Author's Note: All properties are the rights of their respective owners, Sledgehammer, Activision, Lucasarts Games, etc.

Guest: Welcome back. I hope you've read up on Operation Chariot because it is ridiculous. What bugs me is that doing a secret WW2 mission can be really cool, take us back to the days of Return to Castle Wolfenstein or Medal of Honor: Frontline and it would have worked. I think the issue is that they chose to have a plot so ludicrious that I laughed when I heard it finally get laid out... right before last mission. While I will have more characters you might recognize (including some from films), I also want to include some aspects of the conflict that don't get so much attention, including one in this chapter. As for that Lucasarts game, its events all take place before the ones in this story, all I'm taking from it is ideas, characters, and, in my mind, the soundtrack. Also, as a broke college kid, I am jealous of your Garand, especially as I watch prices go up.

For those wondering about the title, 'Cactus' was the American codename of a small island in the South Pacific that was perhaps the most important strip of land in that half of the world in late 1942.


The Devil's Company

Chapter 3: Cactus

Royal Air Force Station Castletown

Caithness, Scotland

2028 Hours, December 23, 1944

Sipping on the free beer, Lieutenant Arthur Kingsley sized up the group gathered around the table. It was a small group, only eight total people in the 'O Club' and half of them were pilots, not commandoes. The Oxford man turned to a friend he had since they met in the 9th Parachute Battalion, before Operation Tonga back in June; Lieutenant Richard Webb, a Cambridge man, sent Kingsley a look he well knew. Webb had been pursuing a graduate degree at university and always brought an unflappable logic to any situation, and Kingsley knew that their current company was the farthest thing from the usual university crowd.

Grimacing, Arthur merely raised his glass to his friend, and they clinked together before Kingsley settled in, sending an analytical gaze further around the table. After Webb was a churlish and unruly Australian, a Second Lieutenant named Lucas Riggs, a man who towered over most. He was perplexing bloke, happy and seemingly easy going but he was known to have a shorter fuse than the explosives he preferred to work. He had supposedly been directed to the Commandoes after a stint with the Baker Street Irregulars, since the army of his native Australia would have nothing to do with him after his assaulting of a superior officer in 1942.

But it wasn't Riggs that made Kingsley uneasy, it was the woman sitting next to him. Rumors about the Russian, a Lieutenant Polina Petrova, had swirled since the woman's arrival. Kingsley hadn't put any stock into them, all he knew was that she was as cold as her homeland but undoubtedly skilled with her rifle, and as determined as any man in the unit. Now, sitting across the table from her, he felt her gaze on him; never before had the veteran soldier felt like he was prey in the eyes of a hunter as he did in that moment. When she turned her attention elsewhere, a breath Kingsley hadn't realized he'd been holding escaped his lungs.

In stark contrast to the Russian were the other four men, flyboys, judging by their patch adorned leather jackets. One was clearly somewhat more put out, the one named 'Trevor,' but Kingsley supposed that was because he had to buy the round. A second, also a Brit judging by the Union Jack patch on his jacket, was trying to keep a straight face but not entirely succeeding. The other two, undoubtedly Americans, were grinning widely and swaggered about as if they owned the club. In their minds they probably did, Kingsley thought.

It was the measured words of Webb that finally bridged the gap between the two groups. "So tell me, how come a pair of Yanks are flying for an RAF squadron?" asked the Cambridge man. "It can't be the most common occurrence, I'd imagine."

Surprisingly, it was the senior Briton who answered Webb's query. "Our squadron accepts personnel from anywhere, assuming they show the proper level of talent and promise," he said in a rather posh accent, and that was in the opinion of an Oxford man. The Group Captain then clapped his hand down on the shoulder of one of the Americans. "Chase here has been with the Battlehawks since the Battle of Britain and has proven himself an exemplary pilot."

"Uh huh," drawled Riggs, the Aussie taking another swig of his beer, "And why were you flying with a bunch of limey arseholes back then?"

The now named Chase shrugged, "My career in the Navy wasn't going anywhere, so I figured I'd join up with the Eagle squadrons for a fresh start."

"Alright, fair enough," returned Riggs before turning his attention to the other, somewhat more boisterous American. "What about you, Yank? What's your story?"

"Well first off…" drawled this second American, leaning forward so Kingsley got a look at the patch on his jacket with the Black Bar of Bastardry, "I ain't no damn Yankee. I'm from Missouri." Kingsley turned to his friend and saw Webb giving him the same befuddled look that perfectly fit how Arthur felt. "I saw my first action back in '42, flying for the Wolfpack of VMF-112, part of the Cactus Air Force on Henderson Field."

That got Arthur's attention, the Commando raised an eyebrow as he leaned forwards and asked, "Where was that? It's no place I've ever heard of."

"I'd be surprised if you did," replied the American. "It was on the other side of the world, a fly infested, dirty, stinking, blood-soaked goddamn shithole of an island called Guadalcanal."


VMF-112 'Wolfpack' Grumman F4F-4 Wildcat

Over 'The Slot,' approximately 200 miles northwest of Guadalcanal

17:51 Hours, January 31, 1943

Looking over the gauges in his airplane's cockpit, 2nd Lieutenant Curtis Wright frowned at what he saw. He was poised to reach for the radio before he reconsidered, leaning back in the fighter's seat and taking stock of the situation. He looked outside the cockpit at the seven other fighters with which he was flying in formation; their charges, a baker's dozen Dauntless dive bombers, were nearby if not visible. The SBDs had the most important mission of any aircraft that took off from Henderson Field.

For the last six months, men of the 1st Marine Division had battled with the Imperial Japanese Army for control of the island. The Japs were reliant on cargo ships coming down from their bastion on Rabaul to the north. These cargo ships came with such regularity that Americans called them 'The Tokyo Express,' but those ships always faced a dilemma. They could make their run down under cover of darkness, but would then have to face American air power the following day as they unloaded or during their run back north to safety. The other option was the one taken by this convoy, run down during the afternoon and use night to unload and slip away in relative safety.

