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Post by cwemyss on Oct 21, 2022 14:57:52 GMT -6
July 14, 1902 – Rock Creek Park, Washington, DC The President reigned his in his horse and The Chairman halted beside him on a low bluff overlooking Rock Creek. The morning was already oppressively hot and both men were in shirtsleeves. The horses panted, getting their wind after a hard ten minutes of riding. “Well, Admiral,” the President started. Warm today, eh?” “Yes, sir,” answered the Chairman, “but it’s good to be out of the office all the same.” “I don’t doubt it,” chuckled the president. “You’ve had a busy time of it since former Secretary Long’s speech in April.” The two men were silent for a moment, the stillness broken by the incessant hum of insects. The Chairman patted his horse’s neck, considering his answer. “He didn’t do us any favors, that’s for sure Mr. President,” he finally continued. “Shipbuilding has been going very well, though the recent stock market crash is going to hurt. The challenge right now is to balance foreign requirements against our need to hold off major conflict until we have our more modern ships in operation.” “My dear Chairman,” asked the president, amused, “Are you saying the Navy’s not ready?” “Of course not!” shot back the Chairman. “But in another two years we’ll be on better ground. Take the recent expedition to quell the rising in Ningpo. We sent the best ship we had in Manila, the Brooklyn. The British and German responses outweighed ours two to one. No harm this time, everyone received concessions in Shanghai. But in six months or a year we could have a Pittsburgh or a Maine heading the Asiatic squadron, and the picture would be different." “True enough,” replied the President as he turned his horse around. “Now, I’ll wager you a jaunt in one of your new destroyers that I can make Lafayette Square before you do.”
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Post by cwemyss on Oct 26, 2022 12:26:25 GMT -6
April 28, 1903 – White House South Lawn, Washington, DC “Walk with me,” said The Chairman, obviously in no mood for an argument, even from the Secretary of the Navy. “Don’t you feel this has gone on long enough?” Secretary Moody fell into step beside him, along a meandering path south toward the Washington Monument and the tidal basin beyond. He said nothing, though his mood matched the Chairman’s. “Sigsbee’s department is a mess,” continued the Chairman. “A year ago, Italy; this winter, France. Those we could brush off. Now his attaché to the UK has been caught snooping around Woolwich Arsenal. The Brits aren’t likely to dismiss this so easily.” In truth, the Secretary had done more than brush off the incident with France. Instead, he’d brought in several critical members of Congress to make them feel part of a larger intrigue, turning the whole incident into a tidy budget increase. “Yes, this is a different matter entirely,” he agreed. “Sigsbee is a great technician and surveyor, but cloak and dagger work is not his forte. I’ve already decided to post him to the Asiatic Squadron. The Ambassador to Japan has worked out an arrangement to map the South China Sea, and Sigsbee is well suited to that.” The Chairman looked around at the Secretary. “What about the English?” “Ambassador Choate has managed to smooth things over, and they’re more concerned with the continent right now in any case.” The two men walked in silence, the path winding around the Monument and ending at the tidal basin. “How goes the build program?” asked the Secretary after a few minutes. “I must admit, the added budget this spring has really helped. The two Missouris will be done this year, two Michigans are building and we’ll start another this summer. We have one last Pittsburgh class cruiser in work too.” “And the light forces?” The Chairman laughed. “Try as they may the Bureau of Construction hasn’t bettered the St Louis, at least for a reasonable cost, and they’re still faster than anyone else’s protected cruisers. We’re about to lay down a seventh and may build one more after that. Similar story with the Paul Jones, 29 knots is hard to argue. We’ll have a dozen of those by this time next year and may even start scrapping some of the smaller destroyers.” “Have Waller’s boys made any progress on the submersible we talked about in the fall?” “Yes, Secretary,” answered the Chairman. “Some progress. They have two in work in Groton, but they’re not expecting them to amount to much. They’re just too slow, and with too short a range, to do much beyond lie in wait outside their own harbor.”
