World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The communications officer grabbed his headset, listened for a few seconds, and his expression changed drastically: "General! A battle report forwarded by the Admiralty! The Queen Elizabeth has sunk! The Bismarck and Tirpitz are retreating southwest! The Jellicoe Grand Fleet is in pursuit!"

The entire bridge felt as if all the air had been sucked out.

The Queen Elizabeth sank.

That fastest battlecruiser in the Royal Navy, HMS Hood's sister ship, the lucky one who escaped the Battle of Jutland—sank.

Schmidt slammed his fist on the chart table. It wasn't anger, but rather the release of long-suppressed excitement.

"Where is the Bismarck now?" His voice was twice as fast as before.

The communications officer's finger moved rapidly across the map: "According to the latest report, approximately XX degrees XX minutes North latitude and XX degrees XX minutes West longitude. Jellicoe's pursuit fleet's estimated location..."

His finger moved a little further:

"Here. About fifty nautical miles from the Bismarck."

Fifty nautical miles.

Schmidt's brain was working at lightning speed.

Their current location is XX degrees XX minutes North latitude and XX degrees XX minutes West longitude. They are approximately 120 nautical miles from the Bismarck. If they sail southwest at full speed, they will form an angle with the pursuing Jellicoe's fleet.

"Chief of Staff," he turned to his chief of staff, "calculate where and when we'll encounter Jericho if we head southwest at full speed?"

The chief of staff's fingers moved tremblingly across the nautical chart. He wasn't afraid, he was tense—a tension that stemmed from the instinctive reaction of a soldier facing a crucial decision.

"General, if we sail southwest at 24 knots, and Jellicoe pursues the Bismarck southwest at 24 knots, the two sides will meet approximately four hours later at around XX degrees XX minutes north latitude and XX degrees XX minutes west longitude."

Four hours.

Schmidt stared at the coordinates on the nautical chart.

It was a vast expanse of sea, without islands, without shoals, only an endless expanse of deep blue. If they encountered Jellicoe there, it would be four King-class ships against five Queen Elizabeth-class ships—

The win rate is less than 30%.

But what if they don't go?

What if the Bismarck gets caught up?

Those two of Germany's most advanced battleships, those two giant ships on which the hopes of the entire navy were pinned, will sink to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean like HMS Hood and HMS Queen.

Schmidt closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them again.

"Full fleet," he said. "Turn to 250, speed 24 knots. Boilers overload."

The chief of staff was stunned: "General, 24 knots means the boiler pressure exceeds the design limit, and the engine's lifespan will—"

"The engine's lifespan can be replaced after the war," Schmidt interrupted him. "A person who dies cannot be brought back to life."

He walked to the porthole and looked at the misty sea ahead:

"Signal to all ships: Full speed ahead, boilers overload. Target—rescue the Bismarck."

The order has been issued.

The engine room's voice came through the King's loudspeaker: "Boiler overload ready. Pressure is building. Expected to reach 24 knots in five minutes."

Five minutes later, the King's speed began to climb from twenty knots. Twenty-one knots. Twenty-two knots. Twenty-three knots.

Inside the engine room, the boiler operators, shirtless, shoveled coal into the furnace. Sweat streamed down their backs, hissing white vapors on the scorching deck. The pressure gauge needle climbed steadily, nearing the red alert line.

Twenty-four solar terms.

This is a speed that the King-class battleships have never reached before.

The ship was trembling—not a normal tremor, but an unsettling tremor that exceeded its design limits. The porthole glass emitted a faint, resonant sound, as if it might shatter at any moment.

But the King is running.

Four King-class ships, carrying more than 3,000 German sailors, sped off in the southwest.

On the HMS Kaiser, Captain Erich Raeder stands in front of the bridge porthole.

At forty-one years old, he was one of the youngest battleship captains in the German Navy. He had served for twenty years, engaging in combat in Jutland, commanding submarines, and leaving his mark in the Baltic and North Seas. He was Schmidt's most trusted subordinate and the most level-headed man in the support fleet.

But at this moment, his hands were also trembling slightly.

It's not because of fear.

It was because of the order that had just come from the King: "Boiler overload, speed 24 knots, target—rescue the Bismarck."

Twenty-four solar terms.

The Caesar's maximum design speed was 23 knots. Reaching 24 knots meant the boilers would have to withstand pressures exceeding their design limits, which meant a significant reduction in engine life, which meant—

This means they are using their warships to gamble on a battle with less than a 30% chance of winning.

Raeder turned and looked at the officers on the bridge.

Everyone was looking at him.

"Execute the order," he said. "The boiler is overloaded. Notify the engine room and tell them... take care."

The order has been issued.

The speed of the Caesar began to increase.

The tremors deep within the ship grew increasingly violent. The portholes emitted sharp, resonant sounds. A protractor on the chart table was jolted and slipped onto the floor with a crisp thud.

Redell bent down, picked up the protractor, and put it back on the chart table.

He gazed at the southwest-bound shipping lane on the nautical chart, recalling the moment ten years earlier when he first boarded a battleship. Back then, he was young, believing that the German Navy would one day surpass Britain, and that the High Seas Fleet would utterly destroy the Royal Navy in a decisive naval battle.

Now he doesn't believe it anymore.

But he believed in another thing: the honor of the German Navy would not allow them to abandon their comrades.

On the Louis-Polder, Captain Carl von Miller stands in the engine room.

He didn't come to inspect; he came to personally oversee the boiler operators.

The boiler room was as hot as hell. The temperature was at least fifty degrees Celsius, and the humidity was close to saturation. The boiler operators were shirtless, their skin glistening with sweat, as if they had just been pulled out of the water. Their movements as they shoveled coal into the furnace were mechanical and rapid, like a wound-up toy.

"Can it go any faster?" Miller asked.

The boiler sergeant looked up, his face streaked with sweat and soot: "General, this is the limit. Any faster and the boiler will explode."

Miller nodded.

He knew it was the truth. But he also knew that if they weren't fast enough, if they couldn't catch up with the Bismarck, their comrades would die.

"I'll do my best," he said. "As fast as I can."

He turned and walked out of the engine room and back to the bridge.

The sea rushed past the porthole. The Louis-Polden had already reached 23.5 knots and was still slowly climbing.

Miller looked at the boundless deep blue expanse ahead and suddenly thought of his wife.

They had been married for three years before the war broke out. She would always ask him, "When will you be back?" He would always say, "Soon, after this war is over."

The war is not over yet.

He didn't know if he could ever go back.

But at that moment, the thought only flashed through his mind. His gaze returned to the nautical chart, to the coordinates where he was about to meet the British.