Against the Tide Imperial: The Struggle for Ceylon (The Usurper's War: An Alternative World War II B

among the units that have been here since our former friends from Nippon got rather violent.
He looked out over the Indian Ocean to the southeast, fighting down a sense of foreboding.
Those of us who have had the misfortune of meeting the ‘other Imperials,’ on the other hand, are not so sanguine. It had been several months since the Dutch East Indies had fallen. More than enough time for the Japanese to reconstitute their forces and prepare for the next push.
“Baron Leader, Portal Leader,” Russell’s headset crackled.
“Who in the bloody hell is Portal Leader?” his pilot, Flight Lieutenant Carl Bellingsley, stated angrily, his Welsh accent growing thicker with the tension of keeping the Mosquito level in the growing turbulence.
I am certainly crazy for bringing Bellingsley with me when I formed No. 505 Squadron, Russell thought. He has a terrible temper, never pays attention to my briefings, and complains about everything.
“The Sunderland squadron,” Russell said, hoping his exasperation carried in his voice. He looked at the map, then keyed his radio.
“Portal Leader, Baron Leader,” he said.
“I have attempted to send traffic to the Press Box twice,” came Portal Leader’s clipped voice. “Have sighted and attacked one hostile submarine, position follows.”
Russell quickly took down the information, noting 4°56' N, 86° 41' E was well outside of any friendly submarine corridors. Looking out at the growing clouds and doing some hasty calculations, he realized that the Sunderland was much closer to the approaching typhoon than his own aircraft.
“Roger, Portal Leader,” Russell replied. “Will relay. Bloody ballsy chasing a sub in this weather, mate.”
“Roger, thank you,” Portal leader replied, chuckling. “Pretty sure we missed the bastard thanks to the crosswind.”
“Understood, will pass along,” Russell stated. He checked the code book, reading over the different columns in the gathering gloom.
“Tough racket flying those Sunderlands,” Bellingsley stated, his voice full of exertion as the Mosquito once more passed through heavy turbulence.
“Especially in this mess,” Russell replied.
Then again, he is the best stick in the squadron, if not the Wing. Russell regarded the other three Mosquitoes spread out in left echelon at half mile intervals, noting their movements looked much rougher than his own aircraft’s. Like fingers of an outspread hand, the Mosquitoes were the RAF’s swing to make contact with any Axis surface forces.
“Baron Leader, Baron Three. I am low fuel.”
Russell sighed. Baron Three was a former Lancaster pilot who was still getting used to the Mosquito’s quirks. As a result, he consistently managed to run out of fuel roughly forty miles short of their sector’s end.
Going to have a word with that lad. At some point things go from being a mistake to a habit.
Once more, Russell gazed out the window, fighting down the sense of being in over his head. He wasn’t exactly new to squadron command. It was just that the last time he’d been in charge of one it was because his predecessor had died, they were neck-deep in Japanese, and range had not really been a problem in the Dutch East Indies. Having his own squadron, especially straddling the uneasy division between being at war without actual regular contact, had been hard to adjust to over the last month and half.
“Baron Flight, let’s head back to home,” Russell said, trying to keep his voice level.
“Wasn’t that the third submarine contact the flying boats have had in the last week?” Bellingsley asked out of the blue.
Fine, he’s not only a good stick, he sometimes observes things that apparently escape my notice.
“We’ll have to check with the intelligence section when we get back,” Russell said. “It does seem like there are quite a few submarines around these days.”
“Likely wanting to get a lick at any convoys up from Sydney,” Bellingsley replied. The Mosquito went through a lurching series of ups and downs, and Russell was suddenly glad they were climbing back up to cruising altitude.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Bellingsley grunted. “It’s not like our blokes aren’t trying to do the same to theirs over in the Indies. Difference is, I doubt the Japanese are going to put up with food riots if a convoy doesn’t make it.
Yes, but it seems like we’re barely keeping the lid on things on Ceylon. The natives, as they say, are getting restless. Her Majesty’s government, in order to still the Usurper’s influence, had been shipping massive amounts of grain from North America to Ceylon, then from there to India in order to pay for the lease. Of course, the colonial government had believed it was a great idea to husband the grain in Triconmalee rather than distribute it to the countryside. For safety reasons that certainly had nothing to do with attempting to suppress the incipient nationalist rebellion that had grown bolder with India’s independence.
Good thing we got two extra divisions of Australian troops with tanks in the convoy that brought us up as reinforcements. Otherwise, I’m not sure this would still be a friendly base.
“So how long until the Japanese show up?” Bellingsley asked after almost a half hour of silence.
“You sure it won’t be the Italians?” Russell half-joked.
“You’re the brass, you tell me,” Bellingsley replied. “I half hope it is the Italians, especially as our side was winning quite handily in the desert until Jerry stepped in.”
“I don’t think the Italian Fleet would make it all the way out here without getting chewed up by our carriers,” Russell replied. “Ol’ Mussolini’s boys would be smart to continue haunting the Med.”
“You know that,” Bellingsley stated. “Our fleet knows that. But the question is, do they acknowledge that?”
“Well if what happened to the Yanks is any indication, it is generally a bad idea to chase carriers with battleships,” Russell said.
“So it will be quite amusing if the Italians come out into the Indian Ocean to challenge?”
Russell pursed his lips.
“I’m not sure if amusing is the word I’d use for it,” he replied. “Perhaps shocking is a better adjective.”
“I don’t care what adjective we use, as long as it’s the other side doing the dying.”
Russell considered admonishing his pilot, then