Work Text:
The sun is shining, the seagulls aren’t bombing the breakfast bistro, and the pesky Louie the Louse didn’t even bother showing up last night.
Oh how a bombardment-less night that was. Not a single submarine sighting, marines kept busy in their foxholes, and a fresh shipment of, well, everything!
Ice cream, Avenger aircraft wings, enough Marson mat to build a third bomber-capable airstrip, and plenty of explosives known to the BurOrd.
IF ONLY SOMEONE could keep that damn brat away from the loading zones!
“It looks like the last of the avgas will be secured before the next shipment comes in,” the navy pilot reported to the marine logistics officer.
“Take two days from this shipment and disperse it over the field. I want a sure-fire reserve that no one will find.” The officer walked passed, sure this day couldn’t possibly get any better.
And then the pilot mumbled, “You’d be an ostrich to think that.”
A group of four passing by with fuel drums froze, mostly because they were army air corp and smelled something funny about to happen.
The marine executed the cleanest about-face and prepared to execute the pilot with the sharpest Knife Hand™ known to navy-kind.
“If I were an *** bastard of *** ostrich, then your *** with *** *** head would be in the sand, *** Captain!”
FWEEEEEEE!!!
“No bullying subordinates, Marine!” The Coast Guard reservist-supplied MP chided, trying to keep the most professional institution on this island cuss-free. Marine-free would be ideal, but sadly, they got here first.
Also, think of the children!
“What’s a *** ?” the destroyer Saufley asked, assisting in avgas hauling.
“Oh *** a *** *** *** me,” the marine cursed, now wanting to become an ostrich. “Hey, kid! That barrel’s not gas!”
A stouter, heavier barrel clearly painted in deck grey topped the three-tall stack carried by Saufley.
“I’ll take care of it!” a chirpy, overly enthusiastic destroyer that wasn’t a part of this task force—
“By thunder!” The marine safely cursed, knowing who he voted for in the last election.
If you give a destroyer a depth charge,
“This is a greater PLAAAAAAAN!”
The Navy pilot tackled the Marine to shield his body from impending misfortune. The Air Corps staff promptly donned their rifles and joined the rest of their saner brethren on the front lines, the ones far away from the airfields.
I hear foxholes are wonderful in this weather.
Willy D then realized that only Flower-class corvettes and Catalina flying boats could effectively navigate wet ground, so she slid right into Saufley, the barrels, and an Avenger wing.
A bowling sized-1,750 tons scored a perfect strike, bursting the vitally precious avgas barrels and sending Saufley in the general direction of the Japanese.
“I got it, I got it, I got it, I got it!” Wailly D recovered, stumbling about with her arms out. Gravity sure took a while to realize an inanimate object was escaping.
She chased after the airborne anti-submarine weapon towards the Pagoda, a small shack of no executive value and probable bomb magnet. Depth charges count as bombs, so the naval grey drum immediately homed in.
It missed, much to the relief of the airfield executive officers and the disappointment as an army flight lead exchanged a pack of cigarettes.
William D. did not, passing through a wall of the command hovel, a table, a chair, a native contingent, and the other wall before leaping at the plummeting submersible persuader. Along with a mouthful of creamy pacific dirt, the depth charge sat in the destroyer’s hands. “I got it!”
The whole base cheered. Airmen tiredly, yet politely applauded the show. Some merchant marine thought it a good idea to test the landing boats horn, and the native contingent survived being run over by a destroyer. Just another, almost-perfect day.
“Hey!” Willy D wasn’t the sharpest destroyer in the flotilla, but she knew how to make things go boom.
She’s going to ask for a hydrostatic fuze.
“I know where I can get a fuze!”
Uh, Willy D? That’s not how the parody goes.
“Be free, little depth charge!” Willy D announced, hurling the high-explosive can towards the beach with a spin.
Unfortunately, the spin caused the drum to stay airborne a little too long and a little too horizontal. It bounced and wrecked a Jeep, bounced off a dive bomber, took a sharp left around the rear admiral’s Catalina, and rolled on the water until a cargo ship got in its path.
Fortunately, this ship was made with splinter-proof plating, and depth charges are not considered splinters. A dull ring of the hull and a sploosh marked the end of that Mark 7’s journey.
Willy D spun a ring on her finger, obviously proud of her timely actions against rogue surface elements. Then she looked at the red strip of cloth connected to the ring.
“Wait, remove before use?” Worried D watched the shore line. There’s no way these waters are deep enough to deactivate the safety mechanism, right?
A cargo ship exploded, because ships just explode sometimes. Then a plume of water exploded from beneath the cargo ship.
“Well…I think that was an ammunition explosion. Guess that ship had more depth charges on board!” Witty D reasoned, just in case she need the perfect excuse to get out of trouble, like the massive Iowa-class BB that approached the shallow beach with determination.
In less than a generous ten seconds, the battleship beached itself half-way across the airfield. A taller, no-none sense figure propelled herself off the bow like a shell screaming out of a 16” caliber-50. Now that she scratches her ear, Wacky D thinks the terminally approaching figure is actually screaming.
“WILLIAM DAVID PORTER!!!” Iowa screamed in with armor piercing precision, slamming into the destroyer and carrying them both through the mud.
“Hiya Ioway!” Walloped D greeted, wincing as Iowa squeezed hard enough to remove her shoulders.
“DID YOU PUT A CIVILIAN VESSEL IN THE IRON BOTTOM SOUND?!?!” Iowa asked calmly.
“At least it wasn’t the president this time…”