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Post by cwemyss on Oct 28, 2022 13:11:08 GMT -6
New York Harbor - October 2, 1903, 1400 Local Lieutenant Douglas Snyder stood at ease beside the other officers manning the bridge wing of St Louis, his dress whites bright in the fall sunshine, as the cruiser led the Great Atlantic Fleet into New York. Spaced at intervals behind were the other ships of the Fleet, and small boats were gathering around and ahead of the stately procession. Two thousand yards to port lady Liberty stood watch over the whole scene, welcoming the fleet home after five months abroad. They had left Hampton Roads in early March, heading first to the Caribbean and then Rio De Janeiro before crossing the Atlantic to Dakar and Gibraltar. They’d cruised the length of the Mediterranean to Alexandria, making repairs there after being thrashed by a summer storm that came screaming, unexpected, off the north coast of Africa. Snyder had looked forward to seeing Rome, seat of the ancient empire, but planned stops in Italy were dropped as the two countries considered each other with increasing wariness. The fleet had instead detoured to Athens then made a call in Marseille before spending a week in Portsmouth. The celebrations in those harbors had been enthusiastic and lengthy but paled in comparison to what was expected in New York. The American press had eaten up Roosevelt’s Great Atlantic Fleet, tracking its progress at every stop and cheerleading the almighty Navy. Snyder knew they were being fed a lot of it by enthusiastic supporters, and the Washington and Chicago papers were an interesting contrast with the somewhat less overawed commentary from London and Paris. Snyder looked up as they passed under the Brooklyn Bridge, en route to berths at the Navy Yard. He’d be leaving the ship here, while the fleet continued back to Hampton Roads. He had a promotion waiting for him and an appointment with the Bureau of Construction to begin design work on a new class of Armored Cruiser.
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Post by prophetinreverse on Oct 28, 2022 20:47:57 GMT -6
Not the Great White Fleet, but it’s still an impressive display of power projection so far from home.
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Post by cwemyss on Nov 7, 2022 9:47:03 GMT -6
October 18, 1903 – Regio Cantiere di Castellammare di Stabia Colton Lassiter glanced up, thinking he heard footsteps, but saw nothing and bent back to the lock. A few more deft twists of the wrist and he heard the tumblers click into place. He smiled slightly and opened the door, stepping into a large, somewhat disorderly room. He’d entered Naples in the summer, passing himself as a young English nob working with the White Star Line. He’d spent most of the intervening months socializing and generally ingratiating himself with the area’s burgeoning class of industrial barons. That had led to tours of the railyard, of the commercial fisheries, of the steel mill being expanded at Bagnoli, and of the massive Royal Shipyard across the Golfo di Napoli. Which, ultimately, had led him here. After he’d sent home some documents from the steel mill, laying out the face-hardening process they were ostensibly using to toughen their tooling-grade alloys, his superiors in Washington had started pushing harder. When he’d suggested that infiltrating the shipyard’s engineering offices would be a very risky undertaking, they’d reminded him that his expense accounts weren’t intended to be unlimited, and in fact he’d been living rather large, with little return to show for it. Lassiter stepped further into the office, empty this Sunday afternoon, and passed rows of desks piled with various papers to a bank of drafting cabinets. He took a paperboard tube from his briefcase and scanned the file drawers. Finding the one he wanted, labeled Regina Margherita, he began extracting blueprints. Each one he carefully rolled into the tube and when the first tube was full he started sliding drawings into a second. With a heavy heart he turned from the cabinets, finished, and strode back toward the office door. He was really going to miss Italy, he’d enjoyed the climate, the countryside, and the multitude of social opportunities available to a young, foreign, moneyed aristocrat. But there was no way the shipyard would miss this brazen a theft, and he expected that by this time tomorrow the Polizia di Stato would have connected enough dots to put him in danger. Lassiter left the engineering office, the last of the day’s light painting the brick buildings with a golden hue as the sun dipped behind the shoulder of Monte Molare. Walking quickly he exited the shipyard’s main gate and joined the sparse pedestrian traffic on Via Caio Duilio, walking east along the waterfront as afternoon darkened into evening. He stopped to look in a storefront window and saw a figure behind him that looked to be moving a little too quickly. Lassiter walked another hundred yards and ducked into the entryway of a restaurant he’d visited once before. He sauntered past the maitre’d with a casual wave, walked through the small dining area, and into the kitchen. He paused there, looking through the window back into the main room and considered his situation. Lassiter had a hired boat waiting for him at the main city dock, waiting to take him across the Tyrrhenian Sea to Porto Vechhio. If he could get to the dock, if his boat could be trusted, and if they cleared the harbor without being grabbed by the Italian Navy, he’d be free and clear. He saw a small man in a long coat enter the dining room and look around. The man started a conversation with the maitre’d, who waved toward the back of the restaurant. Lassiter turned and quickly walked out the kitchen’s back exit, crouching behind a trash barrel. Moments later the man came out the same door, looking around in the dim light. A single bulb illuminated the back alley and Lassiter was well into the shadows. The man swore, shook his head, and walked back inside. Lassiter waited several minutes then rose and started east again, this time through the narrow alleyway. He emerged back onto Caio Duilio after 10 minutes, directly across from the dock. It was nearly full dark now and traffic along the street had dwindled to almost nothing. He waited again in the shadows and saw nothing. He cautiously eased out of hiding and crossed the street. As he reached the foot of the dock, lights blazed. His hired captain knelt on the ground in front of a trio of Italian police, and Lassiter went cold. He turned to start running along the dock, reaching for the revolver inside his jacket. A shot rang out and Lassiter felt a punch in the small of his back. His legs quit moving and simply went limp under him, and darkness closed over him.
