The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 1027 Germany Will Fight Again!

In Vienna in April, the air was still chilly. Adolf, a 1913 graduate, stood in front of the director's office at the Academy of Fine Arts, his fingers unconsciously clenching the sweat-soaked job application in his pocket. He had been lounging in the school dormitory for more than half a year—since graduating from the architecture department last year, all twenty-seven job applications he had sent out had gone unanswered.

His pockets were emptier than his face; if he were expelled from school, he would have to sleep on the streets.
"Come in," came Principal Hans's hoarse voice from inside the door.

Adolf took a deep breath and pushed open the worn door. The office was filled with the smell of tobacco and old books, and sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting diamond-shaped dappled patterns on the floor. To his surprise, opposite Principal Hans sat a man in a crisp military uniform—the oak leaf on his collar insignia and the silver star on his shoulder straps indicated he was an army lieutenant colonel.

“Headmaster…” Adolf’s voice trembled slightly.

Principal Hans adjusted his glasses and said to the officer, "Lieutenant Colonel Stilpnagel, this is the Adolf Hitler I mentioned to you, a graduate of the architecture department last year."

The high-ranking officer—Otto Carl von Stilpnagel—slowly raised his head. His gaze, sharp as a scalpel, swept from Adolf's tattered collar to his paint-stained trouser cuffs.

"You enrolled in 1909?" The lieutenant colonel flipped through a file. "I remember the construction industry was booming back then. Your school seems to have jumped on the bandwagon and opened an architecture department in 1907?"

Principal Hans shook his head with a wry smile: "The empire desperately needed architects back then, but now he's still unemployed after graduation. Actually, this kid originally wanted to study fine arts, but the admissions committee felt he was better suited for architecture."

The lieutenant colonel snorted: "I heard that you guys squeezed all the art students who failed the college entrance exam into the architecture department those two years!"

Adolf's face flushed instantly. He would never forget that cold October afternoon in 1907 when he tremblingly opened the rejection letter from the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts, and the admissions director's comments were etched into his heart like a knife: "Stiff figure drawing, lacking artistic talent." Later, at the "suggestion" of the admissions office, he switched to the then very prosperous architecture department, and even went back to Linz to make up for his high school diploma.

Principal Hans sighed again: "I didn't expect the construction industry downturn to come so quickly!"

"So," the lieutenant colonel suddenly raised his voice, "a highly educated young man, when the empire desperately needs talent, can only hide in the cheap dormitories of the school and do nothing?"

Adolf clenched his fists tightly. He wanted to explain that he walked more than ten kilometers every day to look for jobs door to door, and that he had even carried cement on construction sites—but his throat felt like it was blocked by something.

“However,” the lieutenant colonel suddenly changed the subject, “Germany needs young men like you right now.” He pulled a document from his briefcase. “The General Staff Engineering Bureau is recruiting reserve officers, who will be awarded the rank of second lieutenant after three months of training.”

Adolf's eyes lit up. An officer! A uniform! Serving the motherland!

"Are you willing to fight for Germany?" The lieutenant colonel's voice suddenly became impassioned.

"I do!" Adolf practically roared, his voice making the windowpane vibrate.

Principal Hans added with a smile, "Lieutenant Colonel Stilpnagel is in charge of recruiting engineering officers for the army. Adolf, you can report to Munich tomorrow!"

When Adolf raised his right arm and shouted "Long live the Emperor," no one noticed the meaningful smile on the lieutenant colonel's lips—the comments in his file about "stubborn personality" and "irritable tendencies" were precisely the "steadfast qualities" that the General Staff valued most.

At the same moment, the morning in Kiel was torn apart by the roar of steam turbines.

Wilhelm II stood on the specially set-up viewing platform at the naval dock, the sea breeze ruffling his crisp military uniform. Behind him, Grand Admiral Tirpitz observed the fleet departing through binoculars.

“Five Bismarcks, five Moltkes…” the Emperor murmured, his fingers rhythmically tapping the gilded railings, “enough to send the Royal Navy to the bottom of the sea.”

Tirpitz's glasses reflected a cold light: "Your Majesty, based on the lessons learned from the Battle of the Faroe Islands, we may need to build aircraft carriers of a larger tonnage."

"A larger aircraft carrier?" Wilhelm II scoffed. "I think those 'Maria Theresa'-class carriers, with a standard displacement of 9990 tons, are sufficient. The monoplane fighters on board can provide ample air cover for the battleships. Besides, we have a real trump card—" He pointed to rows of silver-gray aircraft on the distant airfield, "our 'Junckers 14' are far more powerful than the British 'Atlantic Sentinels'!"

At the airport, ground crew are loading 500-kilogram armor-piercing rounds onto a Junkers 14 twin-engine medium bomber. This twin-engine bomber, with a combat radius of 500 kilometers, accurately hit a moving target ship during last year's North Sea exercise.

"The British think they can dominate the seas with aircraft carriers," the Emperor sneered, "but they forget that what determines the combat effectiveness of an aircraft carrier is the aircraft!"

