World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

On the radar screen, three dots were fleeing southeast. Leading the way was HMS Queen Elizabeth, followed by HMS Warspite, and finally the slower HMS Malaya.

The Malaya is burning.

It had been hit in previous battles with the support fleet, its broadside breached, and its speed reduced to only eighteen knots. Now, it became the easiest target for the two Bismarck-class battleships.

"Distance?" Scher asked.

"Nineteen thousand meters."

"Open fire once you reach 18,000 meters. Maintain distance and do not approach."

The Bismarck-class destroyers continued their pursuit.

12:25.

The distance is 18,000 meters.

"Fire."

The eighth round of volleys.

The shell flew toward the HMAS Malaya, 18,000 meters away. Forty seconds later, the observer reported: "Hit! The HMAS Malaya has been hit in the bow!"

Round 9. Round 10. Round 11.

Like an anvil repeatedly hammered by a giant, each hit caused the ship to tremble violently. Its forward main gun turret was penetrated and stuck at a 15-degree elevation angle. Half of the bridge was blown off, and the navigator was killed instantly. Several large holes were torn in the sides, and seawater rushed in, reducing the ship's speed to below 15 knots.

But it's still running.

They are still running in a southeast direction.

It is still trying to catch up with its flagship.

Scheer stared at the burning warship and remained silent for a few seconds.

"Keep going," he said, "until it sinks."

Round 12. Round 13.

12:39.

The Malaya has stopped.

It didn't stop intentionally; it simply couldn't move anymore. Its engine room was hit, all the boilers were destroyed, the ship lost power, and it spun sideways on the sea.

Then it turned.

It's not heading southeast, it's heading southwest.

Heading toward the Bismarck.

Scher's pupils contracted slightly.

"What is it doing?" the watchman exclaimed.

Scher did not answer.

He raised his binoculars.

In the footage, the bow of the Malaya is directly facing the Bismarck. Its main gun is still firing—only one gun, firing a shell every two minutes. Shells are landing around the Bismarck, posing no threat, yet it continues to fire.

It was telling the German warship: the British Royal Navy is not all dead.

"General," the gunner's voice came through the megaphone, "it's approaching. 15,000 meters—14,000 meters—13,000 meters—"

Scher remained silent.

He watched the dying British warship, trailing thick smoke and flames, slowly approaching at a speed of less than ten knots.

It was impossible for it to hit the Bismarck. One of its guns posed no threat to the Bismarck-class armor at that distance.

But it's still getting closer.

They're still firing.

He is sinking.

Its aft main gun ceased firing. Its hull began to slowly sink. The bow went underwater first, then the foredeck, and then the aft main gun, still pointing at the Bismarck.

When it sank, its guns were still pointed at the German warship.

Scheer put down his binoculars.

"Full speed ahead," he said. "Chase the remaining two."

Jellicoe stood by the porthole, looking at the spot where the Malaya had sunk.

Another one.

Another one.

"General," the chief of staff's voice came from behind, trembling with barely suppressed emotion, "the German fleet is approaching. Seventeen thousand meters—sixteen thousand meters—"

Jericho did not move.

He watched the silhouettes of the two German warships, their turrets gleaming in the sunlight, as they drew closer and closer.

"General, we must—"

"I know."

Jericho turned around.

His face was expressionless. Not calm, but a kind of tranquility that transcended fear and sorrow.

"Send a telegram to London," he said. "HMS Queen Elizabeth and HMS Warspite are retreating. HMS Barham, HMS Warrior, and HMS Malaya are sunk. The German fleet—two Bismarck-class ships—is in pursuit. They are expected to enter the danger zone in three hours."

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

"hair."

The telegram was sent.

Jellicoe walked to the chart table and leaned over to look at the North Atlantic chart that was cut into pieces by pencil lines.

From their current position, about four hundred nautical miles to the southeast lies the British Home Fleet's defense zone. Four hundred nautical miles, at HMS Queen Elizabeth's current speed of twenty knots, would take twenty hours.

Twenty hours.

Would the German fleet chase them for twenty hours?

he does not know.

But he knew they had to run.

"Full speed," he said. "Boilers overload. Speed—as fast as possible."

HMS Queen Elizabeth and HMS Warspite began belching thicker black smoke from their funnels. The two British warships raced southeast at their maximum speed of twenty-five knots.

Behind them, two German warships were in hot pursuit at a speed of thirty-one knots.

The distance is decreasing meter by meter.

15,000 meters. 14,000 meters. 13,000 meters.

"General!" the lookout's voice cracked. "The German fleet is still approaching! 12,000 meters away!"

Jericho did not turn around.

He looked at the boundless sea ahead, at the faint gray line on the horizon—that was the direction of England, the direction of home, the only hope to survive.

"Keep running," he said.

13:15.

Scheer stood at the porthole, watching the two British warships recede into the distance.

The Queen Elizabeth and Warspite were speeding southeast at twenty-five knots. The Bismarck and Tirpitz were in pursuit at thirty-one knots, and the distance was slowly closing.

In another two hours, we will be able to get to within 10,000 meters.

In another two hours, we will be able to send them all to the seabed.

Scher turned around and looked at the chart table.

After thinking for a few minutes, he still ordered the car to turn around; he couldn't continue the pursuit!

When the speed decreased, Scheer realized that his hands were shaking.

It wasn't fear. It was the body's protest that began when the tremor, which seemed to emanate from the very marrow of the body, finally ceased after a long, high-speed voyage by the warship. He gripped the railing tightly, forcing the hand to stop, then turned to look at the chart table.

February 20th, dusk. Latitude XX degrees XX minutes North, longitude XX degrees XX degrees West.

This coordinate is meaningless. It's not on any shipping route, doesn't belong to any country, it's just a vast, gray-blue expanse of water in the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

The Bismarck's speed had dropped to twelve knots. The Tirpitz, five kilometers to its right aft, was similarly slow, like a wounded beast licking its wounds. The four destroyers, like loyal but weary sheepdogs, were scattered on either side, moving even slower—they needed to refuel from the capital ships.

"Fuel report." Scheer's voice was a little hoarse.

The quartermaster opened his logbook, his finger pausing for a second on that column: "Bismarck: 32% remaining. Tirpitz: 28% remaining. Destroyers—"

He paused. "Z-10 has 17 percent remaining, and the other three are all below 20 percent. Without refueling, Z-10 can hold on for... about 12 hours."

Twelve hours.

Scher nodded. He already knew this number, but every time he heard it, the tension in his heart tightened.

Damage report.