Collab with [@Mao Mao]
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[center][url=https://i.imgur.com/1PEQlS3.png][img]https://c4.wallpaperflare.com/wallpaper/958/966/512/argentina-country-argentina-flag-abstract-other-hd-art-wallpaper-thumb.jpg[/img][/url][/center]
[b][center]THE REPUBLIC OF ARGENTINA[/center][/b][/h1][/sup][/color]
[indent][right][COLOR=white][i]July 2, 1955[/i][/color][/right][/indent][hr]

[h1]BATTLE OF THE CARIBBEAN - AMERICAN WARSHIP SUNK[/h1]

The headline blasted all across Argentina, every newspaper, every radio channel, echoing the news of the triumphant victory of the [i]Ironia[/i] over her American adversary, [i]USS Isherwood[/i]. A great feat of arms spoiled only by the loss of the [i]Ironia[/i] in a sudden storm that was to much for her injuries. Only her Captain, Jorge Lantana, had survived to be rescued, along with his defeated opponent, by the Mexican Navy. It was a story that would grip the nation.

The truth, however, was known only to two men and it was stranger than anyone would ever know. 

[quote][b]Caribbean Sea[/b]

Captain Jorge Lantana stood tall on the starboard bridge wing of the Argentine destroyer [i]Ironia[/i], the sharp bow cutting through the blue of the Caribbean to leave a long wake rolling away behind the low grey hull. Above his head, snapping like a whip in the wind, flew the proud white and blue ensign of Argentina, the golden sun in the middle given a sort of new life by the freshly rising sun behind it.

“Come on, quilambo… Where are you?” He raised his binoculars to his eyes for the thirtieth time that minute and swept the blue grey horizon in search of his prey. His mission was supposed to be a secret but he was certain that every member of the ships crew, right down to the that fucking faggot of a cook knew what they were doing here.

The Americans, despite all their protestations of neutrality, had been sticking their noses into Argentine activity in Caribbean, notably the presence of an American destroyer. While it wasn’t much, it was enough to remind the rest of the Caribbean of the northern Gringos. Lantana and the [i]Ironia[/i] had been sent to remind the Yankees just who controlled this part of the Caribbean. 

“Captain!” A cry from the interior of the bridge drew his attention and he glanced through the window at the radar technician who was glancing from him, to the screen, and back again, the strange blue/green glow illuminating his face. “We have a contact bearing 1-8-7. Could be the Yankee boat.”

“Excellent. Helm, steer 1-8-7! Let us go take a look.” 

“Steer 1-8-7, aye sir!” The helmsman called out and Lantana braced himself on the doorframe as the ship heeled sharply and dashed toward the unknown. 

In the distance, Captain Byron Stanton was in the midst of a delightful lunch that the cook made for him. Usually, the food aboard the [i]USS Isherwood[/i] was terrible to eat. However, the newest cook was the best one that ever served on the destroyer. For today's meal, it was a custom made footlong sandwich with meatballs. He was almost done with it when he saw something in the distance. Something troublesome.

Then, he was caught off guard by the cries of a sailor and dropped his sandwich in panic. Byron stared at it and silently wept before leaving it for the birds. He went over to the sailor and, after a minute of cursing for ‘ruining a fucking perfect sandwich,’ asked for a status report. “Sir, it appears that an Argentinian destroyer is heading our way!”

“Well, that’s fucking great. Get in contact with the crew and tell them to fuck off!” Byron ordered the sailor. He had been sent here to observe for any signs of Argentinian warships recently sighted in the Caribbean. Even though he was in support of neutrality, he understood that America still needed to safeguard its colony on the islands. Plus, Puerto Rico was his honeymoon destination for his fiancée. The wedding was also going to take place at a location known as The Ruins. 
[i]Isherwood[/i] started moving closer towards the destroyer.

A radio communicator stared in amazement at his microphone for a moment before turning to Lantana. “The Americans, they’re called the Isherwood, just told us to “Fuck off”.” A murmur went around the bridge and eyes narrowed collectively as they stared at the American warship, now hull up on the horizon and growing larger by the second.

