Chapter 304: The Last Seagull
Meanwhile, in North Africa, the Mediterranean was about to witness the largest naval battle Germany had fought since the beginning of the war.
A combined fleet composed of the German Navy, the Vichy French Navy, and the Greek Navy had begun sweeping across the Mediterranean, steadily compressing the operational space of the British Mediterranean Fleet.
The confrontation had reached the point where avoidance was no longer possible.
Inside the British naval headquarters, one question dominated the conference table.
Fight, or withdraw?
"My recommendation is withdrawal."
A naval staff officer stood beside the operational chart, his finger tracing a route through the Suez Canal.
"While the canal remains under our control, we still have an opportunity to evacuate the Mediterranean Fleet. Even if Saudi forces interfere with the withdrawal, we should still be able to preserve five or six capital ships."
His words had barely fallen when another officer immediately struck the table.
"I disagree."
His tone was sharp and uncompromising.
"The Mediterranean Fleet is the only major British fleet that remains relatively intact. I can accept these ships tearing a chunk out of the Germans before sinking beneath the sea. What I cannot accept is watching them flee only to be destroyed piecemeal."
He swept his gaze across the room.
"Have we learned nothing from the Far East Fleet?"
"The Navy remains one of the few branches in which Britain still possesses experience and strength capable of matching Germany. We may lose this battle, but if we fight properly, the Germans will pay for every ship they take from us."
Silence followed.
One by one, the officers turned toward the man seated at the head of the table.
William Peerkes.
Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet.
An old naval officer who had served during the Great War, Peerkes carried no shortage of hatred for Germany. His eyes moved slowly across the faces of the men around him before settling on the map.
At last, he nodded.
"Joe Naya is right."
The room stiffened.
"If we retreat through Suez, how many ships will actually survive?"
He leaned forward, placing both hands on the table.
"For more than a month, we have been trapped in the Mediterranean like goldfish in a bowl, endlessly debating whether we should fight or flee."
"That ends today."
His voice hardened.
"I will give you the only answer that matters."
"We fight."
He paused.
"Even if the Mediterranean becomes our grave."
At almost the same time, outside Port Said, four German U-boats surfaced from the water.
The morning sun reflected off their wet black hulls.
None of their crews expected to return.
Their mission was simple.
Attack.
Fire everything.
Then survive if possible.
The torpedo tubes opened.
One after another, the weapons entered the sea and rushed toward the British anchorage.
Several minutes later, explosions tore through the port.
Fire climbed into the sky.
Black smoke rolled over Port Said.
The battle had begun.
Elsewhere in the Mediterranean, the British Ocean-class battleship encountered a new enemy.
"Sir!"
A staff officer hurried onto the bridge.
"Two battleships approaching from the east!"
Captain Timmy immediately raised his binoculars.
Across the blue water, two dark silhouettes were rapidly growing larger.
"General quarters."
His order came without hesitation.
"All hands prepare for battle."
He lowered the binoculars slightly.
"Where is Queen Elizabeth?"
"At our ten o'clock position, sir. They have also sent an urgent message. More than six French and Greek warships are continuously pressing them."
The news should have been discouraging.
Instead, Timmy smiled.
Whatever hope he might once have held for surrender had died when the Far East Fleet capitulated.
That surrender had taught him the meaning of humiliation.
This time, regardless of the disparity in strength, he intended to fight for Free Britain until the final shell was fired.
"Destroyers One and Two, take defensive positions."
"Watch for German submarines and aircraft."
He turned.
"The cruisers will coordinate with us for the opening salvo."
"Hurry!"
Before the order had even fully circulated through the fleet, the sea ahead erupted.
Boom!
The French battleship Jean Bart opened fire.
Its main guns flashed simultaneously, thunder rolling across the Mediterranean.
Heavy shells soared over the water like boulders hurled by some ancient giant.
Seconds later, enormous columns of seawater rose around the British formation.
"Prepare the second salvo!"
French commander Ken Pico kept his binoculars fixed on the distant Ocean-class battleship.
"Correct bearing."
"Stand by to fire!"
Then the British answered.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Battleships and cruisers fired almost together.
Shells screamed through the air.
Several passed dangerously close to Jean Bart, crashing into the sea and throwing spray across her deck.
The first exchange decided nothing.
Neither fleet had gained a clear advantage.
But elsewhere, Queen Elizabeth was facing a much more desperate battle.
