World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The thick fog began to dissipate slowly. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, shining on the sea and reflecting shimmering waves. As visibility improved, the entire anchorage gradually came into view.

Jericho gasped.

Even though he was mentally prepared, the scene before him still shocked him.

Dozens of warships, ranging from battleships to destroyers, small to large, were neatly moored in the bay, forming a massive steel array. Black smokestacks emitted wisps of smoke, indicating that the boilers were lit. The ship's cannons pointed skyward, like a steel forest.

This is the power of Britain, the muscle of the empire.

"Send the signal," Jellicoe ordered. "All warships, raise your battle flags."

The signalman ran to the signal flag and began to operate it. A few minutes later, a huge white flag with the red St. George's Cross—the Royal Navy's battle flag—rose from the mainmast of the Iron Duke.

As if in a chain reaction, every warship in the anchorage began to raise the same flag. One, two, ten, a hundred... The white flags fluttered in the morning breeze, like a white ocean.

This is a tradition that has lasted for centuries. Nelson raised this flag at Trafalgar, Horatio Nelson raised it on the Nile, and Drake raised it when facing the Spanish Armada.

Now, it's their turn.

"The steam pressure has reached the departure standard!" the chief engineer reported.

"Untie the mooring ropes!" Jericho ordered.

The order was relayed throughout the ship via megaphone. Sailors ran to the side and untied the thick mooring lines. The steam winch roared as it pulled the lines back to the side.

"Turn left five degrees and proceed slowly."

The massive hull of the "Iron Duke" began to move slowly, pushing aside the seawater and leaving a white contrail. Behind it, other warships also cast off their moorings and began to form a formation.

The entire Scapa Flow came alive. Steam whistles blared, steam billowed, and water splashed. The steel behemoths awoke from their slumber and began their journey.

Jellicoe stood on the bridge, watching it all unfold. His expression was calm, but his clenched fist betrayed the turmoil within him.

"Send a telegram to the Admiralty," he told the communications officer. "The Grand Fleet has departed. Repeat, the Grand Fleet has departed."

"Yes, General!"

The telegram was sent. Within minutes, all of London, all of Britain, would know—the Royal Navy had launched an attack.

Study walked over to Jericho and whispered, "God bless us."

Jericho nodded without answering.

He looked at the gradually opening sea ahead, and at the massive column of the fleet forming in the morning light.

This fleet carries too much—the honor of the empire, the fate of the nation, and the lives of tens of thousands.

And now, he is the commander of this fleet.

He had no way out.

Port William.

Scheer stood on the bridge of the "Frederick the Great" and watched the reconnaissance fleet slowly leave the port.

Hipper's fleet sailed out of the harbor one by one through the morning mist—first the light cruisers and destroyers, then the five battlecruisers. The massive hulls pushed through the water and disappeared into the fog, like ghosts returning to nothingness.

"They've set off," said Chief of Staff Major General Trota.

Scher nodded: "Now, it's our turn."

He glanced at his pocket watch—6:30 a.m. According to the plan, Hipper would arrive at the Denmark Strait in three hours to begin his harassment operations. His main fleet would depart at noon to maintain a distance and follow.

"Are all the warships ready?" Scheer asked.

"Ready, Admiral," Trotta replied. "Twenty-two dreadnoughts, six pre-dreadnoughts, eleven light cruisers, and sixty-three destroyers. All ships have completed ammunition loading and fueling."

Scheer walked to the chart table. It contained detailed operational plans—routes, rendezvous points, communication frequencies, emergency plans…

Every detail was carefully considered, but the biggest characteristic of naval warfare is that plans can never keep up with changes.

"Admiral!" A young communications officer ran up to the bridge. "Berlin, an urgent telegram from Field Marshal Tirpitz."

Scheer took the telegram and read it quickly. The telegram was short:

"His Majesty the Emperor reiterates: Seize every favorable opportunity and seek a decisive victory. The Empire awaits your triumphant news. — Tirpitz"

Scher's face darkened. He handed the telegram to Trotta, who frowned after reading it.

"This..." Trota hesitated, unable to finish her sentence.

"I know," Scheer said, "but an order is an order. Write it down and archive it."

He handed the telegram back to the communications officer, then turned to Trotta: "Inform all ships to prepare to depart as planned. As for other matters... we'll discuss them once we're at sea."

Trotta understood his meaning. At sea, the fleet commander had the authority to make decisions on the spot. The so-called "emperor's order," when it came to crucial moments, still depended on the commander's choice.

"Yes, General."

Trotta left the bridge to relay orders. Scheer stood alone by the window, gazing at the morning view of Wilhelmshaven.

In the harbor, his main fleet was neatly moored. From the newest Königsberg-class dreadnoughts to the older Deutschland-class pre-dreadnoughts, each one carried the dreams and ambitions of the German Navy.

This fleet took twenty years to build, cost billions of marks, and embodied the hard work of countless engineers, workers, and sailors.

Now, it is about to embark on a dangerous gamble.

"General." A voice sounded from behind.

Scherr turned around and saw an older seaman standing there. He recognized the man—Hermann Schulz, who had served in the Navy for thirty years, since the days of the sailing training ships.

"Sergeant Schultz," Scher nodded. "What is it?"

Schultz hesitated for a moment, then said, "Admiral, please forgive my intrusion. But I just saw the reconnaissance fleet leave port... We're about to depart too, aren't we?"

"Yes," Scheer said without hiding anything, "We departed at noon."

The old seaman was silent for a few seconds. His face was deeply wrinkled, the marks left by years of sea winds and the passage of time.

"Admiral, I've been in the Navy for thirty years," he said slowly. "I've seen many captains set sail and many captains return. Some came back, some didn't. But this time... it feels different."

"What's different?"

Schultz looked out the window at the massive fleet: "This is huge. The entire fleet, every ship that can go to sea, is going out. I'm wondering, if we all go out, will we all come back?"

Scheer did not answer. He himself did not have an answer to the question.

"My son is on the 'Defflinger'," Schulz continued. "He's the loader in the main gun turret. Yesterday he wrote to his mother saying that this mission is very important and that he wants to fight for the glory of Germany."

His voice choked with emotion: "He was only nineteen, a general. Nineteen. He hadn't seen much of the world, hadn't married or had children, hadn't... hadn't lived enough."