World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Oh?" Wilhelm II's eyes lit up. "What did he say? When can we launch an attack? How many ships are needed?"

"Schär suggested a...more cautious strategy," Tirpitz carefully chose his words. "He believed that directly engaging the British main fleet in a decisive battle was too risky. The British had a numerical advantage and a favorable geographical position."

The emperor's face darkened: "So he intends to continue hiding in the harbor?"

"No, Your Majesty," Tirpitz quickly said, "He plans to launch a preemptive strike, but his target is the British vanguard fleet—Betty's battlecruiser squadron. If we can severely damage or even annihilate this fleet, it will be a blow to the British Navy no less than a decisive victory."

Wilhelm II frowned. He walked to the table and spread out a map of the North Sea: "What are the specific plans?"

"Hipper's reconnaissance fleet will go ahead to lure the enemy, while Scheer's main fleet will lie in ambush behind." Tirpitz's finger moved across the map. "We'll choose a sea area that's advantageous to us, and when the British catch up, we'll give them a surprise attack."

The emperor stared at the map for a long time. The room was quiet, with only the crackling of the burning wood in the fireplace.

"This is not the decisive battle I want," Wilhelm II finally spoke. "What I want is Trafalgar! A glorious victory like Nelson's! To cripple the British main fleet so that they will never dare to leave port again!"

"Your Majesty, that will take time," Tirpitz explained patiently. "We are not strong enough right now. But if we can take down Beatty's fleet first, the British battlecruiser advantage will disappear. Then we will be able to fight them on a more equal footing."

"Time..." Wilhelm II sneered, "What we lack most is time. The victory on the Eastern Front has given us an opportunity, but the Russians will not remain defeated forever. They will regroup somewhere. By then, the pressure on the Eastern Front will return, and we will no longer have the resources to devote to the navy."

He turned to Tirpitz: "Alfred, you don't understand. This war is not just a military contest, but also a contest of wills. We must prove to the world that Germany can defeat Russia on land and challenge Britain at sea. Only in this way can we gain our rightful place after the war."

Tirpitz remained silent. He knew the Emperor had a point, but from a military perspective, it was too risky.

"Sher's plan..." the Emperor continued, "can be carried out. However, I need to change the objective."

"Revise?"

"Tell Scheer that his mission is not merely to strike Beatty's fleet." Wilhelm II's finger slammed heavily on the map. "Once the battle begins, if an opportunity arises to engage the main British force, he must seize it! I want a decisive victory, not a minor skirmish!"

Tirpitz's heart sank. This was tantamount to giving Scheer a vague and dangerous mission—to execute a cautious plan of ambush and annihilation, while also being prepared for a decisive fleet battle at any moment.

"Your Majesty, this will put the commander in a dilemma." He tried to persuade him, "The situation on the naval battlefield can change in an instant. If Scheer has to pursue Beatty while also guarding against Jellicoe's main force, his decision will become very difficult."

"Then make things difficult for him!" Wilhelm II raised his voice. "He's the Commander-in-Chief of the High Seas Fleet! He holds the highest military rank and salary in the Empire! If he can't even make this much of a decision, he doesn't deserve to be in that position!"

The emperor walked to the wine cabinet and poured himself another glass of champagne. His hand was trembling slightly—not from fear, but from excitement.

"Alfred, do you know what I admire most about Nelson?" he said, his back to Tirpitz. "Not his tactical genius, not his courage, but his decisiveness. At Trafalgar, when victory was within reach, he hung up that famous sign: 'England expects everyone to do their duty.' He didn't hesitate, he didn't hold back, he bet everything, and he won."

Wilhelm II turned around, his eyes gleaming with fanaticism: "Now, it's our turn. It's the German Navy's turn to send out this signal: 'Germany expects everyone to fulfill their duties.' Then, we will win."

Tirpitz looked at the Emperor and suddenly felt a profound sense of powerlessness. He knew that further persuasion was futile. The Emperor's will had been formed, like a block of cooled steel, its shape irrevocably altered.

"I will convey your orders, Your Majesty," he said in a low voice.

"Very good." Wilhelm II nodded in satisfaction. "Tell Scheer that I want to hear news of the fleet leaving port within three days. I want to see good news within a week."

"...Yes, Your Majesty."

Tirpitz saluted and turned to leave. Night had fallen when he emerged from Sanssouci Palace. The Berlin sky was starless, only thick, low-hanging clouds remained.

He got into the car and said to the driver, "Back to the Admiralty."

The car started and drove into the night. Tirpitz leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

He recalled the time in 1897 when he first explained his "risk fleet" theory to the Emperor. At that time, Wilhelm II was a young Emperor, passionate about the navy, and fully supported his plans.

"We must build a powerful navy," the young emperor said at the time, "so that the British will have to think twice before taking any hostile action. We must use the fleet to protect German interests overseas and to protect German honor."

At that time, Tirpitz believed all of this. He believed that through ingenious shipbuilding plans and diplomatic maneuvering, Germany could gain its rightful naval status without triggering a war.

But now, twenty years later, the fleet is complete, but war has broken out. And this war is pushing the fleet into the abyss.

"Are you alright, Marshal?" the driver asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

Tirpitz opened his eyes: "I'm fine. Drive faster."

"Yes."

The car accelerated, speeding through the quiet streets of Berlin. Tirpitz watched the streetlights flash by outside the window, each point of light receding rapidly in the darkness, like the passing of time.

Three days.

Three days later, the fleet he had painstakingly built over twenty years would embark on a dangerous gamble.

He could only sit in Berlin and wait for the outcome.

This is probably the fate of founders—you create a behemoth, but you can't control where it goes.

William Harbour, High Seas Fleet Headquarters.

At 11 p.m., the operations room was still brightly lit. A huge North Sea sand table occupied the center of the room, covered with small red and blue flags representing the fleets. The red British fleet was densely distributed in the western and northern North Sea, while the blue German fleet was concentrated in Heligoland Bay and Wilhelmshaven.

General Scheer and Lieutenant General Hipper stood before the sand table, both having removed their military jackets and rolled up their shirt sleeves to their elbows. The ashtrays were overflowing with cigarette butts, and the air was thick with the mixed aroma of tobacco and coffee.