OOC here: http://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic.php?f=5&t=313275
Royal Navy Headquarters, Vicksburgh
Vickshire, Susanglian March
August, 1940
It was a misty morning in the first week of August as the staff car bounced up to the iron gates of the Royal Navy's headquarters. With the automobile's headlights partially covered to maintain light discipline, the driver took the approach slowly as he rolled to a stop. The intelligence officer who exited the vehicle was scrawny, and compared to the gate sentries he was diminutive to boot. Despite the fact either rating could have easily made two of him, both third-class petty officers acting as sentries stiffened to attention at the officer's approach.
“Papers, sir. If you please.” Although properly deferential to an officer, the senior sentry's tone made clear it was not a request. Security was not the casual matter it had been before the war.
Scrutinizing the the photo and authorizations on the papers, the petty officer handed them back. “Thank you, sir.” Turning to his comrade he said, "Open the gate.” The second sentry hurried to do so.
Commander Lofton Neely navigated the well-kept paths of the ground's with a brisk pace, in part to compensate for his short stride. But at the same time it was because he fairly burned with energy. It carried over into everything he did, affecting how often he slept and how much he ate; that resulted in little and less. The grounds were almost empty. And why not? Most of the Royal Navy was no longer sitting in garrison, it was at war around the world. A war that had to be won lest the nation succumb to foreign imposed tyranny or anarchy.
He entered North Hall, finding the familiar scene of a petty officer with a logbook. Neely presented his papers patiently, although a part of him begrudged the layers of security. Meticulously the petty officer scanned his papers, glanced at the clock on the wall and made a note in the logbook. "Please sign in, sir," the petty officer said.
With dwindling patience Neely made his mark and turned down the hall towards his destination. While many offices had been moved downstairs due to night bombing raids, the office he sought was still on the top floor. Taking steps two at a time, Commander Neely swiftly ascended the stairs until he reach the last floor. Another naval officer politely nodded at him as the passed in the corridor.
Finding the door, he knocked twice and then waited.
“Come in," a gruff voice called.
Calming himself, Commander Lofton Neely opened the door to face Admiral Peregrine Tobin, the commander in chief of the Royal Navy's Grand Fleet. Where Neely was scrawny, Admiral Tobin was stout, and where Neely was diminutive Tobin was broad and full. Half of the Admiral's right hand was gone, a war wound from the Battle of the Three Navies in 1916.
But while their outward appearances were radically different, both men shared a dislike of wasting time. Admiral Tobin motioned to Neely to take a seat. "Please, Lofton, speak your mind. I'm due on the next train to Laurel and I'd hoped to take your proposal with me to the High Command."
"Sir, what is your impression of the enemy's campaign of commerce raiding?" Neely did not want to beat around the bush, but he was not going to waste the Admiral's time if the issue did not warrant the attention it might be given.
Peregrine Tobin simply leaned back. "It has proven a hindrance, particularly to our commerce lines in the sea lanes furthest away. While it may not cost us the war, it is still intolerable. To hear some say it, Elly Allen," the admiral said, using the nicknames for the primary enemy nations, "can't challenge our fleet, so they resign themselves to sinking fishermen. But if food goods from Chandigarh cannot be exchanged for machinery from Colleton..."
“If the Elgarvans can freely raid our commerce in the eastern sea lanes, matters become more difficult for us,” Neely observed. He knew now the Admiral had the same ultimate conclusion he had. Still, it needed to be said.
“Much more difficult,” Tobin agreed.
“In that case, sir,” Commander Lofton Neely said, “I propose an expansion of our air and surface coverage of the exposed commerce lines. My section in DMI has studied the available resources available. The operation plan would be to establish new airfields and seaplane bases in sectors hitherto unconsidered by the enemy, with which to monitor and stage ambushes of our own. We've uncovered a plethora of unclaimed or uninhabited islands.”
