shells punched through the relatively thin side armor of the Abyssals fore turrets. The turrets were physically torn asunder by the kinetic energy of the Italian shells, even before they detonated. Pillars of flame and smoke shot skyward from the point of impact, Doria's explosives cooking off the ready ammunition in the batteries of the Abyssal. The turrets were shattered, never to fire again.
For the shells from Sultan Osman I punched through the citadel of the corrupted Italian battleship. The ten twelve-inch projectiles had flown straight and true, pounding through armor and hull. Burrowing deep into the Abyssal, two detonating in her machinery spaces, crippling the battleship. A further shell blew a hole clean out the other side of the battleship, allowing water to rush into her dark and ruined holds.
It would have been the death of a thousand paper cuts. A slow, drowning end for the monster wearing an Italian's skin.
Were it not for two of Osman's shells coming to rest in the forward magazine spaces.
Invincible...
In a sight all too painfully familiar to the Turkish battleship, the Abyssal seemed to freeze in place for a split second. Smoke rose from numerous rends and tears in her hull. Fire from Salamis, from Doria and from Averof crippled her. And then...
Time returned, with a titanic flash of fire and debris, the Abyssal's bow vanishing in a shockwave of death and destruction. Sympathetic detonations rang throughout the rest of her hull, the monster settling down by the bow in the water, rapidly taking on so much liquid she could never pump it out. Even if there were anything left resembling a bow...when everything fore of her conning tower was gone.
The Abyssal was dead, and those few survivors of her escorts fled under fire from Trento.
"We did it...we did it." Osman breathed, letting her arms fall to her sides.
Her first real baptism of fire since Jutland.
And this time, it had been her foe who had decisively lost.
________________________________________________________________
Istanbul
News of the victory had reached the ancient capital of the Roman and Ottoman Empire's, buoying flagging spirits in the coastal metropolis. Turkey was not under siege. Nor was she reliant on sea trade. But having such a crucial city at the mercy of the Abyssals...had never been looked at fondly. Despite the risks and the little reward expected, the Turkish Navy had- as such -been attempting to summon their old warships, or even those of the Sultan, since the Abyssals first made their presence known.
None had returned, save for Sultan Osman I and Reşadiye. And they had returned to England.
But...a victory had been won. A victory in large part by Turkish arms, in the form of Osman herself. Perhaps, then, it was worth trying again?
Such was the logic that found Reşadiyestanding in front of a dock in Istanbul's harbor, her blue eyes staring out at the water. Beside her, Admiral Sadik of the Republic of Turkey's Navy stood by her. The two stared out at the water, while an Imman chanted prayers. Prayers pleading for the return of their fallen warriors, to defend the Republic against the enemy of all mankind.
Not a task traditionally accepted by any of the Abrahamic religions.
But each and every nation summoned differently, and this was how Turkey had chosen to attempt it themselves. Prayers and calls for the return of their warships, along with calling on the pride of their nation.
Reşadiye could not quite understand it herself, having spent her entire life as HMS Erin. She would accept it though, should the summoning work.
"Do you think this will work, Admiral?" Her British accented-voice asked, the battleship turning her olive-skinned face at her Admiral.
For his part, the Admiral sighed, "I hope so, Reşadiye. I truly do."
"And do you think it will be..."
"Yes."
The Admiral's voice was quite clear when he said that. Be silent, and observer. Reşadiye bit back her own sigh, but did as asked. She could only hope that...that Turkey's warriors were hearing the call to arms.
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Long had she served, longer than any of her comrades. Her family had long since been scrapped or turned to rust on the ocean floor. The foes she had been designed to face, themselves faced the cutting torch. And still she had endured. When the navies of the world had passed her by. When she had lived long past her usefulness as a warship.
Still, she had watched over her adoptive home.
When her belt rusted away and her crew became lenient in their duties, she still watched.
While her home struggled to free itself from her Imperial past, she gave them hope. A symbol they could rally around.
She had loved them for the great lengths they went to, despite the economic suffering incurred, to bring her back into service once again. Despite the fact she was not, truly, one of them.
German?
Or Turkish?
German. Turkish. German. Turkish German Turkish
In the end, it had not mattered. It never had mattered.
She had been a drain on her new home, but they had still taken her in. When her family had been scrapped, scuttled, sunk as targets...she had been lovingly rebuilt.
Where her foes had been overtaken by time, she had endured, eagerly protecting her new home.
Despite everything working against her. Despite her age and infirmity compared to more modern warships. Her home had showered her with love, their Guardian. Their flagship.
Her adoptive homeland.
Her home.