To give his fellow Marines a chance on the ground, Wright and the other Wildcat pilots were there to ensure that those bombers had clear skies to deliver their 1000-pound bombs on the transport ships. It was not uncommon for these daylight convoys to have Japanese fighters from Rabaul flying top cover, and so Wright felt a slight itch on the finger that was resting near the trigger on his control stick.

He had seen action before, and had picked up a pair of kills in the three weeks he'd been on the island, but Wright was still eager to take the fight to the Japanese. There was only one thing working against Wright at the moment and it was the fuel leak his aircraft had developed during the flight. Considering the sorry state of the facilities at Henderson Field, mechanical issues like this weren't uncommon, but Wright was committed to completing his mission, even if it would be a one-way trip. After one more round of quick arithmetic on his knee board to confirm, the 22 year old 2nd Lieutenant picked up the mic and spoke to his fellow fighter pilots. "This is Fox One, listen up boys, I gotta ask you a favor," he began as he took a breath and glanced down at his math again, "When y'all get back, get somebody to come up here and look for me, 'cause I'ma be floating around in a rubber raft, but I'll be there, and the sharks'll be with me too."

"Got it boss," replied James Secrest, a fellow Marine Lieutenant and good friend of Curtis' flying another Wildcat. "But you can head back now, I don't see any trouble coming."

Wright considered it for a second, but quickly dismissed that option. "Just 'cause we don't see 'em don't mean they aren't out there Jim. I'ma stay here till the bombers are clear, just stick with me and make sure someone comes looking for me when you get back."

"Alright you crazy S.O.B." replied Secrest before the radio went quiet again, leaving Wright with just the drone of his airplane's engine and his slowly dwindling fuel state to keep him company. When the American aircraft reached the area where Coast Watchers had reported the Japanese convoy, the Wildcats began to circle the area while the SBDs began to drift downwards, circling like vultures on the plodding group of ships below.

With the Wildcats spreading out to cover more sky, Curtis pushed his worry about the dwindling fuel state aside and kept his eyes out on the horizon, scanning for any sign of Japanese aircraft. It didn't take long for the Marine to spot one, the telltale glint of sun off metal to his left. "Fox One to all planes, tally ho!" called out Wright over the radio as he watched the two dots get closer, with them clearly diving down on the Dauntless dive bombers. Kicking the rudder pedals, the stubby airplane swung right and brought Curtis in closer to the incoming planes, letting him get a better look. Wright saw the pair of wings each plane had, as well as the trio of floats suspended beneath them, making the type easy to distinguish as Mitsubishi F1M 'Pete' floatplanes. "Two Petes, coming in from the east," called out Curtis as he winged over, bringing his Wildcat around on the two floatplanes.

Rolling left, Wright dumped his nose and dove down, aiming to put himself behind the incoming Petes. Looking back, Wright saw his wingman, Staff Sergeant Jim Felaton following him as they arced down, throttles wide open to run down the marauding Petes. Swinging in behind the biplanes, Wright closed the gap as quickly as the Pratt and Whitney radial could pull the 6,000 pound Wildcat forward until a stream of brilliant tracers went arcing over his canopy courtesy of the trailing Pete's tail gunner.

7.7mm bullets zipped past the Marine Wildcat as Curtis reflexively ducked down behind his dashboard, heart racing as his feet tapped the rudder pedals, his hands mixing them with small inputs from the stick to cause his plane to skid left and right in an effort to throw off the aim of the Pete's rear gunner. When he rolled back onto the trailing aircraft and had the Jap in his gunsight, Curtis pressed the trigger and returned fire with his own six caliber .50 machine guns, armor piercing slugs spewing from the wing mounted guns and perforating the lightly built biplane. Through his windscreen, Wright could see the sheet metal get turned to ribbons, bits and pieces falling off, a fire erupting from the fuselage as the aircraft rolled over into a death spiral.

Sparing only a second to watch the stricken aircraft plummet towards the Pacific, Wright wheeled his nose around to look at the second floatplane and closed on it, swiftly running him down and pulling the trigger. The AN/M2s in the wings erupted, sending a hail of bullets into the Mitsubishi fighter, and without the tail gunner shooting back, Wright was able to line up a clean shot. From inside the Wildcat, Curtis saw the fuel tank of this aircraft ignite, consuming the rear third of the plane in a raging inferno, smoke pouring from the licks of flame before he had even let off the trigger.

Then Wright saw flaming debris begin to fall from the airplane, only when he watched it go, he realized that it was actually the tail gunner, arms and legs flailing as the fire consumed him on the way down past the Marine. Curtis then looked back up at the airplane the burning man had been so desperate to escape when it exploded in a brilliant fireball, pieces were flung in every direction as the pair of American airplanes streaked past, dodging the wreckage before nosing up and climbing back to altitude.

As the pair ascended, Wright saw that they weren't alone, with more specks dotting the sky, a swarm of them coming in from the north. These were not Pete floatplanes, these took the shape of small, sleek, purebred fighters as Curtis got closer, coming up slowly from below, giving him an unobstructed view of the circular red 'meatballs' painted on the underside of each airplane's wing. Despite the steadily approaching Wildcats, the Japanese pilots failed to notice the Americans, allowing them to get closer as Curtis pulled the stick and swung around, taking care to stay below the enemy.

The Japanese airplanes were Ki-43 'Oscar' fighters flown by the Imperial Japanese Army, small, lightweight, and supremely maneuverable. If it came to a turning fight then Wright and his Wildcat wouldn't stand a chance, so he had to make this shot count. With the Oscars focused solely on the SBDs, Curtis clenched his jaw as he slowly crawled into a perfect firing position behind the trailing Jap fighter and took aim, putting his gunsight ahead of the Oscar and pressing the trigger, sending a hail of .50 caliber bullets ahead of the unsuspecting pilot, peppering his engine with lead from the short, one second burst, but that was all it took for his target to start belching smoke and fall away, out of formation.

