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Changing Destiny (Kancolle)

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Though something just occurred to be thinking of the ISOTed German captain that is trying to defect/undermine the Reich. Historically we know the Germans had rather extensive oil shortages throughout the war (even more so after they declared war on Russia). But do the Allies at the time know just how bad the shortage is?

If the captain relies said information it might change some of the Allies tactics. Because while the German do hold the Romanian oil fields and are synthesizing oil from coal (which they are also short on) in Germany. Now these sources give the Nazis some oil, but far from enough. Specifically target said industries and the Nazi war machine will grind to a halt due to the lack of oil needed to run their planes, ships, U-boats and tanks.
 
jwolfe_beta said:
Though something just occurred to be thinking of the ISOTed German captain that is trying to defect/undermine the Reich. Historically we know the Germans had rather extensive oil shortages throughout the war (even more so after they declared war on Russia). But do the Allies at the time know just how bad the shortage is?

If the captain relies said information it might change some of the Allies tactics. Because while the German do hold the Romanian oil fields and are synthesizing oil from coal (which they are also short on) in Germany. Now these sources give the Nazis some oil, but far from enough. Specifically target said industries and the Nazi war machine will grind to a halt due to the lack of oil needed to run their planes, ships, U-boats and tanks.
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Of course they knew, it's why we bombed Ploesti. Hitting the Nazi war machine at its vital points was practically the entire American strategic bombing program.
 
MarkAren said:
Of course they knew, it's why we bombed Ploesti. Hitting the Nazi war machine at its vital points was practically the entire American strategic bombing program.
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Based on what I can find of the 'Oil campaign' it mostly kicked off in 1942 and the largest number of bombing runs seemed to be in the last couple of years in the war.

And I was also considering overall tactics. If they have a good idea just how short fuel supplies are for the German army, the commanders can have a better idea of what their opponents will and will not do in light of that shortage.
 
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maes said:
TIL Finn subs have f*cking teeth. Something tells me it may have been a fully intentional design choice.
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German subs had teeth too. They were intended to cut the nets in the ports' entries.

Have a detailed look:

And yes, it's a partially transparent model kit. Lewds ahoy!
 
jwolfe_beta said:
And I was also considering overall tactics. If they have a good idea just how short fuel supplies are for the German army, the commanders can have a better idea of what their opponents will and will not do in light of that shortage.
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Yes. We knew. That's why the Battle of the Bulge blind sided us so badly. Germany didn't have the supplies to sustain an offensive, so their offensive caught us completely by surprise.
 
Llamaoftrauma said:
Yes. We knew. That's why the Battle of the Bulge blind sided us so badly. Germany didn't have the supplies to sustain an offensive, so their offensive caught us completely by surprise.
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Nothing like expecting an enemy to act rational and within his limitations to get a really nasty surprise when the random SoB strikes in a Do or Die strategy. Ironically enough the Marines in the Pacific fell for the opposite in Iwo jima when the local japanese general in charge of the defenses for once did a conservative and highly logical strategy and didn't throw his men to a futile but glorious banzai charge.
 
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jwolfe_beta said:
Based on what I can find of the 'Oil campaign' it mostly kicked off in 1942 and the largest number of bombing runs seemed to be in the last couple of years in the war.
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Well, the big issue in 1942 was a material one: both the British and Americans were still building up their strategic bombing forces. By 1943, however, this had been achieved and the campaigns could really begin in earnest. The big flaw in the American's 1943 campaign was an operational one: it suffered from a lack of focus. What the US did was throw massed raids at one particular target set for just a few weeks before then shifting the weight of forces to a new target set. What they failed to realize is that once the pressure was taken off, the Germans could rapidly repair damage and re-establish production. It took until 1944 for the Americans to realize that they had to buckle down and endlessely restrike the same target sets in order to not just drive production figures down, but also keep them down. Once they did that, German oil production nose-dived and never recovered.

The British campaign under Arthur Harris didn't have the above flaw. Indeed, their problem was rather the opposite: they became too fixated upon their chosen target set (the "de-housing campaign") and hence refused to shift priorities even when it became obvious their existing target set wasn't having the desired effect.

With all that said, I don't see how any of how time-shifted admirals could affect that. The USAAF isn't about to take advice on their operational approach from someone in the navy, much less the enemy, and Harris was stubborn enough to rebuke his own superiors when they suggested changing the target set.
 