They had loved her. Through good and bad, they had loved her. She was The Battleship, no matter what she actually was. When a Turkish ship was mentioned, they meant her. She had once been one among many, overshadowed by her sister and those who came after. In Turkey, she was special. The one everyone looked up to. The one everyone wanted.
When the time had come to scrap her, she had not cried. She had not complained. Her life had been long and happy, longer than any of her designers could have dreamed. She was ready to move on...even back to Germany, if that had been the case.
But Germany had not wanted her back.
And Turkey had done everything for her.
She was...she was...
Their Pride. Their Yavuz Sultan Selim.
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Forgotten.
Her home. Her people. Even her comrades. They had all forgotten her, the cruiser always overshadowed by the battlecruiser. Oh she had been a loyal companion. Always fighting, always doing her duty. The Mittelmeerdivision. A grand name for a formation of just one cruiser and one battlecruiser! But they had been together from the start. Even if they could never contest the Royal Navy or the Marine Nationale. It didn't matter, because they were the forward hand of the Kaiserreich, and they would prove themselves in battle one day.
And then...they didn't.
They had fled. They had not faced Englishman or Frenchman in combat. And not only had they fled, they had not fled to Austria. No, instead of going to their allies, they had gone to Constantinople, to the Palace of the Sultan. Her crew had worn Ottoman Turk uniforms. Her proud Imperial ensign had been replaced by the Star and Crescent. She had lost her name.
SMS Breslau.
Midilli
Her crew was German. Her hull was German.
But she flew a Turkish Flag. Her brave men wore Turkish uniforms. And she bore a Turkish name.
She had never been comfortable doing so.
It had not stopped her from fighting. She fought so very hard. If she was going to fly a Turkish flag, she was going to be the best ship in the Turkish Navy! Along with her partner, of course.
Goeben would never see harm, so long as she fought by her side.
And fight they did! The two partners crossed arms with Russian warships multiple times, always coming off better for it. They took damage, but not once was either ship crippled. Not once was either truly in danger of sinking. They were the Mittelemeerdivision, under a Turkish flag or no, and they would not be beaten by the Russians. So Midilli had sworn.
In the end, she had kept that promise. It had not been Russian guns that had laid the proud cruiser low. She had fallen, in an attempt to force the British to battle, against the very weapon she herself had so effectively lain. Mines, crushing her hull. Blowing her apart from below the water line, where nothing could be done to save her.
She had watched her crew die. Wailed at the pain and unfairness of it all. Screamed at Yavuz to not leave her.
But she had never blamed Goeben. Even as she slipped beneath the waves, she had not blamed Goeben.
She was the cruiser. The escort. It was her duty to make sure her charge survived. And in the end, she had done so. She had fallen, her crew bleeding around her. But her charge, Yavuz, had escaped. In the end...that was what she had been meant to do.
But she could not bring herself to feel proud.
There was so much more she could have done. So much more the pride of the German Fleet in the Mediterranean could have done!
Midilli.
That was the name she had received, but it was not the name she wore.
She was SMS Breslau of the Mittlemeerdivision of the Kaiserliche Marine.
The call would be answered. But she would answer it as she was, not as she could have been. Goeben. Yavuz. It mattered not what her partner called herself. For SMS Breslau, the Forgotten Warrior, would always be by her side.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-
"It worked..." Reşadiye breathed out, her eyes wide with shock.
And she could hardly be blamed for that reaction. For she knew who stood at the pier. True, she had seen neither warship in her past life. But she had seen their sisters. She knew them. Her Admiral had not realized, perhaps, but she had.
Because the tall, lean girl standing at the pier bore the lines of a battlecruiser. Her lithe body was tall and sinewy, rippling with power if one knew how to look. Legs that stretched on far more than Reşadiye's own more stocky pair. A torso thin and muscled, with only a small bust to show for it, especially compared to either the battleship or her sister. But for all that...
She radiated authority.
She was thin, looking quite underpowered compared to the old battleship above her.
But Yavuz Sultan Selim was not weak.
"I..." for her part, the battlecruiser brushed at her pale- German -face. Long brown hair fell down her back, held back by an officer's cap from flying in the breeze of the harbor. Bright blue eyes crinkled in a gentle smile when she spoke softly, "Yavuz, reporting for duty, Admiral."
There was no hesitation in her voice. No halting accent or butchering of the language. Yavuz spoke in pitch perfect Turkish, saluted perfectly, and showed no signs beyond her pale Germanic features that she was not Turkish.
No.
If anything, despite wearing a German officer's jacket over a Turkish tunic and long skirt, Yavuz was more Turkish than Reşadiye could ever hope to be. She held herself proudly. Her Turkish was flawless.