Hand gripping his stick, Wright was poised to roll his plane over and dive away should the Oscars round on him, but to his shock, none did. To Curtis, still below and behind the swarm of enemy fighters, it looked like they had been struck with paralysis, with none reacting, and so the Marine kicked left rudder and brought his nose around to take aim at a second Oscar. Before he could open fire on him, the Jap pilot pitched up, pulling above his fellows, with Wright pulling back on his own stick, his own Wildcat nosing up to give chase.

The lighter Oscar zoomed up faster than the hefty Wildcat, but Wright grit his teeth and held his nerve, steadily ascending as he rolled the F4F and slipped in behind the startled Jap, biding his time until he was ready to fire. With careful movements, the Marine worked stick and rudder to match the climbing left hand turn of the Oscar, slowly wheeling around to draw a bead on the Jap before he pressed the trigger. The six fifties unleashed another burst of bullets, with every fifth round being a tracer, it was no surprise to see a fire erupt at the Oscar's wingroot, spreading quickly to consume the fuel tanks and igniting the vapor inside.

"Woah, shit!" exclaimed the young marine as the Oscar detonated right in front of him, throwing debris all across the sky, and Wright reacted. Rolling the Wildcat over, Curtis pulled the stick back to execute a split S, diving down and reversing, picking up speed to run down the other Oscars who, thought Wright, were still after the SBDs. Enduring the crushing g forces of the pull out, Wright's vision dimed as blood was pulled out of his brain, and when it came back, Curtis was met with a shocking sight.

Looking up, Wright saw that the Japanese fighters had turned around, and were now heading towards him and Felaton, diving down on the pair of Marines. Instinctively, Wright grabbed the mic and hastily ordered, "Fox 2, weave." Curtis cranked his stick left while Felaton went right, the Marines putting distance between each other before covering about 150 feet and reversing their turns, heading back towards each other right as the swarm of enemy fighters was upon them.

The maneuver employed Felaton and Wright was called the 'Thatch Weave' and named after its creator. A simple defensive tactic, the two Wildcats would make turns loose enough to allow them to turn tighter so they could support the other, while not being so loose that they lost the support of the other plane. Rolling his plane back to the left and looking up over his shoulder, Wright saw the Oscars circle like birds of prey above the Wildcats, looking for an opening that Curtis was determined not to give them as he pulled his stick back and crossed with his wingman yet again. "This is Fox One, I gotta lot o' Japs over here boys," Wright called over the radio, grunting as he checked his tail, "Wouldn't mind a little help."

Tapping rudder to kick his nose around as he reversed his turn once more, Curtis looked across at Felaton to see that the Staff Sergeant hadn't pulled tight enough and left himself exposed. One of the hovering Ki-43s seized the opportunity, swooping in on Wildcat and unleashing a stream of machine gun fire before Curtis could bring his own guns to bear. Wright could only watch Japanese fighter's 12.7mm rounds pepper his friend's fighter, chewing through the engine as it began to belch a thick trail of black smoke and the stricken Wildcat straighten out, opening the range before the canopy slid back and Felaton bailed out of the doomed plane.

With his mutual support gone, Wright was now alone and vulnerable to the remaining Oscars, and the experienced Japanese pilots wasted no time pouncing upon the vulnerable Wildcat. "Oh shit," breathed Curtis as he kicked his rudder, jinking erratically in an effort to shake his pursuer, but despite his best efforts, the nimble Oscar stayed glued to the Wildcat's tail. Throwing his plane across the sky, the embattled Marine whipped his head around, trying to look over his other shoulder to see where the Oscar was when he saw a flash of movement off his nose.

"Hang on Fox One!" shouted Secrest as the oncoming Wildcat opened fire, a blanket of lead flying over Wright's canopy before the blue fighter shot past, mere feet separating the two aircraft.

Twisting in his seat, Wright saw the Oscar peel away, Secrest hot on his tail. The adrenaline wore off in an instant, and the Marine slouched in his seat, taking several deep breaths as he looked over his instruments and took in his surroundings. He was okay, other than his fuel state, but when a quick look around revealed that he was utterly alone in his patch of sky, with no sign of any of the bombers he was assigned to protect, his fellow Wildcats, or enemy planes, Curtis weighed his options. "Helluva day, better head home," he mused after a moment's thought. "I got…" shit he thought as his mind rewound the last few minutes, "Was it four?" Either way, he was an ace, and the Marine's heart, and ego, swelled at that thought.

Putting the setting sun on his right wing, Wright pointed his fighter south, towards home, and opened the throttle, fuel be damned. After about ten minutes had elapsed, he could see the retiring SBD dive bombers ahead, which he was quickly gaining on as they headed back to Henderson Field. A look back down at his fuel gauge caused most of the comfort being among friends instilled to vanish, since there wasn't a hope in hell he'd make it back. "At least they can give a more exact position of where I go down…."

Looking around, a glint of metal caught Wright's eye, and he focused above him, to his left, and he saw two fighters diving on the bombers from 3 o'clock high. The profile wasn't that of the chunky F4F, but the slender form of an enemy Oscar. Curtis made a split-second decision, before he threw his stick over and turned to face the oncoming enemy planes, pulling his nose up towards his attackers to go right at them, nose to nose. Wright's eyes were fixed through his windscreen, watching the approaching forms of the two Oscar fighters in their shallow dive change course, steepening their dive to meet the climbing Marine. When the Japs steepened their dive, Curtis felt adrenaline cool his blood as he smiled just a little bit, and only then did he press the trigger.

