World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Betty hasn't turned around yet?" Jericho asked, his voice tinged with suppressed anger.

"No," the communications officer replied. "The latest telegram indicates he is still in pursuit, increasing his speed to 23 knots. He says he saw German fleet flares and judged that the enemy was in disarray, making it a good time to attack."

"Nonsense!" Study couldn't help but growl. "This is clearly a trap! Hipper is luring him!"

Jericho didn't reply. He stared at the chart, his finger tapping lightly on the center of the triangle—56 degrees 15 minutes north latitude and 5 degrees east longitude.

Based on their current course and speed, the three fleets will converge near that point in about an hour.

"If Betty turns around now," he said slowly, "and retreats west, we can provide cover for him. But if he continues his pursuit..."

He didn't finish speaking, but everyone understood.

If Beatty continues the pursuit, he will collide with the main German fleet an hour later. Jellicoe's main fleet is forty nautical miles from the battlefield, and even at full speed, it would take two hours to reach it.

What does two hours mean in a naval showdown?

This means that Beatty's six battlecruisers may have to face the entire German High Seas Fleet alone—twenty-two dreadnoughts, six pre-dreadnoughts, and Hipper's five battlecruisers.

That would be a massacre.

"Send another message to Betty." Jellicoe's voice remained calm, but everyone sensed the weight in it. "This is a direct order: immediately turn 270 degrees, retreat westward, and rendezvous with the main fleet. Repeat, this is an order, not a suggestion."

"Yes, General!"

The telegram was sent. Everyone on the bridge held their breath, waiting for a reply.

The nautical clock on the wall ticked away. Every second felt like an eternity.

Five minutes later, the communications officer ran back, pale-faced: "Lieutenant General Betty reports: Orders have been received. But he says the enemy is right in front of us, and turning back now would be a missed opportunity. He requests permission to continue the pursuit for another hour, and then retreat immediately after crushing Hipper's fleet."

"He's disobeying orders!" Study said angrily.

Jellicoe closed his eyes. He had expected this. David Beatty, the fierce general he had personally promoted, the battlecruiser commander on whom he had placed his hopes, had ultimately been blinded by honor and the desire for battle.

"General," Study urged, "we must take a tougher approach! Order him directly in the Commander-in-Chief's name!"

Jellicoe opened his eyes, his expression complex. He looked at the red arrow on the nautical chart that represented Beatty's fleet, and it was as if he could see the young man standing on the bridge of the "Lion," his face full of fanaticism and confidence.

Was that me in my youth? Perhaps. Perhaps every naval commander, in his youth, yearned for battle, for glory, and for the miracles to be created on the battlefield like Nelson.

But now, he is the commander-in-chief, responsible for the entire fleet and the entire empire.

"Send the message." He finally spoke, his voice carrying a weary resolve. "In the name of the Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Navy, I order Vice Admiral David Beatty to immediately cease pursuit, turn 270 degrees, and proceed at full speed toward the main fleet. This order must be carried out without question. Repeat, without question."

This time, the wording was harsh, leaving no room for maneuver.

The telegram was sent. Jericho walked to the porthole and looked out at the thick, impenetrable fog.

"May God bless them," he whispered.

Just then, a muffled roar suddenly came from afar.

It wasn't the sound of cannons, but it was just as powerful.

Then came the second sound, the third sound...

"It's artillery fire!" the lookout shouted. "Northeast! Distance...unable to determine! But it's definitely heavy artillery!"

Jericho's heart sank. He rushed to the megaphone and shouted, "Sound room! Report!"

A tense voice came from the sonar room: "Unable to pinpoint the exact location! The sound is distorted in the thick fog! But judging from the sound source characteristics... it's at least a heavy artillery piece with a caliber of 305mm or larger! And in large numbers!"

The cannon fire continued, rolling across the sea like muffled thunder, echoing in the thick fog, indistinguishable in direction and distance, yet clearly audible to everyone.

The battle has begun.

"Betty..." Study's face turned pale. "He ran into a German."

Jericho did not answer. He stared intently at the thick fog to the northeast, as if trying to pierce through the gray veil and see the scene on the battlefield.

But that is impossible.

At this distance, in such thick fog, he could see nothing and do nothing.

a.

Waiting for telegrams, waiting for news, waiting for those warships that may never return.

"The entire fleet," he took a deep breath, his voice booming across the Iron Duke through the loudspeakers, "adjust course to 060 degrees, increase speed to 20 knots. Target: the direction of the gunfire. We're going to meet our brothers."

The order was relayed. The entire British main fleet began to turn, accelerate, and rush towards the sea shrouded in the sound of cannon fire.

The thick fog was split open by the bow and then closed again at the stern.

Steel behemoths raced across the gray ocean, rushing toward the unknown, toward the battlefield, toward destiny.

At the same time, in the core area of ​​the battlefield.

Betty stood on the bridge of the HMS Lion, still holding Jellicoe's last stern command telegram. But he no longer had time to read it.

Because in the thick fog about 15,000 yards ahead of him, the outlines of German warships were becoming visible.

It wasn't Hipper's five battlecruisers.

More and bigger warships.

A massive hull, multiple gun turrets, a towering bridge—that was a battleship, the mainstay of the German High Seas Fleet.

"My God..." Chief of Staff Chatfield murmured, "They really are here."

Betty had no time for fear, not even time for regret. Her fighting instincts took over instantly.

"All fleet!" he roared into the megaphone, "Emergency turn! Hard to port! Heading 270 degrees! Speed ​​up to maximum!"

HMS Lion listed violently, seawater splashing white foam along its sides. Other battlecruisers also turned, attempting to escape from the suddenly appearing German main fleet.

But it was too late.

In the thick fog, a bright orange flame suddenly burst forth. It was the muzzle flash of the main gun firing, strikingly bright against the gray-white background.

A few seconds later, the whistling sound of a shell tearing through the air could be heard.

Then, an explosion.

The first salvo landed at least twenty heavy artillery shells. The seawater was blasted into columns of water tens of meters high, and the white spray mixed with black smoke, creating a deathly forest on the sea surface.

"Near miss!" shouted the captain of the HMS Lion. "Fifty yards to starboard!"

Seawater poured onto the deck like a torrential downpour. Betty wiped her face; the salty, fishy smell of the seawater mixed with the stench of gunpowder stung her eyes.

"Report damage!"

"It wasn't a direct hit! But the near miss caused damage to some equipment on the starboard side!"

Betty rushed to the porthole and peered through his binoculars. In the thick fog, the outlines of the German warships became more and more numerous and clearer. He saw at least eight, ten, twelve... all massive behemoths of the dreadnought class.

Ahead of these capital ships, Hipper's five battlecruisers were turning, attempting to flank them.

A perfect trap.

"Lieutenant General!" Chatfield grabbed his arm. "We must retreat immediately! Move towards General Jellicoe!"

Betty shook off his hand, her eyes fixed on the German warships. Her face was flushed with anger and humiliation, but her gaze remained sharp.

"No," he said, his voice hoarse but firm. "Turning to run now would only expose our broadside to the enemy. That would be suicide."

He turned to the captain and ordered, "Maintain course 270 degrees, but all main guns to starboard! We must return fire! Let the Germans know that the Royal Navy is not to be trifled with!"

The order was relayed. The three main gun turrets of the "Lion" began to slowly rotate, their 305mm gun barrels pointing towards the German fleet on starboard.

The gunnery officer yelled from the fire control room, "Target! 45 degrees to starboard, 14,000 yards away! Load armor-piercing shells!"

"Loading complete!"

"Aim...fire!"