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Post by prophetinreverse on Nov 7, 2022 19:22:57 GMT -6
Lovely writing, although it sounds like the agent is going to be a very posthumous national hero.
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Post by cwemyss on Nov 7, 2022 22:59:26 GMT -6
Lovely writing, although it sounds like the agent is going to be a very posthumous national hero. Thanks! Yes, that's the implication. I'm getting the "agent caught" popup so often I'm wondering if the US has a secret "inept intelligence service" modifier. :-)
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Post by cwemyss on Nov 8, 2022 10:44:30 GMT -6
Southern Red Sea – December 12, 1903, 0630 Local “All ahead,” ordered Commander Roger Lester, “bring us to twenty knots and turn to heading two zero zero.”. He felt the USS Buffalo’s engines start to build steam and smoke poured from her three stacks, just visible in the pre-dawn grey. Lester looked east and could see the beginning of dawn through the ever-present Red Sea haze. West, toward Italian Eritrea, all was darkness. Hostile Italian Eritrea as of ten days earlier, when Prime Minister Giovanni Giolitti had given a fiery speech to the Italian Parliament, the culmination of 18 months of minor diplomatic scrapes, recurring attacks in the press, and steadily escalating tension between the US and Italy. His Parliament had responded as requested, declaring war on the United States. The US Congress had answered in kind, and while the rest of the world looked on somewhat bemused, two countries with almost no intersecting interests prepared for hostilities. Lester had received news of the state of war from a US agent while paying courtesies at Bombay. His new orders were, to paraphrase, to wreak havoc among the Italian colonies in the horn of Africa. The agent had handed him a list potential targets, but he was largely on his own to determine what was important to the local Italian government. He’d put out from Bombay immediately, steaming hard for four days then taking on coal at Aden. Fortunately the British government had taken their time declaring ports closed to belligerents, an oversight they’d since rectified. On the agent’s list was “suspected telegraph station” near a town called Mersa Mubarek, sixty miles north of the colonial capital at Massaua. Buffalo had cruised much of the Eritrean coast over the last six months and hadn’t noted anything at that location. But if it were truly a terminal point for the Italian undersea telegraph system, destroying it would be a higher priority than just about anything else in the region. Lester looked at his pocketwatch and moved to the chart table, shaking his head. They’d come well north to avoid a couple Italian cruisers known to be patrolling near Massaua, with a plan to appear off Mersa Mubarek at sunrise to see what was there. Trouble with one set of shaft bearings had slowed their progress, and now they’d be making the approach in full daylight. The engineering crew had largely fixed the problem but the ship would still be a couple knots slow. He sent a steward for coffee and a sandwich and mentally settled in for the run south. Three hours later they were rewarded. The foremast lookout reported a collection of unassuming buildings on the shore, but more important he also reported a number of troops and a small field gun. Whether it was a telegraph station or not, it was at least a worthwhile target. The excitement on the bridge darkened a bit just moments later. “Sir, there’s a ship to the east.” “All ahead flank,” ordered Lester. “Parallel the coast and continue moving south. Let’s see what it is, and whether we can get ahead of it.”. Over the next several minutes another, smaller ship came into view, and the lookout was able to determine that the first ship was one of the Italian’s big Garibaldi-class cruisers. It was very clear that the enemy could interpose themselves between the Buffalo and its target. Lester considered as the Garibaldi’s 9-inch main battery started barking out ineffective fire. The Buffalo was half the size and mounted 6-inch guns, and their opponent backed up her 9-inch turrets with a pack of 7-inch casement guns and a heavy armor belt. While he wanted to shell the shore outpost, staying out of reach was more important right now. “Bring us to zero three zero and flank speed, please,” he ordered. The helmsman complied immediately, and the Buffalo turned about to head back north. The Garibaldi and her consort turned in pursuit on a roughly parallel course. The two ships continued this