World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Wilhelm II turned around: "So, what I gave Chen Feng, he probably doesn't care about at all."

Tirpitz did not answer.

Wilhelm II walked back to his desk and sat down. His fingers tapped unconsciously on the table for a few seconds, then stopped.

"Alfred," he said, "do you know why I still sent you?"

Tirpitz looked up.

"Because of Scheer," Wilhelm II said, "because of those two Bismarck-class ships. Because I cannot let Scheer die in the Atlantic, I cannot let those two ships sink in vain. They are heroes of the German Navy, the pride of Germany. If they die, how can I answer to the people? How can I answer to history?"

He paused, then said, "You went to Lanfang not to persuade Chen Feng to join the war, but to beg him to save Sher."

Tirpitz's heart skipped a beat.

Beg him.

These words, spoken by the emperor, carried more weight than any other.

"Your Majesty," he began, his voice slightly hoarse, "your subject..."

"I know," Wilhelm II interrupted him. "I know this is difficult. I know you've fought in the navy for thirty years and never asked anyone for help. But this time..."

He stood up, walked over to Tirpitz, and looked at the 68-year-old marshal.

"Alfred, I beg you."

Tirpitz was stunned.

The fifty-eight-year-old emperor begged the sixty-eight-year-old general, "Please."

He lowered his head.

"Your Majesty," he said, "I obey your command."

Wilhelm II patted him on the shoulder: "Go. Come back soon."

Tirpitz saluted and turned to walk towards the door.

As he reached the door, Wilhelm II's voice came from behind him:

"Alfred."

He stopped.

"That telegram from Scheer..." Wilhelm II's voice was soft, "Do you think Lanfang will respond?"

Tirpitz remained silent for a few seconds.

"I don't know," he said. "But I do know that if Lanfang wanted to save Scher, they would have done it long ago. They wouldn't need to wait for Scher to send a telegram for help—they have their own intelligence network, and they know where Scher is."

He pushed open the door and stepped into the dimly lit corridor.

William II stood alone in his study, looking at the closed door.

He suddenly recalled a quote from Frederick the Great: "If my army believes I am invincible, they will truly become invincible."

Is his army now invincible?

he does not know.

All he knew was that the two warships adrift in the Atlantic Ocean were his last hope.

On the evening of February 22, Jellicoe stood in front of a huge North Atlantic nautical chart.

He had been standing for three hours.

From the moment he received the Bismarck's last position report, he stood there, occasionally glancing back at the chart, occasionally asking for a report from the command center, and then continuing to stand, like a sculpture embedded in a window.

Chief of Staff Brigadier General Oliver Baker stood three meters away, not daring to disturb him.

He knew what Jellicoe was thinking. He was wondering where the two German battleships were now, whether the Vengeance-class fleet could catch up with them, and what would happen if they did—five battleships capable of running at 21 knots versus two battleships that could probably still run at 25 knots, could they catch up?

We can't catch up.

The chief of staff knew the answer, and so did Jericho.

But the Prime Minister doesn't know. Or rather, the Prime Minister doesn't want to know.

Finally, Jericho turned around.

"Has the Vengeance-class fleet set sail?"

"Yes, General. At eight o'clock this morning, all five ships set sail: HMS Revenge, HMS Resolution, HMS Ramirez, HMS Royal Oak, and HMS Sovereign. They split into two groups—three ships sailing south along the west coast of Africa, and two searching along the east coast of South America."

Jericho nodded.

"What were their instructions?"

"Upon spotting the Bismarck, maintain distance, call for backup, and do not engage in combat rashly."

Jericho was silent for a few seconds.

Will they listen?

The chief of staff was taken aback: "General?"

“Those captains,” Jellicoe said, “those hot-blooded young captains. When they saw the Bismarck, the ship that sank the Queen Elizabeth, would they have held back from firing?”

The chief of staff did not answer.

Jericho walked to the chart table and bent down to look at the markings.

"The Vengeance-class," he said softly. "Twenty-one knots in speed, slightly thicker armor than the Elizabeth-class, but the main guns are still 381mm. Against the Bismarck-class's 380mm guns, who would win?"

Without waiting for the chief of staff's reply, he gave his own answer: "Whoever hits first wins. But the Bismarck-class has radar, which can detect targets first in any weather. And they can run at thirty knots, allowing them to choose the engagement distance. The Revenge-class... is too slow."