The Wildcat's shortcomings were many; it was underpowered, slow to climb, and turned like a pig. But there was one quality which it had in spades: ruggedness. The factory that turned the airplane out was known as the 'Grumman Ironworks' for a reason. With sturdy construction and armor around the pilot, fuel tanks, and radiators, the Wildcat could take a beating. That could not be said of the Oscar, which was lightly built, with hardly any armor and no self-sealing fuel tanks, making it incredibly susceptible to battle damage. This discrepancy was only enhanced by the fact that the F4F-4 had more than three times the firepower of the Ki-43.

So as the two airplanes closed, all guns blazing, Wright was throwing more lead at his opponents than the two of them were shooting back, and his plane was better able to absorb the punishment. Pulling back on the stick and kicking his rudder, Curtis walked his tracers onto the lead Oscar, and the .50 caliber rounds made short work of the Ki-43, chewing the plane apart until the entire airplane exploded right before the merge, the massive fireball filling Wright's view as he had no choice but to plow straight through the debris. Instinctively, he ducked down behind his dashboard, but Curtis could see the engine of the vanquished fighter pass by him, propeller still turning even if it was no longer attached to the airplane it belonged to. Chunks of the destroyed plane peppered Wright's Wildcat, spiderwebbing his canopy and pounding on his fuselage like a hailstorm.

Emerging back into the dimming sky, Wright looked around and let out a sigh of relief, his engine was still working, and a quick check of his controls confirmed that he still was flying his airplane. Looking around, Curtis saw that the second Oscar had already started to turn and would be on him in a few short seconds, so Wright reacted by putting his nose down and diving for the sea, hoping to outrun enemy plane. Seeing the ocean get ever closer as his altimeter spun, and in no rush to tie the record for low altitude flight, Curtis pulled back on the stick, leveling the Wildcat out about 100 feet off the waves before looking back over his shoulder. "Fuck…."

The Oscar was right behind him, determined not to let the American escape as he barreled in, and he was almost in shooting range. With the Grumman, Curtis knew, he only had one hope. He couldn't fly straight; the Oscar was faster and could run him down. A turn was an even worse option, since the lighter Ki-43 would easily pull inside any move Wright could make. Pulling up was no good either, since all that would do was give his broadside to the enemy, making him an even easier target. If he pulled up hard enough to force an overshoot, the underpowered F4F would stall, and at such low altitude, Wright's airplane would very quickly become a submarine. The only chance Wright had to survive, was to fool the pilot chasing him.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the quickly closing Oscar, Wright waited as long as he dared, hoping to sucker the Jap in, and only when he could see the ring of red paint around the enemy's engine cowling did Curtis act. Throwing his stick to the left and jamming his right foot hard down on the rudder pedal, Wright's airplane nosed right while rolling left, skidding through the air and bleeding speed as he, effectively, locked his brakes. It took every bit of self-control the Marine had to prevent himself from leaping out of his seat when he saw the Oscar barrel towards him, desperately trying to lose speed by duplicating the skid, but Wright saw that the Jap'd overcooked it, fishtailing his fighter as the two planes wound up wingtip to wingtip.

Looking across, Wright saw the enemy pilot as the Jap looked at him, and he was able to get a good look at his face, taking in the frantic, wide eyes and flaring nose. "Got you, you sonofabitch," whispered Curtis, not feeling an ounce of pity in that moment as he straightened his airplane out and chopped throttle, calmly letting the Oscar cruise out in front of him and right into his gunsight. With the range being point blank, there was no chance Wright could miss, and the six fifties wrought a devastating toll on the Oscar, shredding the sheet metal, tearing of controls, and chewing up structural elements until the entire plane disintegrated before Wright's eyes, and careened into the sea.

Not liking being so close to the water, Curtis climbed steadily, slowly gaining a bit of altitude as he continued south, towards home. Looking through his canopy, Wright felt his heat leap when he saw land in the distance, and since the needle on his fuel gauge was hovering over 'E,' the Marine hoped desperately it was Guadalcanal. Checking his airspeed and compass, he took a guess at where he was heading, but needed to know the time to have a clue at how far he had to go. Taking his left hand off the throttle and raising it up, Wright looked at the face to see that it was a quarter to.

He never saw what hour it was a quarter to, however, because a Japanese bullet punched through the canopy and tore the Marine's watch off his wrist.


Royal Air Force Station Castletown

Caithness, Scotland

2037 Hours, December 23, 1944

"What?" blurted Petrova, the Russian finding herself staring, opened mouthed, at this American as he recounted his tale. Like the others, she had slowly found herself drawn into his recounting of this mission, begrudgingly respecting his decision to stay behind and protect his comrades and impressed by his claimed exploits.

Yet this latest claim had prompted the Sniper to speak for the first time since sitting at this table, and it seemed as if she wasn't the only one who grew suspicious. "I agree with the lady there!" declared the Australian loudly, slamming his third empty glass down. Wright, for his part, sipped on his, unperturbed by Riggs' outburst as the Australian continued. "That's a crock o shite, mate, you're having us on! You're telling me that you shoot down six japs in one day, but then the seventh…."

"Fired a 7.7 millimeter bullet that took my wristwatch off," finished Curtis calmly. "That kinda scared me."

"Oh really?" answered Riggs, his words ever so slightly slurred. "I don't know how many wankers you fooled with that one, but you aren't gonna fool me, mate!" declared the Australian as he stood up and jammed a thumb in his own chest.

Setting his glass down, Wright smiled slightly as he rolled up the left sleeve of his jacket and then held up his arm for all to see. Polina's eyes widened as she saw a faint, but visible scar from a grazing bullet trail across the Marine Aviator's wrist, right where one would wear a watch. "Well I'll be damned," muttered one of the Englishmen, and Polina found herself taking a drink, because she had found herself enraptured as Wright resumed his story.


