World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"General," the chief of staff leaned closer and whispered, "what do we do?"

Schmidt did not answer immediately.

He watched the five British warships draw ever closer, their white contrails on the sea, their turrets gleaming in the sunlight—

He recalled what Coach Tirpitz had said to him before he left: "Come back alive."

The old general thought to himself, "This time, I might really not be coming back."

But he didn't say it.

"All fleet," he said, his voice flat, as if reading a logistical report. "Turn to 270, speed 23 knots. Load armor-piercing shells into main guns. Prepare for engagement."

The order has been issued.

The helm of HMS König turned, and the bow slowly shifted from southwest to due west. HMS Kaiser, HMS Louise-Pold, and HMS Empress followed closely behind, the four German battleships drawing four graceful arcs on the sea, pointing their broadsides towards the southeast—the direction from which the British fleet was approaching.

Boundary facing the enemy. This is the standard tactical formation for battleship duels, allowing all main guns to fire simultaneously.

Schmidt walked to the back of the bridge, where there was a huge chart table. He leaned down and looked at the positions of both sides that the staff had just marked.

German Fleet: Four König-class ships, in single file, heading 270, speed 23 knots. Location: XX degrees XX minutes North latitude, XX degrees XX minutes West longitude.

British Fleet: Five Queen Elizabeth-class ships, also in single file, are adjusting their course from the initial 260, clearly preparing for battle.

Distance between the two sides: 23,000 meters. Approaching at a speed of approximately one nautical mile per minute.

Schmidt straightened up and looked at the signalman.

"Send a signal to each ship," he said. "The message: Fight on your own. The German Navy lives on."

The signalman's finger trembled slightly on the signal light.

"General," he looked up, his eyes slightly red, "this..."

"Send it," Schmidt said.

The traffic lights began to flash. The lights weren't very noticeable in the morning sunlight, but everyone knew what they meant.

Thirty seconds later, a response came from the direction of the Kaiser: "Roger. The German Navy lives on."

Then came the Louispold: "Received. The German Navy lives on."

Finally, it was HMS Empress: "Roger. The German Navy lives on."

No one spoke on the bridge.

Schmidt walked back to the porthole and raised his binoculars.

The outlines of the five British warships were now much clearer. He could see their bridge structures, the gun barrels pointing at them, and even the flag flying on the mast of the flagship, HMS Queen Elizabeth—Jellicoe's flag.

During the Battle of Jutland, he faced Jellicoe across the sea. At that time, the two sides were 20,000 meters apart, neither of them fired, but silently confronted each other for two whole hours, and then each withdrew.

Today is different.

There was no retreat today.

9:51 a.m.

The first volley of shells landed.

Jericho put down his binoculars, a slight smile playing on his lips.

23,000 meters. Perfect.

He didn't need to get any closer. At this distance, the 305mm main guns of the German Königsberg class posed almost no threat to the vertical armor of the Queen Elizabeth-class frigates—the angle of incidence of the shells was too large, resulting in insufficient kinetic energy; even if they hit directly, they would only create a shallow crater before bouncing off.

But the Queen Elizabeth-class's 381mm main guns are different.

At this distance, the 381mm armor-piercing round still has enough kinetic energy to penetrate the main side armor belt of the King-class battleship—provided the angle of impact is right and the point of impact is accurate enough.

"Notify all ships," Jellicoe ordered, his voice chillingly calm, "maintain a distance of at least 22,000 meters and fire freely. Don't let the Germans get close."

The signalman raised the signal flag.

HMS Queen Elizabeth's forward main guns slowly rose. The four twin 381mm turrets rotated slowly in the sunlight, their muzzles pointing southeast. The gunners lay prone in front of the rangefinders, constantly adjusting the firing parameters based on the optical rangefinder data.

"Target, German fleet flagship Königssee," the gunner's voice came through the loudspeaker. "Distance 23,000 meters, bearing 270, speed 23 knots. Firing data."

"Main gun ready," came the response from the turret.

Jericho took a deep breath.

"Fire."

9:51 a.m.

The Queen Elizabeth's front main gun spewed fire.

It wasn't a single beam of light, but eight. The instant all eight 381mm main guns fired simultaneously, the muzzle flashes nearly engulfed the entire bow. The shockwave created a visible ripple on the sea surface, spreading outwards. Thick smoke billowed from the muzzles, dispersed by the sea breeze like a gray curtain.

Jericho heard that sound the moment the shell left the cannon.

It wasn't a roar, it was a tearing sound. The sound of air being ripped apart, like some huge piece of cloth bursting open in an instant. Then came a shriek—the shriek of a shell tearing through the air, piercing, sharp, enough to penetrate eardrums.

Forty seconds later, those shells would land around the German warships 23,000 meters away.

Forty seconds.

Jericho began the countdown.

At thirty seconds, HMS Warspite opened fire. Then came HMS Barham, HMS Warrior, and HMS Malaya. The five British battleships spewed fire in succession, and the roar of forty 381mm main guns exploded on the sea, making the portholes vibrate.

The muzzle flashes flickered in the morning mist, like forty lightning bolts striking down simultaneously.

Jellicoe raised his binoculars and aimed them at the German fleet.

Thirty seconds.

Twenty seconds.

ten seconds.

Five seconds—

On the sea, the first water jets rose around the German warships.

Schmidt watched the columns of water rise from the sea.

The first salvo landed about 300 meters to the port side of the King. A column of water shot into the sky, almost as high as the mast, before dispersing at its highest point into a white mist that was dispersed by the sea breeze.

Missed.

However, the impact points of the strafing shots showed that the British were very accurate in their aiming. A deviation of 300 meters was too close for the first volley.

"The British were very accurate." The chief of staff stood beside him, his voice tense.

Schmidt nodded.

He didn't speak, he just stared at the sea, waiting for the second round.

Twenty seconds later, the second salvo landed.

This time it was even closer. The most recent shell landed eighty meters to port, the explosion sending water splashing onto the spare anchor chain on the aft deck. Shrapnel whistled across the hull, leaving shallow scratches on the steel plates.

"Retaliate!" Schmidt finally gave the order. "All main guns, aim at Queen Elizabeth, fire three salvos!"

The five twin-mounted 305mm guns of the HMS King began to roar.

The cannon fire was sharper and higher-pitched than the British 381 cannon. Ten shells flew out of the muzzle at the same time, tracing ten almost invisible arcs over the sea, heading towards the British flagship 23,000 meters away.

Forty seconds later, the shells fell.