World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

On the Queen, Captain Fritz Lansdorf stands on the deck.

He was the most unconventional captain in the fleet. Born into nobility, he never put on airs; gentle in nature, yet daring to fight the toughest battles. During the Battle of Jutland, his ship was hit seven times, yet he persisted in fighting to the last moment, earning him the nickname "Iron Fritz" among his sailors.

He stood on the deck, watching the four King-class ships speeding away at full speed.

The sea breeze was strong, making his coat flutter loudly. But he didn't return to the bridge; he just stood there, feeling the tremors of the 45,000 tons of steel beneath his feet.

"General," came the adjutant's voice from behind, "it's windy outside, you should go back to the bridge."

Lansdorf didn't turn around: "Lieutenant, did you hear me?"

"What did you hear?"

"The sound of this ship," Lansdorf said. "It's crying."

The adjutant was stunned.

Lansdorf continued, "When the boiler is overloaded, every steel plate is subjected to stresses exceeding its design limits. The welds groan, the rivets tremble, and even the keel emits a mournful cry we can't hear. It's not a machine; it's a living thing."

He turned around and looked at the adjutant's young face:

"Do you know why it's fighting so hard?"

The adjutant opened his mouth, but did not answer.

"Because it knows," Lansdorf said, "that if it doesn't run faster, its comrades will die. It doesn't want its comrades to die."

He patted the bridge railing:

"So it's crying. But it's running."

The adjutant lowered his head and said nothing more.

Lansdorf turned and walked back to the bridge.

On the nautical chart table, the southwestward-stretching route grew ever longer. Four König-class ships, carrying over three thousand German sailors, were racing toward their unknown fate.

Meanwhile, 120 nautical miles away, Admiral John Jellicoe was standing on the bridge of his flagship.

He held the telegram from London in his hand. The telegram was short, but he had already read it ten times.

"The Queen Elizabeth has sunk. Vice Admiral Betty was killed in action."

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

He had known Beatty for thirty years. From the Greenwich Naval College to the Mediterranean Fleet, from the Home Fleet to the battlecruiser squadron. Beatty was the bravest and most decisive commander he had ever met. During the Battle of Jutland, it was Beatty's reconnaissance fleet that, braving German fire, bought them precious time.

He's dead now.

He died under the guns of the Bismarck.

"General." A voice came from behind.

Jericho turned around.

Chief of Staff Brigadier General Oliver Beck stood three meters away, holding a newly received report: "Sonic room report: suspected large-scale fleet mechanical noise ahead. Characteristic analysis... German warships."

Jericho's pupils contracted slightly.

German warships.

It's not a Bismarck-class—the propeller characteristics of the Bismarck-class have long been documented. This is another one.

King-level.

"distance?"

"According to sonar estimates, it's about fifty nautical miles. Precision is impossible."

Fifty nautical miles.

Jellicoe's mind flashed through countless images: the movements of the German support fleet reported by intelligence, the Bismarck's retreat route, and the four German battleships approaching before him—

"They're here to meet the Bismarck," he said in a low voice.

Baker leaned closer: "General, should we give chase or not?"

Jericho was silent for two seconds.

To pursue or not to pursue?

This is a problem.

If they pursue, they might encounter the German support fleet. Four König-class destroyers against five Queen Elizabeth-class destroyers have a high chance of victory, but it's not guaranteed. If they lose one or two in the battle, and then encounter the Bismarck—

If they hadn't pursued, the Bismarck might have escaped. The culprit that sank the Hood and the Queen Elizabeth would have returned to Germany in triumph, becoming a war hero for all of Germany.

Jericho raised his head, his eyes sharpening:

"Pursue. Full fleet, heading 260, speed 24 knots. Load armor-piercing shells into main guns."

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

"Let's collect some interest on the Queen's grudge today."

HMS Queen Elizabeth, HMS Warspite, HMS Barham, HMS Warrior, and HMS Malaya—five of the Royal Navy's most powerful battleships—accelerated simultaneously. Black smoke billowing from their funnels left five long trails on the sea, like five arrows shot into the unknown.

9:43 a.m.

The sun was high in the sky over the North Atlantic, illuminating the sea. Visibility was excellent; ships could be seen at least 25 nautical miles away.

Schmidt stood by the bridge window of the HMS King, a cup of cold coffee in his hand. He had been standing there for four hours straight, never leaving that window since the boilers overloaded.

The coffee was brought by the watchman half an hour ago, but he didn't drink a drop. Not that he didn't want to, but that he forgot. His brain was filled with numbers—speed, distance, fuel, time—leaving no room for taste.

"General." The lookout's voice came from behind, a full octave higher than usual, "Starboard! Bearing 260, ship sighted!"

Schmidt paused for a moment, and the coffee cup made a slight clinking sound on the saucer.

He put down his cup, strode to the starboard porthole, and raised the binoculars hanging around his neck.

In the footage, several black dots appeared on the sea surface.

At first, they were just vague outlines, like a pencil lightly dotted on rice paper. But as the King continued forward, those black dots became clearer and clearer—

A long, slender hull. A sloping funnel. And that iconic twin-gun turret.

Five ships.

Five ships in total.

Schmidt's breath hitched for a second.

"The Queen Elizabeth-class." He lowered his binoculars, his voice surprisingly calm. "Five of them. They're all here."

There was a moment of silence on the bridge, then ripples spread across the surface of the water like a stone thrown in.

The navigator rushed to the chart table and began calculating distances. The communications officer grabbed the microphone to notify the other ships. The watch officer ran to the captain's cabin to wake the officers on leave—even though no one was actually asleep.

Schmidt did not move.

He stood still, binoculars raised, continuing to observe the five approaching British warships. They were lined up in a standard battle formation, moving at high speed, their funnels belching thick smoke, clearly also at full speed.

distance.

He needs to know the distance.

"Navigation officer, calculate distances."

"Yes, sir!" came the navigator's voice, trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the physiological reaction of an adrenaline rush. "Optical rangefinder reading... 24,000 meters! Bearing 260, heading... being calculated, it seems to be heading straight towards us!"

24,000 meters.

Schmidt's brain was working at lightning speed.

24,000 meters was the edge of the effective range for the 381mm main guns of the Queen Elizabeth-class battleships. At this distance, the shells scattered widely, with a hit rate of less than 5%. But for the 305mm guns of the German Königsberg-class battleships, this distance was far too far—the shells took forty seconds to reach the target, their kinetic energy significantly diminished, posing almost no threat to the main armor belt of the British battleships.

The British can fight them, but they can't fight the British.

This is the gap.