In 'The Slot'

Approximately 4 miles west of Guadalcanal

23:38 Hours, January 31, 1943

Clinging to his life vest, a weary Curtis Wright rode the swells of the waves under the moonlight, and he instinctively raised his left arm to check the time, only to be reminded that his watch had been shot off. Letting out a sigh, the Marine had to admit, at least to himself, that his watch was far from his greatest loss. The same Oscar that had shot his watch off had continued to pump lead into his Wildcat, wrecking his controls, prop, and engine, and before he'd even been able to react, his plane was burning, leaving Wright no choice but to bail out. That had been just before dark, several hours ago, and it was now deep into the night, even if Wright didn't know exactly how deep.

His hand fell back into the water with a splash, and Wright let his head rest against the nearly soaked through life vest. His whole body ached, and Curtis couldn't even manage a moment of rest, tasting the salt water that managed to get into his mouth before he heard a new sound, one that had his head flying up and looking around, peering into the moonlight night, the Marine tried to make out the source of the low, distant rumbling. As time passed, Wright could tell that the sound was steadily approaching, and the bleary-eyed Marine Aviator saw a shape in the distance, slowly getting closer and the silhouette becoming more defined as the moon illuminated it.

It was a sleek, low boat, with a towering mast amidships and an array of guns protruding from every corner of the vessel. Despite the menacing, predatory appearance, Wright let out a sigh of relief, because this was an American PT boat, the crews lurking the waters off Guadalcanal every night, hunting any Japanese ships that managed to slip by the aircraft of Henderson Field. With renewed heart, Wright waved his hand, making as much of a fuss as he dared, not caring if he also attracted any sharks that were prowling about. "Hey! Hey over here you fucking squids!" shouted Curtis, until at last the wooden hulled boat turned towards him and came straight on.

Like a surfaced shark, the grey painted PT boat raced at the downed Pilot until the thrumming of its three V-12 engines fell silent and the craft drifted past Wright, allowing the Pilot to get a good, up close look at his savior. On the bow, the designation 'PT-114' was painted, while on deck were the guns, a larger one pointed out over the nose and one looking out the wing forward of the small bridge amidships. Sailors on the deck peered over the sides, shining a flashlight down at the Marine as a second brandished a submachine gun. "Looky here! A flyboy that lost his wings!" called the one with the light, "Hey Buck, what've our planes done for us lately?"

"Who gives a fuck?" shot back the exhausted Pilot. "Just throw me a damn rope!"

"We ain't gonna throw no rope to some lazy Pilot!" returned the one with the gun. "Way I see it, we've got a busy night, and you'll still be here when we get back. So you gotta be worth us fishing you out."

Wright blinked wondering if he was so thirsty that he was hallucinating the whole encounter before finally hollering. "I killed six jap fighters today you damn squid! If that don't prove I'm worth it then you can go fuck yourself asshole."

The two sailors on deck turned to look at each other before a rope sailed over the side of the craft and plonked into the water beside Curtis before a third man appeared on the side. "That's enough you two," said a calmer, authoritative voice. "White, Buckley, pull him aboard, and quit shining that damn light unless you want to get the attention of some Jap floatplane."

Mellowing, the two men complied, "Aye skipper," said one as Wright grabbed hold of the rope and was dragged to the back of the 80 foot long craft. Along the way, he got a good look at the tubes that had the rockets, the twin mount of .50 caliber Browning machine guns, the tubes holding the two 21-inch torpedoes on this side of the ship, and lastly the single 40mm Bofors gun on the fantail where he got a look at the name of the craft, her crew having christened the boat as Silver Dollar.

Hauled up onto the wooden boat, coughing as he tossed his life vest and shook his head in a vain effort to get the water from his hair when a canteen appeared before him. Taking it, Wright downed the contents greedily before looking up at the man who had offered it, who was offering the Marine a hand, "Ensign Pete Mattingly, welcome aboard my boat flyboy," he introduced.

"2nd Lieutenant Curtis Wright, thanks for the lift, squid," replied the Marine as he handed the canteen back to Mattingly. The Ensign took it before making a signal with his hand that prompted the crew to start the engines of the ship to get Silver Dollar back underway. With the howl of the three V-12s drowning out any chance at conversation, Mattingly gave Wrights arm a tug and guided the still shaky Pilot forwards while the boat picked up speed. Even though he only had the faint moonlight to see, and almost no knowledge of PT boat procedure, Wright could tell that something was up. It seemed every crewman was set to task, and most of those tasks had to do with tending to the small boats numerous weapons. When the pair finally reached the bridge, which Wright would more aptly describe as a cubby, the Marine was given an open can of Navy beef. After hours in the water, Curtis gave no thought to seasickness as he stuffed down the food despite the boat hurtling along the water at speeds in excess of 35 knots. Only once he had finished the offered food did he look up and realize something. "Hey squid!" he shouted, getting Mattingly's attention, "You're going the wrong way! Home is thataway!" shouted Wright, pointing towards the back of Silver Dollar.

"You aren't going home quite yet flyboy," replied the Ensign, "Our whole division is out here tonight, looking to hit the Tokyo Express, heard the Japs were making another run."

"Yeah, I know. I was flying escort for the bombers that hit them this afternoon," answered Wright. "Did they not get 'em all?"

"They got all the transports," affirmed Mattingly, "But the yellow bastards use the escorting destroyers to carry supplies too. That's what we're after."

"A destroyer? In this fucking thing?" looking around at the little 55 ton boat he was aboard. "You lost your fucking marbles, squid?"

He'd seen a Jap destroyer from the air once, and like all pilots, had sat through a lecture on ship identification. Destroyers of the imperial Japanese navy displaced 2,500 tons, were about 380 feet long, and armed with six 5-inch main guns, plus eight torpedo tubes and a half dozen 25 millimeter anti-aircraft cannons. The idea of taking one on while aboard the diminutive wooden boat was far from appealing.

