World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Damage Control Officer Lieutenant Carl Meyer's voice came through the intercom, tinged with suppressed exhaustion: "The Bismarck has been hit by a total of three shells. One hit the port aft secondary gun deck, penetrating two decks before exploding in a storage compartment. The fire has been extinguished, and there is a small amount of water entering adjacent compartments. The drainage pumps are functioning normally and are expected to be emptied within six hours."

He paused for a moment: "One shot landed five meters below the bridge, blowing off the external antenna of the radio room. The main radio equipment is intact, but the backup antenna is damaged. The communications team is working on repairs and has restored about 70% of it."

"The most important shot—" his voice lowered, "was near the ammunition feeding mechanism of turret A. Shrapnel severed part of the hydraulic lines. Now turret number one is only loading at half the normal speed. The turret itself is intact, the gun barrel is undamaged, but manual assistance is required for feeding."

Scher remained silent for a few seconds.

"Continue the repairs," Scheer said. "Repair as much as you can while the ship is at sea. We'll talk about it in six hours... six hours from now."

"Yes."

Scheer turned to the navigator: "What about the damage control report for the Tirpitz?"

The navigator handed over a signal note: "Tirpitz, General. They've been hit by two shells. One near boiler room number two, causing minor flooding, which has been plugged. The other hit the aft deck, destroying a seaplane. No casualties. Speed ​​can be maintained at 29 knots."

Section 29.

It was one knot faster than the Bismarck.

Scheer frowned slightly. He walked to the porthole and looked at the other warship of the same type to his right rear. The setting sun was filtering through the clouds, casting a dark gold glow on the Tirpitz's silhouette. It could go twenty-nine knots, but he couldn't abandon it.

"Signal the Tirpitz," he said. "Just maintain a speed of 29 knots; there's no need to force yourself to keep up. We'll adjust according to their speed."

The signalman raised the signal light. The light flickered in the twilight, like some ancient code.

Thirty seconds later, a response came from the direction of the Tirpitz: "Received. The Tirpitz thanks the Bismarck for its understanding."

Scher's lips twitched.

Understanding.

With pursuers close behind and the road ahead unknown, this word seemed so luxurious. But he had to be considerate. The Tirpitz's boiler room was damaged; forcing it to keep up with Bismarck's thirty knots might worsen the situation, further reducing its speed. And then, if the British caught up…

He didn't think any further.

"Ammunition report."

The quartermaster opened another logbook: "The Bismarck carried a total of 840 armor-piercing shells and 160 high-explosive shells. After engaging the British fleet, 203 armor-piercing shells and 31 high-explosive shells were used. 637 armor-piercing shells and 129 high-explosive shells remain."

Six hundred and thirty-seven shots.

Scheer quickly calculated in his mind. At eight rounds per salvo, that would allow for seventy-nine salvos. At the maximum rate of fire of 1.5 rounds per minute, that would provide approximately fifty-three minutes of continuous fire. If another naval battle of similar intensity to the Queen Elizabeth II were to occur, these shells would be just enough.

"Communications officer," he said.

"exist."

"Prepare two telegrams."

The communications officer hesitated for a moment: "General, radio silence—"

"Make an exception," Scher said. "After sending these two, continue with silence."

The communications officer stopped speaking and picked up his notebook and pencil.

Scher remained silent for a long time.

No one dared to make a sound on the bridge. Only the low hum of air flowing through the ventilation ducts and the distant sound of waves crashing against the ship's hull could be heard.

He finally spoke, his voice slow and deliberate, each word like water drawn from a deep well:

"The first letter, addressed to the German Naval Ministry. Content—"

He paused, then continued: "Your Majesty's esteemed presence: The First Strike Fleet engaged the British main fleet on February 19th and 20th. It sank one Hood-class battlecruiser—HMS Queen Elizabeth; three Queen Elizabeth-class battleships—HMS Barham, HMS Warrior, and HMS Malaya; and two Courageous-class large light cruisers—HMS Courageous and HMS Glory."

He paused, took a deep breath:

"The support fleet—HMS King, HMS Caesar, HMS Louiseport, and HMS Queen—sinked heroically while covering the main ship's retreat. Most of the crew perished."

The communications officer's fingers trembled slightly on the notebook. But he didn't speak, he just continued writing.

"This ship and the Tirpitz are damaged and are heading south to seek resupply." Scheer's voice lowered further. "Live the German Navy. Scheer."

The communications officer finished writing the last word, looked up, and asked, "General, what about the second letter?"

Scheer did not answer immediately.

He walked back to the porthole and looked out at the sea, which had become completely dark. Stars began to appear, one or two, then a sky full of them. The Southern Cross was rising above the horizon—the symbol of the Southern Hemisphere.

"The second letter," he finally said, "is addressed to General Li Te of the Lanfang Naval Department. Use an encrypted channel."

"Yes."

"To General Little: Thanks to your country's technical support, the Bismarck-class battleships have far exceeded expectations. They have completed their mission against the British main fleet, sinking six enemy ships."

He paused for a moment, seemingly considering his words:

"However, both this ship and the Tirpitz are damaged, running low on fuel, and cut off from supplies. We are currently located at XX degrees XX minutes North latitude and XX degrees XX minutes West longitude, heading south at a speed of twelve knots. If possible, we earnestly request your assistance in resupply and repair. Regardless of the outcome, the German Navy will forever remember your kindness."

The communications officer finished writing and looked up to wait.

Scher was silent for a few seconds, then said, "Add one more sentence."

"Please speak, General."

"If it is inconvenient to intervene publicly, I would be extremely grateful if you could just tell me the nearest supply area."

The communications officer paused. He looked up at his commander.

Scher didn't look at him. He continued to gaze at the starry night sky outside the window.

The communications officer lowered his head and added that sentence at the end.

"Send it," Scher said.

"Yes."

The telegraph key began to tick. The beeping sound was exceptionally clear in the quiet bridge, like a heartbeat.

Scher closed his eyes.

He didn't know what these two telegrams would bring. He didn't know how Berlin would react, whether Lanfang would respond, or whether the British would intercept the signals and catch up.

But he knew he had to issue it.

Because if we don't send it now, it might be too late.

When Wilhelm II was awakened, it was still dark outside.

He sat up groggily and looked at the attendant standing by the bed. There was an expression on that face that he had never seen before—not panic, not fear, but an uncontrollable, almost frenzied excitement.

"Your Majesty," the attendant's voice trembled, "an urgent telegram from the Admiralty. A battle report from General Scheer."

Wilhelm II took the telegrams and brought them to the candlestick.

He read the first line.

Then he sat up straight.

Then he threw back the covers, stood barefoot on the floor, and read those lines of text again. Read them again. Read them again.