And she wore her reputation proudly.
"SMS Breslau, also reporting...Admiral."
The same could not be said for the girl by her side. Midilli, Yavuz's loyal partner. Or, was it Breslau? For she spoke in halting Turkish, badly mispronouncing her words. And while Yavuz wore her Turkish clothing proudly, the same could not be said for the cruiser. Breslau wore a traditional German dress, with only an officer hat to show her ship girl nature. And she wore that clothing almost defiantly.
Like she was daring someone to tell her differently.
Why?
"Welcome back, Yavuz, Midilli." That question would have to wait, as Admiral Sadik stepped forward. His face had turned into a genuine, happy, smile when he looked at the two girls. "Welcome back."
There was nothing but thankfulness in his voice, when he held out his hand to Yavuz.
"It is good to be back," Yavuz smiled back easily, taking the hand as she warily left the water. "I only wish I had returned sooner. Turkey is my home, and I will not let any harm come to her or my people."
And somehow...despite the sour look on the face of Breslau...
Reşadiye found herself believing the words of The Battleship.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Well, there we go.
Like I said, lengthy, but I hope everything worked out! More specifically, I hope I managed to get the characters right. Osman, Averof, Andrea Doria...I've written all of them before. But not Yavuz or Breslau. And that's where I really hope I didn't mess anything up, since I know we have Turks in the audience. So...again, I hope I did them justice there.
From what I know, Yavuz is to Turkey what Victory is to Britain. Or Constitution is to the United States. And I tried to capture that, while also acknowledging that for all that she is German built, she's a Turk at heart.
Breslau, but contrast, is German. She didn't stay in Turkish service long enough. She is typically forgotten in the face of Goeben/Yavuz. And I wanted to reflect that. Hopefully it worked.
Also, the Abyssal leader is my contribution to the Princesses.
All that said, I have one more thing here. A...preview of sorts for the next bit. Since I'm moving into the proper European plot instead of just snips. Germany still has a hard rule on summoning...but...well.
Sky had an idea.
"Are we certain this is a wise idea?"
Looking out at the Baltic warily, one of the few experienced officers in the Deutsche Marine frowned. He looked at the politician by his side, the other man clearly as uncomfortable out here as he was. Considering the subject they were discussing...perhaps that was to be expected. Germany was...well, a nation with many skeletons in her closet. Regardless of the fact it would have happened anyway, there was no denying how much influence the Kaiser had in the Great War.
And most certainly no denying what Adolf Hitler had done, with the German people willingly following his lead.
The past of the Federal Republic was a dark one they acknowledged, but did not like reliving.
Yet here they were, standing on the pier to relieve this past.
"We have no real choice, do we?" The politician, Franz Schmidt, rubbed at his brow. Nervousness was clear in every pore of his being when he looked at the water like it would bite him. "The Americans have brought back one of our warships. I doubt you will find anyone who enjoys the idea of bringing back the Kriegsmarine or Kaiserliche Marine. But..."
"It sets a precedent. We have not contributed to helping the Royal Navy as we should, because we are afraid of our past," the other man, Admiral Karl Patzig nodded. "Yes, I can see the point. Especially if the Americans can summon Prinz Eugen. What is to say the Norwegians won't get Tirpitz? Or the Uruguayans receiving Graf Spee?"
"Or the Russians, Graf Zeppelin and Weser." Schmidt smiled humorlessly.
A look reflected on Patzig's face, "Indeed."
The two men were not fond of bringing back warships of the Second and Third Reich's. Neither navy was responsible for the crimes committed by their governments. Nor could they ever blame the girls, who had no fundamental control over their actions, for what had happened. But the fact remained...they were calling on signs of that past. Needed or not, it was a bitter pill to swallow.
Germany had not summoned. They had tried, but failed. Assuming that it was impossible- perhaps the girls were too scared to return. Or too guilty. Germany had stopped trying, content to let the Swedes and Royal Navy cover the Baltic. After all, the Abyssals left them more or less alone.
That had all changed, the day that Prinz Eugen had returned as a United States Navy warship.
Even the German public had cried out at that.
'She's our ship!'
'Why hasn't our navy come back?'
'Why did she go to America?!'
The cries had been many and vocal, the German populace very upset over the loss of their cruiser. And the implication that if Germany did not call their warriors back...then their warships would go to other nations instead. Leave Germany to her fate in the face of the Abyssals, if they should ever choose to attack. And that was not something that even Germany or her government could stomach.
And thus, the two men waited...waited...
"Gah!" Schmidt covered his eyes, as a flash of light came from the water.
By his side, Admiral Patzig frowned and gingerly stepped towards the water. For as the light cleared, a single girl was revealed. One who...who looked nothing like he had expected.