"If you don't like it, you're welcome to get off my boat at any time, flyboy," replied Mattingly without a hint of anger. Looking at the Ensign in the darkness, Wright had to admit that this guy was one cool customer, the Marine relented, getting comfy as Silver Dollar bounced along the water under cover of darkness.

Finally, the boat slowed, and Curtis could hear the engines hum at idle as Mattingly brought a hand to his mouth and whistled. From there, it was as if the whole crew moved together. Every man dropped what he was doing and moved to his action station, taking time along the way to heave anything that might be flammable or an obstruction overboard. There was a man on each gun forward, with another alongside to aid in reloading the weapons, while others were on the torpedo tubes amidships, and yet more tested the training for the 40mm gun on the fantail. Mattingly nodded in approval before producing a pair of binoculars and scanning the horizon for any sign of their prey.

Despite feeling his heart pick up in a way it never did in the air, Wright couldn't help but poke his head up and look too, scanning for any sign of the enemy. "Pete, over there," he said, pointing towards a small island at the northern end of Iron Bottom Sound.

"That's just the island, flyboy," answered the Ensign dismissively.

Snarling, Curtis had learned not to doubt his eyes, "No, look, there's smoke over the top, it ain't in the same direction as the wind, so the source is moving," he insisted.

With some reluctance, Mattingly turned his attention towards Kusini island for a few seconds before lowering his binoculars and turning towards the man at the helm of Silver Dollar. "Quick as you can Robison, get us tucked up alongside that island, but for god's sake, don't put us on the rocks. I want to ambush this Jap sonofabitch as soon as he comes round."

"Aye skipper," replied the baby-faced helmsman before he opened the throttles and Silver Dollar accelerated once more, charging towards the island while the boat steadily tacked to starboard before whipping back to port. Now abeam of Kusini island, the PT boat came to a sudden stop, kicking up sea water as its nose pointed towards the side of the island where the Jap destroyer would emerge.

"Ready torpedoes! Launch on my mark!" called Mattingly as most of the boat went silent, and every potential light was doused in preparation for the ambush. At least the PT boat would pack quite the punch, the torpedoes that made Silver Dollar a Patrol Torpedo boat were the Mark 8s of 1910s vintage, and despite their slow speed, their 500 pound TNT warheads should've had enough power to put a destroyer out of commission. Wright hoped that the torpedoes could do it, because if it came to a gunfight with a steel ship 50 times their size then the Silver Dollars odds got a whole lot worse.

As minutes crawled past, the tension Wright felt in his gut only grew, until at last, the pointed prow and twin 5-inch gun turret of the steel grey warship emerged from around the island. Even from a distance of 2500 yards, the Japanese ship loomed large, and Curtis' fingers curled on the wood of the bridge. "Psst, skipper," whispered the helmsman as more of the Jap warship emerged from around the island, smoke puffing out the funnels. "See that chunk taken outta the foremast? Isn't that the…."

"Tokitsukaze," finished Mattingly, the hate in the Ensign's voice causing Wright to look at the sailor. "She sunk -112 three weeks ago, killed the whole crew," he explained, "This'll be payback." Both men looked back over the bow of Silver Dollar, watching the Tokitsukaze fully emerge from the island, Wright taking in the sight of the clean lines of the Japanese warship, while Mattingly eyeballed his target, waiting for the exact right second to spring his trap.

"Launch starboard tubes!" barked Mattingly over his right shoulder, and the crew of Silver Dollar complied immediately. The small black powder charges in the pair of torpedo tubes were ignited, causing a rapid expansion of the compressed air in the back of the tube, launching the pair of torpedoes from the right side of the ship, causing the pair of 2600 pound weapons to land in the water with a splash before their motors fired up and began pushing the tin fish along at more than 30 knots. Peering over the front of the boat, Wright could see the two trails of the torpedoes as they motored on their one-way trip towards the Jap warship. Looking out at the Tokitsukaze, at the very least, it appeared that the destroyer hadn't noticed their presence yet.

That was a good fortune that would not last, however.

Mattingly spun around to look over his left shoulder, "Launch port tubes!" ordered the Ensign, and the process was repeated, only it did not go as smoothly. The first weapon's black powder fired, but it was triggered just as a swell lifted the diminutive Silver Dollar up, causing the ship to launch its weapon from an uneven keel, and so the torp tumbled out of control the second it hit the water. The other torpedoman held his weapon another second, waiting until the PT boat settled before firing, but when he did trigger the black powder, it not only expanded the compressed air but also ignite the lubricants lining the torpedo tube, causing a bright flash to light up the night as the weapon inside was hurled into the water, motor starting as it charged forwards towards its target.

"Engines!" hollered Mattingly as the trio of V-12s roared to life at the back of the boat, the three propellers beginning to turn, the stern digging into the water as Silver Dollar shot forwards, "Bring us about, lay smoke!" Wright looked aft to see smoke generators on the fantail begin to pump out clouds of thick obscurant as the PT boat repositioned, but the Pilot was more focused on the Japanese warship that was slowly coming to life. To his eye, it seemed that the Tokitsukaze was picking up speed, and soon a searchlight flashed to life, its beam cutting through the blackness until it reached the smoke trail behind the fleeing Silver Dollar. Now that the smoke had been spotted, the Japanese ship turned, its bow, and the gun turret on it, pointing towards the American craft.

"Damn, the first two are gonna miss…" cursed Mattingly as Wright picked out the pair of torpedo tracks that were well wide of the oncoming Jap warship. "It's all down to the last one…" said the Ensign before there was an ear shattering metallic Clang! But as loud as that was, it did not compare to what came out of Mattingly's mouth, "FUCK! It was a fucking dud! Piece o' fucking SHIT!"

Now that the Ensign had lived up to the stereotype and sworn like a sailor, Wright's gut twisted itself into knots now that their best chance of beating the Jap destroyer had failed thanks to the excellence of BuOrd. "Now what're supposed to do squid?" asked Curtis.