“To hell with those Yankee pigs!” A growl of agreement went through the bridge and Lantana felt the fire of indignation flare through him. “Bring the ship to action stations. Man the guns. We’ll see how brave they are!”

BONG BONG! BONG BONG! BONG BONG! The ships bell crashed throughout the steel hull and sailors hurried to their assigned stations. Breaches slammed home as shells were rammed into place. Anti-aircraft gunners, life jackets making them look like puffy marshmallows, clambered into place. Amidships men broke a sweat as they manhandled torpedoes into tubes and swung the long steel casings outboard. 

Below them the powerful engineers pushed the [i]Ironia[/i] through an ocean that, as if sensing conflict, had begun to worsen. Whitecaps flecked the tops of waves now and a strong wind began to whip salty spray across the decks. 

“So, they are still advancing toward. Brave.” Byron sighed and then turned towards the sailor that earlier scared him with his yelling. “Fire a warning shot. They will definitely run with their tail between their legs after that.”

Lantana ducked instinctively as the American fired, the shells fell wide and threw up geysers of water that drenched several of the men on the outer deck. Their meaning was clear and the arrogance of that meaning infuriated Lantana.

“Return fire!” He shouted, slamming a fist down on the helm console in front of him. Within seconds the two forward guns roared, sending their shells screaming across the wavetops toward the onrushing American ship.

“Holyfuckingshit!” Byron nearly shit himself when the other destroyer returned fire. He raced towards the control room to see what the hell happened. Once he was there, the sailors saluted and then got back to doing their jobs. The young sailor, who was about burst out crying, approached the captain and started to apologize. 

“Why the hell are you sorry? Son, what did you do?”

“I told them ‘fuck off’ like you said to.”

Byron was speechless but not surprised that command would’ve assigned him the dumbest sailor in the navy. Instead of slapping the hell of him, the captain turned to the other men and yelled out to return fire. He gave a look of disapproval at the sailor and then ran over to his position. The Isherwood fired its guns back at the destroyer and the conflict in the Carribean began. 

More geysers exploded around the [i]Ironia[/i] as her helmsman spun the helm, constantly changing the profile of the ship to make it harder to hit. The movement had a dual effect, it made the ship harder to hit, but it also served to throw off the aim of the Argentine crew who slaved away at their guns. Round after round screamed through the air toward the American ship and even the anti-aircraft guns, with no planes to shoot, depressed their barrels and opened fire.

The ocean, not to be outdone by the meer actions of man, continued to grow and batter the two ships. Gunners who had been trained on calm seas, or even on land, suddenly found themselves trying to predict the pitch and roll, not only of their own ship, but that of their enemy. 

It seemed that the training proved to be useless because every shot seemed to miss the Argentinian destroyer. Then, after minutes of unloading upon them, Byron got the bad news that the entire stockpile of ammunition was emptied. He tried to look indifferent to the news, but he looked like he was about to pass out. But after a few more minutes, there was nothing but the sound of waves crashing against the hull to report. He raced outside and saw the lone destroyer in the distance.

“The hell do you mean we’re out of ammunition!?” Lantana was furious as he raged at the petty officer who was doing his best to stand at attention on the moving deck. “We haven't hit anything!”

The petty officer tried to stammer out a response but Lantana waved him away. “Forget it. Hardly your fault, though our gunners had better have a damn good reason for this abysmal showing when we’re done here.” He looked hard at the American ship that was now turning inside his own arc. They were like two dogs chasing each other's tails.

“What do we have left?” He demanded of his gunnery officer. 

“Torpedos, but they won’t be much use in seas like this…” Lantana glared the man into silence. 

“Better than nothing. Prepare a spread of eight and lay them across the Americans path. It should be simple enough, he’s turning in a circle like we are.”

“Well, what is there left to use?” Byron asked around the control room and got no answer. Then, another sailor reported that the torpedoes remained. With no other choice, the captain turned towards the helmsman and ordered him to get the destroyer into position. He had a moment to reconsider it, but he wasn’t going to die a coward. So, without anymore hesitation, Byron yelled to open fire.