The chief of staff said softly, "General, perhaps the Bismarck can't go any further. Perhaps they're heavily damaged and can only run a dozen knots. Perhaps our men can catch up."

Jericho stared at him for a long time.

"Perhaps," he said, "but the word 'perhaps' is the least valuable thing in war."

He straightened up and walked back to the window.

Outside the window, the Thames River gleamed with a leaden gray light. Several tugboats were passing by, leaving long trails of black smoke.

Port Dubai

The morning mist is dissipating.

At Pier No. 3, the battleships Huaihe and Zhujiang had completed their final preparations for departure. The crew stood in formation on the deck, their military bearing impeccable. The gun covers on the turrets had been removed, but the gun barrels remained at zero elevation—the standard posture for leaving port.

Two supply ships, the "Dongting Lake" and the "Poyang Lake," followed closely behind. Their hulls were much shorter than the battleships, but their bellies were bulging, filled with heavy oil, fresh water, food, and ammunition. Five destroyers spread out on either side, like sheepdogs guarding a flock of sheep.

Major General Zhang Zhen stood on the bridge of the Huaihe ship, looking at the crowd seeing him off at the dock.

Chen Feng didn't come. That was the rule—the Grand Commander didn't see off the expeditionary force. But Li Te did come, standing on the dock, shaking hands with every engineer who boarded the ship.

The engineers, carrying tool bags and wearing Lanfang Navy training uniforms, marched in formation across the diving board. Li Te stood beside the board and said the same thing to each of them: "Come back alive."

The engineers simply nodded and then disappeared through the ship's hatches.

As the last engineer walked across the springboard, Li Tie stopped him.

He was a young man, who looked to be under thirty, with a youthful innocence still evident on his face as he had just graduated.

"What's your name?" Lee asked.

"Reporting to the General, this is Lin Yuan, Marine Engineer."

Li Te nodded: "Lin Yuan, do you know you might not come back this time?"

Lin Yuan paused for a second, then said, "I know, General. I signed the volunteer form."

Are you scared?

Lin Yuan thought for a moment, then said, "I'm afraid. But I'm even more afraid that the two German ships will sink."

Lee looked at him: "Why?"

Lin Yuan raised his head: "General, the Bismarck-class destroyers were designed by us. Their fighting in the Atlantic is like our children fighting outside. If a child is injured, how can the father not go to the rescue?"

Li Te was stunned.

Lin Yuan saluted, turned and ran onto the gangway, disappearing through the hatch.

Lee Te stood there, watching the young man's back, and remained silent for a long time.

At 7:00 AM sharp, the signal flag was raised.

The Huaihe sounded its horn and slowly departed the dock. The Zhujiang followed closely behind. Supply ships and destroyers followed in turn.

On the dock, workers stood silently watching the fleet disappear into the morning mist.

Li Te stood on the dock, watching the ship silhouettes grow fainter and fainter until they were completely out of sight.

He suddenly remembered a quote from Chen Feng: "The Navy's tradition is not written in books, but engraved in our bones."

Yes.

Those engineers, those sailors, those young men willing to go to the Atlantic to their deaths—the tradition of the Lanfang Navy is etched in their bones.

Zhang Zhen stood on the bridge of the Huaihe ship and took one last look back at the Dubai Harbour skyline.

The gantry cranes in the No. 3 dock still stand there, and the hull of the Nagato is half-hidden by the morning mist, like a sleeping steel statue.

He turned around and faced the boundless expanse of deep blue in front of him.

"Full fleet," he said, "heading 280, speed 15 knots. Target—the entrance to the Red Sea."

The replies from each ship came through the megaphone.

The bow of the Huaihe cut through the waves, leaving a long, white trail in its wake.

Behind me, Dubai Port receded into the distance, fading into the distance until it finally disappeared below the horizon.

Ahead lies the Red Sea, the Suez Canal, the Mediterranean Sea, and the Atlantic Ocean.

It is unknown.

Zhang Zhen gripped the railing tightly, then released it.

He remembered Chen Feng's words: "Don't beat it all up."

"It won't be over, Your Excellency," he thought.

I will bring those two ships back. I will bring those engineers back. I will bring back the honor of the Lanfang Navy.

for sure.