Admiral Tobin looked at Neely as he considered, though it was clear he was looking through the commander. With that faraway look Neely recognized the commander of the Royal Navy was considering fleet resources and options. "You don't think small, Neely. That would require a significant amount of air service support. But the benefit cannot be underestimated. You spoke with Vice Admiral Tudor?"
Unhappily Neely nodded. The director of Military Intelligence had, of course, been the man he first brought the plan to.
“Admiral Tudor was of the opinion that with the bulk of the fleet massing for our assault into the White Sea, surface assets would be too limited to take advantage of such an operation at this time." Commander Neely did not like admitting it, but he wouldn't lie.
Perhaps respecting the younger man's crisp directness, Tobin nodded once. "Admiral Tudor yet thought enough of your proposal to recommend this meeting. Your reply to his concerns?
"Only that inaction will do us no good at this point. At the very least, the meager amount of resources put into developing a secondary network of airfields and submarine nests will be invaluable should the Tzionese join the war against us. Their friendship with Elly and Allen is hardly a secret, and it's a open fact they harbor enemy raiders." Neely was unable to hide his anger at the Tzionese complicity. Had the fleet not been distracted with concerns worldwide...
The Admiral's face showed nothing of what he thought, but when he spoke he did so with no hesitation. "I see the wisdom in this proposal, Lofton. And should things go afoul in the Middle Sea, fleet elements may need fallback locations." That last consideration was troubling to Neely, who foresaw only victory, but he kept quiet. Admiral Tobin continued, "When I meet with the His Majesty and the High Command, your proposal will be amongst our discussions."
"Thank you, sir." With the Admiral of the Fleet backing the idea, it was sure to be approved. And once the enemy raiders could find no refuge or safe passage, the war would surely be back on track.
Admiral Peregrine Tobin leaned forward a few inches, his sheer presence seeming to fill the room. “Leave the issue to me. Your people have done good work." Neely hastened to stand and salute. It wasn't often things went so smoothly.
His Majesty's Naval Base, Syonan
near the Aenean Sea
Mid-August, 1940
A few thousand kilometers to the northwest was Chandigarh, growing millet and rice and volunteer armies by the thousands. Many more thousands of kilometers to the northeast lay the cold land of Colleton, where new industry was building weapons of war and also raising regiments for the war effort. And somewhere in between on the end of a peninsula sat the fortress city of Syonan, the bridge between the great sea lanes and a beacon of civilization.
It was, to Admiral Felix Travis, commanding officer of Far East Command, an overly romantic view of a what was to him a subtropical backwater.
Admiral Travis scanned reports of ammunition shipments, as he was of a habit to do. Though he personally considered Syonan a backwater, Fleet Headquarters did not. The constant flow of men and materiel east and west was ample proof, although the way they had dragooned many of Syonan's naval assets for other fronts chafed at his dignity. There were only four carriers left in his command, and work aplenty to go around.
Satisfied with the new shells, torpedoes, and other munitions, he set down the paper and glanced up at the map newly tacked on a wall in his office. Headquarters had devised a new operation, SCATTER, which was calling for an expansion of observation sites and secondary airfields. With the operational plan came a list of proposed sites, though each theater commander was encouraged to expand on it as possible, and expand operations areas.
An Able Rating appeared in the open doorway, in his hand the folder Admiral Travis had been waiting for. "With Captain Wallace's compliments, sir!" the rating said as he handed it over.
Admiral Travis took the folder and dismissed the rating. He scanned the message, then set it down. He glanced back at the map, noting the green pins of newly chosen sites that matched the report his G2 section had compiled. After studying it for a moment, he noted the count was off. There was one less pin on the map than sites in the report.
Slowly and methodically he matched up site with pin, until he found the offending site: Valentine Island. Subtropical climate, thick jungle, hilly (even mountainous) interior. A note amended its consideration for Operation SCATTER, indicating it was a disputed territory. "But with no foreign presence," he read allowed from the report. It was surrounded on one side by a series of smaller islands, many nothing but hunks of coral rock jutting out of the ocean.
