World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"It's about letting the British know that we have the capability to cut off their lifeline anytime, anywhere," Scheer said. "Not occupation, but presence. Not a decisive battle, but deterrence. The Bismarck doesn't need to sink every merchant ship; it just needs to make every merchant ship's captain ask themselves before setting sail: 'Is there anything in the sea today?'"

He paused:

"Fear will do the rest of the work for us."

Tirpitz looked at him for a long time.

"You're gambling."

"Yes," Scheer did not deny it, "but I'm betting that the British fear will grow faster than their courage."

Wilhelm II stood up.

He walked to the nautical chart, gazing down at the blue expanse fragmented by countless pencil lines. The North Atlantic, the North Sea, the English Channel—for twenty years, he had seen this chart at countless military conferences and heard countless generals discuss offensive and defensive strategies.

But today is different.

Today, he wasn't listening to the generals argue. He was making a decision.

"Tirpitz," he said.

"His Majesty."

"I know you object. I know you have your reasons." Wilhelm II did not turn around. "For twenty-nine years, you have devoted your life to the German Navy. When I ascended the throne, the German Navy was not even among the top five in Europe. Now, we are second in the world."

He paused:

"Over the past twenty-nine years, I have adopted countless suggestions from you. Some were correct, and some were not in hindsight. But I have never questioned your loyalty."

Tirpitz lowered his head.

"Today," Wilhelm II finally turned around, "I will not accept your advice."

The old marshal's shoulders trembled slightly.

"But I still believe in your loyalty," Wilhelm II said softly. "I just need you to do one thing."

"Please give your orders, Your Majesty."

"Stay here," Wilhelm II said. "Stay here and watch how I walk this path. If I go astray, you will be the only one who dares to say to me, 'Your Majesty, you are wrong.'"

Tirpitz remained silent for a long time.

The firewood in the fireplace popped with a crack, and sparks flew onto the edge of the hearth and quickly went out.

"Yes, sir," the old marshal said. His voice was low, like a sigh squeezed from the depths of his chest.

Wilhelm II turned to Scheer and Hipper:

"You'll handle the battle plan. How much time do you need?"

Scher and Hipper exchanged a glance.

"Three days," Scheer said. "The Bismarck and Tirpitz can leave port in three days."

"Very well," said Wilhelm II. "I will see you off in Port Wilhelm three days from now."

He glanced at the grandfather clock on the mantel:

"You may go and prepare."

The three men rose, bowed to the emperor, and turned to walk towards the door.

As Tirpitz's hand touched the doorknob, Wilhelm II's voice came from behind:

"Old Marshal".

Tirpitz stopped.

"That memorandum you gave me back then—" Wilhelm II paused, "I've kept it all this time."

Tirpitz didn't turn around. He pushed open the door and stepped into the dim light of the corridor.

Scher followed behind him, with Hipper bringing up the rear.

The door was closed from the outside.

Wilhelm II was left alone in his study. He stood before the nautical chart, gazing down at the blue expanse fragmented by countless pencil lines. His two most advanced battleships were about to set sail on the North Atlantic route.

He suddenly remembered a quote from Frederick the Great:

"If my army believes I am invincible, they will truly become invincible."

He believed that the Bismarck and Tirpitz were the most powerful battleships of their time.

He believed that Scheer and Hipper were the best admirals in the German Navy.

He believed that a speed of thirty knots, 380 mm main guns, and 350 mm side armor—these figures combined were enough to fight any enemy.

but.

But when Tirpitz's figure disappeared behind the door, when he was left alone in the study facing the chart—

He suddenly became unsure whether everything he believed was true.

Tirpitz walked along the long corridor of Sanssouci Palace.

His steps were slow, so slow that Scheer and Hipper, following behind, had to slow their pace as well. The pale February light streamed through the corridor windows, casting alternating patterns of light and shadow on the floor. The old marshal's shadow flickered between these shadows, mirroring his restless state of mind.

No one speaks.

The corridor was long, with portraits of Hohenzollern monarchs hanging on both sides. Frederick William, Elector; Frederick III, the first King of Prussia; Frederick the Great, his hawk-like eyes surveying everyone who walked through the corridor. Tirpitz walked this corridor for twenty-nine years, from black hair to white hair, from naval lieutenant commander to imperial marshal.

Today was the slowest he had ever walked.

As he stepped out of the palace's main gate, a blast of cold wind hit him. Tirpitz stopped and took a deep breath of the February chill in Berlin. It felt as if his lungs were being sliced ​​by icy blades.

Scher stood beside him, waiting in silence.

Hipper lagged a few steps behind, whispering something to a naval adjutant.

"Marshal," Sher said.

Tirpitz did not look at him.

"You have something to say to me."

This is not a question.

Tirpitz finally turned to look at the fifty-three-year-old commander of the High Seas Fleet. Scheer's eyes were deep-set, his cheekbones prominent, and shrapnel from the Battle of Jutland still lodged in his left shoulder, throbbing faintly on rainy days. But at this moment, his face was expressionless—not calm, not resolute, but simply a deep, heavy tranquility.

"General Scherr," Tirpitz said, "do you believe His Majesty is right?"

Scher remained silent for a few seconds.

"Marshal, are you asking whether His Majesty is right or wrong, or am I asking myself whether I believe it?"

Is there a difference?

"Yes," Scheer said. "Whether His Majesty is right or not is a strategic question. Whether I believe it or not is a military question."

Tirpitz looked at him.

"Strategic issues," Scheer said slowly, "require time to prove themselves. Only after the Battle of the Atlantic will we know whether His Majesty's choice today was right or wrong."

"What about the military personnel?"

Scheer did not answer immediately.

A cold wind whipped up fallen leaves in the square in front of Sanssouci Palace, withered oak leaves swirling on the stone slabs. In the distance, the commands for the changing of the guard could be faintly heard.

"The military issue," Scheer finally said, "is that His Majesty issued the order, and I asked myself if I was ready to carry it out."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," Scheer said. "I was ready from the day I accepted the appointment as Commander of the High Seas Fleet."

Tirpitz remained silent.

Hipper then walked over and stood beside Scheer. His military bearing was always impeccable; every button on his overcoat was fastened in the correct position, and his gloves were snow-white without a single wrinkle.

"Marshal," Hipper began, his voice still calm, "I have something I want to say to you."

Tirpitz looked at him.

"You always taught us that the duty of naval officers is to defend the nation, not to be loyal to any individual. You said that the fleet is just a tool, and strategy is the fundamental thing." Hipper paused for a moment. "I've remembered that sentence for twenty years."

"so what?"

"So I want to tell you—" Hipper raised his head and looked directly into the old marshal's eyes, "You didn't convince His Majesty today, not because your strategy was wrong."

Tirpitz did not respond.