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obssesednuker said:
The British campaign under Arthur Harris didn't have the above flaw. Indeed, their problem was rather the opposite: they became too fixated upon their chosen target (the "de-housing campaign") and hence refused to shift priorities even when it became obvious their existing target set wasn't having the desired effect.
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Forget his superiors, it was common knowledge in the British military that with very few exceptions, the higher you went in British military bureaucracy, the more likely you were to run into someone who thought capital ships didn't need air escorts, or that 6pr tank guns were effective and modern weapons, or that maintaining a fighter force was worthless because the bombers will just get through anyway.

The important people that Harris ignored were his own airmen, who he ardently refused to believe were capable of hitting any target smaller than the total urban area within New York's city limits, even in the face of hundreds of examples of squadrons and airmen using everything from Mosquitoes to fucking Lancasters to do exactly that, with effects that were arguably just as devastating (and in many cases more devastating) than Harris's mass bomber raids, without needing nearly as much of an expenditure in terms of men and materiel. Even then, I don't think Harris ever really believed that squadrons like the Dambusters were anything other than just really lucky, which is especially ironic considering the Dambusters were the ones who developed the tactics Main Force would use to make sure they didn't disappoint even Harris's incredibly low expectations.
 
Yeah, by the end of the war units like the Pathfinders and the Dambusters were more accurate than the daylight american forces thanks to the use of radar and advanced electronic navigation techniques. With those capabilities they could and should have tried to hit economic or military targets instead of terror strikes on the german population.
 
spartan448 said:
Forget his superiors, it was common knowledge in the British military that with very few exceptions, the higher you went in British military bureaucracy, the more likely you were to run into someone who thought capital ships didn't need air escorts, or that 6pr tank guns were effective and modern weapons, or that maintaining a fighter force was worthless because the bombers will just get through anyway.
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No? The British had some very capable people heading up their military. That's why they were on the winning side, after all. Even Harris, despite his aforementioned fault of overfixating on the wrong target, can be credited with the organizational acumen to turn Bomber Command into a effective weapon. It's just that stubbornness meant he misapplied it.

The incident I'm referring too was when the Chief of the RAF wrote to Harris suggesting that it might be better to shift focus and follow the Americans lead. Harris shot back with a scathing reply in which he basically threatened to resign. Since Harris was popular with both the personnel of Bomber Command and the British public at large, the Chief let the matter quietly dropped.

To be fair to Harris for a moment, this incident did occur in the winter of 1944/45, when the oil campaign was winding down (as most of the fields and synthetic plants had been overrun by the Soviets) and such a target shift would have mattered little. What's less forgivable is his earlier ignoring of solid intelligence that indicates better targets then random worker houses.

The important people that Harris ignored were his own airmen, who he ardently refused to believe were capable of hitting any target smaller than the total urban area within New York's city limits, even in the face of hundreds of examples of squadrons and airmen using everything from Mosquitoes to fucking Lancasters to do exactly that, with effects that were arguably just as devastating (and in many cases more devastating) than Harris's mass bomber raids, without needing nearly as much of an expenditure in terms of men and materiel. Even then, I don't think Harris ever really believed that squadrons like the Dambusters were anything other than just really lucky, which is especially ironic considering the Dambusters were the ones who developed the tactics Main Force would use to make sure they didn't disappoint even Harris's incredibly low expectations.
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Well, many of those missions were high-risk that couldn't be repeated quickly and usually didn't yield much results for lack of follow-up. The famous dam busters raid, for example, only set the Germans back weeks when the initial BDA was that it would set them back years. Even then, however, had those precision attacks been followed up with a continuous pace of massed carpet bombing raids, then German repair efforts would have been greatly undermined and that years-long estimate would have been accurate. So in the end, the issue is still one of target selection and target maintenance.

Ironically, Harris's airmen loves him because he didn't bullshit them and made clear he understood the risks they took.
 
