World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Sir Wingate," he finally said, "you are right."

He paused. "Let them go. Let the fleet continue surveillance, but don't get close. Let the intelligence agencies continue analysis, but don't make a fuss. Let the newspapers write nothing, as if this never happened."

Wingate replied on the phone, "Understood, Prime Minister."

The Prime Minister hung up the phone.

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking out the window.

The night outside the window was very deep, so deep that the surface of the Thames was not visible. Only a few lights in the distance cast dappled shadows on the water, like countless fallen stars.

He suddenly recalled the scene when people flooded the streets and cheered when the war had just broken out. At that time, they believed they would be able to go home before Christmas.

Three years have passed now.

How much longer will it take?

he does not know.

All he knew was that the fleet that had just passed through the Suez Canal was shifting the balance of the war.

The Bismarck had been sailing for nineteen days.

It has been a full nineteen days since we departed on February 19th. More than four thousand five hundred hours have passed, tossed about by the raging winds and towering waves of the North Atlantic, drifting along the long southward route.

The crew had lost weight. Not from hunger—there was enough food—but from exhaustion, from the relentless strain of working without knowing where the end was. Their eyes were sunken, their cheekbones prominent, and their once-fitting uniforms now looked baggy. Fresh water was rationed, only one canteen per person per day—enough to drink, but not enough to wash their faces. Their hair was matted together in clumps, and stubble grew unkempt; the entire warship smelled like a mobile zoo.

Fresh vegetables were long gone. Canned goods and hard biscuits became the staple food. The hard biscuits softened a bit when soaked in hot water, but they still tasted like sand. The canned goods were corned beef, so salty they could kill you, but no one complained—it was good enough to have something to eat.

Fuel remaining is 17 percent. Tirpitz remaining is 14 percent.

Scheer reduced the speed to eight knots. He couldn't reduce it any further; otherwise, the rudder would become less effective, and the ship would lose control in a storm.

He drifted like that, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, like a ghost that could not find a port.

March 10, 9:00 AM.

Scheer stood on the bridge, looking at the North Atlantic chart on the chart table, covered with pencil lines. The staff updated the position every day, and the dotted line representing the Bismarck had stretched quite a distance, from 60 degrees north latitude all the way south, now reaching around 20 degrees north latitude.

Five hundred nautical miles further south is the equator.

Beyond the equator lies the Southern Hemisphere. It's South Africa, it's South America, a world he's never been to before.

"General," the naval officer said softly, "our fuel..."

"I know," Scheer interrupted him.

He knew, of course. Seventeen percent. At eight knots, it could run for about four more days. After four days, the fuel would run out, the main engines would stop, and the Bismarck would become a floating steel coffin.

At that point, he had two choices: abandon ship or scuttle himself.

Abandon ship? 1,200 people were crammed onto life rafts and adrift in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, with a survival rate of less than one in ten.

Sink it? Open the sea valves, let seawater flood the compartments, and let the Bismarck sink to the bottom of the sea with 1,200 people.

No.

He shook his head.

There is a third option. Wait.

Waiting for Lanfang's response.

Although he had waited for sixteen days and had not received any news, he was still waiting.

Because waiting is the only hope.

"General," the communications officer's voice came from behind, trembling slightly, "a telegram has arrived. It's from the Lanfang Naval Headquarters."

Scher turned around.

The communications officer's hands were trembling. The few pages of telegram rustled in his hands like leaves falling in the wind.

Scheer took the telegram and glanced at it.

Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at it again.

Everyone on the bridge was watching him, and no one dared to utter a sound.

Scher finally raised his head. His face was expressionless—not that it was expressionless, but rather that the complex emotions piled up together had turned it into a blank.

"Turn around," he said, his voice hoarse and unlike his own.

The navigator paused, then asked, "General?"

Scheer walked to the porthole and pointed southwest.

"Heading 260, speed 10 knots," he said. "Let's go pick up our guests."

The navigator opened his mouth, wanting to ask who the guest was, but he saw the telegram in Scheer's hand.

He saw Scheer's eyes.

There was something in those eyes that hadn't been there for sixteen days.

That is light.

Morning of april 3

The lookout was the first to spot the fleet.

"Ship sights!" His voice came through the loudspeaker, shrill and distorted. "Due east! Multiple ships—battleships!"

Scheer rushed to the porthole and raised his binoculars.

In the footage, several black dots appeared on the sea surface.

At first, they were just vague outlines, like a pencil lightly dotted on rice paper. But as the two ships continued to approach, those dark dots grew larger and clearer—

Two long, slender battleships, with towering bridges and massive gun turrets. That was the silhouette of the Bismarck-class battleships.

Two supply ships followed behind, their short, stout hulls resembling two mobile warehouses. Five destroyers spread out on either side, wisps of black smoke billowing from their funnels, clearly also traveling at full speed.

Scheer put down his binoculars.

His hands were trembling slightly. This time, it wasn't from nervousness, but from something else.

"Raise the signal flags," he said. "The German Navy welcomes the Lanfang Navy."

The watchman paused, then asked, "General, what flag are you flying?"

"The German naval ensign," Scheer said, "placing it alongside the Lanfang naval ensign."

The watchman ran toward the signal flag cabinet.

Thirty seconds later, two flags were raised on the mast of the Bismarck. The German naval ensign in red, white and black, and the Lanfang naval ensign with a red background and a gold dragon, fluttered side by side in the sea breeze.

It was a rare sight in human history. Warships from two different countries raised each other's flags in the same sea.

Thirty minutes later, both small boats were launched from their respective flagships simultaneously.

Scheer wore his faded general's uniform, and his left arm was still bandaged—a wound from the Queen Elizabeth's bombardment, not yet fully healed. He stood on the small boat, the sea breeze tossing his hair into a mess, but he didn't care. He just kept watching the warship getting closer and closer opposite him.

Huaihe River.

It was a newer warship than the Bismarck. Its lines were smoother, its bridge higher, and its turrets more sharply defined. It gleamed in the sunlight, like a brand-new toy just rolled out of the dock. Sailors stood in formation on the deck, their uniforms impeccably pressed, their caps neatly tucked in.

Scheer thought of his Bismarck. The warship had been at sea for nineteen days, bearing three battle wounds and nearly empty of fuel.

He suddenly felt a pang of envy.