wellington (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wellington) wrote2010-08-21 12:02 am
wellington) wrote2010-08-21 12:02 am
(no subject)
Note: I have no knowledge of the character of Dudley Pound. I am taking liberties for the sake of a piece of fiction. No harm is intended.
This takes place during the Battle of Jutland in 1916 between the Royal and German Navies. Britain lost many more ships and casualties than did the Germans, but they still prevented the Germans from accomplishing their goal. Both sides take victory on this battle.
Dudley Pound ordered the release of a third torpedo and wondered vaguely about the nature of war.
Some Gerry ship had shown signs of sinking below the surface, and now it was clear as it waded low against the waves. His crew on the HMS Colossus had had about thirty seconds to rejoice and feel merry before the HMS Invincible took a series of hits beside them -- and her fate was instantly clear. The tinny sound of men shouting, only just audible over Colossus' crew and the sounds of war and gunfire, was distant but no less dreadful when quiet; the noble ship sank entirely in less than two minutes.
Pound's troops looked sideways and averted their eyes quickly as they ran past; they couldn't have watched it even if they'd had the time. Their shouts became more frantic, commands clipped; their only defense against this horror was increased militancy.
Pound felt the deadened sting of irony and allowed himself a moment of reflection. The Invincible was nearly disappeared beneath the surf, and Dudley became convinced he heard German cries of triumph across the ocean as he paused to commemorate the loss of his comrades.
His senses returned to him in a rush: of course he didn't hear German celebration. War all around them, gun fire coarse in their ears, and still he heard Germans voices above it all? Poppycock. He only heard the echoes of his own internal cries of triumph when the Gerries had gone belly-up just moments ago. His horror had been theirs; and now they had passed the buck.
This, he decided dully, was the nature of war.
He hit his fist against the panel and strode off, barking orders as he went. Empathy was a fickle bitch; it had no place in war.
This takes place during the Battle of Jutland in 1916 between the Royal and German Navies. Britain lost many more ships and casualties than did the Germans, but they still prevented the Germans from accomplishing their goal. Both sides take victory on this battle.
Dudley Pound ordered the release of a third torpedo and wondered vaguely about the nature of war.
Some Gerry ship had shown signs of sinking below the surface, and now it was clear as it waded low against the waves. His crew on the HMS Colossus had had about thirty seconds to rejoice and feel merry before the HMS Invincible took a series of hits beside them -- and her fate was instantly clear. The tinny sound of men shouting, only just audible over Colossus' crew and the sounds of war and gunfire, was distant but no less dreadful when quiet; the noble ship sank entirely in less than two minutes.
Pound's troops looked sideways and averted their eyes quickly as they ran past; they couldn't have watched it even if they'd had the time. Their shouts became more frantic, commands clipped; their only defense against this horror was increased militancy.
Pound felt the deadened sting of irony and allowed himself a moment of reflection. The Invincible was nearly disappeared beneath the surf, and Dudley became convinced he heard German cries of triumph across the ocean as he paused to commemorate the loss of his comrades.
His senses returned to him in a rush: of course he didn't hear German celebration. War all around them, gun fire coarse in their ears, and still he heard Germans voices above it all? Poppycock. He only heard the echoes of his own internal cries of triumph when the Gerries had gone belly-up just moments ago. His horror had been theirs; and now they had passed the buck.
This, he decided dully, was the nature of war.
He hit his fist against the panel and strode off, barking orders as he went. Empathy was a fickle bitch; it had no place in war.