World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

I recall being born forty-seven years ago in a small village near Hanover. My father was a village schoolteacher, and my mother was a farmer. My family couldn't afford to send me to university, so I entered naval school at the age of fourteen.

I remember when I was twenty-three, the first time I boarded a warship. It was an old cruiser, a hybrid of sails and steam, with a speed of only fourteen knots. The captain told him, "Schèle, the future of the navy isn't in sails, it's in steam. Study hard, and you'll see."

He saw it.

I witnessed Germany's transformation from having no fleet to possessing the world's second-largest navy. I saw Tirpitz arguing vehemently in the Reichstag, fighting for budgets for every warship. I saw Wilhelm II embracing the old marshal at the opening ceremony of the Kiel Canal, calling him "the father of German naval power."

I also saw the Battle of Jutland.

In that naval battle, he was the commander of the reconnaissance fleet. He led a squadron of battlecruisers in a direct confrontation with the British Beatty fleet, witnessing firsthand the severe damage to the Lützow and the return of the Seydlitz with half its hull towed. That night, he stayed up all night on his flagship, the Frederick the Great, listening to the damage control team report on the damage to each ship.

Final tally: Germany sank three British battlecruisers, while losing one battlecruiser and one pre-dreadnought itself. In terms of tonnage, Germany won.

But the main British fleet was still at sea the next day. The third day, still at sea. The fourth day, still at sea.

What about the German fleet? By the third day, they had all retreated to Wilhelmshaven.

From then on, Scheer understood a principle: naval warfare is not a boxing match where the one who knocks down their opponent the most times wins. Naval warfare is a marathon; only the one who can persevere to the end can truly control the ocean.

Now, he's running another marathon.

This time, however, the pursuers weren't boxers, but five ferocious beasts charging at full speed.

Scheer stubbed out his cigarette in the small metal box he carried with him—naval regulations stipulated that no trash could be thrown overboard, as it would reveal the ship's tracks. Then he walked back to the center of the bridge.

"Where are you now?" he asked.

The navigator immediately replied: "Latitude XX degrees XX minutes North, longitude XX degrees XX minutes West. Approximately 45 nautical miles from the area where the Queen Elizabeth sank."

Forty-five nautical miles.

After sailing at 28 knots for an hour, he had outpaced Jericho by about... He quickly did the mental calculations—if Jericho pursued at 24 knots, he could cover 24 nautical miles in an hour. The distance between them had shrunk from 80 nautical miles to approximately...

wrong.

Scher suddenly leaned down onto the nautical chart.

They ran for an hour and covered 28 nautical miles. Jericho ran for an hour and covered 24 nautical miles. The distance difference was four nautical miles—not shortened, but increased by four nautical miles.

In other words, if Jericho really pursued them at 24 knots, the distance between them would not only not shorten, but would slowly widen.

"Navigator," his voice rose slightly, "calculate Jellicoe's likely speed. Assuming he's been pursuing us at top speed since receiving the Queen's coordinates, how far away are we now?"

The navigator's finger moved rapidly across the nautical chart. Thirty seconds later, he looked up: "General, if Jericho pursues at twenty-four knots, he's now about... seventy-six nautical miles from us."

Seventy-six nautical miles.

It has only shortened by four nautical miles compared to an hour and a half ago.

Scher's eyes lit up.

"Let's do the calculations again," he said. "Suppose Jericho didn't initially anticipate our full-speed retreat, and searched at 20 knots for the first half hour, only accelerating to 24 knots after discovering our escape—in that scenario, how far away would we be now?"

The navigator recalculated: "Approximately... eighty-two nautical miles."

Eighty-two nautical miles.

It's farther than expected.

Scher stood up straight and took a deep breath.

This means that Jericho is probably still more than 80 nautical miles away. At 24 knots, it would take more than three hours to get within visual range. And after more than three hours, they would have gone more than 80 nautical miles, and Jericho still wouldn't be able to catch up.

This is a gamble of speed.

If Jericho could run twenty-five quarters—

No, the Queen Elizabeth-class destroyers have a top speed of 24 knots. At 25 knots, the boilers would explode.

If Jellalco splits his forces to encircle them—

That's impossible. In the vast Atlantic Ocean, splitting up forces would mean weakening the main force, and the risk of encountering German submarines or other fleets would be too great.

Therefore, as long as they maintain 28 knots, as long as there are no mechanical failures, and as long as the Tirpitz's damage does not worsen—

They might be able to escape.

Scher gripped the railing tightly, sweat seeping into the cold steel from his palms.

possible.

In war, this word is both the greatest luxury and the greatest curse.

One hundred and twenty nautical miles away, four King-class battleships were cutting through the waves at a speed of twenty knots.

On the bridge of the flagship HMS König, fleet commander Vice Admiral Friedrich Schmidt had been standing for six hours.

He was fifty-six years old, nine years older than Scheer. He had served in the military for thirty-four years, fought in Jutland, commanded a squadron, and traversed the Baltic and North Seas countless times. But never before had he stood before the chart table, calculating the positions of those two advance ships again and again.

"Any news from the Bismarck?" he asked.

The communications officer shook his head: "General, maintain radio silence. We can only deduce their location based on their planned flight path."

Schmidt walked to the chart table.

Planned route: The Bismarck was to cut into the Atlantic south of Iceland, then maneuver southwest to hunt British convoys along the North Atlantic route. If all went well, they should already be in the hunting grounds, waiting for their prey.

But Schmidt's intuition told him that things couldn't possibly go smoothly.

Would the British be so foolish as to allow their transport fleet to enter the Bismarck's hunting grounds unguarded after losing the Hood? They must have sent their main fleet to escort them, waiting for the Germans to walk right into their trap.

The Bismarck is probably engaged in battle now. It may have already sunk one or two British warships, or it may be being pursued.

He must prepare for the worst.

"Chief of Staff," he turned, "what's our current fuel situation?"

The chief of staff flipped through the logbook: "King's remaining strength is 73%, Caesar's is 71%, Louis-Polden's is 75%, and Empress's is 69%. At a speed of 20 knots, the remaining range is approximately..."

"I know," Schmidt interrupted him. "I'm asking, if you go southwest at full speed, how long can you run?"

The chief of staff was taken aback: "Full speed? Twenty-three knots?"

"Twenty-fourth section. Boiler overload."

The chief of staff's expression changed: "General, overloaded flight will significantly increase fuel consumption, and the range will be shortened to..."

"I knew it would be shorter," Schmidt said calmly, "but if the Bismarck is being pursued, every minute could be a matter of life and death."

The bridge was silent for a few seconds.

The chief of staff finally nodded and began to recalculate.

Just then, the bell in the communications room suddenly rang.