The Battle of Toulon entered a lethal new phase as the sky became a jagged graveyard of steel. British and German fighters locked in a savage melee directly above the British fleet, weaving between the towering masts and heavy hulls with desperate precision.
"Shit," Cunningham cursed.
He watched through his binoculars as German paratroopers continued to rain down upon the docks while another Messerschmitt screamed past his bridge. The realization hit him with the weight of a broadside.
"No wonder nothing has gone to plan. It is the Germans. They want the fleet for themselves."
Though the British still held the tactical advantage, the cost was mounting. French ships were already settling into the harbor mud and the docks were a landscape of fire, but Cunningham's own line was fraying. Several of his vessels were scarred by coastal fire, and one of his older destroyers was already beginning to list, its deck swamped by the sea.
Sweat rolled down his forehead as his bridge became a cacophony of shouting aides and panicked reports. Then, a single voice cut through the madness like a blade.
"SIR! CONTACT! ANOTHER FLEET AT FOUR O'CLOCK!"
Cunningham's head snapped toward the sailor, whose eyes were wide with raw terror.
"What? Who?" Cunningham roared. He grabbed his binoculars and stormed out onto the wing of the bridge. The wind lashed at his face, and the cold sea air filled his trembling lungs.
He scanned the horizon until his vision locked onto a small piece of cloth snapping in the gale. The tricolor of Rome.
"The Italians," he whispered.
His jaw clenched so hard it ached. He looked down at the deck of his flagship, his mind racing through the trap Paul Jaeger had laid for him.
While he stood frozen in contemplation, the first heavy shells from the incoming Italian fleet slammed into the waters around his formation. A towering geyser of salt water drenched the bridge wing, snapping Cunningham out of his trance as the flagship shuddered violently. Almost simultaneously, the coastal batteries and the remaining French ships unleashed a devastating barrage of their own, shells finding their marks among the attackers, several ships taking hits, including the Hood.
"Sir, turret number one was hit!" an officer shouted from behind, his voice barely audible over the thunder of guns, as Cunningham's flagship continued to tremble from the impact.
"The Southampton is sinking. They're requesting immediate assistance."
Cunningham turned sharply.
"Retreat," he said, his voice barely audible.
The officer beside him stared at him in disbelief. "Sir? What about the Southampton and her crew?"
"RETREAT! I said it is an order!" Cunningham bellowed. His face was a mask of fury and humiliation. "Get us out of here now!"
The mighty British fleet found themselves caught in a lethal pincer. The number of impacts grew with every passing minute as shells from the coast and the horizon found their targets. Rudders were thrown into hard turns. Massive steel hulls leaned dangerously toward the waves as they changed course. This sudden maneuver created total chaos on the decks with crates sliding and sailors falling as they struggled for footing.
Student watched the British retreat with a mixture of enthusiasm and cold excitement. Then a specific command echoed in his mind. Paul had given him a final instruction before he boarded his transport plane.
Student: if you manage to defend Toulon and the British fleet, you must abandon everything else. Ignore the smaller ships. Tilt every turret and aim every bullet toward a single target. The Ark Royal.
"Everyone! Tell every unit to focus on the aircraft carrier. Every bomber, every fighter, and every ship. Contact the Italians. Every gun in the harbor must find that ship."
Student spoke with his eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the vessel. The carrier was the heart of the British air threat. If it sank, the British would be blind and defenseless in these waters.
"Yes, Sir!" his officers replied in unison, their voices filled with the adrenaline of a closing trap.
Admiral Iachino received the German message while his eyes gleamed with a cold killing intent. The flagship Vittorio Veneto surged forward as he turned to his staff.
"The Ark Royal will be the target for the first squadron. We shall continue to hammer the Hood. If we can sink the pride of the British Navy here and now, the Mediterranean will be ours alone."
Iachino paused to compose himself. He gave a sharp nod to his officers to verify the strike. The Italian fleet pursued the retreating British as the two giants exchanged barrage after barrage. A lethal game of cat and mouse began while the French harbor and the battered fleet faded into the distance. Only the German planes remained. Their entire focus was now locked onto the Ark Royal.
Another bomb struck the carrier's runway. It was the third gaping hole in her deck. Beside the crater, a burning British fighter sat crumpled. A pilot with his clothes on fire scrambled out of the cockpit while screaming for help. He waved his arms in a desperate plea, yet no one stopped. The chaos was absolute. Explosions rocked the mighty vessel from every direction. A lucky Italian shell had even pierced the ammunition depot, yet the ship continued forward.
Admiral Cunningham understood the trap. He shouted into his radio with a voice that brooked no argument.
"ALL SHIPS. TIGHTEN THE FORMATION AROUND THE ARK ROYAL."
Every commander understood the cost. They were to act as meat shields for the carrier. They obeyed without hesitation. Their anti-aircraft turrets fired relentlessly as they closed the gap, engulfing the Ark Royal in a wall of steel and fire.
Eventually, the German planes banked away because they were running low on fuel. The Italians continued the pursuit, eager for more blood.
Berlin: The Architect's Room
In Berlin, a single man sat in his chair as the latest developments were whispered into his ear. Paul's eyes were dangerously sharp.
"Of course. These Italian fools," he muttered.
Paul raised his voice to gain the attention of the high ranking generals and Admiral Raeder. Raeder looked anxious, which was a rare sight for a man of his stature. Paul cleared his throat.
"The British were repelled successfully. Large parts of the French Mediterranean fleet have been retained, though they are damaged."
Raeder's eyes widened as his fist balled with excitement. Germany finally possessed a secondary fleet.
"Now, gentlemen," Paul began. His voice was low and commanding. "We have devoured France in its entirety. Its territory, its fleet, and its gold are ours. Today we mark the end of France as a sovereign entity."
Unlike the original timeline, Paul did not establish a Vichy government. He took everything.
"The British have made their move. Although they put us in a precarious situation, we are still standing. Now it is our turn to strike." Paul squinted his eyes, sending a visible shiver down the spines of the officers in the room.
"Get me Captain Prien..."
-------------------------------------
Thank you all for the support! I appreciate every Power Stone, comment, and review.