Sixteen torpedos entered the water at the same time. The two destroyers, despite being built almost half a world away from each other, were nearly identical in their armament. Perhaps it was the sound of their own torpedoes in the water, or the raging ocean beneath them, but neither ship detected the presence of the enemy torpedoes until it was far too late.  

As predicted, the majority went wide, or simply vanished into the depths as waves hammered at them, but two managed to get through. One, the final fired by the American, struck the [i]Ironia[/i] just forward of her engines. No warning was shouted as none of her crew saw the silver fish beneath the white froth of the ocean.

Lantana was first aware of the strike when his ship gave a massive shudder and her stern was forced into the air. The rumbling explosion drowned out all yells of alarm from the crew and his own shout of pain as he was thrown head first into the deck, the loud crack of his skull meeting steel was lost among the other noises.

Captain Byron held on to the railing for his life as the Isherwood was stuck by what appeared to be a torpedo. He honestly thought that his life was about to end in the middle of the ocean. Yet, he was informed that they have also run out of torpedoes. That was when he regretted the decision to restock on land; however, there was another option. It was incredibly stupid, but effective. “Ram into the enemy!”

The helmsman nodded and began steering the ship around until he realized that the ship had been hit by a torpedo. He turned towards the captain and quietly said, “Sir… we’ve been hit.”

“So what!” the captain cried out and then noticed the ship moving. “Ha! It’s moving!”

“Oh no.”

Lantana staggered to his feet, blood pouring down his face, scrapping desperately at his eyes, trying to clear them. He could hear shouts of alarm and the klaxons blared throughout the ship as she began to take on water.

“Where is the American?” He needed to know, and quickly. 

“She’s foundering as well, sir!” A sailor, miraculously still on his feet, was leaning into the bridge. “Look!” He pointed and Lantana lurched to the frame, peering into the gale force winds that drove sea spray into his face. He could just make out the American ship listing heavily to one side but still moving toward them.

“Damn, she’s still underway. Can we maneuver?” He turned on his helmsman who shook his head. A glance at the damage control board told him that the [i]Ironia][/i] was dead in the water, her engines disabled. 

“The American is slowing, sir!” The lookout called again and Lantana quickly saw the man was right. The sea must have been pouring into the damaged [i]Isherwood[/i] but he could feel his own ship settling into the sea. She was becoming more sluggish in her movements and water was lapping around her stern rail, each wave gaining progressively more ground. 

“Madonna…” The lookout muttered in awe and Lantana had to agree despite the fear that clutched his belly. A massive wave, the largest they had seen so far, was rolling in behind the American. They saw the enemy ship began to rise as the huge roller picked it up like a toy and, as if to prove that men were puny, drove it like a missile at the [i]Ironia[/i].

“Brace!!” Lantana screamed the words and heard them echoed throughout the bridge as the American destroyer, all control gone, careened toward them on the crest of the wave. For one horrid second Lantana feared his ship was going to be struck amidships by the bow of the onrushing [i]Isherwood[/i] but the ocean, perhaps in a final trick, turned the bow at the last second and the two ships slammed broadside into each other.

The tortured scream of metal and cries of dying men filled the air between the two hulls as they buckled and water rushed in between the shattered plating. 

The helmsman tried desperately to regain control of the Isherwood from the waves, but it was useless. The destroyer smashed into the other destroyer, sending everyone in the control room to the floor. Captain Byron went to check on his head for any signs of bleeding, but there was nothing. He stood up and began to laugh in delight. “Nice job with that steering! We sure caught the enemy off-guard!”

But, he got no response and saw the helmsman lying on the ground, with his head split open. The remaining crewmen in the room tried to save him, but it was already too late. Byron wanted to help out, but he heard his name being called out. He ran outside and then saw a sailor from the engine room completely drenched. Then, he heard words that a captain never wanted to hear. “We’re sinking, sir!”

Sinking was the understatement of the century. Both ships were rapidly vanishing beneath the surface even as the weather, so fickle and angry a few moments before, began to dissipate and clear. Within minutes the sky had turned blue once again and the ocean settled back into gentle rollers that came from the east, pushing the two ships toward distant Mexico. 