way for the next two hours, the Buffalo’s troubled powerplant keeping her from opening more of a lead on the nominally slower Italian ship. Throughout the chase Lester considered position, geometry, and his ships performance. His crew was sharp and he trusted their gunnery. A bit of a plan formed in his mind. “Please ask Mister Thompson to join me on the bridge,” he said to an aide. “And have another pot of coffee sent up if you would.” “Sir, you have something in mind?” asked Lieutenant Thompson, the Buffalo’s gunnery officer. “Yes. In about fifteen minutes I’m going to come about and give you a broadside on the Italian cruiser. Our armor-piercing shells will barely scratch his belt, so I want you to put as much high explosive as possible into her superstructure.” “Understood, sir. We should be able to make a good mess.” Lester had time for a trip to the head while Thompson rearranged ammunition, and as he finished another cold beef sandwich the Lieutenant reported all guns ready. “Helm, give me course one three five. Thompson, fire at will” The Buffalo swung sharply to the southeast and her six-inch and four-inch batteries spoke as one. The Italian ship hadn’t been caught unaware and answered immediately. There was a flash on the Garibaldi as at least one shot struck home, and then the Buffalo rang herself with the impact of a round, and the bridge lights went out. “Damage report,” Lester called. “Sir,” replied a chief, “It looks like a midships coal bunker was hit hard, but no fires. The shot took out a generator as well, and we have injured.” “Very good,” replied Lester, as the lights came back on and another shot ricocheted off the top of a wing turret. This wasn’t going to work, the Garibaldi’s secondary battery was firing almost as fast as his mains, and the bigger ship could take a lot more punishment. “Secure firing, course due north, maintain speed.” Lester called for a turn to the northeast after a while, then in midafternoon a turn back to the west. They had plenty of sea room in that direction, and it would keep them within range of a nighttime run into Mersa Mubarek, their objective never far from Lester’s mind. He ordered that the ship’s stokers be relieved in shifts for a meal and a bit of rest. This day’s chase had been hardest on them. As afternoon stretched toward evening he briefed his staff. “We’re going to cut in front of them at sunset, back south to bombard the telegraph station. We should be able to hit the cruiser hard as we pass, and they’ll be looking straight into the sun. Thompson, same as last time, I’d like to pour on as much HE as we can manage.” “Sir,” piped up Lieutenant Kenneth Hardin, his damage control officer. “We have some issues to contend with. We brought the electricity back on earlier, but it’s hanging by a thread. The shaft bearings are nearly done too, there’s not much more they can take.” “Understood,” responded Lester. “We’ll be able to slip by the cruisers in the dark, and we should be able to surprise whoever is on shore. The rest we’ll deal with after we knock out the station.” As the sun touched the horizon, Lester ordered “Course one eight zero, please” and again the two ships passed within firing range. The Garibaldi took several more shots, to little visible effect, and the Buffalo was shaken by several more hits. Then night fell, and suddenly they were alone on a dark sea. “Sir,” called Hardin. “We have twenty inches of water in the bilges, and two pumps have gone offline.” “Duly noted,” called back Lester, knowing the younger officer would move mountains to get the pumps running again. He looked at the chart table and laid in a course for Mersa Mubarek, silently contemplating the steps after that. As they approached, the lookout called that he could see a cooking fire burning in the Italian position. Very sloppy, all things considered. They laid in close to shore and plastered the encampment. After their first pass, the fires of the burning buildings illuminated the scene, and after two more passes nothing was left untouched. The Buffalo turned away from shore, mission accomplished, but now faced a bigger problem. As medical and damage reports came in, it was clear the ship and her crew were badly compromised. The nearest American naval base, at Manila, was two weeks of hard steaming away, and the ship was in no shape for a charge of that distance. More important, there were crew aboard who needed hospitals ashore well before that. “Make for Aden,” Lester ordered reluctantly. “And begin destroying the codebooks. We’ll likely not be leaving for a long time.”
