World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Wilhelm II walked to the window, his back to the three men. Outside, the Berlin skyline blended into the leaden clouds, and the statue atop the Victory Column was only a blurry outline in the fog.

"Tirpitz." The emperor did not turn around.

"His Majesty."

"The year I ascended the throne, you gave me a memorandum."

Tirpitz paused for a few seconds: "Yes, Your Majesty. 1888."

"What does it say on it?"

The old marshal's voice was low: "Germany's future lies at sea. Without a strong fleet, Germany will forever remain a landlocked country on the European continent."

Wilhelm II turned around. There was no anger on his face, only a deep weariness.

"Twenty-nine years," he said. "I built the High Seas Fleet as you instructed. I challenged British maritime supremacy, and I made the whole world see the German flag flying in the North Sea, the Baltic Sea, and the Mediterranean. But now—"

He paused:

"Where is our fleet?"

Tirpitz did not speak.

"In the harbor," Wilhelm II answered himself, "behind the breakwater of Wilhelmshaven, in the anchorage of the Kiel Canal, under the protection of the gun emplacements of Heligoland Fortress. The High Seas Fleet, which I spent twenty-nine years building, has spent most of its time in war watching the tides rise and fall in the North Sea."

Scheer raised his head: "Your Majesty, the very existence of the High Seas Fleet is a deterrent. As long as we remain in port, Britain must keep its main force on the mainland and cannot fully commit to the Mediterranean and the Far East—"

"Deterrence?" Wilhelm II looked at him, his tone devoid of sarcasm, only weary. "General Scheer, you're right. Deterrence is also a form of fighting power. But now—the Merikas are going to war. They won't postpone their declaration of war just because there are twenty dreadnoughts docked in Wilhelmshaven."

He walked back to the sofa area and finally sat down this time:

"I summoned you here today not to discuss whether or not to go to sea."

He looked at the three people:

"I am informing you that I have decided to send the Bismarck and Tirpitz to sea."

Tirpitz suddenly looked up.

"His Majesty."

Tirpitz stood up. His movements were slow, as if every muscle was fighting against gravity, against the aging that had never yielded to him in decades. He stood on the edge of the sofa, his back ramrod straight, just as he had when he first presented the draft of the Fleet Act to Wilhelm II in 1897.

"Your Majesty, this old minister humbly requests that you reconsider."

Wilhelm II looked at him but did not interrupt.

"With the High Seas Fleet in port, Britain must maintain the main force of its Home Fleet. We are consuming their coal, their crew's energy, and the forces they could have deployed to the Mediterranean and the Far East." Tirpitz's voice was slow and heavy, each word like water drawn from a deep well. "Once the capital ships are at sea, once they are damaged or even sunk in battle—that deterrent is lost forever."

Wilhelm II remained silent.

Scheer spoke, his voice calm: "Marshal, deterrence relies on the other side believing we will actually use such force. For two and a half years, the British have been moving in and out of the North Sea, hunting our commerce raiders in the Norwegian Sea, and now the destroyers of the Rica are chasing our submarines in the North Atlantic, dropping depth charges. Why do they dare?"

He paused:

"Because they know the high seas fleet won't come out."

Tirpitz turned to him, his gaze sharp: "So you're suggesting we risk two of our most advanced battleships?"

"I suggest letting the enemy know that the German Navy is not a caged beast." Scheer met his gaze. "Field Marshal, I am not a theorist in the General Staff. I commanded the Jutland; I know what it sounds like when shells hit the turrets, and I know how many degrees the ship will list when seawater floods in through the breach. It is precisely because I know this that I believe—this stalemate must be broken."

He stood up, walked to the chart table, and spread out the North Atlantic chart:

"This is the transport route from Merica to Britain. More than a hundred merchant ships sail through this area every day, carrying oil, food, and weapons. Our submarines used to create fear here, but now the escort fleet has suppressed that fear."

His finger pointed to the center of the nautical chart:

"But what if—two Bismarck-class destroyers appeared here?"

He raised his head:

"With a speed of 30 knots and firepower far exceeding any British battleship, HMS Queen Elizabeth could catch up to the Bismarck-class at a maximum of 32 knots, but she couldn't defeat it. The Revenge-class, at 21 knots, couldn't catch up either. Not a single ship in the entire Royal Navy could intercept a Bismarck-class battleship in open waters."

Tirpitz remained silent.

Hipper then spoke, his voice still calm, as if he were analyzing a war game:

"Marshal, I understand your concerns. Setting sail means taking on the risk of losses. But have you considered—what impact would it have on the situation if we won a victory before Merika officially enters the war?"

He paused:

"The British public will ask: 'What's wrong with our Royal Navy? We spend the most on military spending in the world, yet we can't even capture two German warships?' The French government will ask: 'Are we going to join an ally that can't even protect our supply lines?' The French military will ask: 'Can the Spring Offensive on the Western Front really be launched while the German Navy still holds the initiative?'"

He looked Tirpitz straight in the eye:

"This is not a risky move. It's a struggle for strategic initiative."

Tirpitz looked at him, at the commander he had personally trained, whose composure was as sharp as a scalpel. He suddenly recalled twenty years ago when Hipper was a young captain in a cruiser squadron, and during an exercise, he had been publicly criticized by Tirpitz for being too reckless at a debriefing meeting.

Hipper listened in silence, then said only one sentence: "Marshal, I would rather be scolded by you for being reckless than rust into scrap metal in the port."

Now he stands in his study at Sanssouci Palace, arguing the same point in the same calm tone.

Tirpitz opened his mouth, as if to say something, but he didn't.

Turning to Wilhelm II: "Your Majesty, I understand the views of Scheer and Hipper. I have only one question."

"explain."

"The Bismarck and Tirpitz can reach thirty knots. But the fleet isn't just those two ships." Tirpitz said, emphasizing each word. "The King class has a speed of twenty-two knots, the Heligoland class twenty knots, and the Nassau class nineteen knots. The First Strike Fleet will charge into the Atlantic at thirty knots, with the support fleet chasing behind at twenty knots. Once we encounter the main British force, how long can the First Strike Fleet hold out? It will take the support fleet four hours to reach the battlefield."

He paused:

"Four hours. Enough time for the Bismarck to sink three times over."

The room fell silent.

Scheer did not answer immediately. He looked at the nautical chart, his finger moving slowly along the route, as if measuring some insurmountable distance.

"Marshal," he finally spoke, "you're right. Four hours."

He turned around:

"Therefore, the mission of the First Strike Fleet is not to engage in a decisive battle with the main British force."

"What is that?"