World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Less than 30%." Finally, the captain of the "Frederick the Great" spoke, "And this 30% is based on the premise that we don't encounter Jellicoe's main fleet and only engage in a small-scale skirmish. If the main British force appears..."

He shook his head and didn't continue.

Tirpitz looked at the others. The officers either nodded or remained silent; no one raised any objections.

"Very well." Tirpitz took a document from his briefcase. "This is a draft joint statement. The content is simple: based on professional judgment, we unanimously believe that the fleet is not in a safe condition to launch an attack before July 10th. If His Majesty insists on the order, we can carry it out, but all risks must be clearly explained."

He pushed the draft to the center of the table: "Those who wish to sign, please come forward. Those who do not wish to, may leave. I am not forcing anyone."

The meeting room fell silent again. The officers exchanged glances; some took a deep breath, while others looked down at their hands.

The first to stand up was the captain of the "Frederick the Great". He walked to the table, picked up a pen, and signed his name at the end of the draft. The sound of the pen nib gliding across the paper was clearly audible.

Next came the captain of the HMS Seydlitz. Then came the HMS Königssee, the HMS Great Elector… one after another, all fifteen capital ship commanders signed their names. Finally, the commanders of the cruiser and destroyer forces were present.

When the last signature was completed, the draft was densely covered with names and ranks. Tirpitz looked at the document, a complex mix of emotions welling up inside him—a sense of relief, a heavy heart, and a sense of foreboding.

"This statement," he said slowly, "will be sent to Berlin along with my technical report. It may not save the fleet, but at least we've done what we had to do. Meeting adjourned. Ships, continue with your repairs. But remember, quality first, time second. I don't want to see any ship leave port with hidden problems due to rushed work."

The officers left one after another. Tirpitz remained alone in the conference room, looking at the joint statement. Outside the window, the fog began to dissipate, and the warships in the harbor gradually revealed their clear outlines.

Those massive steel ships, each representing two decades of German industrial effort, each carrying the lives of thousands of sailors. Now, their fate depends on Berlin's decision—whether to trust professional judgment or political will.

The phone rang suddenly, shrill and urgent.

Tirpitz answered, "I am Tirpitz."

"Marshal," came Chief of Staff Trotta's urgent voice through the receiver, "Berlin has replied. It's just one sentence: 'His Majesty the Emperor requests to personally inspect Wilhelmshaven tomorrow. Please make preparations for his reception.'"

The call ended. Tirpitz slowly lowered the receiver, his fingers feeling slightly cold.

The emperor is coming in person.

What does this mean? Is it to exert pressure, or to see reality for themselves? Is it to remove him from his post, or to accept reality?

he does not know.

All he knew was that tomorrow, everything would have an answer.

The fog outside the window had completely dissipated. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, shining brightly on the calm waters of Wilhelmshaven. Inside the harbor, workers were still busy on the ship's hull, sparks from welding flashing and the faint sound of metal being struck echoing through the air.

The fleet is still under repair and still being prepared.

At the same time, in eastern Poland, at the location of the 3rd Division of the Provisional 10th Army of the German Army.

In the open space in the center of the camp, Lieutenant General Shiba Goro stood on a makeshift wooden platform, facing eight thousand soldiers standing in formation. They had all changed into German dark gray field uniforms and wore M1916 steel helmets, but their faces, builds, and the distinctive upright posture they wore made them instantly recognizable as Japanese soldiers.

The air was stifling, and the June sun shone down relentlessly. Fine beads of sweat appeared on the soldiers' foreheads, but no one wiped them away, and no one moved. Strict discipline was one of the qualities the Japanese army was most proud of.

Shiba Goro held a tin megaphone in his hand, and his voice echoed throughout the camp through the loudspeaker:

"Attention, all units! As ordered by Berlin General Headquarters, our unit has completed its reorganization and is officially incorporated into the German Imperial Army. From today onwards, our division designation is changed to '3rd Infantry Division, Provisional 10th Army.' Our mission is—"

He paused for a moment, then clearly uttered those words:

"—Head to the western front to reinforce the Verdun direction."

A slight commotion arose in the ranks, like wind blowing through a wheat field. The soldiers remained at attention, but their eyes revealed confusion, shock, and even a hint of fear. The Western Front, Verdun—these two words had, over the past few months, become a symbol of terror through newspapers, the accounts of wounded soldiers, and snippets of conversation among their German colleagues.

"I know you all have questions," Shiba Goro continued, his voice steady but heavy, "but a soldier's duty is to obey orders. Germany is our ally, and the war on the Western Front is crucial to the entire course of the war. Our participation will bring greater benefits and international standing to the Empire."

He felt his throat go dry as he spoke these words, which even he himself didn't fully believe.

"Now, all teams are conducting joint training as planned. In a week, we will travel to France by train. Dismissed!"

The order was given, but the soldiers did not immediately disperse. They stood still, looking at the division commander on the platform with complex expressions.

Shiba Goro put down the trumpet, turned around, and stepped off the wooden platform. He could feel the gaze of eight thousand pairs of eyes behind him, eyes filled with confusion, doubt, and a sense of betrayal and disappointment.

"Your Excellency, Division Commander," the adjutant jogged over, lowering his voice, "There's been a problem with the First Regiment..."

"What's the problem?"

"A dozen or so soldiers refused to participate in the training. They said... that wearing this uniform was enough, but they didn't want to die for the Germans."

Shiba Goro closed his eyes and took a deep breath. What was bound to happen had finally happened.

"take me."

The First Regiment's camp was located on the east side of the camp. When Shiba Goro arrived, he saw a dozen soldiers sitting cross-legged on the ground, their German uniforms neatly worn, but their rifles were lying to one side, their expressions defiant. Dozens of soldiers surrounded them, whispering amongst themselves. Several officers were trying to persuade them, but to no avail.

Upon seeing the division commander arrive, the soldiers automatically made way for him. The soldiers sitting on the ground raised their heads, their eyes showing both resistance and unease.

"Stand up," Shiba Goro said calmly.

The soldiers hesitated for a moment, then stood up one after another, but still kept their distance.

"Name, rank," Shiba Goro asked the leading soldier. He was a sergeant around thirty years old with a scar on his face from the Russo-Japanese War.

"Ichiro Suzuki, Sergeant," the soldier answered, his chest puffed out, but his voice lacked its usual respect.

"Why are you refusing to train?"

Sergeant Suzuki looked the division commander straight in the eye: "Commander, please allow me to speak frankly: We came to Europe to cooperate with the German army, for the benefit of the Reich. But now, we're wearing German uniforms, going to fight Britain and France—our potential allies! What is this? What are we? Mercenaries?"