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Post by cwemyss on Nov 9, 2022 15:15:22 GMT -6
April 4, 1904 – Department of the Navy, Washington, DC The Chairman swore, slapped the file folder on his desk, and got up to walk to the window. He thought better of it and first made a stop at the dry bar, pouring himself a single malt over a bit of ice. He stood looking out on a rainy Washington night, sipped, and stewed. Why have a Navy Board if the Navy’s political masters were going to ignore it and order deployments based on boast, whim, ego? The Buffalo’s internment in the opening weeks of the war had made it abundantly clear that forces operating in far-off seas, without bases, were vulnerable. The Chairman had advised, repeatedly, against sending a major squadron to the Mediterranean. None of the European powers were willing to serve as so much as a coaling station, let alone a drydock and repair facility. Raiding cruisers would be risked, that was part of war. But sending a battle squadron to Italian waters was folly. But The President wouldn’t listen to reason, or The Secretary hadn’t reasoned firmly enough to overcome the shouting in the press, and the squadron was deployed. Four battleships, four cruisers, and six destroyers, along with a dozen or so supply ships. Naval Intelligence had found them a discrete anchorage near a remote fishing village on the Ottoman’s south Anatolian coast, and while the Chairman had asked few questions about method, he supposed there were payments and promises made to that decaying empire, who had no love for Rome in any case. For two months the force had patrolled, sporadically, and largely without result. Keeping the ships supplied and in good operating condition proved as immensely difficult as expected. The Italians had gotten wind of the US force operating in their backyard and had stepped up their own patrols in the eastern Mediterranean, even shifting one of their own battleship divisions to operate out of Rhodes. That had precipitated supply convoys, to keep their own ships fed and watered, and finally in mid-March an opportunity presented itself. A major convoy was moving from Taranto to Rhodes through the southern Agean Sea, and then the US Navy’s second major problem reared its head. Individual ship’s captains and crew had distinguished themselves, repeatedly, both in the brief fighting with France in 1901 and in the first months of this conflict. There were abundant examples of bravery in the lower and middle ranks, but too many of the Admirals were a conservative lot who didn’t yet trust that their equipment could stand toe-to-toe with a European navy. And so the opportunity was partially wasted. The armored cruiser Louisville, Captain Jonathan Coffman commanding, had spotted a lone Italian cruiser an hour before sunset. She signaled the squadron and took off at a tilt in pursuit, but Admiral Davis hadn’t shown the same urgency. His report attempted to paper it over, but it was clear he’d spent too much time pulling his ships into order and doggedly maintaining course toward the convoy’s projected position, rather than turning to bring his battleships into the fight. Louisville appears to have caught the Italian convoy, initially biting into the clumsy freighters, and in the process brought herself right under the guns of the heavy squadron escorting them. Then night closed in and Davis broke off the engagement altogether rather than pursuing the Italian battleships. He began retiring to the south, satisfied with sinking a half dozen transports and with a largely undamaged fleet, beyond some nasty knocking about for the Louisville. Two hours later Coffman swung Louisville out of line and tore back to the north, signaling “We’ll do it ourselves”. Davis’s report recommended court martial for insubordination, though in the circumstances that was going to have to wait. Davis had brought the whole squadron around to follow, compounding Coffman’s impetuous decision. They’d caught up at about the same time they all stumbled back onto the convoy in pitch darkness 25 miles west of Rhodes, with devastating effects all around. Nine more transports went to the bottom, joined by one Italian light cruiser. But in exchange, Ohio had eaten a torpedo and Louisville had absorbed several more 12-inch shells. The squadron had gathered back at Yesilovacik, and ultimately those two were joined by Providence and two destroyers in being deemed unfit to cross the north Atlantic. They’d sailed the 200 miles to Limassol instead and at least Davis had done a good job negotiating the terms of their internment. The Brits were a bit ruffled that he’d stood three miles offshore with the rest of his force, implicit threat to the under-manned outpost, but