World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

11:20 AM.

Schmidt looked at the nautical chronometer on the chart table.

twenty minutes.

Thirteen minutes have passed since the last telegram was sent.

Seven minutes left.

If the Bismarck doesn't arrive in seven minutes—

He didn't think any further.

"General," the communications officer's voice came from behind, "The Empress reports: speed reduced to fifteen knots, D turret repair failed, three main guns remaining. Requesting... requesting instructions."

Schmidt was silent for three seconds.

"Tell them," he said, "to keep fighting. Fight for as long as you can."

"Yes."

Another round of shells fell.

This time, the target was the stern of the HMS King. The explosion blew part of the steering gear compartment away, and the rudder's effectiveness began to decrease. The ship swayed from side to side on the sea, like a drunken behemoth.

Schmidt managed to avoid falling by grabbing the chart table.

"Damage Control Report!"

A distorted voice came through the megaphone: "Water is entering the servo compartment! Rudder efficiency is decreasing! We're working on it, but it will take at least twenty minutes—"

twenty minutes.

He doesn't have twenty minutes left.

"Continue the emergency repairs," he said.

He walked to the porthole and looked southwest.

empty.

It's still empty.

11:23 AM.

Another shell hit. This time it struck the midships. The shockwave from the explosion threw Schmidt to the ground. His head slammed against the steel plate, and his vision went black for a moment.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw the chief of staff's face moving in front of him.

"...General! General! You're bleeding!"

Schmidt touched his forehead. His hands were covered in blood.

He pushed the chief of staff away and struggled to his feet.

"Report casualties."

"The aft section... the aft section is severely flooded! Three compartments are submerged! Speed ​​has dropped below ten knots!"

Ten sections.

At this distance, ten sections equals a death sentence.

Schmidt leaned on the chart table, looking at the nautical chronometer.

11:24 AM.

Three minutes left.

three minutes.

He walked to the porthole and looked southwest.

empty.

It's still empty.

His fingers gripped the window frame tightly.

"Communications officer," he said.

"exist."

"Send a final telegram to the Bismarck." His voice was calm, eerily calm. "The message reads: The Königssee is about to sink. Thank you for coming. The German Navy lives on."

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

"General—"

"hair."

The telegraph key began to tick. The beeping sound echoed through the dilapidated bridge.

Thirty seconds later, the telegram was sent.

Silence fell again.

Schmidt looked southwest.

empty.

11:25 AM.

11:26 AM.

11:27 AM —

Then he saw it.

On the sea level, at the very edge in the southwest direction, there are two tiny black dots.

The black spot is getting bigger.

It is growing at an incredible speed.

Schmidt's pupils contracted sharply.

"Signalman!" he roared, his voice hoarse and distorted. "Send a signal in that direction—the identification code! Now!"

The signalman rushed to the broken signal light, his fingers trembling as he pressed the button.

The lights are flashing.

Thirty seconds later, a response came from that direction—not a signal light, but a flag signal. Both warships simultaneously raised signal flags, red, white, and black, which were particularly conspicuous in the sunlight.

German naval flag.

Bismarck.

Tirpitz.

They are coming.

Schmidt swayed. He grabbed the chart table to keep from falling.

"General!" The chief of staff rushed forward to support him. "You—"

"I'm fine." Schmidt pushed him away. "Signal to the Bismarck: British fleet position—due east, approximately 18,000 kilometers away. Five Queen Elizabeth-class destroyers. HMS Barham and HMS Warrior are heavily damaged but still fighting. Good luck."

The telegram was sent.

Thirty seconds later, a response came from the direction of the Bismarck:

"Understood. Leave the rest to us."

Schmidt watched the two warships getting closer and closer, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

That wasn't a laugh.

It's an expression more complex than a smile.

"Gentlemen," he turned to the officers on the bridge, their faces covered in blood, "our mission is complete."

No one speaks.

Everyone was looking at him, their eyes red, but no tears were falling.

Schmidt walked to the porthole and looked at the British warships one last time.

"Now," he said, "it's our turn to see."

11:30 AM.

Scheer stood at the porthole of the Bismarck's bridge, holding the telegram he had just received from the Königsberg.

"The Königssee is about to sink. Thank you for coming. The German Navy lives on."

He folded the telegram and put it into his inner bag.

Then he raised his head and looked ahead.

On the radar screen, five dots were flashing. Those were the British fleet—five Queen Elizabeth-class battleships—slaughtering the two remaining German warships about twenty-two nautical miles away.

22 nautical miles.

At a speed of 31 knots, it would take 40 minutes.

Forty minutes.

Scher gripped the railing tightly.

"Full speed," he said. "Thirty-one knots. Boilers overload."

The watchman paused for a moment, then said, "General, we have already—"

"Faster," Scher interrupted him, "as fast as you can."

The order has been issued.

The engine room's reply came through the loudspeaker: "The boiler pressure has reached its limit! Any faster and it will be—"

"Go ahead and blow it up," Scher said. "It's on me if it explodes."

There was a moment of silence in the engine room.

Then reply: "Yes".

The Bismarck's speed began to climb from thirty knots. Thirty and a half knots. Thirty-eight knots. Thirty-one knots.

The ship was trembling. Not a normal tremor, but an unsettling tremor that exceeded its design limits. The portholes emitted a sharp, resonant sound, as if they might shatter at any moment.

But it's running.

The Tirpitz followed closely behind.

11:40 AM.

On the radar screen, the five dots have become three—the other two are disappearing from the screen.

Scher knew what that meant.

King. Queen.

They sank.

He slammed his fist hard against the railing.

"Radar officer, report the distance."

"General, the British fleet is currently about eighteen nautical miles from us. It is moving southeast at a speed of about twenty-two knots. It appears to be withdrawing from the battlefield."

Evacuate.

Scher's lips twitched.

Want to run?

"Signal the Tirpitz," he said. "Full speed ahead. Target—British fleet. Open fire at will once within 22,000 meters."

The traffic lights are flashing.

The Tirpitz responded: "Received."

The two German warships gave chase at a speed of thirty-one knots.

11:52 AM.

The radar officer's voice changed as he reported: "General! Target within 22,000 meters! Target locked!"

Scher took a deep breath.

"Main guns," he said, "load armor-piercing shells. Target—HMS Barham. Free fire."

The Bismarck's four twin-mounted 380mm main guns slowly rose.

The cannon is pointing due east.

There are five black dots moving on the horizon—those are the British fleet.

But radar provides gunners with more precise information: distance, bearing, speed, and heading.

This is the advantage of radar.