World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Jutland has proven we can inflict tactical losses on the British," Tirpitz interrupted him, "but it hasn't proven we can break the blockade, nor has it proven we can win the war. And the Emperor's current demands..."

He shoved the written order in front of Muller: "Last two weeks, seek a decisive battle. What do you think?"

Muller quickly scanned the orders, his excitement fading into confusion, and then worry.

"Two weeks...that's impossible, sir. I've seen the report on the Seydlitz; her damage will take at least two months to repair. And that doesn't even include the other damaged warships, the replenishment of ammunition, the rest and recuperation of personnel..."

"But the Emperor thought it was possible," Tirpitz said. "He believed that courage and determination could make up for everything. He thought that since we could achieve such results despite being at a disadvantage, then with 'full preparation' (his definition), we could achieve a decisive victory."

Müller fell silent. As a young officer, he instinctively trusted the Emperor and his superiors. But as a professional soldier, he knew the realities of war.

"Sir," he finally said, "what do we do?"

"Follow orders," Tirpitz said calmly, "because we are soldiers. But..."

He stood up, walked to the map of the North Sea on the wall, and turned his back to Muller.

"But I will leave some leeway in my orders. I will tell Scheer: 'Two weeks of rest, then prepare to strike.' But what does 'prepare to strike' mean? Is a warship considered ready when it's still in dock? Is it considered ready when it's only half-replenished with ammunition?"

He turned to look at Muller: "What the Emperor wants is attitude, is determination. What I want is the survival of the fleet. There is a fine line between the two. And walking along that fine line is the duty of the fleet commander, and also my duty."

Muller understood. It was a subtle form of defiance, a stopgap measure to protect substantive interests while obeying ostensible orders.

"But what if the emperor discovers..."

"Then let them find out." Tirpitz walked back to his desk and sat down. "I will take full responsibility when the time comes. But until then, I will do everything in my power to keep the fleet alive."

He picked up his pen and began drafting orders for Scheer. The pen scratched heavily on the paper, each stroke heavy.

"Carl," he said as he wrote, "do you know how old I am this year?"

"Sixty-seven years old, sir."

"Sixty-seven years old." Tirpitz nodded. "I've spent twenty years building this navy. I've watched it grow from nothing to something, from small to large. I've been involved in the design of every warship. I've reviewed the training syllabus for every batch of sailors. To me, this fleet is like...like my child."

His pen stopped, he looked up, and there was an emotion in his eyes that Müller had never seen before—not sadness, not anger, but a deep, almost paternal worry.

"And now, my child is about to embark on a potentially fatal adventure. And I, as his father, am powerless to protect him. All I can do is try to prepare him as well as possible, and try to make sure he lives as long as possible."

Müller felt a tightness in his throat. He had never seen the Field Marshal show such emotion. In his memory, Tirpitz had always been that resolute, tough, and iron-fisted figure who fought for the Navy at all costs.

"Sir..." He didn't know what to say.

"It's nothing." Tirpitz shook his head and continued writing. "Go ahead and get busy. Oh, and send a copy of this battle report to Commander Chen Feng in Lanfang."

Muller was taken aback: "Give it to Lanfang? Why?"

"Because Chen Feng will understand," Tirpitz said. "He will understand the meaning behind the numbers, and the real cost of this 'victory.' And sometimes, the understanding of an outsider is more important than the cheers of everyone in the country."

He finished writing the order, signed his name, and stamped it. Then, he picked up the envelope for Lanfang and wrote a line on it:

"To Commander-in-Chief Chen Feng: Perhaps only someone like you can truly understand the meaning of power."

Müller took the envelope and the order, saluted, and left.

Tirpitz was alone in the office again. He turned off the desk lamp and sat in the darkness, motionless for a long time.

Outside the window, night fell in Berlin. The city lights gradually came on, but those lights could not penetrate this office, nor illuminate the darkness in the Marshal's heart.

He recalled the scene many years ago when he first explained the theory of the "risk fleet" to Wilhelm II. At that time, the emperor was young, he was young, and everyone was full of hope, believing that through reason, planning, and patience, Germany could gain its rightful place without triggering a war.

But now, reason gives way to fanaticism, planning to impulsiveness, and patience to impatience.

But he, the architect of this plan and the founder of this fleet, was powerless to do anything about it.

They could only watch as their life's work sailed toward an unknown, possibly destructive, fate.

"May God bless you," he whispered, whether to the sailors or to himself, it was unclear.

Then he stood up and left the office.

The gaslight in the corridor cast his shadow long, very long.

Like a lonely night watchman, facing the approaching storm alone while everyone else is asleep.

Dubai, Presidential Palace, 3:00 AM, June 5th.

Chen Feng stood before the global map in the strategy room, holding a newly translated German naval battle report and a brief message handwritten by Tirpitz. The lamplight cast a dim, yellowish glow on the papers, illuminating the thoughtful expression on his face.

"Perhaps only someone like you can truly understand the meaning of power."

The words seemed to gain warmth as he touched them with his fingertips. Wang Wenwu stood beside him, awaiting the commander-in-chief's instructions.

"Tirpitz is calling for help," Chen Feng finally spoke, his voice exceptionally clear in the silent room. "He's not just asking for our assistance, he's asking someone to understand his predicament."

Wang Wenwu nodded: "Berlin should be celebrating right now. Only he sees the crisis."

Chen Feng walked to the conference table and spread out the battle report. The report was filled with dense data and charts, recording every detail of the Battle of Jutland—number of hits, damage, ammunition consumption, and tactical maneuvers.

"Look here," he pointed to a line of text, "'The Seydlitz was hit by nineteen shells, five of which were large-caliber armor-piercing shells, taking on more than 5,000 tons of water, but still managed to return to Wilhelmshaven under its own power.' Next to it were the data for the British battlecruiser: 'The Queen Mary was hit by two shells, its magazine exploded, and it sank within two minutes.'"

He raised his head, a sharp glint in his eyes: "This is the source of Wilhelm II's confidence, and also the root of Tirpitz's fear."

Wang Wenwu bent down to examine it closely: "The technological advantage is indeed obvious. But as Tirpitz said, this does not equate to a strategic advantage."

"That's right." Chen Feng stood up and walked back to the map. "Technological superiority can win battles, but only strategic superiority can win wars. And now, the German Emperor is trying to misinterpret a tactical victory as a strategic turning point, which is the most dangerous illusion."

He drew a circle in the North Sea region: "The British control all the exits to this area. No matter how powerful the German fleet is, if it can't get out, it can't get out. It's like a tiger in a cage; although its fangs are sharp, it can't bite the people outside the cage."