World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Report the damage!" he roared, his voice hoarse in the aftershocks of the explosion.

The communications officer's face was deathly pale under the emergency lights: "The 'Emperor' is heavily damaged, listing at more than fifteen degrees, the captain reports that they are preparing to abandon ship... The 'Lütsov's' forward main gun turret is destroyed, it is taking on water amidships, and its speed has dropped to sixteen knots... The 'Bomorn' has been confirmed sunk..."

With each name he announced, the air in the bridge grew heavier.

These were no ordinary warships. They were the culmination of the German Empire's twenty-year shipbuilding program, the cornerstone of Wilhelm II's dream of "land under the sun," and the home upon which more than 40,000 sailors lived and fought.

Now, they are burning, tilting, and sinking like paper boats under British gunfire.

"Anything else?" Scher pressed, his voice suppressing a barely contained emotion about to erupt.

"The Silesia was hit on the bridge while turning and is currently under the command of the executive officer... The Posen and Nassau nearly collided and have temporarily broken formation..." The communications officer's fingers trembled on the telegraph. "Preliminary statistics show that within the first eight minutes of the battle, we have been hit by at least forty large-caliber shells. Casualties... the number of casualties is not yet available."

"Forty times." Chief of Staff Major General Trotta repeated the number, as if he couldn't grasp its meaning. "Eight minutes, forty hits..."

Scheer turned to the chart. The blue markings representing the German fleet were now a jumbled mess, like a scattered swarm of ants. But the red British battle line remained intact and orderly, like a giant steel gallows blocking the German fleet's retreat route.

"They are adjusting their course," the navigator reported, pointing to the newly marked position of the British fleet. "Jellicoe is not pursuing at full speed; he is turning to try to stay parallel to us and maintain T-bow advantage."

"Clever," Scheer murmured. "Too clever. He's not in a hurry; he knows we can't escape."

He looked up and surveyed the bridge. Every face bore the same expression: shock, fear, and a hint of despair. These officers were the finest of the German Navy, seasoned in countless exercises and training sessions, but none had ever simulated a scene like this—being ambushed and brutally attacked by the entire British Grand Fleet at the head of a T-junction in the thick fog.

"Admiral," Trotta said in a low voice, "we have to make a decision. If we continue to retreat like this, they'll keep attacking our broadside like wolves tearing at their wounded prey. But if we turn and counterattack..."

“If we turn to fight back,” Scheer interrupted him, “we’ll run right into their crossfire again. In the current situation, that would be suicide.”

He walked to the observation window and wiped the water stains off the glass. Outside, night was falling rapidly, and the thick fog mixed with gunpowder smoke reduced visibility to less than 500 yards. He could see the outlines of several German warships nearby, all desperately releasing smoke, white chemical smoke billowing from their sterns in an attempt to obscure the British view.

But the smoke dissipated quickly in the wind, and the British seemed to care nothing for visibility—their artillery fire, guided by sonar and calculators, continued to fall accurately.

Another shell exploded not far from the port side of the "Frederick the Great". The shockwave caused the ship to shift sideways by several meters, and everyone on the bridge staggered.

"Distance?" Scher asked, his voice unusually calm.

"12,000 yards, and the gap is widening," the fire control officer reported. "But our counterattack... is almost ineffective. In this thick fog and smoke, our optical rangefinders are barely functional. And most of the warships' fire control systems are damaged or inaccurate when turning."

Scheer nodded. He had anticipated this. The disadvantage of crossing the T-bend was not just the difference in firepower density, but also the complete passivity in tactical situation—your opponent can see your entire battle line, while you can only see their lead ship; your opponent has a stable firing platform, while you are scrambling to turn and evade; your opponent has complete fire control data, while you even have difficulty ranging.

This is why Nelson was willing to do anything to crash into the combined French and Spanish fleet at Trafalgar—because only through chaotic battle could the T-shaped formation be broken.

Melee.

The word flashed through Scheer's mind like a bolt of lightning.

He turned abruptly and strode back to the chart table. His fingers moved rapidly across the chart, measuring distances, angles, and times.

"Trotta," he said, his eyes never leaving the chart, "what would happen if we turned now, not to disengage, but to charge—directly into the middle of the British battle line, crash in, and create chaos?"

Trotta froze. A few seconds later, he understood his superior's meaning: "You mean...charge into their column? Create close-quarters melee?"

“Yes.” Scheer’s finger traced a sharp arrow on the chart, from the German fleet’s current position straight into the middle of the British battle line. “Jellicoe’s advantage lies in order and distance. If we break that distance, rush in his face, and force him into close-quarters gun battle or even a collision, then his fire control advantage and formation advantage will be greatly reduced. In the melee, training and courage are more important than tactical position.”

"But that would result in enormous losses!" Trotta objected. "During the charge, our entire broadside would be exposed to British gunfire. By the time we reach them, we might have already lost half our fleet!"

"We're losing our fleet right now!" Scheer raised his voice. "At this rate, in another hour we'll be ground to pieces! But if we charge, we at least have a chance to break their formation, create chaos, and then use the cover of darkness and smoke to escape!"

He stared at Trotta, his eyes burning in the dim light: "Tell me, is it better to be slowly ground to death, or to fight to the death?"

The bridge was deathly silent. Only the roar of the engines and the continuous sound of gunfire in the distance could be heard.

Everyone looked at Trotta. The chief of staff opened his mouth, as if to say something, but ultimately said nothing. He knew Scheer was right. In dire straits, conservatism often meant death, while risk-taking might offer a glimmer of hope.

"But Admiral," the naval officer began hesitantly, "if we turn to attack, the British will have ample time to react. They can adjust their course and put us at the head of the T again..."

"So they need to be distracted," Scher said, his thinking becoming clearer. "We need a decoy, a decoy big enough to attract fire, so that while they're focused on the decoy, the main force can suddenly turn to attack."

He looked at the communications officer: "Connect Hipper. Immediately."