It made no difference to 600 odd men who served aboard the two ships. Those who had not perished in the torpedo strikes and collision found themselves floating in the azure blue waters. Argentine and American alike gripping life jackets as they stared at each other, fear mirrored in every face, their conflict quite forgotten. 

The [i]Ironia[/i] was dying, nothing but her bridge was left above the water as she finally succumbed to her injuries and began a final slide beneath the waves. Of her lifeboats, none remained, having been smashed to pieces by the collision or washed overboard as the waves ripped them free of their moorings. Lantana himself stood on the bridgewing, the last man to leave his faithful ship as she gave a final groan and sank beneath the surface. There was a brief swirl of water and a “whoosh” of escaping air before the water closed in and covered her as if she had never been there at all.

Fortunately, the Isherwood had its lifeboats intact but there were only a few for the crew of six hundred. Captain Byron watched as everyone that survived was desperately trying to board one of them. One by one, each of them were filled and lowered into the sea before there was one left. Byron knew that he had to stay behind with the ship as part of tradition, but he always thought that was stupid.

So, as the last lifeboat was being filled, the captain made his way onboard and got ready for it to be lowered. But then, he saw the cook and called out to him. The cook’s face lit with delight and he ran towards it. One of the sailors spoke up about the limited space and received a shove into the waters below. Byron allowed the cook to board and then yelled to lower the lifeboat. Instead, one of the sailors responsible thought he saw a shark’s fin and cried out, “Shark!”

That caused everyone to board the lifeboat in an attempt to not be eaten, but it only made sure that it sank. Byron watched as the other men attempted to enter the other lifeboats, but only caused them to flip out. He wanted to kill each one of them, but he understood that there was nothing more to do other than accept his fate. Until he saw a lone piece of wood floating, big enough to fit his entire body without sinking.

So, in a last ditch effort to live, Byron swam towards it even as the first of the men around him screamed and vanished beneath the surface, a red stain spreading quickly as more fins sliced through the waves.

Lantana was treading water some fifty yards away, his own lifejacket given to another man, when the first of the screams cut through the air. The panic had been immediate as Americans and Argentines alike swarmed the few remaining lifeboats, swamping all of them. Vicious fights broke out among those still clinging to a safe space above the waves the momentary truce was broken as men bit, stabbed, and gouged at each other as they fought for space. All the while the sharks sliced through them, dragging men into the depths or removing chunks that let their owners bleed to death in the water. 

By some great miracle, Lantana was untouched by the sharks. Perhaps it was his distance from the bloody mess and the struggling mass, but no shark even approached him. He was able to secure a lifejacket again, this one from a man who had lost both his legs, and floated as still as possible while men screamed and died around him. 

It wasn’t until the sun had begun to set that the sharks at last retreated, perhaps they were full. He slowly turned his face, now sunburnt, toward the carnage of what had once been two ships and their crews. No one moved. A single lifeboat, upside down, bobbed in the middle of a mass of dead and ravaged men. Not a single soul upon it. He gently began to paddle toward it, keeping his legs still, in the hopes he would not attract any unwanted attention.

It took him several minutes to reach the boat, gingerly pushing the dead and still dying away, until he could drag himself onto the white hull and, for the first time, he wept silently.

Byron laid on that piece of wood for a few hours until it eventually started sinking due to his weight. He panicked and thought that he was actually going to drown or be eaten by sharks. But luck was on his side again, a lifeboat that wasn’t torn apart floated nearby. He immediately swam towards it without tiring himself out and alerting the prey of his presence. It wasn’t until he got closer that he noticed someone had already claimed the lifeboat.

Without a second thought, assuming the person was long gone, Byron used his strength and tried to pull the body off of the lifeboat. To his amazement it lashed out at him, landing a blow on that sent stars shooting through his vision. Enraged, he punched back, his knuckles colliding with his opponents shoulder.

Lantana grunted as the fist hit him, again punching the ugly face in front of him. More blows were exchanged as the two men fought on the top of the liferaft, their blows weakening until it was little more than a pathetic slap fight rocked back and forth by gentle ocean swells. They were still at it several hours later when a Mexican warship arrived and pulled them both to safety.[/quote]