Omake: Friend against Friend
"Why would we possibly have a reason to attack the
French? I'm not a fan of how they surrendered, but they're still allies."
HMS Hood asked that question, even though she instinctively knew there would be no answer. There never had been. She was a silent observer, watching her crew busy themselves at their tasks. Her tall hat, not unlike that worn by Admiral Nelson himself, hid her eyes as the battlecruiser looked out from her crew and towards her fleet. Force H, out of Gibraltar. Not her usual assignment by any means, and that was leaving aside the reason they were
here in the first place. A reason that had her increasingly uncomfortable, and had managed to make the girl ask her rhetorical question. A question that she knew wouldn't be answered, as her Captain had never once heard her before.
Even so, Hood had felt the need to voice her concerns.
It was a fact that she, like many in Britain, were angry at how easily the French had folded to the Germans. They had failed in a way that their father's hadn't, and surrendered to the Nazis. As a battlecruiser, Hood didn't understand land conflict nor politics. Even so, there was frustration at the fact that with the French surrender, her nation stood alone against the Germans. However, it was frustration, not uncontrollable rage. Surrender or no, the French were still
friends. They would never willingly hand over their ships to the Nazis. Right?
And yet, here we are. Bloody hell...
Despite her own opinions on the matter, Hood's hull floated with Force H, outside the French African port of Mers-el-Kébir. It was not a position she enjoyed being in. Hood was designed, and believed in, fighting on the high seas. Bottling up a fleet like this, where they couldn't fight back properly? That was far from honorable, and rankled her in its own right. The fact that these ships were
allies, and in some cases even friends, made her all the more upset. The idea of opening fire on friends and comrades, even if their government had given up the fight, had her sick to her stomach in a way nothing else ever had.
"Resume formation," her Captain was ordering, as her hull swayed beneath her. Hood felt her body change direction, turning to present her heavy broadside at the French harbor.
Negotiations must have broken down, then.
"I don't like this..." the battlecruiser tugged her hat down further, hiding the pain in her brilliantly blue eyes, "I don't like this at all. What is our government bloody
thinking? This isn't what we're supposed to be doing, not to friends."
If Hood had any way to contact her fellow members of Force H, she would. But at the moment, she couldn't. And wouldn't...part of the battlecruiser was worried of what she would hear. Not every ship was so understanding of the French surrender. Or, rather, so willing to remember that the French were friends and allies who had bled beside brave British soldiers.
"But here we are, ready to shoot them when they're defenseless against it. Lord, I hate this."
But the girl had no control of her own body. It was hers, the metal and wood beneath her. But Hood had no more control over it than her crew had over
her. She was reduced to watching, feeling her turrets loaded with their heavy 15in shells. She didn't need to look, to know that Valiant and Resolution were doing much the same. Or to know that Ark Royal was sending her big Skuas and archaic-looking Swordfish into the air. Combat formation, for the first real time in her long service history. Hood had sailed in combat formation before. Her hull had been hit, all too recently, by Jerry dive bombers.
But this would be the first time she had done so, with the full intention of firing her guns in anger.
Never thought my first salvo in anger would be at friends. Damn it all. Damn it all to hell.
Hood watched helplessly, as her crew began following barked out orders. Orders that had her massive guns firing, salvos directed at the helpless French ships. Her eyes followed those shells, able to see as far as the highest watchman aboard her could see. The battlecruiser could see her shells falling among her friends and comrades, as shells from her fleet did the same. She couldn't hear the screams of the French crews, or see them running to try and prepare for an attack they probably had not really, truly, believed would come.
And yet, her fleet continued to fire. Her own guns blasted another broadside, shells hitting a target instead of merely bracketing the French vessels. The old battleship
Bretagne, older than even herself or her comrades. Hood watched, as the French girl's stern was blown apart by her own magazines, penetrated by fire it had never been designed to stop.
"I'm sorry..." Hood breathed out, averting her eyes from the slaughter, "So sorry."
She would have no qualms in an honorable duel with the Germans. Maybe that new battleship they were building...Bismarck, wasn't it? But shooting helpless targets that should, by all rights, be on
her side? This was something she couldn't watch. Bretagne had died in fire from her friends, and Hood knew that she would only be the first causality of this day. Lord only knew how many French sailors had died in that fire.
This was so very wrong, on every level.
And so, she couldn't bring herself to keep watching. It was far too painful, even for a warship designed to sink other vessels. Hood would not watch this great betrayal, not if she could help it. Her crew didn't need her to operate her weapons, and so, the battlecruiser would let them follow orders. It did little to change the fact that if she could control her own actions, she wouldn't be doing so. If Hood had control of her weapons, she would have wrenched them back to her bow and stern, and refused to fire. She would
never fire on unsuspecting friends.
Sadly, this was war on a scale not seen since the horrors of the Great War. And honor...honor had fallen by the wayside, in the interests of keeping the Germans from stealing the French ships. Her homeland had neglected her fleet, neglected it to the point the Germans could potentially challenge their control of the seas. And now the French were going to pay the price for that. Pay it in blood and fire, destroyed by their
allies.
"Never again...never again will I let this happen," Hood clenched a fist in her redcoat, looking down at her hull, "I can't allow this...this stain on my honor to happen again. The French will never forgive us for this, and it is more than we deserve for doing this to our comrades. This will
not continue, if I can do anything about it."
But as her hull continued to rock with broadsides, Hood didn't know
what she could do, to stop this from happening again. She clearly couldn't talk to her crew. If she could, she would have been screaming at them to get her
in a refit already. The battlecruiser walked with a limp these days, representing the truly deplorable state of her engines. She would never make full speed, not without a very thorough rebuild. But that was her own problem, her own issues. And while talking with her crew might help there...
