Location- Guadalcanal, 13 November 1942, 1105 hours
Ships- USS Juneau, San Francisco, Helena.
The three cruisers puttered along, voices echoing loudly over the waves. San Francisco readjusted his satchel and smiled. "Extra, extra, read all about it, Japs get their ass kicked and can't do shit about it!" Both of his mates snickered at his usual quips, but Juneau is soon deathly quiet. Helena gives him a side eye. "You okay, Juneau?"
Juneau held his side and grinned weakly. "I'm okay… just a torpedo hit. I'm on one screw." To illustrate his point, he points to his foot. The propeller like spur- and, by extension, the left foot it was attached to- were mangled badly. San Francisco laughed aloud, and pointed at his ruined shoes. "Atlanta would be chewing me the fuck out right now," the paperboy cruiser said, that million dollar grin still plastered to his face. "' Stop being such a damn fool!'" he yelled, imitating his senior's country accent.
Juneau chuckled once more at the foolishness of it. "Okay, that was actually pretty damned good," he said, a few locks of golden hair settling over his face. Sure, he was in a lot of pain, but to be able to laugh in the middle of a war was a blessing- a blessing few bestowed as graciously as San Francisco. San Francisco, however, was not finished. He proceeded to pull his face into an exaggerated scowl, and huffed in faux anger as he stomped to a halt. "I'm the fucking AA cruiser Atlanta! Where's my damn peaches!? How come you battleships get bigger guns? Fuck you, San Francisco, you don't know shit! YOU ARE A BITCH, SAN FRANCISCO! WHY DO YOU EVEN EXIST!?" The more San Francisco fake ranted, the harder Juneau was laughing, his smile becoming more and more genuine by the moment.
Helena was about to tell San Francisco how dumb he sounded, when something happened. Her radar pinged once, twice, three times. She looked over her shoulder, and saw two torpedoes streaking across the water. They were heading straight for San Francisco. "San Fran, watch out!" The redhead cruiser turned to look at where she was pointing, and hit a full reverse. However, the torpedoes were already wide. San Francisco wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, sighing in relief. "Well, that was close!"
His train of thought was then violently derailed by an explosion.
Both Helena and San Francisco whipped around to the source, only to find that their worst fears were correct. The area where Juneau once was now a spray of foam, tattered cloth, and a conning tower. It was as if Juneau had disintegrated into the sea. Helena looked over to her surviving formation mate, who had a distant look in his eye.
"There's no way anyone could have survived that…" he said, deathly quiet. "No way…" Helena had heard from Juneau that five brothers were part of his crew. To think of the poor family that got that telegram… but Helena had an odd feeling that, maybe, just maybe, someone survived. She felt a hand on her shoulder, a hand once soft and gentle, turned calloused and forceful by war. She looked back at San Fran, who appeared to be having trouble finding words. "We need to go. That was definitely a submarine. If we loiter around, they might strike again."
Helena nodded, and began to walk away. She heard the sound of San Francisco kneeling in the water and grabbing something, then running to rejoin her. He was holding Juneau's aft battery. It blinked a couple of times, before making a whining sound. San Francisco just stuffed it in his satchel.