He ordered the junior officer serving as his secretary to summon his staff and the present officers for that operations area, and he himself began to pull out maps of the theater. Travis had his aide summon tea. A nice drink helped the mind, he believed. A virtually uninhabited island (he casually discounted the presence or opinions of whatever primitive indigenous may be dwelling there), sitting near one of the NE-SW sea lanes. If Elly wasn't running submarines or surface raiders near there, he was certainly routing his own merchants along that route. A perfect trap.
As his officers entered he directed them to the map on his wall. He had the head of Syonan G2 brief them on the situation, then gestured himself as he explained. "I want an airfield here. I want it operational by the middle of next month. We'll place a refueling point for flying boats here," he gestured again, "and conduct a 360 degree search pattern, denying enemy raiders a large area to operate in."
With a chopping motion he pointed to one man. "Vice Admiral Isador, I'm appointing you commander of the 8th Fleet. You'll return to Aenean Operations Area headquarters at New Alba and direct matters with the Valentine Islands. 8th Fleet will dispatch two labour battalions for construction, and a battalion of marines for security." Travis turned to the commander of the Royal Marine forces in Syonan. "What do you have ready, Lanford?"
Brigadier Lanford Sawyer considered for a moment. "My brigade's 22nd regiment is all we have at New Alba for now. Their first battalion can be ready to redeploy as soon as Admiral Isador can arrange transport. If you can spare some Royal Engineers..."
"Don't concern yourself with that." Admiral Travis waved the issue away. "Support elements are being gathered. You'll have engineers."
They were a solid bunch. Vice Admiral Campbell Isador was a prestigious graduate of the Naval Academy, a veteran of the last war. He'd run the show well. Isador wanted the more carrier support in the 8th Fleet, but Admiral Travis held back on that. "Once the airfield is up, you'll have an unsinkable carrier, Campbell. I can vector one in, for transporting aircraft. You'll have to work fast."
"In short," Travis summed up, "we must preserve the security of all vessels of the Realm and its colonies passing through our waters. We will brook no harassment. I know you have more on your plate, but this last island, Valentine, I make a special case of due to its disputed nature. As His Majesty's Government has made no recognition of Valentine's status, it is within the realm of my authority to occupy it for the duration of this conflict, and so it shall be done."
"Who claims it?" Vice Admiral Isador asked, intrigued.
Admiral Felix Travis shrugged. "A local independent duchy. Intelligence does not anticipate anything more than a verbal protest, and we'll buy them off if they make a hassle. For now, our chief concerns will be hostile submarines and surface raiders. A squadron of seaplane fighters will be based there initially for support. The Valentine island should also be in range of your medium bombers at Motak, on the island of New Alba, so I'm detailing two squadrons to 8th Fleet. Once the airfield is up, you'll be reinforced based on an analysis of the situation."
His aide passed out instructions to ready the 8th Fleet and its ground-pounding assets to be armed and prepped for immediate sail and combat if necessary. A squadron of submarines was being dispatched to cover the sector, though it lay several hundred square kilometers around. A Y-range and wireless station would be built on Valentine, too. It was, he thought, grossly overkill. But once the airfield was completed, the new fleet assets would be freed up for other use. He dismissed the officers to take to their tasks.
As lunch approached Admiral Travis sagged into his chair, cursing duty on land, and reviewed more communications reports. Within the day he saw transports being loaded, and squadrons and divisions forming up. Considering the deed as good as done, his thoughts turned back to other matters.
Valentine Island
Aenean Sea
Mid-September, 1940
Sergeant Eugene Vickers watched as the outline of the convoy shrank over the horizon. A dozen transport ships, a couple escorts and a seaplane tender disappeared, and all at once the Marine NCO felt the isolation of where Valentine Island entirely. On our own now, he thought with the calm resignation of a man who'd spent the last five years in remote garrisons. Most of the rest of the 22nd Regiment had, with the exception of the fresh volunteers filling the ranks as old men were picked for cadres.
