World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Distance?" he asked.

"Twelve thousand meters."

"Secondary guns, prepare," he said. "Target—those cargo ships. Free fire."

The Bismarck's six twin-mounted 150mm secondary guns opened fire simultaneously.

Those turrets were normally used to engage destroyers. Although the 105mm gun shells weren't large, they were sufficient for unarmored merchant ships.

The first salvo landed around the convoy of cargo ships. Columns of water rose from the convoy, like white giants suddenly emerging from the sea.

A 5,000-ton cargo ship was violently rocked by the waves caused by the near miss. Its speed was already slow, but now it slowed even more, dropping from twelve knots to eight knots, like a wounded ox.

The second volley hit.

The cargo ship was hit on its port side. The explosion blew away the lifeboats, flames spewed from the breach, and thick black smoke billowed upwards. The cargo ship began to slow down and soon came to a stop, swaying sideways on the sea.

"Hit!" A suppressed cheer erupted from the bridge.

Sher did not laugh.

He held up his binoculars, watching the ship. On the deck, sailors in white uniforms were jumping into lifeboats. The lifeboats were lowered, and a dozen men crammed inside, desperately paddling away from the burning vessel.

"Continue," he said.

Round three. Round four.

The Tirpitz joined the carnage. Its secondary guns were aimed at an oil tanker—the most dangerous target. The first shot hit the deck but didn't detonate the oil tanks. The second shot hit near the waterline, and black crude oil began to leak, spreading an eerie rainbow across the sea.

The tanker began to tilt.

It wasn't fast, but it was visible to the naked eye. The port side sank, the starboard side rose, and things on deck began to slide down. Oil drums, ropes, lifebuoys—and a few people who hadn't had time to jump overboard.

Scher watched as those people fell into the sea and struggled in the oil slick.

He put down his binoculars.

"Destroyers," he said, "close range and fire. Stop those that are still running."

Four destroyers pounced on the merchant ship trying to escape like hunting dogs.

Z-10 charged at full speed toward a cargo ship fleeing south. Its 105mm main guns fired in rapid succession, shells landing around the ship. One shell hit the bow, causing the ship's speed to drop sharply. Two shells struck the bridge, shattering the wooden structure into fragments.

Z-10 passed by it 100 meters to its port side and strafed the deck with its machine guns.

The cargo ship stopped.

It was anchored on the sea, with smoke billowing from many parts of the hull, and the deck was littered with corpses and debris.

Z-12 and Z-15 surrounded two other cargo ships on the other side. The two ships tried to huddle together for mutual cover, but the destroyer's gunfire was too intense. In less than ten minutes, both ships were engulfed in flames.

Z-18 caught up with a small oil tanker that was trying to escape. Its main gun fired only two shots—the first a warning, the second hitting the stern. The tanker's main engine was destroyed, it lost power, and it spun around on the sea.

Forty minutes later, only burning debris and oil slicks remained on the sea surface.

The largest cargo ship—that massive 12,000-ton behemoth—was still struggling. Its bow had sunk into the sea, but its stern was still upturned, the propeller protruding above the water and slowly turning. On deck, the sailors were lowering the last few lifeboats.

Scheer looked at the ship.

Its name is still visible – written in English, "Star of Calcutta".

The Star of Kolkata.

A cargo ship sailing from India to Britain. What was it carrying? Tea? Jute? Or war supplies?

He didn't know. And it didn't matter.

The important thing is that it sank, which meant the British had one less ship to transport goods.

"Main guns ready," he said.

The gunner hesitated for a moment: "General, target?"

Scheer pointed to the dying cargo ship: "It."

The gunner paused for a second, then said, "Yes, sir."

A 380mm main gun slowly rose, its muzzle aimed at the 12,000-ton cargo ship.

"put."

Sparks shot out from the cannon muzzle.

Forty seconds later, the shell hit the middle of the cargo ship.

The explosion tore the ship in two. It didn't sink slowly; it broke off completely in the middle. The front half sank rapidly, while the rear half rose higher before also beginning to sink. Within three minutes, it vanished entirely from the sea.

All that remained on the sea surface were oil slicks, debris, and a few dozen scattered life rafts.

Scheer put down his binoculars.

"Let's tally the results," he said.

Fifteen minutes later, the quartermaster reported: "General, preliminary statistics: eleven cargo ships and two oil tankers were sunk, with a total tonnage of approximately 92,000 tons. No spoils... none were captured, all sunk."

Ninety-two thousand tons.

Scher silently recited the number in his mind.

A Queen Elizabeth-class battleship has a displacement of 32,000 tons. 92,000 tons is equivalent to three battleships.

"What about casualties?"

The quartermaster hesitated for a moment: "General, it's impossible to count. The crew on the merchant ship... we saw at least twenty life rafts lowered, but..."

He didn't finish speaking.

Scher knew what he wanted to say.

This area is 400 nautical miles from the nearest land. Without fresh water or food, how long can those life rafts last? Three days? Five days? Or longer?

He recalled the scene after the Battle of Jutland, when the German fleet salvaged British sailors. The young British lieutenant, whose lips were already turning purple from the cold when he was rescued, still insisted on saluting him and saying "thank you."

What now?

"General," Major Meyer, the watch officer, asked softly, "should we dispatch destroyers to salvage the survivors?"

Scher was silent for three seconds.

He recalled the British sailors who fell into the Atlantic after the Queen Elizabeth II sank. He remembered his own words—"Leave it to Jellicoe to salvage."

Now those words are back.

"We can't stop," he said. "We don't know when the British fleet will arrive. They received the distress signal forty minutes ago. If India had fast cruisers, they could be on the surface in two hours."

He paused. "Full speed ahead, heading 130. Get out of this area."

Major Meyer lowered his head and remained silent.

Scheer knew what he was thinking. Everyone on the ship was thinking the same thing. But no one would say it aloud—the chances of those British men who fell overboard surviving were less than 30%. Even if they were pulled from the water, they would become prisoners of war.

It's not cruel.

It is war.

The Bismarck's speed was increased from fifteen knots to twenty knots.

The bow cleaved through the waves, leaving the area of ​​sea floating with wreckage behind.

Scheer stood at the porthole, watching the life rafts grow smaller and smaller. Some of the people on the rafts were waving, whether in distress or curses, he couldn't tell. Two nautical miles away, he couldn't hear anything.

He turned around.

"Communications officer," he said, "send a telegram to the Lanfang Admiralty."

The communications officer picked up his notebook.

"Content: We have entered the Arabian Sea and sank thirteen British merchant ships today, totaling approximately 90,000 tons. The British are aware of this. Further action plans will be reported separately. —Schär"

The communications officer finished writing and looked up: "General, shall we send it?"

Scher nodded.

Thirty seconds later, the telegram was sent.