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obssesednuker said:
Well, many of those missions were high-risk that couldn't be repeated quickly and usually didn't yield much results for lack of follow-up. The famous dam busters raid, for example, only set the Germans back weeks when the initial BDA was that it would set them back years. Even then, however, had those precision attacks been followed up with a continuous pace of massed carpet bombing raids, then German repair efforts would have been greatly undermined and that years-long estimate would have been accurate. So in the end, the issue is still one of target selection and target maintenance.
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I was more referring to the Dambuster's later missions. The mission that gave them their name could certainly have been accomplished by a large enough group of Main Force bombers providing sufficiently penetrative bombs were on hand (at the time they were not, hence the need for a special bomb). It was the missions that occurred later in the career of the squadron that involved precision strikes on targets that even with a significant German repair focus would leave those targets out of commission for months if not permanently. These were usually underground targets, but also included some general strategic targets such as certain critical pieces of rail infrastructure that Harris had ordered bombed in the traditional manner which ended up being wholly ineffective against such small targets. And then there was Tirpitz as well but while it's somewhat relevant to the thread that particular mission isn't really relevant to this particular discussion since I don't recall Main Force ever being directed to attack the Tirpitz.
 
spartan448 said:
I was more referring to the Dambuster's later missions. The mission that gave them their name could certainly have been accomplished by a large enough group of Main Force bombers providing sufficiently penetrative bombs were on hand (at the time they were not, hence the need for a special bomb). It was the missions that occurred later in the career of the squadron that involved precision strikes on targets that even with a significant German repair focus would leave those targets out of commission for months if not permanently. These were usually underground targets, but also included some general strategic targets such as certain critical pieces of rail infrastructure that Harris had ordered bombed in the traditional manner which ended up being wholly ineffective against such small targets. And then there was Tirpitz as well but while it's somewhat relevant to the thread that particular mission isn't really relevant to this particular discussion since I don't recall Main Force ever being directed to attack the Tirpitz.
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The British threw just about everything they had at Tripitz before the Dambusters hit the Fjord she was in. Fun fact, only one bomber managed to achieve weapons release the other Lancasters returned home with their tallboys but that single Tallboy bomb succeeded in hitting the German Battleship, probably through sheer luck more than anything else.
 
I've been having a...less than fun couple of days. So to destress, I've worked on this and the first novel--the original ship girl/spirit one. In lieu of posting any writing from it, have our protagonist:


More accurately, my own (completely original) design for Minitoga. Or as close as I can get with my lack of ability to draw and thus needing to improvise.

(case in point, she'd be wearing something more like a naval uniform since the novel is not waifubait in the slightest)

But still. Cute supercarrier is cute.

(now to try and get the second part of Wake hammered together, if I can keep myself motivated to do it)
 
Skywalker_T-65 said:
I've been having a...less than fun couple of days. So to destress, I've worked on this and the first novel--the original ship girl/spirit one. In lieu of posting any writing from it, have our protagonist:


More accurately, my own (completely original) design for Minitoga. Or as close as I can get with my lack of ability to draw and thus needing to improvise.

(case in point, she'd be wearing something more like a naval uniform since the novel is not waifubait in the slightest)

But still. Cute supercarrier is cute.

(now to try and get the second part of Wake hammered together, if I can keep myself motivated to do it)
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It is indeed a cute picture, and I'm here if you need to talk for what that's worth.
 
I'd say I'm about halfway done with the next chapter. Barring something really bad at work tomorrow (...you never know) I should have it done then. As well as that, I'm starting to work through and create character models for my original designs. That way people can actually visualize what the girls look like better, though it will never be a perfect representation because of the limitations of the character creator.

That said:


Have Little E.


(I also have Utah done, though I'm going to create a set of media threadmarks for these after I post the next chapter. Might as well get use out of the character designer and the media threadmark setting :V )
 
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Chapter 48
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    • Chapter 48
    ​
    As cheers and cries of encouragement echoed over the water, it would be a mistake to assume the jubilant mood aboard Hiryuu permeated the entire Japanese fleet. Aboard Kaga, it was almost bone-quiet. The only sounds were the departing roars of her remaining planes and the dull crash of waves across her wide bow. These were men who worked quietly, saving their thoughts and inner turmoil for themselves.

    It was a quiet sort of anger, compared to the roaring rage of Hiryuu. Quiet and focused.

    The anger of a Samurai.

    Sitting at the very edge of her flight deck, Kaga was every bit as silent. Eyes were shut and hands clasped in her lap. Even if one could see her, they would think they were staring at a statue. A statue with a loose ponytail fluttering in the wind, and the faintest, faintest signs of life. A subtle rise and fall of a chest and a fluttering of eyelids every time a shout rang out from Hiryuu.