Boom!
A shell slammed into her bow.
Steel buckled inward.
A massive wound opened along the forward hull, and the Mediterranean wind screamed through torn metal with a mournful whistle.
"Damage report!"
The captain lowered his binoculars.
Far in the distance, smoke was rising from a German warship.
They had hit it.
A savage smile appeared on his face.
"We got them."
He turned toward the bridge crew.
"Tell every man aboard this ship."
"If Queen Elizabeth goes to the bottom today, then we drag a German ship down with us."
"Let them accompany us to the River Styx."
On either side of the battleship, two British destroyers poured fire into the sky.
Their antiaircraft weapons thundered continuously.
Spent shell casings bounced across the deck in glittering streams of brass.
Tracer fire and bursting shells knitted together into a dense wall overhead.
Any sane pilot would have reconsidered flying into it.
Joia O'Neill did not.
He shoved his Stuka into a dive.
There was one reason.
Ambition.
Germany's victories had opened enormous opportunities for soldiers who distinguished themselves. Decorations brought promotion. Promotion brought money, influence, and status.
For other men, war meant surviving death.
For Joia, war was the ladder by which a man could climb beyond the class he had been born into.
"Joia, have you lost your damned mind?"
The furious voice of another pilot cracked through his headset.
Stukas plunged toward the British formation while antiaircraft shells burst around them.
Black smoke blossomed across the sky.
Shrapnel tore through the air.
Joia continued downward.
The pilot flying nearby cursed.
"Fine! To hell with it!"
"If I survive this, I'm spending my reward on a bar!"
His aircraft banked through another burst of antiaircraft fire.
"And not in Germany either. I'm opening it in Egypt, right on the Mediterranean!"
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
The destroyer's antiaircraft machine guns joined the barrage.
Two Stukas descended through the storm like butterflies caught in a hurricane.
Joia's nerves stretched to the breaking point.
As the distance closed, time seemed to slow.
The destroyer grew larger beneath him.
He could see the muzzle flashes.
The deck.
The gun crews.
Even the faint streaks of tracers passing beyond the canopy.
For one strange instant, the world seemed almost silent.
Then someone screamed through his headset.
"Drop the bomb, Joia!"
"Drop the damned bomb!"
"You're going to crash!"
His finger moved.
The bomb separated from the aircraft.
A heartbeat later, it struck the destroyer's deck.
Boom!
Flame erupted upward.
The blast wave rolled across the ship and climbed toward Joia's diving aircraft.
He pulled hard on the control stick.
Using every fragment of speed and altitude he had left, Joia forced the Stuka upward.
For an instant, it seemed he had succeeded.
Then his luck ended.
An antiaircraft shell struck the left wing.
Metal exploded outward.
The aircraft lurched violently.
Joia wrestled with the controls, but the Stuka began spinning.
Sky.
Sea.
Sky again.
Then only water.
The aircraft struck the Mediterranean and disappeared beneath the waves.
Joia had created the opening.
Another Stuka immediately followed.
Its pilot descended through the weakened antiaircraft screen, laughing and cursing through clenched teeth.
"Come on!"
"Come on, you British bastards!"
"To hell with you!"
The bomb rack released.
Incendiaries fell toward the damaged section of deck.
They struck almost exactly where Joia's bomb had torn open the ship.
Flames surged through the breach.
British sailors rushed forward to inspect the damage and were swallowed by the fire.
Men stumbled across the deck with their uniforms burning.
Some screamed.
Some threw themselves down.
Others disappeared entirely into the smoke.
The first attack had opened the wound.
The second widened it.
Then came the third.
And the fourth.
For the next half hour, German aircraft attacked relentlessly.
Bomb after bomb struck the destroyer.
Its superstructure was shredded.
Antiaircraft positions fell silent one after another.
Steel plating peeled away.
Smoke covered the deck.
By the time the final Stuka began its run, the ship was already dying.
The last bomb fell cleanly through the damaged section.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then came the explosion.
Boom!
The destroyer convulsed from bow to stern.
Fuel ignited below deck.
Thick black smoke erupted upward.
A second later, the flames reached the ammunition magazine.
The Mediterranean flashed white.
The explosion tore through the entire vessel.
Steel plates, gun mounts, fragments of deck, and pieces of machinery were hurled into the air.
Then the destroyer broke apart.
....
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