World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Schmidt nodded.

he knows.

Twenty-one minutes have passed since the first telegram was sent. Twenty-one minutes is enough time for the Bismarck to travel eleven nautical miles at full speed. If it had started turning the moment it received the telegram, if it had been rushing at full speed from the beginning, then now—

He shook his head.

No if.

There are no "what ifs" in war.

"Send it again," he said. "Repeat the coordinates. Add a sentence: The Caesar is sunk, the Louiseport is sunk. The Königs and Queen Elizabeth are heavily damaged. They are expected to hold out for... twenty minutes."

The communications officer's hands trembled on the telegraph keys.

"General, twenty minutes—"

"hair."

The telegraph key began to tick. The beeping sound echoed through the dilapidated bridge, like some kind of ancient elegy.

Thirty seconds later, the telegram was sent.

Silence fell again.

Schmidt walked to the porthole—the window was long gone, leaving only a twisted, deformed frame. Cold wind rushed in through the breach, carrying the smell of gunpowder and seawater.

He looked southwest.

It was still empty.

But he knew something was approaching.

We must get close.

must.

Another shell landed.

This time, the target was the foredeck of the HMS King. The explosion blew away the spare shells in turret A—six 305mm shells were detonated, and flames rose from the deck like a blooming flower.

Schmidt was thrown to the ground by the shockwave. His head hit the leg of the chart table, and his vision went black for a moment.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw the chief of staff leaning over him, his lips moving, but the sound was faint.

"...General! General!"

Schmidt struggled to his feet.

"Report casualties."

The chief of staff paused for a moment, then turned around and roared, "Damage control! Report casualties!"

A broken voice came through the megaphone: "Turret A... six men killed... fire... being extinguished..."

Schmidt stood up, using the chart table for support.

He couldn't feel his left foot, nor could he feel his right hand—the area where the shrapnel had grazed him was tingling, possibly due to nerve damage.

But he was still standing.

"Can the main gun still fire?" he asked.

"Turrets B and C are still operational. Turret D's ammunition feeding mechanism is damaged, and its reload speed has been halved."

Schmidt nodded.

Two and a half turrets. Ten cannons reduced to five.

enough.

"Keep firing," he said.

On the Queen, Lansdorf finally came down from the deck.

It wasn't that he wanted to get down, it was that he couldn't—his left shoulder had been hit by shrapnel, and his entire arm hung limply at his side like a lifeless rope.

The medic bandaged him in the bridge. There was no anesthetic, only a bottle of cheap liquor. When the liquor was poured on the wound, Lansdorf frowned slightly, but that was all.

"General," the medic's hands trembled, "this wound requires surgery to remove the shrapnel. All I can do here is—"

"We can only stop the bleeding," Lansdorf interrupted him. "Then stop the bleeding. I'll continue giving orders once the bleeding is stopped."

The medic opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

Lansdorf turned his head and looked at the chart table.

The Queen's speed has dropped to seventeen knots. Of the three flood intakes on the side, two have been plugged, and one is still leaking. The bleed pumps are running at full speed, but the amount of water entering is still exceeding the amount being displaced.

At this rate, the ship will exceed the critical point of flooding in another forty minutes.

Forty minutes.

It's enough to do a lot of things.

"Main gun status," he asked.

The gunner's voice came through the megaphone: "Turret B is disabled—it was hit directly and is jammed. Turrets A and C are still operational. Turrets D are out of ammunition and are under repair."

Two turrets. Ten cannons reduced to four.

Lansdorf nodded.

"Target," he said, "Queen Elizabeth. Continue firing."

The four 305mm guns opened fire again.

The shell flew toward the British flagship, 20,000 meters away. Forty minutes later, the nearest shell landed 150 meters to starboard.

150 meters.

It's still not enough.

Lansdorf watched the water column that had been thrown up by the near miss, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

If it's not enough, then it's not enough.

Fight until you've had enough.

Jericho stood by the porthole, his brow furrowed.

The battle had been going on for an hour. Of the four battleships in the German support fleet, two were sunk and two were heavily damaged. By any standard, this was an overwhelming victory.

But he didn't feel like he had won.

He felt uneasy.

"General." The chief of staff approached, holding the intercepted telegram. "The Germans are sending messages again. Same frequency, same call sign—Bismarck."

Jericho took the telegram.

He had already memorized the information: coordinates, enemy situation, and remaining time.

This time it will last for twenty minutes.

twenty minutes.

The Germans are saying they can hold out for another twenty minutes.

Why twenty minutes?

Jellicoe walked to the chart table and leaned over to look at the densely marked North Atlantic chart.

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 the last reliable intelligence—was about 120 nautical miles southwest of them.

One hundred and twenty nautical miles.

With the top speed of the Bismarck-class...

His finger moved across the nautical chart.

At a speed of 30 knots, it can travel 30 nautical miles in one hour. It would take four hours to travel 120 nautical miles.

Four hours.

Now, a period of time has passed since the Queen Elizabeth sank...

He glanced at the nautical clock: 11:15 a.m.

The Queen Elizabeth sank at 8:45 a.m. It has been two hours and thirty minutes since then.

Two hours and thirty minutes. If the Bismarck had been retreating at full speed from the beginning, it should now be about seventy-five nautical miles to the southwest. If it had begun turning at the same time it received the first telegram—

Jericho's finger stopped at a point.

Seventy-five nautical miles. At full speed, it would take two hours and thirty minutes to get back.

Two hours and thirty minutes.

He raised his head and looked towards the empty sea in the southeast.

Empty and desolate.

It's still empty.

But what about two hours and thirty minutes later?

"General," the chief of staff said in a low voice, "what are you worried about?"

Jericho was silent for a few seconds.

"I'm worried," he said, "why are the Germans still fighting?"

The chief of staff was taken aback.

"They've already lost. Four against five, they had no chance from the start. They should surrender, they should retreat, they should..."

Jerry paused:

"We should go back alive."

He looked at the two German warships that were still burning:

But they didn't. They were waiting.

"What are you waiting for?"

"What's waiting behind us," Jellicoe said. "Those two ships that can really threaten us."

The chief of staff remained silent.

"Give the order," Jellicoe said, "to finish the battle at full speed. Sink those two German ships..."