in the end they’d agreed to host the battered American ships for the duration of the war. The Italians reached out not long after the battle looking for a white peace, but The President and Secretary of State had roundly rejected the overture. Leadership had silently recognized the situation they’d created, and The Secretary had asked The Chairman to take a more direct hand in sorting out the fleet. His first act had been the recall of the battle squadron to the US, and they were due to arrive back off the Virginia Capes within days. They would join the rest of the Atlantic Squadron under Admiral Newberry in patrolling the east coast, while Admiral Davis would be taking over the Bureau of Navigation. The Chairman had debated shifting additional ships from the Pacific and Asiatic Squadrons to beef up presence in the Atlantic, particularly in the somewhat understrength Caribbean Squadron. Italian cruisers had been active in the Gulf of Mexico, and shipping companies were starting to voice their frustration. However both west coast units had already been thinned at the start of the war, and given the state of relations with Germany and the UK leaving openings in either area seemed unwise. The major change that The Chairman intended to implement was wholesale support for a raiding and raider intercept strategy. He’d placed two aggressive young Commodores in charge of a pair of cruiser squadrons, with the intent to both interdict Italian commerce and to hinder Italian efforts to do the same. He’d also asked the Bureau of Construction to look for suitable merchant ships that could be converted to Auxiliary Cruisers, and that effort had paid off. United Fruit Co had a fleet of small, relatively fast freighters, the Annie F Conlon class, that could each ship a few guns and a pair of torpedo tubes. BuCons had already started work on arming seven of them and they’d be ready to join the raiding forces in mid-summer. Two more would enter conversion as soon as they made it to the shipyard in Galveston. That program was going to cause a few months delay in the Michigan-class battleships, but the Board had agreed it was worth pausing those to bring forward the raiders.
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Post by cwemyss on Nov 12, 2022 11:46:53 GMT -6
Penobscot Bay – July 17, 1904, 0100 Local Commander Terry Griffin leaned against the binnacle, absorbing Manley’s motion as it skimmed across the six-foot swells. The moonlight let him recognize the shadowy form of the St Louis ahead and if he’d looked aft he’d see his charges, three more Paul Jones-class destroyers. He was the senior captain of the destroyer flotilla that had rushed out of Boston this morning, responding to frantic reports from the New England fishing fleet that Italian ships were roaming about. St Louis had gotten to sea later in the day and met them in the fading twilight a couple hours ago. Griffin expected nothing to come of this patrol, like most of his war so far. Griffin had seen plenty of action as the Gunnery Officer aboard MacDonough three years ago and was a bit impatient to get into the fight against the Italians. The first three months of this conflict he’d spent at Bath directing the Manley’s fitting-out and sea trials. They’d joined the Atlantic Squadron in earnest in March, just in time for the fleet to largely pull back from overseas. Manley had missed an inconclusive cruiser skirmish off Cape Cod in May and the weeks since had been very quiet. After rendezvous with the St Louis off Bar Harbor they’d tracked east into the Gulf of Maine then turned back generally toward Boston. It had been a very long day since the scramble to clear the docks, and he was exhausted. “Deck officer,” he began, “I’m going to my cab-“ “Unknown ship to port!” the bridge wing lookout called, “I can’t make out what it is.” Well, thought Griffin. Most likely a tramp steamer or maybe a large trawler, but worth checking out. “Signal St Louis that we’re investigating a contact, and signal the rest of the flotilla to turn together to heading one five five.” “It’s very big,” the lookout called, “About five thousand yards.” “There’s another behind it,” he added two minutes later. Griffin’s fatigue evaporated in a flood of adrenaline. Coasters didn’t generally travel in pairs. He looked to starboard and could make out St Louis, her bow wave visible as she came charging toward the interlopers. “General quarters if you please,” Griffin ordered, “And flank speed.” He felt the deck start vibrating as the Manley’s turbine whine built. Within minutes all seven ships had closed to within shouting distance of one another and the two strangers had been distinguished as Italian cruisers. Shells started tearing across the space between