World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"General," the chief of staff approached, "Radar room reports intercepted a German telegram. It appears to be addressed to the Bismarck."

Jericho turned around: "The contents?"

"Coordinates. Our coordinates."

Jericho was silent for two seconds.

Then he walked to the chart table and leaned over to look at the North Atlantic chart that marked the positions of both sides.

Location of the German support fleet: XX degrees XX minutes North latitude, XX degrees XX minutes West longitude.

The Bismarck's estimated location: ...According to previous intelligence, it should be about 120 nautical miles to their southwest.

One hundred and twenty nautical miles.

At the Bismarck-class's top speed, it would take them—

"Four hours," he said in a low voice.

The chief of staff leaned closer: "General, what did you say?"

Jericho straightened up and looked at the empty sea to the southeast.

"The Germans are waiting," he said. "They're waiting for the Bismarck."

The chief of staff was taken aback: "The Bismarck? Aren't they being pursued by us? How could this be—"

"What if we hadn't caught up with them in the first place?" Jericho interrupted him. "What if they had been retreating at full speed the whole time? What if their speed was faster than we expected? What if—"

He didn't finish speaking.

But he knew that this possibility existed.

What was the top speed of the Bismarck-class destroyers? Intelligence says it was thirty knots. But were they really only capable of thirty knots? Or thirty-one knots? Thirty-two knots?

If the Bismarck was indeed traveling at over thirty knots, if it had been retreating at full speed from the very beginning—

It is probably already eighty nautical miles away, receiving this telegram, turning around, and heading this way.

Jellicoe walked to the porthole and looked at the German warship that was still burning.

"Full speed," he said. "Finish the battle quickly. Sink the remaining three."

The order has been issued.

The firepower of the five British battleships was even more intense.

10:41 AM.

The speed of the Louis-Polden has dropped to twelve knots.

It was targeted by concentrated fire.

Starting ten minutes ago, HMS Barham and HMS Valiant unleashed all their firepower on the straggling German warship. Three salvos, five salvos, seven salvos—

The Louis-Polde was torn open in several places along its sides. Seawater rushed in through the breaches, flooding all three boiler rooms and stopping the main engines. It lost power and lay sideways on the sea like a sitting duck.

But it was still firing.

The rear main guns were still firing. Every two minutes, two 305mm shells flew toward the British fleet. The forward main guns were already disabled—the turrets were breached, and all the gunners inside were killed.

Colonel Miller stood on the bridge, watching the warship he had commanded for four years die.

He felt no sadness.

From the moment the first shell fell, he knew this day would come. He just didn't expect it to come so soon.

"General," the first mate's voice came from behind, "damage control report...the flooding is out of control. It's estimated...it's estimated to be another fifteen minutes."

Miller nodded.

Fifteen minutes.

It's enough to do a lot of things.

"Keep the main guns firing," he said. "Fire all the shells."

"Yes."

The bridge fell silent. Only the damage control reports kept coming from the intercom, and the faint sound of gunfire in the distance.

Miller walked to the porthole and looked at the British fleet in the distance. They were still firing, the muzzle flashes glinting in the sunlight.

He then looked southwest.

It was completely empty.

The Bismarck has not yet arrived.

But he knew it would come.

Because the telegram had already been sent. Because General Schmidt was waiting. Because those two of Germany's most advanced battleships would not abandon their comrades.

"Signal for the Königssee," he said. "The Louispold... Thank you. Long live the German Navy."

The traffic lights are flashing.

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

Miller turned around to face the officers on the bridge.

"Gentlemen," he said, "it has been an honor to work with you all for four years."

No one speaks.

Everyone was looking at him, their eyes red, but no one shed a tear.

"Abandon ship," Miller said. "I'll stay behind."

"General!" the first mate rushed forward, "You must—"

"I'm the commander," Miller interrupted him. "This is my ship. I'll be with it until the very end."

The first mate opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

He saluted, then turned and led the officers from the bridge to the deck.

Life rafts were lowered one after another. Sailors jumped into the icy water and swam with all their might toward the small rafts.

Miller stood on the bridge, watching them.

Then another shell fell.

10:51 AM.

The Louis-Polden suffered a violent explosion—the ammunition magazine was detonated. Flames erupted from the ship's interior, engulfing the entire vessel in a massive fireball. Masts snapped, turrets were blown off, and the ship broke in two during the explosion.

The two sections of the wreckage sank to the bottom of the sea.

All that remains on the sea surface are burning heavy oil and scattered debris.

Schmidt looked at the spot where the Louis-Polder had sunk.

Two ships remain.

The King and the Queen.

The British had five. Five intact Queen Elizabeth-class destroyers, still firing.

"General," the chief of staff's voice came from behind, "we..."

"Keep firing." Schmidt didn't turn around. "Fire until the last shell."

The chief of staff paused for two seconds, then said, "Yes, sir."

Another round of shells fell.

The King was hit again. This time it was the aft deck; the explosion ripped off the spare anchor chain, debris swept across the deck, and three sailors fell.

Schmidt did not turn around.

He was looking southwest.

It was still empty.

But he knew something was approaching.

That was Germany's hope.

It is also the future of Germany.

As long as those two ships remain, the German Navy will not perish.

As for him—

His fingers loosened the railing, and he turned to face the officers on the bridge.

"Gentlemen," he said, "prepare for the final battle."

It was 11:00 AM.

HMS King and HMS Queen, two battered battleships, are still firing on an enemy force five times their size.

Their ammunition was running low. Their ship was taking on water. Their crew was falling.

But they're still fighting.

Because they were the German Navy.

11:07 AM.

Schmidt could no longer feel his left foot.

It wasn't numbness; it was a complete loss of sensation. The flesh severed by shrapnel had long since stopped bleeding—the blood had dried up. The wound he had tied up with half a sleeve was now dry and black, like a withered twig.

But he was still standing.

He was still standing, holding onto the edge of the chart table.

"General," the chief of staff's voice came from afar, as if through a thick pane of glass, "you must go to the medical bay—"

"Coordinates," Schmidt interrupted him. "Has the Bismarck responded?"

The chief of staff was silent for a second.

"No. General, still no."

Schmidt nodded.

he knows.