World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The officers left the operations room one by one to prepare their respective ships. Wellesley remained alone in front of the nautical chart, his finger sliding along the planned course.

The journey from Scapa Flow to the Shetland Islands to the Norwegian Sea is approximately 500 nautical miles, which would take 20 hours at a speed of 25 knots. If the German task force maintains its original course and speed, the two sides may encounter each other about 100 nautical miles west of the Norwegian coastline by tomorrow morning.

It would be an open sea, deep enough, with no islands for cover. Suitable for battles between large ships, and also for fleet maneuvering.

But only if the weather isn't too bad.

Wellesley looked out the porthole. In the anchorage, thick smoke began to billow from the HMS Hood's funnel, and the boilers were pressurizing. On deck, the sailors were busy with final preparations for departure—secured deck items, inspected the turrets, and tested the communications equipment.

Most of these young people are under twenty-five. Do they know what they are about to face?

They may know, they may not. But in any case, they will carry out orders. Because they are the Royal Navy, because they believe the seas belong to Britain.

Wellesley recalled Nelson's famous words before the Battle of Trafalgar: "England expects everyone to do their duty."

Two hundred years later, the anticipation remains.

The only difference was that the enemy changed from France and Spain to Germany.

The warships were changed from wooden sailing ships to 40,000-ton steel behemoths.

But the ocean hasn't changed, the war hasn't changed, and the responsibilities haven't changed.

"General, the HMS Hood is ready and can set sail at any time," Colonel Tovey's voice came from the doorway.

Wellesley glanced at the chart one last time, then turned and said, "Weigh anchor. Let's see just how amazing the Germans' new toy really is."

"Yes, General."

At 11:00 a.m. sharp, a long whistle sounded from the anchorage in Scapa Flow.

HMS Hood was the first to weigh anchor, its massive anchor chain being pulled up by the winch, carrying with it silt and seaweed from the seabed. The warship slowly turned and headed towards the port exit. HMS Queen Elizabeth followed closely behind, followed by light cruisers and destroyers.

On the other warships at anchor, sailors lined the decks, saluting the departing fleet. Some waved hats, others shouted blessings. But there was no cheering—because everyone knew this was not an exercise, but a real combat mission.

The fleet sailed out of the narrow waterways of Scapa Flow and into Pentland Bay. The waves were already quite large, and the warships began to sway noticeably. Wellesley stood on the bridge of the HMS Hood, feeling the vibrations from the waves crashing against the hull beneath his feet.

The northern sky was heavy and leaden, the sea a deep gray, with white waves breaking in the wind. Visibility was indeed poor; the distant "Queen's Ship" had become blurred.

"Report!" came the radar officer's voice. "No surface targets 30 nautical miles ahead. In the air... there are flocks of birds, many of them."

"A flock of birds?" Wellesley frowned.

"Yes, General. It's probably a storm coming; the seabirds are migrating."

A storm. Wellesley looked north. There the clouds were lower and darker, spreading across the horizon like ink drops into clear water.

A storm is brewing, and two groups of steel behemoths are about to meet in the raging waves of the North Sea.

Who will win?

Only the ocean knows.

Beihai, November 2nd, early morning

The storm peaked at midnight.

The Bismarck struggled through waves eight meters high. The warship was tossed about like a small boat, each descent accompanied by the groaning of its keel. Seawater surged onto the deck, rushing between the turrets and superstructure, before bursting out of the drainpipes.

Captain Scheer gripped the bridge railing, his face pale but his eyes resolute. He hadn't slept for twenty hours, his coffee making him nauseous, but he dared not rest.

"Report your course and speed!" he yelled into the radio.

"Heading 310, speed 18 knots!" The helmsman's voice was torn apart by the sound of the wind and waves. "General, we can't go any faster! The waves are too big!"

Scheer knew. Eighteen knots was the limit; any faster and the bow might be damaged by the waves, or worse—structural damage from violent rolling.

But slowing down is even more dangerous. What if the British catch up...?

"Has the radar detected anything?" he asked the radar officer.

"No, General! The sea clutter is too strong; the effective detection range is less than ten nautical miles! And..." the radar officer's voice was filled with panic, "and the radar antenna may be damaged! The echo is unstable!"

"Damn the weather," Scheer cursed under his breath. The storm had disrupted all plans. The fleet was forced to slow down, its formation was broken, and communications were intermittent. He wasn't even sure if the Tirpitz was still behind—the last light signal was two hours ago, when it was still a nautical mile away, but now he couldn't see anything.

"General!" the communications officer suddenly shouted, "We've received a light signal from the Tirpitz: 'Engine malfunction, reducing speed to twelve knots, requesting further instructions!'"

Scheer's heart sank. Engine failure? In this weather?

"Reply: Maintain course and do your best to repair. We will reduce speed to 15 knots and wait," he ordered, then added, "Also, inquire about the details of the malfunction."

The few minutes of waiting for a reply felt like hours to Scheer. The bridge was swaying violently, and the charts, rulers, and pencils on the table all slipped to the floor. A young officer lost his footing and hit the bulkhead, bleeding from the forehead, but was immediately dragged away by a medic.

"Reply in!" the communications officer shouted. "Tirpitz reports: starboard outboard propeller shaft overheating, forced shutdown. At least six hours of cooling and maintenance required."

Six hours. Scheer closed his eyes. In this stormy North Sea, slowing down to twelve knots and staying still for six hours... it was like nailing himself to a cross, waiting for the British to arrive.

But could they abandon the Tirpitz? No. She was a sister ship, half the strength of the task force, and the pride of the German Navy.

"Notify all ships," Scheer finally decided, "the entire fleet to reduce to twelve knots, course unchanged. Destroyers to maintain perimeter surveillance, cruisers to advance and scout. Also... send a telegram to the main force of the High Seas Fleet, reporting our position and situation."

"Send a telegram?" the chief of staff exclaimed in surprise. "General, radio silence..."

"The silence has been broken," Scheer said wearily. "The engine malfunction will take time to repair; we can't leave. If the British catch up, we'll need the support of the main fleet. Send a message, on encrypted bands."

"Yes……"

The encrypted radio waves pierced through the storm, heading south. Scheer didn't know how far the main fleet was, whether they could receive the signal, or even if they did, whether they could reach them in time amidst the storm.

All he can do now is wait. Wait for the Tirpitz to be repaired, wait for the storm to pass, wait... for the moment when the British fleet might appear.

Time ticked by. At 3 a.m., the storm showed no signs of abating. At 4 a.m., the Tirpitz reported that the overheating problem had eased, but it could only maintain a speed of eight knots for the time being and could not reverse at full speed.

At five o'clock, it was still pitch black. Suddenly, the radar sounded an alarm.

"Contact! Bearing 270, distance... 15 nautical miles! Multiple targets, large surface warships!"