    It was only when the last of the planes vanished over the horizon, save for a few Reisen left behind to guard the fleet, that Kaga allowed her brown eyes to crack open.

    "No idea at all. She has no idea what we are facing." A soft murmur, overtaken by the sound of a sailing warship. Gaze sweeping out over her plane-guards, Kaga let out an imperceptible sigh.

    Those destroyers carving wakes through the ocean had no idea what they were doing. They just knew they needed to protect her. Kaga hardly begrudged them their simple lives. But Hiryuu? No. The old carrier could not even bring herself to look in the direction of her counterpart.

    Hiryuu was, if not as bad as the Fifth Division, still naive. Childish. She had no concept of what they were, truly, up against. She was so obsessed with the doctrine of her beloved Tamon-maru that she was blinded to their weakness. And to her own inadequacy in combat. Her own inexperience, as well. The younger girl was arrogant to think they could win without even worrying. The cheers of jubilation echoing across from the other ship did little to change her mind. Nor did the fact she couldn't actually talk to Hiryuu.

    And so, Kaga could not bear to look at her.

    The moment you underestimate your opponent, you have lost. The moment you believe yourself superior, you have lost. This is a lesson we have always known. Or so I thought.

    Letting her brown eyed gaze fall to her lap, Kaga clenched her hands gently. No carrier that had gone through as many modernizations as she had, could ignore how things had changed since her birth. Seeing what had happened to Akagi's pilots only reinforced that. That was why Kaga was not going to cheer her men flying to their deaths.

    That was why she considered Hiryuu naive.

    Because she knew that many of those men may not be coming back.
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    "Just like the reports said, sir. Two carriers right there!"

    As the excited voice rang in his ear, Lieutenant Kaneda frowned. The Americans never sailed in formation like that...at least, so the reports said. American carriers operated alone. Yet, he couldn't deny what he saw. Far below his Aichi, a pair of American carriers sailed in close formation. One small carrier and one monstrosity that could only be a Lexington.

    A fine prize, to be sure, but also a tough target. Even if that oversized stack made for an easy reference to sight in on.

    Honestly, there is none of the grace of our carriers.

    Snorting softly, Kaneda turned his eyes out at his formation. Smaller than it should have been after those thrice-damned P-40s chewed through it at Pearl, it was still a potent force. A dozen Aichi bombers off his wings, all following him. It was a heady feeling. With sunlight glinting off his wings, Kaneda mulled over which carrier to attack.

    "Hm..." Gaze flicking to the recognition chart in his cockpit, the Japanese pilot bit his lip. The Yorktown down there was equivalent to his own Hiryuu. New and untested. But the Lexington was larger and more capable.

    Well.

    "Sato! Take half the formation and hit the smaller carrier!" Kaneda barked out, waggling his wings for emphasis.

    Off his port side, a silver Aichi returned the gesture and winged over. Six glinting darts followed it, while five Reisens flew protectively around the flock of bombers.

    Nodding at that, Kaneda twisted his own controls in the opposite direction. His elegant aircraft responded perfectly, maintaining altitude while he stared down on the Lexington far below. Thick puffs of black smoke exploded around his formation. American flak, and far more than he had expected. Where had they found the weapons to do this? As one exploded particularly close to his wingman, he grimaced a tad.

    A grimace shortly replaced by a grin of excitement. No pilot, and most certainly no pilot of the Imperial Navy, let a bit of fear influence him. Especially not when a target like this presented itself! He just needed to wait for...

    Now, where are...there!

    Nodding sharply, Kaneda noted the distant forms of Nakajima bombers coming into sight. That, more than anything else, was the signal he had been waiting for. For as the torpedo bombers began their attack, ducking and weaving through pitch black flak bursts, Kaneda began to lead his own formation. He didn't need to speak into the radio this time.

    There was no reason. As his plane began to nose over into a dive, the rest followed.

    "Make sure you hi--" the voice of his gunner was quickly subsumed by rushing wind.

    Kaneda wouldn't have bothered replying anyway. All his attention was focused on the American carrier in his sight. Even the tracers flying by his face were forgotten. Nothing mattered but the steadily growing carrier. She was turning in an attempt to avoid the torpedoes in the water, forcing Kaneda to adjust his own trajectory to stay on target. But...no amount of turning would keep him from his mark. The massive ship couldn't possibly move quickly enough for that.

