World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

On the bridge of the "Frederick the Great", Reinhard Scheer faced a similar choice, but in a more difficult situation.

"Damage report summary." Chief of Staff Rear Admiral Trotta's voice was hoarse; he had been working continuously for eighteen hours. "The 'Emperor' is confirmed sunk, with approximately four hundred survivors, currently being rescued by destroyers. The 'Defflinger' exploded and sank, with no survivors reported. The 'Seydlitz' is heavily damaged and is being escorted eastward by two destroyers, but it is unknown whether it can hold out until port."

With each name he called out, the temperature on the bridge dropped by one point.

"The HMS Pomeranz sank after colliding with the HMS Elbin. The HMS Hessen and HMS Hanova sustained moderate damage and their speed was limited. The light cruisers HMS Wiesbaden and HMS Fraunlob were confirmed sunk. Destroyers lost... at least five, possibly more."

He put down the report and looked at Scheer: "Total: One battlecruiser, one pre-dreadnought, two light cruisers, and more than five destroyers lost. Three battleships and one battlecruiser were severely damaged. Fifteen capital ships are still combat-ready, four of which are damaged."

Fifteen ships. Twenty-eight ships set out.

Scher closed his eyes. He could almost hear Field Marshal Tirpitz sighing in Berlin, Emperor Wilhelm's fury in Sanssouci Palace, and the cries of the families of the fallen soldiers.

But he couldn't think about those things now. He was the fleet commander, and the lives of more than 40,000 men—or at least, the lives of the rest—were tied to his decisions.

"Where are the British?" he asked, his voice surprisingly calm.

"According to reports from reconnaissance submarines and escort destroyers," the communications officer replied, "the main British fleet is about twenty-five nautical miles to our southwest, and does not appear to be pursuing us at full speed, but rather adjusting its formation and course. Beatty's remnants are further west."

"No pursuit..." Scheer murmured, walking to the chart. "What is Jericho waiting for?"

Trotta walked over and pointed to two dots on the nautical chart: "He's waiting for us to make a choice. If we go through the Horn Reef Channel, he'll block us on the west side. If we go around to the Denmark Strait, he'll intercept us to the north. Whichever we choose, he hopes to have a decisive battle at dawn, under favorable conditions."

"So he won't fight at night," Scheer concluded. "He'd rather let us escape than risk a night battle."

"But our rear guard reports," the communications officer added, "that a British destroyer squadron is forward reconnaissance, with the furthest approaching within fifteen nautical miles."

"Those are eyes, not fists," Scheer said. "Jellicoe used destroyers to see where we were and where we were going, but the main fleet remained stationary."

He stared at the nautical chart, his mind racing. Go through Horn Reef? That was the shortest route, but navigating a minefield at night was suicidal—even with a navigator, even with familiarity with the waterways, in such poor visibility, a single mistake could send the entire warship sinking. Moreover, the waterways were narrow; if a British destroyer caught up and launched torpedoes, there wouldn't be any room to evade.

Go through the Denmark Strait? That would be a huge detour, adding at least six hours to the journey. And at daybreak, they might run into the main British fleet—given the current state of the fleet, fighting another daytime battle would be tantamount to suicide.

Both options are dead ends.

unless……

Scheer's eyes suddenly lit up. He pointed to an area on the chart west of the Horn Reef Channel: "What if we don't go inside the channel, but instead sail along the edge of the minefield?"

Trota paused, taken aback: "Right on the edge? But the British are very familiar with that area; they patrol there frequently..."

"Because they're familiar with it, they might think we're afraid to go," Scheer said. "Think about it: Jellicoe judges that we'll either take the waterway or take a longer route. So he'll either block the waterway exit or intercept us to the north. But what if we're outside the waterway, right at the edge of the minefield, rushing straight towards Port William at top speed?"

He drew a line on the chart—from the fleet's current position, running almost straight east across the North Sea, heading directly towards the German coast. This line ran close to the western edge of the minefield at Horn Reef, possibly less than two nautical miles from the minefield.

"That requires precise navigation," the navigator said. "A slight deviation could lead us into a minefield. And sailing so close to a minefield, if we were spotted by a British destroyer and forced to change course with torpedoes, we could end up hitting a mine ourselves."

"So we can't be detected," Scheer said. "We'll maintain complete radio silence and strict blackout. We'll keep formation and communication using the faintest possible light signals. Destroyers will keep watch on the perimeter, but won't advance too far. We'll slip past the British like ghosts."

Trotta stared at the course, cold sweat beading on his forehead: "This is too risky, Admiral. If even one ship's navigation malfunctions, if even one ship's engine fails, if even one ship is accidentally spotted by a British destroyer..."

"Staying where we are is riskier," Scheer interrupted him. "By daylight, by the time Jericho has regrouped and caught up, we won't even have a chance to take any risks."

He looked around the bridge, at every tired and anxious face.

"Gentlemen, I know this decision is crazy. But sometimes, in dire situations, the craziest route is the safest—because the enemy can't anticipate it."

He walked up to the microphone and took a deep breath.

"Attention all fleet members, this is Fleet Commander Scheer. We will proceed with the following plan: Heading 090, speed increased to 18 knots—the maximum speed the damaged ship can withstand. Objective: to return to Wilhelmshaven in a straight line, skimming the western edge of the Horn Reef minefield."

"During the voyage, the entire fleet maintained radio silence and strict light control. Only the lowest possible brightness of identification lights was permitted. Destroyer squadrons were deployed in a fan shape on the periphery, but no more than five nautical miles from the main force, ready to respond to reconnaissance by British destroyers at any time."

"It's a gamble. A gamble on our accurate navigation, a gamble on loopholes in the British reconnaissance network, a gamble on us finding our way home in this dark sea."

His voice was amplified to every German warship. On the Frederick the Great, on the Königssee, on the Great Elector, on every warship still capable of sailing, the sailors listened to this insane plan. Some were terrified, some were desperate, but others—hope rekindled in their eyes.

At least they are taking action. At least they are trying to get home.

"Now," Scheer said, "carry out the orders. God bless the German Navy."