them and searchlights stabbed through the smoke-filled night. St Louis struck first, laying a six-inch round on the larger of the two enemy ships, but the Terry was the first to bear real damage. She’d been caught on the far side of the Italians and suffered the full brunt of their starboard batteries, one of her torpedo tubes disappearing with a violent flash that started the entire aft end of the ship burning. “Signal Terry to fall out and head back to Boston as best they can,” Griffin ordered. “Signal the rest to maneuver independently.” Griffin ordered the Manley to turn into the two cruisers, judged the closure, then ordered a hard turn to port. He stepped onto the starboard bridge wing to see the smaller Rimini-class cruiser looming just three hundred yards off the Manley’s quarter. As the destroyer turned his torpedomen in swung into action, snapping the centerline tubes outboard. He heard a muted bang from one of the tubes in the waist and in the faint illumination he could see the fish disappear over the side. They were rewarded a half minute later with a thunderous explosion and a towering column of water on the side of the Rimini, and she immediately started losing headway. The Manley’s deck crew cheered despite the intense fusillade passing overhead. It was impossible to tell in the darkness whether the damage was mortal, but it looked like they’d struck a solid blow. The larger Brindisi-class cruiser raked the Hopkins with a furious barrage then wheeled about to the south, whether to render assistance or to attempt to get to grips with the St Louis was hard to say. Hopkins took on a noticeable list and started losing way herself. Griffin watched the smaller cruiser for another moment, relatively sure he saw her riding lower in the water. “Send for Hopkins to finish off the Rimini, tell Paul Jones to stay with us, and follow the big boy”. For twenty minutes the two destroyers hounded the much larger ship toward the south with St Louis trailing behind. She must be having engine trouble, he thought, she’s in the fight, but not closing the distance. The destroyers’ pursuit did not go unchallenged, and the Brindisi kept up a hail of four- and six-inch rounds, interspersed with the deeper booms of her eight-inch main guns. The Manley rocked as one of the medium-caliber rounds struck home, somewhere aft. “Sir,” cried the helmsman, “Steering’s gone. We’re straight ahead until they get something rigged.” “Very good,” Griffin answered, stifling his frustration as they sped away from the fight. His crew set to work repairing the steering gear and he kept tabs on the fight to their rear. While he watched the front end the Paul Jones vanished in a violent yellow-white cloud, her forward magazine ruptured by a six-inch shot from the Brindisi. “Sir, we have a rudder again,” called the helmsman after an interminable twenty minutes. They’d run about eight miles from the fight, now marked only by flashing in the gathering clouds to northwest. “Right,” he replied. “Bring us about to three zero zero, as fast as we can make it.” Manley met up with the St Louis at about the same time Hopkins rejoined, and the three smaller ships set about tearing pieces from the Brindisi. The destroyers had three remaining torpedoes between them, and Griffin signaled the Hopkins to join in trail to make a run from the Brindisi’s port bow. Just as they reached firing position the Brindisi heaved hard toward them. “Sound collision!” Griffin called as Manley’s helmsman reacted quickly, throwing his wheel to port, and the larger ship passed within just a few feet before Manley sheered away. Hopkins wasn’t as lucky, or as quick, and with a tearing crunch audible over the waves and engines both she and the Italian ship drifted to a stop. Hopkins tore clean in two just behind her pilothouse, with the aft settling quickly as sea rushed into her large engine spaces. In the glare of a fire burning aboard the Brindisi, Griffin could see Hopkins crew leaping into the cold, dark water. St Louis closed in and started pouring six-inch shells into the Brindisi, and Manley joined with her smaller guns. Griffin didn’t dare fire his last torpedo for fear of hitting the American cruiser but it hardly mattered. Within minutes the Brindisi’s upper works were a pyre, flames leaping from multiple openings and dirty, orange smoke gathering in the pre-dawn gray. The larger ship disappeared in a towering blast, one of her magazines apparently breached by the inferno. As the cloudy morning dawned Manley and St Louis started fishing survivors, both Italian and American, out of the water. Griffin was gratified to see the New England boatmen join in the rescue as well, and by early afternoon they were on their way back in to Boston.