    Biting his lip, the pilot wrestled with his controls to adjust against the force of gravity pushing him down. His muscles ached with the effort. Sweat began to roll down his brow, as the Lexington expanded to fill his entire view. Grunting with the effort, Kaneda narrowed his eyes and made one last adjustment.

    He could see men manning their guns, a handful pointing up at him. The looks of fear and shock on their faces made him smile despite the pressure. These Americans had no idea what they were about to see. The fat bomb latched to the Aichi's stomach was ready and waiting to make this carrier burn.

    "Release!" Kaneda ground out, pulling his controls all the way into his gut. His plane shuddered as it pulled up, and the heavy weight of the bomb fell away. He couldn't see the result, but it didn't really matter.

    Ha! Take that gai--

    Kaneda's last sight was a bullet tearing through his cockpit and directly towards his eyes.


    Pain. Fiery pain.

    Sara clutched at her side, whimpering at the feeling rushing through her body. Her hand felt warm. She didn't want to look at it. But morbid curiosity would not be denied.

    When she pulled her hand from her side, it came up coated red. Green eyes stared. And another whimper escaped her lips.

    "Sara! Sara, look at me!"

    Unable to tear her eyes away from her hand, Sara felt hands grip her chin. Rough hands, that pulled her head up. Concerned green stared down on her, her Admiral wearing the most worried look she had ever seen on his face. Sara stared back, not missing the relief that had crossed his expression. Or how his hands rubbed her chin, trying to take her mind off the pain.

    Oh right, the pain. Her eyes left her Admiral, and tried to look down on what she knew was a hole in her side matching the hole in her deck from a well-placed bomb. Or the gash carved out of her stack, where the Japanese plane had crashed headlong into it.

    "Don't, Sara," Admiral Thompson's voice was soothing. He couldn't hide the quake in it born of worry. But he could tug her gaze up again, refusing to let her look at her wound. "Try and keep your mind off that, alright?"

    How? I've never felt something like this before. Is that what Utah felt like? Cali? Ari?

    "Let's get you up, okay? We need to figure out how bad things are." Thompson continued speaking, as much for his own benefit as to keep Sara focused. It wasn't easy.

    Sara's legs struggled to keep her footing on what she was slowly realizing was a blood-stained deck. It wasn't just her own blood. Following the trail lead to her Captain, slumped over a station.

    When did that happen?

    Allowing her Admiral to guide her to his chair, Sara fell down into it. She couldn't stop the wince that caused, even as it was drowned out by the sound of her weapons firing into the air. Her brave Marines and sailors had no idea what she felt like, and they continued to fire. The rough rattle of Brownings. The dull roar of Chicago Pianos. And the dull thumps of five-inch batteries. A symphony of war that cried fire and fury at the Japanese who dared to hurt their precious Sister Sara.

    At any other time, it would have a smile on her face. Right now, she couldn't smile if her life depended on it.

    Crouching down next to her, Admiral Thompson's hands returned to her cheeks. Green eyes stared into green, as he leaned forward and placed his forehead against her own.

    His voice was nary more than a whisper.

    "Sara. Can you tell me how bad it is?"

    With a shaky nod, the carrier did the best she could. Tuning out the roar of combat, she dove deep. Her mind focused on what was going on inside her hull. Where sweating fire crews ran around, carrying buckets and wrangling hoses. Screams echoed down darkened halls. Her massive propulsion plant continued to push her through the waves, despite the smoke clogging it. Or the waves of fire spreading across her hangar.

    "I--" sucking in a breath, Sara steeled herself. She was a warship, damnit! "The bomb got into my hangar. I think the crew has the fires under control."

    "And the stack?" Thompson continued to rub circles along her should---

    When had he started doing that?

    Without realizing it, Sara felt a small smile crossing her face. A weak one. "It's slowing me down. Without proper ventilation, I--I can't go full speed. I'm sorry, if I had been a little..."

    Her Admiral was quick to grab her hands, cutting the carrier off. "Not your fault. We're not ready for this yet. You don't have enough guns, the escorts don't, we don't have enough fighters and..."

    "Fighters?"