"Bring us around Robinson, nose to nose with this sumbitch," barked the Ensign, "Take him down the port side. Everyone, hold your fire until we get spotted. Once you can see those yellow fucks on the deck, light 'em up!" Curtis looked around, seeing all the sailors aboard Silver Dollar brace themselves against their weapons and looked back at the rapidly oncoming Tokitsukaze, which had more lights scanning the ocean as the 5 inch cannons on the bow began to train. "As for how we take this thing out flyboy," began Mattingly as he guided Wright down lower, "It's rather simple. These things have eight torpedoes amidships, we put those out of existence, then we put the whole ship out of existence."

It seemed simple enough in theory, but there was still the gauntlet of guns and searchlights to run before Silver Dollar got a chance at the Japanese ship. The combined closure speed, which Wright guessed to be 70 knots, meant the distance closed rapidly, from 2,500 yards to 2,000, then 1,000, and it was only once Silver Dollar was within 700 yards of Tokitsukaze that one of the searchlight beams glanced over the wake just behind the PT boat. Silver Dollar veered hard to the right, the helmsman threading the needle of putting the 55 ton boat between the oncoming destroyer to the left and running it up on the rocks of the island on their right, causing Curtis to lose his footing and fall to one knee.

As he pulled himself up, the Marine's hand ran across a shape he recognized, the Thompson submachine gun that had been pointed at him earlier. Picking the gun up as he stood, and bracing the hefty Tommy Gun on the bridge, Curtis stayed ducked low as he saw the 5 inch turret slew around to try and draw a bead on Silver Dollar. "Light 'em up boys!" shouted Mattingly, and every other gun on the small boat erupted.

Streams of tracers lit up the night, and Wright could hear the distinct reports of the guns that lashed out at the Japanese warship. Nearest to him was the twin mount of Browning M2 .50 cals, their chatter was a sound he'd recognize anywhere, their fire raking the superstructure of the Tokitsukaze. Deeper, rhythmic, and more reverberating was the pair of single mount 20mm Oerlikin cannons on the bow of the ship as they chewed their way through the 60 round drums atop the guns, spitting out a stream of armor piercing and high explosive incendiary rounds. Even those guns paled to the thunderous pounding of the 37mm autocannon right out on the bow, each time it fired, Curtis could feel the vibrations it caused reverberating through the wooden deck. While the tracers from the fifty looked like marbles, and the 20 mil looked as big as tennis balls, the 37mm shells, high explosive fragmentation incendiary tracers and armor piercing tracers looking like softballs as they were lobbed into the oncoming Tokitsukaze.

With a hail of lead falling on their ship, the charging Silver Dollar was now blindingly obvious to the Japs on the Tokitsukaze. Right as the PT boat came alongside the destroyer, the Japs managed to return fire with the odd machine gun while the searchlight operators tried desperately to keep the lights on the Americans as they shot by. When they merged, the Japanese finally managed to return fire, but were unable to train their 25mm AA guns low enough to fire effectively on Silver Dollar and sent a stream of tracers overhead.

Curtis added his own weapon to the mix, unloading the 50-round drum at the searchlights, or any Jap on the deck as the two craft merged and tore past each other. "Bring us around, stay close to him!" shouted Mattingly as Silver Dollar began to turn. As it did, the 40mm bofors gun on the back opened up, the boat quaked as it lashed out at the Tokitsukaze. Forwards, the crews of the 37mm and 20mm guns hastily reloaded their weapons in preparation to get another crack at the Jap vessel.

Looking back, Wright saw the state of the steel warship and threw a fist in the air, "Haha! Fuck you!" he shouted when seeing that there was a fire near the forecastle of the ship, a pillar of flame lighting up the night that felt as bright as the sun.

It was a sun that was immediately overshadowed by the eye watering flash and ear shattering thunder as one of the main battery turrets fired both barrels. Wright ducked, for what good it would do him, as he heard the crack of the shells pass overhead before they crashed into the ocean, throwing up geysers of water, the artificial rain falling on Wright. The helmsman of the Silver Dollar cranked the wheel around as he poked his head up just in time to see the super firing turret erupt with a pair of blasts as more five-inch shells flew towards Silver Dollar.

The first landed well wide, showering more water on the exposed crew, but the second was closer, the wave that ensued threw Silver Dollar off course, the boat lurching laterally as everyone on deck hung on. But that wasn't as bad as the white hot shell fragments peppering the mahogany hull of PT-114, slicing through anything, or anyone, they touched. Looking up, Wright could see Mattingly's face, blood gushing from a cut on his forehead that the squid mostly ignored. "Bear down on 'em, get in close before they reload!" he shouted, looking around, jaw set.

Wright whipped his head to the bow of Silver Dollar and saw the reason for Mattingly's grim expression, there were several casualties strewn about the deck, men who lay unmoving, and one having lost an arm, judging by the extremity laying, unattached, just ahead of the bridge. "Rockets!" barked Mattingly, and the pair of launchers, one either side of the boat, fired, sending half the boat's complement of 40-pound M8 rockets towards the Tokitsukaze. Letting out a red glare from their rocket motors, each impact tore into the thin steel stern of the warship while Silver Dollar tried to get under the four 5-inch guns spinning around to keep a bead on the PT boat, poised to blow the Americans out of the water in a matter of seconds.

"Man the guns! We're making another pass!" ordered the Ensign as Wright looked over the top to see the nearest 20mm gun unmanned. Steeling himself, the Marine Aviator slipped out of his cubby and dashed to the Oerlikin, stepping over the pair of bodies that belonged to the gun's former operators. Wright slipped into the pair of horseshoe shaped shoulder braces, grasping the handles on either side, feeling the trigger in his right hand while he slewed the gun around and braced his feet against the blood slick deck.