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Post by prophetinreverse on Nov 12, 2022 23:39:43 GMT -6
Good lord your destroyermen have ice in their veins to willingly charge cruisers like that when their compatriots are being blown to kingdom come.
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Post by cwemyss on Nov 12, 2022 23:56:39 GMT -6
October 21, 1904 – Brooklyn Naval Shipyard, New York Lieutenant Commander Douglas Snyder stood on the top wall of the drydock, watching an older man walking through the cold drizzle and smiling at the sight of so much gold on his shoulders. “Admiral,” he greeted the new Chief of the Bureau of Construction. “Congratulations on the promotion. What brings you to New York?” “Thank you,” Rear Admiral (Lower Half) Robert Marler answered, returning the enthusiastic handshake. “It’s a much larger job than I appreciated, even serving as a deputy for so long.” “What brought me here was your note, I jumped on a train as soon as I got it. It served a damn good excuse to get away from budgets and people clamoring for their slice.” “It appears pretty simple, sir,” answered Snyder. “With the sudden peace comes an equally precipitous budget cut. We can’t build everything, so we must be smart about where we spend.” “Granted,” agreed Marler, “and it’s already started. I cancelled Indianapolis last week, and she was five months from done. We’re working on contract details to scrap Vermont and Kentucky. But I can’t believe you’re proposing that we kill your baby.” “Some baby,” Snyder laughed. “Half built and already behind the times. When the BuOrd folks shared their the new fire control system we spent a few weeks looking at how to fit it into the Rochester and it would have worked. But I also started a couple engineers looking at a better way, and this is it,” he said, nodding at the barely-started hull in the drydock next to them. “The latest fire control, at least for the next couple months, with the same speed and guns on five hundred tons less, and saving four million a copy.” “Impressive,” responded Marler. “And I appreciate your forward thinking. We’re about to start rolling most of the fleet through refits with the new systems, so everything we can save elsewhere will help.” “There’s no sense finishing Rochester just to have to bring her in for a refit a few months later. Or risk throwing her into the next war with obsolete equipment.” Marler sighed “You’ve sold me. Let’s get inside and find some coffee.”
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Post by cwemyss on Nov 12, 2022 23:57:54 GMT -6
Good lord your destroyermen have ice in their veins to willingly charge cruisers like that when their compatriots are being blown to kingdom come. The Hopkins was a surprise... I hit '5 minutes' instead of one minute, and she was in a bad spot. But yeah, I'm pretty rough on my DD's.
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Post by prophetinreverse on Nov 13, 2022 22:31:05 GMT -6
Ouch… I suppose it makes some sense but I never liked the strategy of scrapping nearly completed ships. Even obsolete, they’re still newer than any of your existing fleet units. I always preferred scrapping an equivalent number of older ships and staggering construction pauses to get them out, then do refits across the fleet while a moratorium on new builds happens.
Of course having said this now I’m expecting multiple posts from far more experienced players than I telling me this strategy is suboptimal.
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Post by cwemyss on Nov 14, 2022 7:38:29 GMT -6
Ouch… I suppose it makes some sense but I never liked the strategy of scrapping nearly completed ships. Even obsolete, they’re still newer than any of your existing fleet units. I always preferred scrapping an equivalent number of older ships and staggering construction pauses to get them out, then do refits across the fleet while a moratorium on new builds happens. Of course having said this now I’m expecting multiple posts from far more experienced players than I telling me this strategy is suboptimal. I do some of both... I hate giving up the 'sunk cost' of the partially built ship, but it's war budget anyway. Rochester was so newly started (~6 months), and the "new design" costs for Toledo so low, that it was an easy choice. Scrapping Indianapolis 3/4 complete was a tougher choice... basically, it was much bigger and so more expensive to maintain, 2 knots slower, with much less effective weapons and fire control than a Toledo. 22 knots and 4x9 mains on Central R/F, backed by 12 x 6 secondaries and 14x3 tertiary (both local) vs 24 knots and 10x8 mains on Central Firing backed by 12x4 secondaries. It was going to get scrapped in a couple years when BC's start coming in, and killing it now freed up $2M/month for other things.
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