World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Twenty years ago, Emperor Wilhelm II presided over the commissioning ceremony of the High Seas Fleet in Kiel. Standing behind the Emperor, he watched as twelve battleships sailed out of the harbor in succession, accompanied by a 101-gun salute. That evening, he wrote in his diary: "The day the navy is completed will be the day Germany is truly unified."

Now, he stood before the nautical chart, his back to the door, his white general's uniform faded from washing, the collar frayed. There was no one behind him; in front of him, the North Atlantic was densely marked with red arrows—the locations of Allied merchant ships sunk in the past three months.

But he wasn't looking at the arrows.

He was looking at the sea area south of Iceland, west of the Faroe Islands, and east of 30 degrees west longitude. There were no markers there, only a black question mark that he had drawn himself.

That was the location last reported by the U-36 submarine three days ago.

The major walked in and stood at attention.

"Marshal, Kiel is calling."

Tirpitz did not turn around.

"read."

The major unfolded the first telegram:

"U-13, on February 16th, was conducting a commerce raiding mission at 48°N, 22°W when it was pursued by an enemy destroyer group and subjected to depth charge attacks for 90 minutes. The ship sustained multiple damages, its speed dropped to six knots, and it was unable to submerge. The captain reported: the destroyer Merika is equipped with a new sonar that can detect submarines at a range of 10 kilometers. It has broken out towards the Norwegian coast. Further updates—no further updates."

Tirpitz did not move.

The major reads the second document:

"U-27, on February 17th, at 51 degrees North latitude and 19 degrees West longitude, provided cover for the convoy's attack. Engaged two destroyers, the bridge was hit, and the captain was killed. The first mate took command, and after launching the last torpedo, the submarine lost power. The last sentence of the message: Long live His Majesty—the message was interrupted."

The major paused for two seconds.

Third copy:

"U-51, February 18, 4:00 AM, 49°N, 25°W reporting: sighted the Merika escort fleet, currently tracking it. 7:00 AM, received a signal from the vessel: hit by depth charges, taking on severe flooding, damage control underway. 9:00 AM, received the last signal—incomplete translation, only the word 'farewell' was identified."

The major finished reading.

The operations room was so quiet that you could hear the low hum of air flowing through the ventilation ducts.

Tirpitz was still looking at the chart. His right hand rested on the edge of the chart table, while his left hand hung naturally at his sides. From behind, he remained tall and straight, like an old oak tree.

After a long pause, he finally spoke:

What was the name of the U-13's captain?

"Captain Hans Meyer, Field Marshal."

Who else is in his family?

"His mother lives in Kiel, and his fiancée lives in Hamburg. He had originally planned to take a vacation this June to get married."

Tirpitz nodded.

"Telegram to Kiel: Do everything in your power to rescue them. As long as U-13 hasn't sunk, there is still hope."

The major stood at attention: "Yes, sir!"

But both of them knew that in the waters of the North Sea in February, a submarine that had lost its ability to dive had less than a one in ten chance of survival.

Tirpitz finally turned around.

His face made the major's heart tighten.

It wasn't an expression of anger, nor was it sadness. It was a calm that was deeper than anger and heavier than sadness—like a reef that had been washed by countless waves, its surface still hard, but its interior riddled with holes.

Has General Sher arrived yet?

"They are already waiting in the conference room."

"Where is General Hipper?"

"We will take a special train from Port William and are expected to arrive at 4 p.m.

Tirpitz nodded.

He walked back to the chart table and took one last look at the sea. The black question mark still hung there, unanswered.

He erased the question mark.

"Let's go."

The meeting room was at the end of the corridor, with windows facing north, offering views of the grey-blue waters of the Spree River and the bronze-green dome of the Berlin Cathedral.

When Tirpitz pushed open the door, Scheer was already standing by the window.

Reinhard Scheer, Commander of the High Seas Fleet, was the youngest fleet admiral in the Imperial German Navy. His face was like granite, sculpted by a knife and axe; his cheekbones were high, his jaw square, and a permanent downward line ran down the corner of his mouth—not a wrinkle of aging, but the mark left by years of squinting at the sea's surface amidst stormy seas.

He didn't turn around; he kept looking out the window.

"Tirpitz," he said, without honorifics or pleasantries, "you've read the telegram?"

"I've seen it."

"Thirteen submarines, one month. Three today, maybe six tomorrow, maybe ten the day after." Scheer's voice was flat, as if reading a logistical report. "The Merika destroyers travel in packs like hounds; their sonar can lock onto our submarines before we even launch our torpedoes. Our captains report that now that we've entered the Atlantic, the survival rate is less than 70%."

He turned around:

"Submarine warfare has failed."

Tirpitz walked to the conference table but did not sit down.

"I know."

Scher looked at him:

"When did you find out?"

“Three months ago,” Tirpitz said, “last November, U-38 was returning from the North Atlantic, and the captain told me that the sonar performance of the Merika destroyer was at least twice as good as the old British equipment. I had the intelligence department verify this. Their conclusion was that the Merika had made a breakthrough in sonar technology and was upgrading all the Atlantic escort destroyers with the new equipment.”

"Then why didn't you order a change in submarine tactics?"

"Because it can't be adjusted," Tirpitz said. "Our submarine design is based on the concept of shallow-water operations. Diving depth, endurance, torpedo range—every parameter is designed to maneuver in the North Sea and against the Royal Navy. We never imagined that one day our submarines would have to play hide-and-seek with a technologically superior adversary in the deep ocean."

He paused:

"Just as we never imagined, one day the people of Meilika would personally go to sea to escort ships."

Scher remained silent for a few seconds.

Do you regret it?

"Regret what?"

"I regret advocating that we should focus our naval development on battleships," Scheer said. "If we had invested our resources in submarines, we might have cut off Britain's lifeline by now, and the Merricaans' best voice would have been useless—because they would have had no fleets to escort."

Tirpitz did not answer immediately.

He walked to the window, stood where Scheer had just stood, and looked at the grey-blue surface of the Spree River.

"I have no regrets," he said. "Battleships and submarines are not substitutes, they are complementary. Submarines could cut off British trade lines, but only battle fleets could determine who truly owned the seas."

"Like now?" Scheer's voice held a long-suppressed sharpness. "Our battleship fleet has been rusting for three years in Wilhelmshaven, while the British home fleet has been rusting for three years in Scapa Flow. Two steel behemoths, costing the nation twenty years' worth of tax revenue, are facing each other across the North Sea, neither daring to go out, neither daring to fire first."

He paused:

"Tirpitz, this is the High Seas Fleet you fought your whole life for. Not the masters of the sea, but prisoners of the North Sea."