Even if the Tokitsukaze was doing more than thirty knots, Silver Dollar was doing near as made no difference forty, and reeled the destroyer in. The 37mm began chunking away, hurling armor piercing rounds into the Jap ship, peppering the thinly armored turrets and sending splinters into the men inside. But even as the 20mm behind him began spitting out a stream of tracers, Wright held his fire, remembering what Mattingly had said his target should be, and waited until Silver Dollar had come alongside Tokitsukaze.

While trying to draw a bead, one of the twin five inch mounts erupted, the blast wave from the guns disorienting Wright just as the shells hit the water, and a wave of pain washed up his leg as Curtis fell to the deck. Gritting his teeth, the Marine pushed himself up and leaned on the Oerlikin, aiming more by instinct than with the sights on top as he held his finger poised over the trigger. Scanning the ship for his target, Wright caught sight of his opposite number, an exposed 25mm triple mount taking aim at him, the face of the Jap manning the gun illuminated by the fire burning at the front of the Destroyer. Without hesitation, Wright shifted and pulled the trigger of his gun, sending a burst of shells through the night and into the exposed jap gun crew, able to see fleeting bits of the carnage he caused. One shell punched through the thin steel and exploded, sending shrapnel through the loading crew, causing them to collapse just as an armor piercing round tore the arm off one man as he fell to the deck. For the enemy gunner in his mounts seat, he got the worst of it, a high explosive tracer round sliced through the night, the phosphorus on the trail of the projectile burning brightly as it bore down on the gunner and embedded itself in his chest before exploding, painting the gun he had been manning in gore as Silver Dollar tore past.

With only seconds, and half of his ammunition left, Wright shifted his focus to the quadruple torpedo launcher amidships on the Tokitsukaze. Gritting his teeth and pulling the trigger, Wright saw his stream of tracers join the others pouring from the PT boat, seeing them pepper the funnel before wresting the gun down and letting the forward motion of Silver Dollar bring his fire onto the forward launcher. With his shots walked onto his target, Wright spun the gun around on its pintle, holding the tracers on the torpedo launcher until his shots had achieved the desired effect. A 20-millimeter armor piercing tracer round found a gap in the armor of the torpedo turret and buried itself in the outermost Type 93 Long Lance torpedo, specifically, right in the tank that held the compressed air to burn in the motor. In almost any other torpedo, this would have been bad, but not catastrophic.

But because the white-hot slug buried itself in the pure oxygen of a Type 93, the resulting explosion was of cataclysmic proportions. Wright was thrown from his gun as Silver Dollar was tossed like a toy in a bathtub, riding the wave generated by the explosion as it chained to the other torpedoes in the launcher and broke the back of Tokitsukaze, splitting the ship in two.

Bullet ridden and battle scarred, the plucky PT boat turned away from the sinking destroyer, slinking back into the night as Wright tried to stand back up, only for his leg to fail him. Collapsing back to the deck, the Marine faintly heard someone yell, "Flyboy!" before Mattingly was looming over him. "Shit, you're hit, you're bleeding jarhead," informed the squid, "Just hang on, we're heading back home."

"Tell em…" managed Curtis as his vision began to swim, "Tell 'em I got seven motherfuckers."


Royal Air Force Station Castletown

Caithness, Scotland

2051 Hours, December 23, 1944

"And?" asked Polina, breaking the silence left in the wake of the American pilot. Even if it was just a single word, like before it attracted the attention of the others around the table. The Soviet Sharpshooter met their gazes with a glare as cold as her homeland's winters, causing them to avert their eyes as everyone looked back to Wright, who had just finished his beer.

Well, everyone except for the Australian, who was slumped, passed out in his chair, with no less than nine empty glasses on the table before him.

Pursing her lips at that sight, Petrova was put out by the fact that these were those she was forced to rely upon if she hoped to kill Freisinger. Looking back at Wright, she had to admit to herself, somewhat begrudgingly, that at least this Marine Pilot was somewhat tolerable. The Marine cleared his throat and spoke, "And, as it turns out, I only got six of the motherfuckers!" he announced, throwing his hands up in performative exaggeration, "I learned it after they shipped me back to a hospital in Pearl Harbor. That first Oscar supposedly limped back home, I call bullshit, but that's what the official record says."

The dark skinned Englishman spoke next, "You were in hospital then?" he asked, and the American nodded. "For how long?"

"Two months," replied the Pilot, "I got an infection on the trip back and nearly lost my leg, but the docs did their thing and I pulled through. I never did go back to the Wolfpack though. After my time in Hawaii I got sent to… well… that's a story for another time," he said with a smile. "So, that's my story, who's next?"


Closing Notes: Alright, I had a lot of fun here with this OC, getting rid of Wade Jackson and replacing him with my own character. Like Jackson, I based my pilot's exploits on a real man, but instead of Richard Best I went with Jefferson DeBlanc. For those of you in the USA (or who have a VPN), the details of his engagement are recounted on the HISTORY channel, specifically the Dogfights episode Season, Episode 4, including an appearance from DeBlanc himself, and that alone makes it worth watching. I did change one thing, and that was what happened after DeBlanc got shot down, because while that story is incredible, I wanted a different tone, more action basically. So I dug through the fascniating naval campaign that took place in the Solomons and that's where the idea for Wright getting picked up by a PT boat came from. As for the engagement that followed, that is inspired by the actions of PT-109, captained by one LTJG John F. Kennedy. Though, if you're wondering, there really was a PT-114 named Silver Dollar in the Solomons at this time. None of that sequence is historical, but I wanted to make it close enough that people would still be invested, right down to American torpedoes being absolute garbage.

Hopefully you all enjoyed this mix of CoD action setpieces and history lesson, as well as how the characters are shaping up. Up next will be another bit of me applying some history to Vanguard. Expect that in two weeks' time.

Until then, Stay Frosty, Misfit Delta out.