World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Scheer rushed to the radar screen. There were at least four blurry dots of light; the larger ones were likely battleships, the smaller ones cruisers or destroyers. Their course was directly towards them, and their speed… estimated to be over twenty knots.

The British have arrived.

"Battle alert!" Scheer's roar cut through the storm. "All ships to combat readiness! Notify Tirpitz to prepare for engagement! Cruisers and destroyers, advance to scout and identify targets!"

Alarms blared inside the Bismarck. Sailors leaped from their hammocks and rushed to their battle stations. The turrets began to spin, the ammunition elevators hummed, and the engine room pushed the steam pressure to its limit.

However, the Tirpitz's speed of eight knots was a fatal hindrance.

Scheer stared at the radar screen. The dots of light were getting closer and closer, fourteen nautical miles, thirteen nautical miles... The other side had obviously spotted them too and was adjusting their course, trying to seize a favorable position.

"General!" came the lookout's voice through the radio. "Visual contact! Starboard, 280 bearing! It's...it's a battlecruiser! A Hood-class! Two!"

Scheer raised his binoculars. In a lull in the storm, in the instant lightning ripped across the night sky, he saw it.

Two enormous silhouettes appeared and disappeared amidst the waves. A long hull, a towering triangular mast, four main gun turrets… yes, it was the Hood-class. The British's newest warship, purchased from Lanfang, a steel behemoth with Eastern heritage, just like the Bismarck.

Now, these two behemoths have set their sights on the injured Tirpitz amidst the storms of the North Sea.

And Bismarck stood in the middle.

Scheer put down his binoculars and took a deep breath.

"Notify all ships: Prepare for engagement. Main gun target: enemy lead ship. Distance... 12,000 meters. Await my orders."

"yes!"

The turret slowly rotated, and the 380mm cannon raised its barrel, pointing towards the enemy ship in the darkness.

The waves of Beihai resemble moving gray mountain ranges.

Admiral Scheer stood on the bridge of the battleship "Bismarck," his hands gripping the brass handrails fixed to the wall. The 45,000-ton steel behemoth rose and fell in the eight-meter-high waves, and with each bow plunge into a trough, the entire warship emitted a low groan—the mournful cry of the keel enduring the ultimate pressure.

"Direction?" His voice was torn apart by the sound of the wind and waves.

"Maintain 310, General!" helmsman Bernhard shouted in response. The young lieutenant, with a short blond mustache, was pale, not from fear, but from seasickness. "But the rudder is ineffective! The waves on port are too high!"

Scheer peered out of the porthole, which was repeatedly pounded by the sea and covered in watermarks. Visibility was less than two nautical miles; the sky and sea were leaden gray, with only white wave crests breaking and reforming in the darkness. He couldn't see the Tirpitz—theoretically, it should be a nautical mile to its right and aft, but now he could see nothing but torrential rain and giant waves.

"Radar?" Scheer turned to the new device on the port side, which was still buzzing.

Lieutenant Heinrich Schmidt, the operator, slid his finger across the screen, the flickering dots blurred by the sea clutter. "Three...maybe four large targets, bearing 270 to 275, approximately 18,000 kilometers away!" His voice held uncertainty. "General, the clutter is too strong; it might be a misjudgment!"

"It wasn't a misjudgment." Scheer pulled a pocket watch from his coat pocket and glanced at it: 5:17 AM. According to the plan, if the British caught up, it would be around this time. "Notify the Tirpitz to prepare for engagement. All ships, level one combat readiness."

The alarm blared through the roar of the storm.

Fifteen nautical miles away, the battlecruiser HMS Hood was cutting through the waves at a speed of twenty-two knots.

Inside the bridge, Rear Admiral Wellesley stared intently at the radar screen. Compared to the German equipment, which was still in the experimental stage, the HMS Hood was equipped with a second-generation surface search radar provided by Lanfang, which was much more stable.

"Two large targets, confirmed." The radar officer's voice was clear and strong. "Bearing 095, distance 15,000 meters. Heading... estimated 310. Speed... very slow, no more than 15 knots."

Colonel Tovey strode to the chart table and quickly drew a mark with his pencil. "They slowed down. Why?"

"Perhaps there's something wrong with 'it'." Wellesley walked to the porthole, even though he couldn't see anything outside except for the torrential rain. "Six hours ago, the submarine reported seeing unusually thick smoke coming from one of the ships."

"An opportunity." Tovey looked up, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. "General, if we can seize the T-series, we can concentrate the firepower of both ships on one of them—"

"That is, if the Queen can keep up." Wellesley interrupted him. "Goodnow reported that the starboard propeller vibration has worsened, and he dares not exceed twenty-five knots."

Goodnow's voice came through the communicator, accompanied by static: "'Queen's' reporting, my ship is two chains to your right rear and can maintain the current formation. However, I suggest engaging the enemy as soon as possible; this awful weather is unfavorable for gunnery."

Wellesley and Tovey exchanged a glance.

"Order," Wellesley's voice rang out from the bridge. "Adjust course to 100. Proceed side-by-side. Target: enemy lead ship. Load armor-piercing shells into main guns and await my order to fire."

"yes!"

The command was transmitted to the Queen Elizabeth II via light signals. The two 40,000-ton behemoths slowly turned in the storm, their eight twin 15-inch gun turrets beginning to rotate in sync, the heavy gun barrels rising and pointing towards the darkness to the northeast.

In the ammunition magazine beneath the B turret of the HMS Hood, Corporal John Miller and five other sailors were pushing an 879-kilogram 15-inch shell onto the elevator tray.

"Hurry! Hurry!" the turret officer shouted from above, his voice muffled by the megaphone.

The shells were in place, and the propellant charges—four silk-wrapped nitrocellulose packets—were carefully stacked behind the shells. Miller wiped the sweat from his face; it was all condensation. The ammunition depot was stuffy and humid, but compared to the hellish state of the upper deck, battered by storms and seawater, it was at least dry here.

"You mean the Germans are really over there?" a young sailor asked breathlessly. His name was Tom, and he was only nineteen years old.

"The radar says it's there." Miller patted him on the shoulder. "Don't overthink it, just do your job. Send the shells up, and leave the rest to those old men up there."

The elevator hummed as it started, transporting the death load to the turret thirty meters above.

Miller leaned against the steel wall, listening to the faint roar of the storm coming from outside the ship. This was his third combat patrol; the first two were escort missions, and he hadn't even seen a glimpse of the enemy ships. This time was different—everyone knew it was different. The Hood versus the Bismarck, the "peak duel" touted in the newspapers for months, was unexpectedly taking place in this awful weather.

"Corporal," Tom whispered, "can we win?"

Miller looked at the young man with his still somewhat childish eyes and thought of his younger brother in Portsmouth. "The Royal Navy has never lost a naval battle, kid. We suffered even greater losses at Jutland, but the Germans escaped back to port. This time…"

He hadn't finished speaking when the ship suddenly tilted violently, and everyone grabbed onto whatever was secure they could. The sound of seawater lapping against the hull came from afar, like a giant pounding on an iron gate.

"This time," Miller steadied himself and finished speaking in a low voice, "we will win too."