World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"marshal."

Chief of Staff Major General Trota walked onto the observation platform, his footsteps echoing hollowly on the steel pier. He held a document in his hand, and his expression was not good.

"Berlin is pressing again." Trotta handed over the document. "It was delivered personally by the Emperor's aide, and the wording... is quite harsh."

Tirpitz took the document but didn't look at it immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the huge wound on the Frederick the Great, watching the workers slowly cut and replace the damaged steel plates.

"Where is the attendant?" he asked calmly.

"He's waiting in your office, saying he won't leave until he sees you sign the order to attack," Trotta said in a low voice. "He also brought the Emperor's decree: 'The German Navy must not rust in port.'"

Tirpitz finally turned his head and glanced at Trotta. The old marshal's eyes were sunken, with heavy eye bags, but his gaze was still sharp.

"Rust?" He sneered, his voice not loud, but exceptionally clear in the quiet morning. "Trotta, tell me, what's the most important thing about a warship?"

"Firepower, Marshal. And protection, speed..."

“It’s about structural integrity,” Tirpitz interrupted, pointing to the Frederick the Great. “In the Battle of Jutland, she was hit by four large-caliber shells and nearly twenty misfires. The breach you see now was caused by a 15-inch shell hitting her at a distance of 5,000 meters. Do you know what that means?”

Trota remained silent.

"That means the British shells tore a hole in our thickest armor belt." Tirpitz turned to face the chief of staff. "And our shells? When they hit British warships, they either ricocheted or dud. The fire control department has analyzed it; our armor-piercing shells have faulty fuses, either detonating prematurely or detonating late. At engagement distances of 5,000 to 10,000 meters, the hit rate is less than three percent."

He paused, his voice growing even lower: "In this state, you want me to order an attack? To go and fight Jericho again? That's not a battle, that's suicide. It's sending 25,000 sailors to their deaths."

Trota opened her mouth as if to say something, but in the end she just sighed.

The two men stepped off the observation deck and walked along the pier toward the headquarters building. The fog was still thick, and the other warships in the harbor could only be seen as blurry outlines—some were undergoing repairs, some were being resupplyed, and some were simply moored quietly, their smokestacks empty, like silent tombstones.

"Marshal, I understand your concerns," Trotta finally spoke, "but the Emperor's pressure... the army suffered heavy losses at Verdun, and public opinion demands a victory, any victory. If the navy continues to remain inactive, the General Staff might..."

"They might divert resources that should have been allocated to the Navy to the Army?" Tirpitz finished his sentence for him, then shook his head. "Let them divert them. Even if you gave me more resources now, I couldn't conjure up a fleet that could defeat Jellicoe. But submarines are different."

He stopped and looked out of the harbor. Through gaps in the thick fog, he could see several U-boats slowly leaving the port—their long hulls and low conning towers resembled a pack of silent sea wolves.

"How many tons did the submarine force sink this month?" Tirpitz asked.

"Forty-two merchant ships, with a total tonnage of approximately 180,000 tons," Trotta replied immediately. "Colonel Crozier reported that if he were given more submarines, he could reduce British shipping volume by another 30%."

"Then give it to him." Tirpitz continued walking forward. "Prioritize all newly launched submarines for the submarine force. Also, tell the shipyards that the construction of destroyers and cruisers can be slowed down, but the submarine production line must run at full speed."

"But Marshal, what the Emperor wants is a victory for the main fleet, not a submarine harassment campaign..."

"The Emperor wants results," Tirpitz's voice suddenly rose. "And what I want is the survival of the navy. Trotta, you and I both know that we cannot defeat Britain in a fleet battle in the foreseeable future. But we can strangle them with submarines—keep their merchant ships from leaving port, strain their supplies, and starve their people. That is the battlefield where we truly have a chance to win."

They had reached the entrance to the headquarters building. It was a four-story granite building, constructed in the late 19th century, its exterior walls covered in vines, appearing somber and heavy in the mist.

Tirpitz stopped in front of the door, straightened his uniform, and took a deep breath.

"Which floor are the attendants on?"

"The second floor, the meeting room next to your office," Trotta said. "He looked...very impatient."

"Then let him wait a little longer." Tirpitz pushed open the door and entered. "I'll go deal with today's maintenance report first. Tell him that if the Emperor is really in such a hurry for the fleet to go into battle, I welcome him to come to Wilhelmshaven in person, board the 'Frederick the Great,' and see the ship's current condition. See if he's willing to sit in such a ship in the middle of the North Sea and face Jellicoe's twenty-four dreadnoughts."

Trotta nodded with a wry smile, secretly admiring the old marshal's composure. Amidst the pressure from Berlin, the Emperor's wrath, and the army's ridicule, Tirpitz persisted in his professional officer's judgment—even if it might cost him his position and even the Emperor's trust.

The two went up to the second floor. The corridor was carpeted thickly, completely silencing their footsteps. Tirpitz's office was at the end of the corridor, the door ajar. The door to the adjacent reception room was closed, but light could be seen through the crack—the attendant was indeed still waiting.

Tirpitz ignored the reception room and went straight into his office. Trotta followed him in and closed the door.

The office was large, but simply furnished. There was a huge oak desk, and three walls were lined with bookshelves crammed with nautical charts, technical manuals, and fleet archives. The fourth wall was a large window facing the harbor, but now only a thick white fog covered the outside.

Tirpitz walked behind his desk but didn't sit down. He picked up a report from the desk—a fifty-page damage assessment of the Seydlitz, detailing every bullet hole, every crack, and every piece of equipment that needed to be replaced.

"How long will it take for the Seydlitz?" he asked without looking up.

"The shipyard's chief engineer said it would take at least two months," Trotta replied. "Her forward main gun turret was completely overturned, the gun mount structure was deformed, and it needs to be cut and replaced. The breach amidships involves the engine room, three boilers are completely unusable, and the main drive shaft is also slightly bent and needs to be recalibrated."

"Two months..." Tirpitz repeated the number, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the report cover. "Too long. Tell the shipyard I'll give them six weeks. Three shifts, all workers, double pay. The 'Seydlitz' must be able to leave port in six weeks, even if not at full speed, at least at 18 knots."