    As her body adjusted to the burning in her side, Sara's mind began to clear up. The Japanese hadn't left. Her fighters were tangling with them even now, and she could hear Thach's cries of frustration. O'Hare's shouts about planes trying to get away from the furball. She could see through their cockpits, and watch the silvery-glint of Japanese fighters diving away from their engagements as the pilots began to work out that going behind a Wildcat was a bad idea.

    And as they began to decide that fighting planes wasn't the best idea and that strafing ships was better for their time.

    "Sara, are you alright?!"

    One of those ships was Enterprise, ducking and weaving through Japanese torpedo spreads. Sara could see her over the dark hair of her Admiral, pumping flame into the sky as she frantically dodged attacks. The younger carrier sounded panicked.

    Of course, Little E hasn't seen any more combat than I have...and...

    Enterprise didn't want to see her family die again. Even if she hadn't seen it, the other her had.

    "I'm f-fine, Little E." Sara forced the pain out of her voice, even as her Admiral tore off part of his uniform and began wrapping it around her torso. He did know that wouldn't help, right?

    "No you aren't!" Enterprise's voice was still fully of rightful panic. "Aunt Sara, you're burning!"

    Sara couldn't reply to that, save for a wince as Thompson tightened the makeshift bandages. Instead, he was the one to reply. "Don't worry, Enterprise. I've done everything I can to help her. We won't be sinking today."

    Sniffling answered that, with a gruff voice in the background. Sara watched as her Admiral smiled at the distinct voice of Admiral Halsey reprimanding his carrier to keep things professional.

    "Bull has things handled over there," Thompson muttered to himself, as he checked his bandage work. Seemingly satisfied with it, he pulled Sara to her feet and wrapped her arm over his shoulder.

    In any other situation, she may have blushed at the contact. In this one, Sara just coughed as smoke ran through her hull. The pair, Admiral and Carrier, stumbled over to the bridge wing to look out at her hull...onto a scene of utter chaos. Men ran around, clearing debris and dodging Japanese strafing runs. Marines barked out orders to their guns crews and sailors tried to clear debris. Flames and smoke choked everything.

    The only miracle was that none of her planes were aboard. Her pilots- her children -were safe. Sara could consider that a victory, if nothing else. If she weren't bleeding onto her Admiral's pristine uniform. If her body wasn't struggling to stay moving.

    And if she wasn't watching one of her Wildcats spin into the water, flames trailing along its fuselage.

    "Admiral!"

    Sara couldn't tear her eyes away from her crew and the gaping hole in her deck. Thompson, however, turned his head and started talking to the voice of a DC crew member.

    "Yes?" While his face was hidden, Admiral Thompson's smile was plainly visible. At least, when he answered an unspoken question. "I know, I know, there's a woman here. I'll explain once the Japanese are gone. Is something wrong with my ship?"

    There are a lot of things wrong. Sara wanted to say, as she gently rubbed the warm spot on her side. Blood already soaked through the bandage.

    "R--right, sir," the younger man's voice sounded unconvinced, but he wasn't pushing the point. "The fires are mostly under control now. If we don't get hit again, we can make it back to Pearl without issue."

    Thompson nodded, his cheek brushing up against Sara's blue hair. "Good. Well, I think the worst is past us anyway. The Japanese lost a lot of planes at Pearl, they can't have many more to throw at us."

    "Really?"

    Sara didn't hear whatever her Admiral tried to say. Her ears were filled with a panicked shout from Butch O'Hare, far above. When she heard his words, Sara's eyes gazed up at the sky. She didn't need to. She could see through his eyes, in a way. But she still looked up. And what she saw, made her blood run cold and her eyes widen to green pools of fear.

    "Damnit, one of them got past me! It's heading right for Sara's bridge!"

    A silver speck of a Zero rapidly grew in size, as it dove in an obvious attempt to strafe the officer standing on Sara's bridge-wing. The Japanese pilot was heedless of the fire all around him. He didn't seem to care about the Wildcats diving after him.

    He was filled with a single-minded determination to kill an American officer and nothing would stop him.

    "Admiral, get down!"

    There was no hesitation, as Sara threw her injured body over Thompson and into her bridge. As the sound of machine gun fire rang in her ears, it was all she could do.