Vickers had considered cadre duty himself, but had had no great desire to leave New Alba. With all the prefabricated huts up, that island had been a little slice of home. Luckily Vice Admiral Isador hadn't cared what a low ranked Marine thought and had found this island paradise to locate them.
All things considered, the Admiral could have chosen a lot worse. Valentine had a perfect natural harbor. While that meant little to most of his fellow mud crunchers, Vickers appreciated the supply ships being able to pull right up and easily offload crackers and asswipe. With the exception of a single submarine (whose designation he couldn't make out), all the Royal Navy vessels had departed. Along the wharf of that natural harbor floated around a dozen planes, some seaplane fighters and others flying boats. He knew the rest were in the air, plying their trade.
With the sun going down, he turned about and headed back to his billet. Camp, as it was, consisted of a tent city around a network of caves on one of the hills. (Or was it a mountain, he wondered). On the other side of that hill camped both construction battalions, in the open along their pet project: the airfield that was his purpose for being there. Better quarters, huts and pre-fab structures and the like, had taken a backseat to finishing the airfield.
Vicker's steps led him to the tent of Leftenant Edwin Roscoe. His platoon commander, a young buck if ever there was, sat tending to his boots, and looked up at Vickers with a half-grin. "Sergeant. What's on your mind?"
"Sir." Sergeant Vickers sat down on a palm tree log alongside his commander. "Those rations the supply ships dropped off, they're not going to be too popular with some of the boys."
Leftenant Roscoe raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Why's that, sergeant?"
"It's all Chandigari, for the labourers. Millet and tinned curry. Caught a glimpse of it as we were offloading. Not that I mind, but..."
"But the greenhorns will think they can be picky." Roscoe laughed. "I'm glad they didn't pull all you NCOs for cadre work." What he left unsaid was it would be the NCOs to keep the boys in line. Have a problem with tinned curry? Find a shop on the island with something else. Vickers chuckled along with the leftenant as he got up.
"Just thought I'd mention it, sir," Sergeant Vickers said.
The leftenant's head bobbed up and down in agreement. "We'll see what sort of appetite hard work cooks up." With that, the CO turned back to his boots. Eugene Vickers took the dismissal and moved on.
He shifted the weight of the submachine gun on his shoulder. He missed his old Tredegar bolt-action rifle, but new doctrine called for superiority in firepower. The K31 MacReady SMG (called a 'Mac' by just about everyone) didn't have the range of a rifle, certainly, but it close fighting it could shred a squad by its lonesome, and even at range it could suppress.
What he wanted was one of those new Tredegar M1940 Automatic Rifles they'd seen showcased in the newsreels before shipping out of Syonan to New Alba. Modern as those rifles had seemed, they were simply too new to go around. So out of the way units - such as those building airfields in the middle of nowhere, he thought - still carried older gear.
Arriving back at his tent, he commented on as much regarding rifles to Corporal Everett Dust. The younger NCO quipped. "Mercy, Sergeant. We're fighting with shit my grandpa was issued." They both laughed at that.
"You know, Sergeant, we got some of our mail." Dust looked mischievous.
"So what's itching you?"
"Still addressed to Motak, New Alba. Seems to me, no one knows where out here except us. Well, and the admirals," Corporal Dust said with a knowing expression. He thought something was afoot.
Royal Engineers billeted nearby, as did a few hundred Naval Air Service personnel to maintain the float-planes and get the wireless and Y-range stations up and running. Here and there sat light anti-aircraft guns in nests. While not a mark on the heavier battery of shore guns the labourers had dragged into place and set up under the watchful gaze of the engineers, seeing some AA was comforting. All the coastal guns faced the stretch of beach where the natural harbor lay. Recon of the island showed the other coastal areas too rocky or mountainous to bring much heavy equipment, and patrols sent inland only confirmed more swamps and jungles.
'Bout the only part of this damn island worth a penny is this stretch. Hind end of nowhere, Vickers thought. Hopefully the opinion was popular.
