World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Captain!" the first mate's voice came from behind, "Speed ​​has dropped to twenty knots! Engine room report: both boiler rooms are flooded, steam pressure is low!"

Section 20.

On this battlefield, twenty strokes are equivalent to a death sentence.

Raeder walked to the porthole and looked at the British fleet in the distance. They were still firing, the muzzle flashes rising and falling like a never-ending lightning show.

He then looked southwest.

It was completely empty.

The Bismarck has not yet arrived.

"Signal the King," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. "Caesar... good luck."

The signalman was stunned: "Captain, this..."

"Send it," Redell said.

The traffic lights started flashing.

Thirty seconds later, a response came from the direction of the King. Only two words: "Hold on."

Redel gave a wry smile.

insist.

How to persevere?

Another shell landed.

On the Queen, Colonel Lansdorf stood on the deck.

He stood there from the start of the battle, refusing to go to the bridge. His adjutant came to ask him to come three times, but he refused each time.

"I want to watch them," he said. "To watch how those British guys beat us."

He was indeed watching at that moment.

Watching the HMS King get hit. Watching the HMS Caesar burn. Watching the HMS Louiseport being bombarded by two British warships.

She also looked at her own HMS Queen—it hadn't been hit yet. The British firepower was mainly concentrated on the first three ships; the Queen was at the back of the formation and was temporarily safe.

But Lansdorf knew this was only temporary.

Once the first three ships are damaged, it will be his turn.

"General!" the lookout's voice came from overhead. "The British are adjusting their firepower! Two ships are turning, seemingly aiming at us!"

Lansdorf nodded.

coming.

He turned and walked back to the bridge.

"Full speed," he said. "Twenty-four knots, course unchanged. Main guns aimed at the lead ship—HMS Queen Elizabeth, fire at will."

The order has been issued.

The Queen's speed climbed from twenty-three knots to twenty-four knots—it was also overloaded. The hull was trembling, the boilers were hissing, but it was running, fighting, battling.

The forward main gun begins firing.

Eight 305mm shells flew toward the British flagship, 23,000 meters away. Forty seconds later, a column of water rose—much closer than before. The most recent shell landed 200 meters to the starboard side of HMS Queen Elizabeth.

Lansdorf's eyes lit up.

Two hundred meters. This was their closest hit since the start of the battle.

"Keep going!" he roared. "Keep aiming, fire!"

Second salvo. 150 meters.

The third salvo. One hundred meters.

Round Four —

hit.

Lansdorf witnessed the shell land near the bridge of the HMS Queen Elizabeth. The flash of the explosion was particularly blinding in the sunlight, and thick smoke rose, obscuring the superstructure of the giant ship.

"Hit!" Cheers erupted from the bridge.

But Lansdorf did not laugh.

He saw that although the bridge of HMS Queen Elizabeth had been bombed, it was still moving forward. Its turrets were still turning, and its main guns were still firing.

A 305mm shell poses no threat to the Queen Elizabeth-class destroyers.

Unless it hits a vital spot, it's just a tickle.

"Keep firing," he said.

10:19.

Schmidt stood on the bridge of the King, and could no longer feel his left foot.

Ten minutes earlier, another shell had hit near the bridge. Shrapnel had torn a piece of flesh from his left calf, and blood had soaked through his trouser leg. He tore off a piece of his sleeve and haphazardly tied it to the wound, then continued giving orders.

It's not because of bravery.

It's because if he falls now, the ship is finished.

"General!" the communications officer's voice came from behind. "The Caesar reports—speed reduced to fifteen knots, severe flooding, requesting... requesting permission to abandon ship!"

Schmidt paused for a moment.

The Caesar.

That warship he had known since 1912. That giant ship carrying 1,200 German sailors. That steel fortress that withstood seven hits in the Battle of Jutland.

It's going to sink.

"Permission granted," he said. His voice was eerily calm.

The communications officer paused for a moment, then said, "General, that's the Caesar—"

"I know that's the Kaiser," Schmidt interrupted him, "but I also know that if we drag this out any longer, none of those 1,200 men will survive. Telegraph: Abandon ship. The German Navy thanks you for your efforts."

The telegram was sent.

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

That was the last telegram from the Caesar.

Schmidt looked out the porthole toward the Caesar. The ship was burning, listing, dying. Its crew was abandoning ship, life rafts were being lowered one after another, black dots drifting on the sea.

But it is still fighting back.

The last remaining working main gun fired a shell every two minutes. The shells landed around the British fleet, posing no threat, but it was still firing.

It was telling those five British warships: the German navy is not all dead yet.

10:27.

The bow of the Caesar began to sink.

Schmidt watched as the ship's bow slowly sank into the sea, the foredeck was submerged, the forward main gun turret sank below the surface, and then the bridge—

On the bridge, someone was still waving signal flags.

Signal content: "Long live—"

Before the last word was finished, the Caesar tilted violently, its stern rising high to reveal the still-spinning propeller. It remained on the surface for about thirty seconds—like a dying man gazing at the sky one last time—before sinking vertically into the sea.

It disappeared completely within 120 seconds.

All that remained on the sea surface were oil slicks, debris, and a few dozen scattered life rafts.

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

"Communications officer," he said.

"exist."

"Send a message to the Bismarck—coordinates XX degrees XX minutes North latitude, XX degrees XX minutes West longitude. British main fleet, five Queen Elizabeth-class destroyers. This fleet is currently engaged with them and is expected to hold out for...40 minutes. Come immediately."

The communications officer looked up: "General, the telegram has been intercepted by the British—"

"Let them intercept it," Schmidt interrupted him. "Let them know that the Germans have more than one Königssee."

The telegram was sent.

Thirty seconds later, the communications officer reported: "General, the telegram has been sent. Bismarck—no response yet."

Schmidt nodded.

He knew that the Bismarck might still be on radio silence, might still be retreating at full speed, and might not receive the telegram at all.

But he has to send it.

Because this is the sole purpose of the support fleet's existence.

"All ships," he said, "continue fighting. Hold out for as long as you can."

Jellicoe lowered his binoculars, his brow furrowing slightly.

The Germans are still fighting.

Of the four King-class destroyers, one has been sunk, two severely damaged, and only the last one is barely holding on. Logically, they should have surrendered long ago, retreated long ago, and abandoned this hopeless battle.

But they didn't.

What are they insisting on?