    Please, let him be okay. I can't lose him. I can't lose---


    I apologize profusely for how long this took to get up and that it isn't horribly long. This one was not easy to write, and things have continually conspired to keep me from being able to write on top of that.

    (among others, I'm probably not teaching this year)

    Hopefully the chapter is at least decent enough? Though I probably won't get as many views/ratings/posts/what-have-you as the other part of Wake.

    To make up for it, at least a little, I'm going to also post two more things. An interlude and the art for our (American) ship girl protags.    ​
     
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    Interlude: Utah and Ari
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    • Interlude: Utah and Ari​

    Tired eyes cracked open and looked around in clear confusion. This wasn't where she was supposed to be. In fact, she didn't know where she was. The bed was comfortable, but it wasn't her hull. Her hull was gone. And it wasn't a hammock strung across a dock either, so she hadn't fallen asleep instead of working. At least not where she had been supposed to fall asleep.

    So how...

    "Mom? Are you okay?"

    Grey eyes refocused, as Utah stared at her daughter. Arizona.

    "Ari? Why---how did I--"

    A gentle smile cut Utah off, as Ari's gloved hand reached down and brushed some hair from her face. "You needed to rest, Mom. I had Captain Jackson help me bring you here!"

    "More like drag you." A much rougher voice, like sandpaper over her ears, echoed from behind Arizona. Utah knew that voice by heart. "Goddamnit, woman, did you have to work yourself to passing out? I had to fish you out of the water."

    After giving her mother an apologetic smile, Ari moved aside to let Joe Jackson step forward. The old engineer, scarred face twisted into an annoyed frown, took her seat. His eyes bore into Utah's soul...until the battleship couldn't bear to look any longer. She turned her gaze away from her beloved engineer and captain, refusing to look at him. She was afraid of what she'd see.

    She was afraid of what he would see in her. She still heard the voice crying for blood in the back of her head.

    "Arizona, you mind leavin us alone?" Jackson's gruff voice echoed in the silent room.

    Ari probably wanted to protest. But she only nodded and left the room, leaving Utah and her Captain alone. The very last position that the old battleship wanted to be in.

    "Why did you bring me here?" Utah was the first to speak. She still couldn't look Jackson in the eyes, and her words were more bitter than she intended.

    Jackson just snorted. "Do you really have to ask that question, Utah? Don't ya know me better than that?"

    Perhaps it was just guilt. Perhaps it was wanting to know that Jackson hadn't stopped caring about her. Perhaps she was just tired. But, no matter the reason, Utah could only laugh humorlessly and turn shining eyes on her Captain.

    She made no effort to wipe her tears away.

    "You don't know me as well as you think." Utah's voice cracked. And she hung her head, lank gray hair falling in front of her newly-scarred face. Those flames had hurt her more than she wanted to admit. "Cap...Joseph. I lost myself out there. I murdered our own pilots."

    Her Captain nodded, "You did. Willing to be more than a few flyboys hate you now."

    If that wasn't rubbing salt in a very raw wound, nothing else was. Utah winced and slumped her shoulders yet further, unwilling to think about that. How many men and their families did hate her now? How many best friends, sons, husbands...

    "But that's a fact of life in the Navy. Flyboys, especially Army flyboys, hate us anyway." Jackson's voice, for a rare change, was filled with amusement. He even laughed.

    And laughed some more, when Utah's head snapped up and stared at him like he was a Martian.

    "Come on, Utah, they're Army and we're Navy. We're supposed to hate each other."

    Utah could only gape at the man, "Wha..."

    Perhaps that was what he had been trying to do. As Utah's exhaustion fogged mind caught up with itself, she realized that. He had been purposely trying to get her mind off what she had done. And the worst of it was, he had succeeded. If nothing else, in making Utah think about something other than her ever present guilt. Or the anger that lurked beneath the surface.

    That scared her more than anything to do with the flyboys. That she had lost herself and that, if it weren't for that, she'd be dead and a rusting hulk.

    She owed her existence to anger she couldn't control.

    "Look, Utah," Jackson got up from his chair, and sat down on the edge of her bed instead. His hand reached out to grasp her own. Jackson's calloused grip enveloped Utah's small hand and squeezed it tightly. "You're worrying too much. Even if someone hates you, fuck 'em. You're not at fault here."