Tirpitz hesitated, then stopped. He recalled a British Admiralty memorandum intercepted by intelligence—they were frantically building the Furious-class fleet carriers, even more powerful than the Illustrious-class. But at that moment, he simply watched in silence the cold glint of the Moltke's 410mm main guns as they slowly rotated.

The fierce winds of the North Sea tore at the ensign of the battleship Bismarck. Admiral Reinhard Scheer, commander of the High Seas Fleet, stood on the open bridge, the salty seawater mixed with drizzle pelting his waterproof overcoat. The binoculars he gripped tightly swept across the gray-black horizon, like a hungry beast searching for its prey.

"Commander, the weather report confirms it—visibility will be less than five nautical miles in the next six hours." Chief of Staff Major General von Trotta handed over the telegram, his cuffs soaked with foam. "In this kind of weather, even the British reconnaissance planes will probably be blind."

Scher laughed, “Perfect for our hunting.”

Before the words were even finished, the intercom in the bridge suddenly rang urgently. Lieutenant Hoffman, the communications officer, rushed forward: "Report! A telegram from the 'Heinkel He.5' seaplane!"

Upon returning, Scheer grabbed the telegram and glanced at the hastily written words: "Enemy main fleet spotted at the entrance to the English Channel. At least four 'Hood'-class battleships, escorted by two light aircraft carriers, heading due east."

The atmosphere on the bridge instantly became tense. Four Hood-class destroyers plus two light aircraft carriers—this was the ideal prey!

Scheer now has "5 Bismarcks" plus "5 Moltkes" under his command, so how could he not be guaranteed to win against "4 Hoods"?

Moreover, the German Imperial Navy had other trump cards!

“It’s time to change the playwright for the Faroe Islands.” Scheer suddenly slammed his fist on the English Channel marker on the chart table. “Order Wilhelmshaven Airport—all Junkers 14s to immediately load armor-piercing shells and take off! Target: British battleship formation!”

Forty minutes later, the German Heligoland field airfield was engulfed by the roar of engines. Ground crew pushed ammunition carts frantically through the mud, the pointed tips of 500-kilogram armor-piercing rounds under the fuselage gleaming blue in the dark clouds.

"Everyone knows about the Battle of the Faroe Islands, right? It just ended!" Flight wing commander Hans Rudel roared into the radio. "The British sank two Enterprise-class ships with Atlantic Sentinel bombers—today it's our German Steel Condors' turn to have their fill!"

On the runway, thirty Junkers Junkers 14 twin-engine bombers took off in succession. These aerial reapers, with a bomb load of one ton and a combat radius of 500 kilometers, formed a wedge formation and rushed westward. As the formation swept over the High Seas Fleet, the cheers of the sailors even drowned out the waves.

Inside the Bismarck's communications room, encrypted commands were being tapped at the highest frequency: "Flock attack. Coordinates 51°12'N, 1°47'W."

No sooner had Scheer issued the order than Lieutenant Hoffman, the telecommunications officer, burst open the bridge door: "Commander! We've intercepted an unidentified shortwave signal—repeatedly transmitting 'Rain on White Cliffs, Dover'!"

Von Trotta's expression changed drastically: "It's a reconnaissance code from the British Short S.184 seaplane! Those flies must be hiding in the clouds!"

As if confirming his judgment, the starboard anti-aircraft guns opened fire suddenly. A twin-float seaplane emerged from the cumulonimbus clouds, the red rings under its wings appearing and disappearing amidst the barrage of fire.

"Shoot it down!" Scheer shouted. But the 88mm anti-aircraft barrage couldn't catch the nimble Short aircraft, which dove into the fog wall, leaving only harsh static on the radio.

“The British know the bombers’ flight path.” Von Trotta stared at the disappearing enemy planes, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Should we cancel the air raid?”

Scheer turned and looked toward the English Channel, his pupils burning with icy flames: "Let the eagles continue their charge. I have faith in the Junkers 14's capabilities; it's the best bomber in the world!"

At the Kiel naval command center, Wilhelm II tapped the North Sea sand table with his silver-inlaid cane: "Tirpitz! Tell me, what are Scheer's chances of winning?"

The admiral paused for a moment: "If the Junkers 14 can damage those Hood-class destroyers, then it's a sure thing!"

The emperor suddenly burst into laughter, slamming his cane heavily on the red wooden block representing the British fleet: "Good! As long as we can sink a few 'Hood'-class ships, the North Sea will belong to Germany!"

Tirpitz looked at the map of Europe on the wall—his gaze fell on Dunkirk and Calais—where there were Red France's airfields and Red France's "Lightning" torpedo bombers, whose performance was no less than that of the Junkers 14!

In addition, the British must have also deployed Atlantic Sentinel bombers at airfields in southern England!
Is this decisive naval battle for control of the North Sea really going to be decided by land-based twin-engine bombers? If the aircraft are really that powerful, then what was the point of the German Empire investing so much in building battleships of over a million tons over the past two decades (including those of German satellite states)?
(End of this chapter)