World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Imamura awoke with a start. It was completely dark, with only scattered firelight on the battlefield. Yoshida stood guard, his silhouette a statue in the night.

"Corporal," Kobayashi whispered, "do you think we'll become heroes after the war?"

Looking at this young man who was only nineteen years old, Imamura thought of his younger brother who was the same age.

"Let's live until the war ends first," he said.

The night sky was starless, overcast with dark clouds. In the distance, towards the city of Verdun, firelight illuminated half the sky. There, the battle continued, the bloodshed continued.

Meanwhile, 7,000 kilometers away in Dubai, Chen Feng had just approved a contract to export the first batch of "special alloy steel" to Germany. This steel has strength and toughness far exceeding that of ordinary armor steel of this era, making it ideal for manufacturing "bulletproof shells for certain special vehicles."

Contract amount: £1.2 million. Payment terms: 50% to be paid in US Treasury bonds held by Germany, and 50% to be deducted from the cost of machine tools from Krupp.

After signing the papers, Chen Feng walked to the observation window in the strategy room—the only window in the entire room that offered a view of the outside world. Outside, Dubai Harbour was brightly lit, and a newly launched cargo ship was sounding its horn and setting sail.

"Today was another fulfilling day," he murmured to himself, then drew the curtains.

威廉港，1916年7月5日，午夜23时47分。

The beams of searchlights in the harbor, like pale fingers, swept back and forth across the dark water. Thick fog slowly rolled in from the North Sea, engulfing the lighthouse at the end of the breakwater, leaving only a blurry halo. On the dock, the last supply trucks had just finished unloading their cargo, and dockworkers in oil-stained work clothes were using winches to hoist boxes of artillery shells onto the ship.

The bow of the battlecruiser HMS Von der Tann sliced ​​through the fog like a razor. This 19000-ton behemoth had miraculously survived the Battle of Jutland, but the breach below the waterline on its port side had only been temporarily repaired with steel plates and would still leak water at sea. At this moment, she was silently gliding out of berth number three at a mere five knots.

On the bridge, Vice Admiral Franz von Hippel stood with his hands behind his back. The fifty-four-year-old fleet commander wore a heavy naval overcoat, the collar turned up to ward off the night chill. His face was sharply defined in the faint red light of the instrument panel, his jaw taut and taut.

Behind him, Major Erich Schmidt, the navigator, was bent over the chart table, carefully checking the course with a compass and ruler. The scratching sound of a pencil across paper was exceptionally clear in the silent bridge.

"Heading 280, speed 5 knots, sir," Corporal Hans Klaus, the helmsman, reported in a low voice. He was a 20-year-old young man from a shipbuilder's family in Hamburg, who had been added to the fleet three months ago to replace the old helmsman Jutland, who had died in action.

"Keep it up." Hipper's voice was steady, devoid of emotion.

The fleet was assembling. Besides the flagship, the *Von der Tann*, were the *Moldich* and the *Seydlitz*—the latter having barely repaired its turret hydraulic system, but the chief engineer warned that the risk of leaks remained high in the event of intense combat. Escorting them were four light cruisers and twelve destroyers, like a pack of wary hounds surrounding the three wounded behemoths.

Communications officer Lieutenant Walter poked his head out of the communications room: "General, the port command has sent a final confirmation: the weather report indicates a storm is forming in the central North Sea. Should we postpone our departure?"

Hipper didn't turn around: "Reply: Mission continues."

"But General, the weather forecast says the winds might reach force eight, and the temporary repairs on the 'Seydlitz'..."

"I said, continue." Hipper's tone remained calm, but everyone could hear the unquestionable authority in it.

Walter hesitated for a moment, then pulled his head back. A few seconds later, the telegraph machine began to click.

First Officer Colonel Carl von Müller approached Hipper and lowered his voice: "Sir, please allow me to speak frankly. Is this mission... really necessary? Three capital ships, two of them damaged, to bombard a port facility? This seems more like a political performance than a military operation."

Hipper finally turned his head. In the dim light, his eyes looked like two cold flints.

“You’re right, Müller. It’s all political posturing. But sometimes, political posturing is more important than the actual fighting.” He looked out the porthole, where the silhouettes of other warships were faintly visible through the fog. “Berlin needs a victory, or at least something that looks like a victory. Verdun is bleeding every day, and the army needs to see the navy in action as well.”

"So we're going to risk our entire fleet?"

"It's better than doing nothing." Hipper pulled a folded telegram from his coat pocket and handed it to Müller. "This was sent personally by Marshal Tirpitz before I left. Look at the last sentence."

Muller unfolded the telegram. At the end of the densely packed operational orders, there was a line of handwritten notes: "Frantz, bring them home. The Reich cannot afford to lose another fleet. —Alfred"

"He used 'home,' not 'base' or 'port.'" Hipper retrieved the telegram, carefully folded it, and put it back in his pocket. "The Marshal knew the risks of this mission. But he also knew that if the navy didn't take action, the Emperor might make even more insane decisions. For example... sending the unprepared High Seas Fleet out in full force."

Müller fell silent. As a veteran of the Battle of Jutland, he knew all too well what that meant—the battered German fleet had virtually no chance of winning against Jellicoe's twenty-four dreadnoughts.

Inside the engine room of the Seydlitz, the temperature had risen above forty degrees Celsius. The massive steam turbines roared, converting the energy generated by the boilers into power to drive the propellers. The air was thick with the mixed smells of engine oil, sweat, and coal ash.

Engine room sergeant Karl Heinrich is checking the pressure gauge on the No. 2 high-pressure steam pipe. This 25-year-old corporal, from a miner's family in the Ruhr region, has hands and forearms covered in burn scars—the professional medals of an engine room sergeant. During the Battle of Jutland, his boiler room was nearly destroyed by a shell, rupturing the pipes and killing three of his comrades alive with the scorching steam. Karl miraculously survived, but was permanently deaf in his left ear and now relies on his right ear to barely hear commands.

"Is the pressure stable, Heinrich?" Chief Engineer Major Hansen's voice came through the megaphone, sounding distant amidst the roar of the machinery.

"Pipe pressure 380 pounds, within safe limits, sir!" Carl shouted back into the megaphone, though he knew Major Hansen couldn't hear him—the other end of the megaphone was in the roaring engine room.

He reached out and touched the outside of the pipe. It was hot, but still within acceptable limits. Water was slowly seeping from the makeshift weld—about thirty drops per minute. The engineering department called it an "acceptable leak," but Carl knew that during fighter jet activity, the pressure on the pipe would increase by more than fifty percent, at which point these "acceptable leaks" could turn into deadly steam jets.

"Don't worry, young man." The old engineer Schneider patted him on the shoulder, grinning with his two missing front teeth. "'Seidlitz' is a tough ship. It survived nineteen shells hitting Jutland. This time it's just going to scare the British. It'll be back soon."

Karl forced a smile, but his mind was still on last night's dream: a steam pipe burst, turning the entire engine room into a steam oven, and his comrades turning into cooked meat amidst screams. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the instrument panel.

The fleet had sailed past the breakwater of Wilhelmshaven and into the pitch-black North Sea. The fog had thickened, reducing visibility to less than 500 meters. The destroyers fanned out ahead of the capital ships, and sonar operators listened intently to the underwater environment—British submarines could be anywhere.