World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Tirpitz remained silent. He knew the Emperor's words made sense, but from a military perspective, the plan was too risky and had too low a chance of success.

"Your Majesty," he finally said, his voice hoarse, "please give me some time. Let the fleet rest, let the wounded recover, let the warships be repaired. We need..."

"Two weeks," Wilhelm II interrupted him, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm giving you two weeks. In two weeks, I want the High Seas Fleet to set sail again. This time, it's not a probe, not a harassment, but an opportunity to seek a decisive battle with the main British forces."

Tirpitz's heart sank. Two weeks was simply not enough. The damage to the Seydlitz would require at least two months to repair, and the repair of other damaged warships, the replenishment of ammunition, the rest of the crew... two weeks wouldn't even be enough for a basic recovery.

"Your Majesty, two weeks is too short; it should take at least..."

"Then let's make the most of every minute." Wilhelm II released his grip, turned, and walked towards the window, his back to him. "Mobilize all shipyard workers, in three shifts. Bring reinforcements from the army. As for ammunition... I remember there are still reserves in Kiel."

"But back then..."

"Victory on the Eastern Front is assured; the Western Front can now be switched to defense." The Emperor did not turn around. "Now is the time for the navy. I want the world to see that Germany can defeat anyone not only on land, but also at sea."

He paused, then added, "And, Alfred, think about the political implications. What will the neutral parties think if we show weakness now? They'll think Germany is running out of steam and will side with the British. But if we show strength and resolve..."

He didn't finish speaking, but Tirpitz understood. For the Emperor, this was not just a military operation; it was a political performance, a show for audiences both at home and abroad.

The navy is the actor in this performance.

"I understand, Your Majesty," Tirpitz finally said, his voice devoid of emotion. "I will convey your orders."

"Very good." Wilhelm II turned around, a smile returning to his face. "I knew you would always understand my vision, Alfred. Go, prepare. I want to hear good news in two weeks."

Tirpitz stood at attention, saluted, and then turned and left.

His steps remained steady, his back remained straight, but each step felt incredibly heavy.

As he reached the door, the emperor called out to him, "Alfred."

Tirpitz turned around.

Wilhelm II stood in the sunlight, his golden epaulets and medals gleaming. He smiled, but there was something in that smile that Tirpitz never fully understood—was it confidence? Was it fanaticism? Or some deeper, anxious yearning for "historical status"?

"Remember," the emperor said, "history is written by the brave. And today, we are writing history."

Tirpitz nodded without saying a word, then turned and walked out of the audience hall.

The heavy oak door closed behind him, shutting out the sunlight, the scent of orange blossoms, and the emperor's suffocating passion.

The corridor was dark, with only a few gas lamps casting a faint glow on the walls. Tirpitz stood there for a few seconds, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Then, he slowly walked towards the exit.

Every step felt like walking towards a cliff.

The Admiralty building, Tirpitz's office.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, the curtains were drawn, and only a single desk lamp cast a dim, yellowish light on the large oak desk. Tirpitz sat behind the desk, three documents spread out in front of him: one was the Emperor's order (in written form, just delivered by his attendant), one was a detailed report from Scheer in Wilhelmshaven, and the other was his own handwritten notes.

"Two weeks..." he muttered to himself, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table. "God, what does he think warships are? Carriages? Something you can just fix and get back on the road?"

The door was gently pushed open. Major Carl von Müller, the adjutant—the young officer he'd met Scheer in the corridor earlier—entered carrying coffee. He noticed the Marshal's expression and hesitated for a moment.

"Sir, your coffee."

"Put it down." Tirpitz didn't look up.

Müller placed his coffee cup on the table, preparing to leave, but Tirpitz called him back.

"Karl".

"Yes, sir."

Tirpitz looked up at the young officer. Müller was about thirty-five years old, blond, blue-eyed, with the typical features of a Prussian officer, and his eyes still shone with that passion for the navy and the empire.

"Have you read the battle report?" Tirpitz asked.

"Yes, sir." Muller straightened his back. "A great victory! Although we suffered losses, but..."

"But what?"

Müller hesitated for a moment, but the young man's straightforwardness prevailed: "But we have proven that the German Navy is second to none! The British will never dare to underestimate us again!"

Tirpitz gave a wry smile. The same sentiment prevailed; from the Emperor to the young officers, everyone was immersed in the joy of "victory," selectively ignoring the cold, hard numbers and the harsh realities.

"Sit down." He gestured to the chair opposite him.

Müller was somewhat surprised, but he still sat down, maintaining a standard military posture.

"Karl, how long have you been in the Navy?"

"Twelve years, sir. Starting from my graduation from military academy in 1904."

"Twelve years..." Tirpitz picked up his coffee and took a sip. The coffee had gone cold, and a bitter taste spread across his tongue. "Twelve years, you've witnessed the Navy's rapid development. You've seen us go from having only a few old warships to having the second-largest fleet in the world."

"Yes, sir!" Müller's eyes lit up. "Those were glorious years! Every day brought progress, and the launch of every new ship was a celebration! We believed that the navy would bring Germany its rightful place in the world!"

"The rightful place in the world..." Tirpitz repeated the phrase, his tone complex. "Yes, we all believe it. I believe it too. That's why I didn't hesitate to argue with Parliament, to confront the Treasury, or to fight before the Emperor, all for one thing: to give Germany a navy that is worthy of its power."

He put down his coffee cup and looked at the glow of the lamp: "But now, Carl, I'm asking you: What is the purpose of the Navy?"

Müller thought for a moment: "To protect German maritime interests, to uphold the glory of the Reich, and... to challenge British maritime supremacy?"

"Challenging British naval supremacy." Tirpitz nodded. "Yes, that's what we say publicly. But privately, those of us who formulate the plans know that the true purpose of the navy is 'risk deterrence'—to build a fleet strong enough that the British would have to think twice and calculate the costs before considering war with us. That way, we can get what we want through negotiation, not war."

He paused, his voice lowering: "But war still broke out. And in this war, the navy's mission changed—no longer deterrence, but real combat, breaking the blockade, and striving for victory."

"We're doing it, sir!" Müller said excitedly. "Jutland has proven..."