    "I'm a warship," Utah's voice was tiny and weak. "I'm supposed to protect. Not kill my own countrymen!" Tears freely rolling down her face now, Utah looked up at Jackson. Her grey eyes were misting over and she could barely see him out of them. "Why can't I try to make up for that by saving everyone I can?"

    That was the crux of the matter. Utah wanted to save everyone she could. And as light from the smoke-clogged porthole illuminated the room she was in, it only served to remind her that more work was needed. Ari had told her that. She had to do what she could, no matter what it was.

    "For the love of..."

    That same light illuminated Joe Jackson's scarred face, as the aging man leaned forward. His lips brushed against Utah's cheek.

    I--I--wh--

    Utah didn't know how to react. She froze.

    Her Captain just pulled back, and stared at her with a hard expression. He wasn't joking around at all anymore, was he? Jackson's voice was barely above a growl when he spoke again, "Utah, for once in your life, let someone help you. We're doing everything we can to get those men out, and killing yourself ain't going to help them."

    The battleship opened her mouth to refute that...and only succeeded in having Jackson glare at her.

    "We need you, believe it or not. You're the only ship like this, and who even knows how the hell you did it." Jackson clenched Utah's hand tightly, reminding her that- for better or worse- she was alive. "We can't lose you now, and you know that. So for the love of God, just stay in this bed and rest. Let the rescue teams do their jobs, and when that Admiral gets back, knock your heads together and figure out how this happened. Got it?"

    It was a rare day when Jackson actually acted the Captainly role. Utah couldn't help the smile that crossed her lips to see him doing that.

    "Yes sir."

    This time, it was Utah who leaned forward and captured her Captain's lips. It was a chaste kiss.

    But a kiss nonetheless.


    With a small smile crossing her own face, Ari pulled her cap down and limped away from the room. Her Mother needed a man like that in her life. Someone who truly cared about her, despite what she was. She could only hope that nothing happened to Jackson, or it may break her mother.

    "Hey, Ari."

    On a related note...

    "Tommy!" Ari hobbled up to the man who had given her a new lease on life.

    The Marine was clutching a duffel bag over his shoulder, however, it did nothing to dim his smile. "Feeling any better? I know that the Sarge said it'll be awhile before you're fit to head to San Diego."

    Ari couldn't help a wince, though it didn't compromise her own smile. She still walked with a limp from that torpedo and bomb hit along her flank during the attack. But she wasn't at any danger of sinking and it would only be a couple more weeks of makeshift repairs before she returned to the West Coast for a more complete reconstruction. Just like all the other Standards. Except...for poor, poor Cali.

    "I'm better!" Arizona hardly let that keep her down, though. Not around this Marine. "The repair crews really know what they're doing. Everything is getting better, even my leg."

    As if to demonstrate this, Ari stuck said leg out. Tommy valiantly fought to not look down, his honor warring with his Marine nature.

    The Marine side won.

    "Good to know," forcing down a slight flush, Tommy turned his eyes back on Ari. His free hand scratched at his fuzzy chin, as he looked at the girl.

    Returning the glance, Ari smiled at him, "How are you doing? Are you leaving?"

    Her smile did crack, a tad, at that idea. Tommy had given her a new motivation in her life and taught her a very important lesson. That everyone could help in their own way. Even if she couldn't leave her hull, she could still help her Marines and her Captain and her Admiral.

    "Yeah," unfortunately, that didn't change Tommy's answer. The Marine rubbed at his bandaged face, the gash he had earned during the attack still healing. It didn't dim his own grin though. "Command decided to reassign me to the Raider Battalion. I'll be back with my buddies from basic. You'd like them, even if Frank would probably want to get in your skirt."

    "He's a Marine. That's all they think about."

    Ari spoke with such solemn grace and poise, placing her hand on her hip and staring up at Tommy with serious eyes, that the Marine actually stepped back. Before a smile crossed his face. And a laugh escaped Ari's lips.

    "You ain't wrong about that," Tommy's grin widened a bit when he confirmed that.

    "Of course not." While Ari just grinned back, completely at ease with this man. "Come on! If you're leaving, we should have some fun while you're still here!"

    If Tommy was going to be leaving, though, she was going to spend every bit of time she could with him. Who knew when she would see the Marine again, after all!


    Double post go!

    Also, setting things up for later. You know how that goes. :V
     
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