Well, not even for the darling Pride of the Navy, would they disobey orders. And with that knowledge in mind...all Hood could do, was look away from Mers-el-Kébir. Try to ignore the feeling of her guns firing, knowing what they were shooting at.
I...I'm sorry. This should never have happened.
Sometime earlier
"They're just sitting out there..."
"Indeed."
"The English wouldn't attack us, right?"
Dunkerque was silent, as she looked out at the Royal Navy ships holding formation outside the harbor. Her sister's voice echoed in her ears, the worry quite clear in her tone. They had spoken those words, before moving apart to prepare for potential battle. Now, she couldn't contact her sister vocally, even if she wanted. All she could do, was look out, and hope the British didn't go through with their threats. And surely,
surely, they wouldn't. Dunkerque was well aware, even as a warship, that her people had no choice but to sue for peace with the Germans.
Yes, it was an abandonment of the fight. Yes, it left the English to fight the war alone. But enough French lives had been spent on a hopeless fight.
Yet, here they were. The French battleship swiped her dark hair from her eyes, storm grey pools looking out at the exit of her new home port. Hood was easily the most recognizable of the British ships, even at this distance. That was not a comforting sight however, not like it was at one point in time. Now, they weren't allies. Dunkerque would like to believe they were still friends and comrades in blood, but they weren't allies. And Hood...Hood's guns were substantially better than her own, pride in her construction aside. Age aside. If it came to blows, that battlecruiser was more than capable of sinking her.
Damn Englishman, we would never work with the Germans
. I would sooner sink myself, and I'm sure my crew would as well!
Still, there wasn't a chance the British would actually fire on them. That would be a violation of the newfound French neutrality. Not to mention, it would be firing on a former ally. Any good blood gained by the English fighting in France would be lost if they went that far. Not even that warhound Churchill would go
that far. There would be a lot of saber rattling until it was decided that the French fleet go to America, or something along those lines. There wasn't a need to worry about anything else. After all, not even the English were that stupid.
"Incoming fire!"
The battleship's head snapped up, grey eyes widening in disbelief. Dull thunder roared from the Med, as flashes of fire obscured Hood and her escorts.
"Those...those..." Dunkerque was speechless, as she saw the tell-tale signs of gunfire, "Those English bas..."
Before she could even finish that sentence, the battleship was flung around on her hull. Massive splashes of water...15in shells...flew up around her. Water crashed down on her deck, soaking her crew as they scrambled to battlestations. Her own turrets began to turn to return fire, even as more shells fell around her. Dunkerque narrowed her eyes at the distant form of Hood, almost hidden under smoke from her gunfire.
They actually did it. They're actually firing
on us!
Anger flashed through the French girl, as her own guns finally returned fire. It was far from effective fire however. Her crew was inexperienced, unprepared for actual combat, and the rest of the fleet was little better. They returned fire, but the salvos were long. Not one shell came near to hitting the British battlecruiser and her accompanying battleships. The Royal Navy's fire, on the other hand, was far more accurate. Dunkerque felt the pressure from near misses on her hull. Wincing, the French woman did her best to keep her eyes on Hood, even if she had no control of her ship.
At least, until a resounding roar knocked her from her feet.
What? What was...no. No no no.
Dragging herself up, Dunkerque leaned against her hull, wide eyes staring in stunned disbelief.
Bretagne, the closest thing to an elder stateswoman the fleet in Africa had, was gone. Her stern was ablaze, blown clean open by a shell from one of the big English guns. Dunkerque could make out the form of her counterpart as well...the older battleship lay on her hull's deck, smoke surrounding her. There was nothing but red past her hips, as her crew ran around, trying to save their doomed ship. Dunkerque felt the harsh sting of tears in her eyes, and it had nothing to do with the choking smoke from the burning Bretagne. Angrily wiping those tears from her eyes, the French girl glared out at the British.
"Hood...you and the others were our
comrades. Comrades don't attack each other!"
The French girl held her arm out, only wishing that she could actually guide her turrets and shells. All her anger meant nothing however, as the shells from her powerful-
but not powerful enough -guns continued to do no more than bracket the English ships. Not one shell from her, or her sister, even came close to hitting. Even as Mogador, a poor destroyer, took a shell in the same spot that Bretagne had. Her thin armor did nothing to impede the shell...perhaps saving her from a magazine detonation, but leaving her unable to do more than beach herself to avoid sinking.
And Dunkerque could hardly spare any attention to that.
"Gah!"
For two 15in shells from the British, perhaps even from Hood, punched through her armor. Armor never designed to resist shells of that caliber, crumpled as the shells punched through. One shattered the roof of her first turret, putting the guns there out of action. The second shot through her belt, and from there, through her boilers. Dunkerque fell to her deck, clutching her bleeding left arm, as her legs gave out under her. Her hull slid to a halt, her crew doing everything they could to beach her...prevent her from sinking, at the least.
Through pain filled eyes, Dunkerque watched as her sister and a quartet of destroyers made full speed out of the harbor, moving to escape the British, who had re-positioned to avoid shorefire. The elder battleship could only watch, knowing she couldn't follow. She may
never be able to follow, if the damage was too great. And as Bretagne rolled over, another even larger detonation shaking the harbor, Dunkerque could do nothing but slide down, unable to even muster the energy to lay on her knees.
Damn you England...damn
you...
Dunkerque felt her eyes slide shut, the panicked shouts of her crew trying to save her echoing in her ears. Along with the dull sound of gunfire and exploding munitions. The greatest betrayal of the War, where friend became enemy. Where comrade killed comrade. All for a paranoid reason, that would never have come to pass.