For she wore an old style uniform he did not recognize, her unbound hair flowing down her back. The red strands stood out in bright contrast against her grey uniform, stretched over an...impressive bust. Her shoulders were broad and powerful, none of the elegance of Prinz Eugen present. No, this girl looked nothing like the lithe and lanky cruiser. She was shorter than even the pictures of Arizona from Japan. Her build was similar to that of the American, broader and...thicker...than the thin grace of Hood or New Jersey.
Her skirt was at least longer than that of the British girl, reaching her knees.
But that did little to make up for the fact that, despite being quite short...the girl looked powerful. This was no cruiser. But then...who was she?
"Welcome back," Admiral Patzig reached a shaky hand up in a salute, waiting for the girl to return it.
Which she did, a happy smile crossing her face as the girl spoke in a very southern accent. An accent that had the Admiral's eyes widening, his hand dropping from the salute in shock.
"SMS Prinz Eugen, reporting!"
Looking out at the Baltic warily, one of the few experienced officers in the Deutsche Marine frowned. He looked at the politician by his side, the other man clearly as uncomfortable out here as he was. Considering the subject they were discussing...perhaps that was to be expected. Germany was...well, a nation with many skeletons in her closet. Regardless of the fact it would have happened anyway, there was no denying how much influence the Kaiser had in the Great War.
And most certainly no denying what Adolf Hitler had done, with the German people willingly following his lead.
The past of the Federal Republic was a dark one they acknowledged, but did not like reliving.
Yet here they were, standing on the pier to relieve this past.
"We have no real choice, do we?" The politician, Franz Schmidt, rubbed at his brow. Nervousness was clear in every pore of his being when he looked at the water like it would bite him. "The Americans have brought back one of our warships. I doubt you will find anyone who enjoys the idea of bringing back the Kriegsmarine or Kaiserliche Marine. But..."
"It sets a precedent. We have not contributed to helping the Royal Navy as we should, because we are afraid of our past," the other man, Admiral Karl Patzig nodded. "Yes, I can see the point. Especially if the Americans can summon Prinz Eugen. What is to say the Norwegians won't get Tirpitz? Or the Uruguayans receiving Graf Spee?"
"Or the Russians, Graf Zeppelin and Weser." Schmidt smiled humorlessly.
A look reflected on Patzig's face, "Indeed."
The two men were not fond of bringing back warships of the Second and Third Reich's. Neither navy was responsible for the crimes committed by their governments. Nor could they ever blame the girls, who had no fundamental control over their actions, for what had happened. But the fact remained...they were calling on signs of that past. Needed or not, it was a bitter pill to swallow.
Germany had not summoned. They had tried, but failed. Assuming that it was impossible- perhaps the girls were too scared to return. Or too guilty. Germany had stopped trying, content to let the Swedes and Royal Navy cover the Baltic. After all, the Abyssals left them more or less alone.
That had all changed, the day that Prinz Eugen had returned as a United States Navy warship.
Even the German public had cried out at that.
'She's our ship!'
'Why hasn't our navy come back?'
'Why did she go to America?!'
The cries had been many and vocal, the German populace very upset over the loss of their cruiser. And the implication that if Germany did not call their warriors back...then their warships would go to other nations instead. Leave Germany to her fate in the face of the Abyssals, if they should ever choose to attack. And that was not something that even Germany or her government could stomach.
And thus, the two men waited...waited...
"Gah!" Schmidt covered his eyes, as a flash of light came from the water.
By his side, Admiral Patzig frowned and gingerly stepped towards the water. For as the light cleared, a single girl was revealed. One who...who looked nothing like he had expected.
For she wore an old style uniform he did not recognize, her unbound hair flowing down her back. The red strands stood out in bright contrast against her grey uniform, stretched over an...impressive bust. Her shoulders were broad and powerful, none of the elegance of Prinz Eugen present. No, this girl looked nothing like the lithe and lanky cruiser. She was shorter than even the pictures of Arizona from Japan. Her build was similar to that of the American, broader and...thicker...than the thin grace of Hood or New Jersey.
Her skirt was at least longer than that of the British girl, reaching her knees.
But that did little to make up for the fact that, despite being quite short...the girl looked powerful. This was no cruiser. But then...who was she?
"Welcome back," Admiral Patzig reached a shaky hand up in a salute, waiting for the girl to return it.
Which she did, a happy smile crossing her face as the girl spoke in a very southern accent. An accent that had the Admiral's eyes widening, his hand dropping from the salute in shock.
"SMS Prinz Eugen, reporting!"
I wonder how that is going to go over.
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