World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Scher walked back to the porthole and took one last look at the sea.

The life raft was no longer visible. Only the long oil slick on the sea surface reflected an eerie light in the sunlight.

He suddenly recalled what Admiral Tirpitz had said: "Every time I see a new warship launched, I don't think about how powerful it is. I think about—if one day it sinks, how long will the young men on board, their mothers, wait in the harbor?"

The old general thought to himself, "Today, hundreds of British mothers will be waiting forever at the port."

London, Admiralty. 3 p.m.

First Sea Lord Admiral John Jellicoe is chairing the weekly situation meeting. Attendees include the Director of Naval Intelligence, the Chief of Operations, and several staff officers.

Halfway through the meeting, the door was suddenly pushed open.

The communications officer rushed in, his face deathly pale.

"General, urgent telegram! A distress signal relayed by the Indian Ocean Fleet!"

Jericho took the telegram and glanced at it.

Then his expression changed.

"The meeting is adjourned," he said. "Everyone stay. Go and fetch the Prime Minister."

Twenty minutes later, the Prime Minister entered the conference room.

He had already heard the general outline. But his hands were still trembling as he took the detailed battle report from Jericho.

"Eleven cargo ships and two oil tankers," he read aloud. "'Star of Calcutta,' 'Merchant of Bombay,' 'Australian Wheat'... I recognize these ships. I've seen these ship names in parliamentary reports."

He raised his head and looked at the silent officers:

"Ninety-two thousand tons. A loss in one day."

No one dared to speak.

Jellicoe said softly, "Prime Minister, the Germans are using secondary guns. That means they don't consider our merchant ships a threat at all. They're like...shooting targets."

The Prime Minister slammed the telegram on the table.

"Is the Avenger-class ready?"

"Ready, Prime Minister," Jellicoe said. "HMS Revenge, HMS Resolution, HMS Ramirez, HMS Royal Oak, HMS Sovereign. Five battleships. Final resupply will be completed this evening, and they will depart early tomorrow morning."

The Prime Minister nodded.

"Let them go," he said. "Tell the fleet commander to take down those two Bismarck-class ships at all costs."

He paused, then added, "Notify India, Australia, and Singapore to temporarily suspend all merchant ships. We'll deal with the Germans after that."

Jericho was silent for a second.

"Prime Minister, the suspension of flights means..."

“I know what the suspension of shipping means,” the Prime Minister interrupted him. “It means that Australian wheat can’t get in, that Indian tea is piling up in ports and getting moldy, and that our oil supply in the Middle East has to rely on those few tankers. But—”

He stood up and walked to the window:

"If we let the Germans continue fighting like this, we won't even have a chance to hold on."

The meeting room remained quiet for a long time.

Jellicoe finally spoke: "Prime Minister, the Revenge-class ships only have a speed of twenty-one knots. The Bismarck-class ships can reach thirty knots. If the Germans don't fight and just run, we won't be able to catch up."

The Prime Minister turned around and looked at him.

"Then let's find a way," he said. "Harass them with destroyers, ambush them with submarines. Use every means at your disposal to corner them."

He walked back to the table and braced himself on the surface with both hands:

"Jellicoe, I don't ask you to annihilate them all in one battle. But I do ask you to ensure that those two German ships never dare to roam these waters again."

Jellicoe stood at attention: "Yes, Prime Minister."

The Arabian Sea. The bridge of the Bismarck. Three days later.

Scheer stood in front of the chart table, looking at the routes that the staff had marked every day.

It's been three days. In these three days, they haven't seen a single merchant ship.

The British reacted faster than expected.

"How much fuel is left?" he asked.

The quartermaster opened his logbook: "Bismarck has 72 percent remaining, Tirpitz has 68 percent remaining. At a speed of 20 knots, they can continue sailing for about five days."

Five days.

What about five days later?

Scheer's gaze fell on the nautical chart. To the west lay the Gulf of Aden, where the British had a base. To the east was India, where the main British force was en route. To the north lay the Persian Gulf, and Dubai of Lanfang—

His finger paused for a second on the Dubai spot.

That's the safest place to go. But it's also the riskiest gamble.

"General," the communications officer approached, "we've intercepted a British telegram. It's addressed to all the colonies."

Scheer took the telegram.

The message was in English, but the gist was clear: "A German raiding ship has appeared in the Arabian Sea. All merchant ships are to suspend departures pending further notice. All colonial navies are to immediately increase patrols."

He put down the telegram.

Outbound flights are suspended.

These four words mean that there will be no more prey for a while.

"General," the naval commander said softly, "what do we do?"

Scher remained silent for a few seconds.

"Continue cruising," he said. "Maintain a speed of twenty knots and change positions daily. The British can't keep merchant ships stationary for long. Their war machine needs supplies, and their people need to eat. In a week, two weeks at most, they'll have to get the ships out of the water."

He walked to the porthole and looked out at the vast, empty sea:

"We'll fight then."

On the fourth night, Scheer couldn't sleep, so he went up to the deck.

The night was dark. There was no moon, only a sky full of stars. The Southern Cross had risen high in the sky, shining like four diamonds set in velvet.

He stood on the deck, looking at the stars.

Thirty years ago, he was a young naval cadet. On his first voyage, his instructor pointed to the Southern Cross and said, "That's the symbol of the Southern Hemisphere. You'll see it once you cross the equator."

At that time, he thought that one day he would take a German warship to the Southern Hemisphere to see the Southern Cross.

Now he sees it.

It wasn't that they were carrying German warships; it was that they were escaping with German warships.

He gave a wry smile.

On the morning of the eighth day, news came from the radar room.

"General! Suspicious targets spotted! Multiple vessels to the southeast, approximately 35 nautical miles away—currently being assessed—they appear to be warships!"

Scher's heart tightened suddenly.

"What is the speed?"

"Calculations in progress...approximately twenty knots. Approaching this ship."

Section 20.

Merchant ships don't have knots of 20 knots. Only warships do.

"All fleet, battle preparation!" Scheer roared. "Heading 160, full speed! Signal the Tirpitz to enter combat readiness!"

The Bismarck's speed began to climb rapidly from twenty knots. Twenty-two knots, twenty-five knots, twenty-eight knots.

Thirty minutes later, the lookout's voice came through the megaphone, but the tone had changed:

"Visual contact! To the southeast, five—five battleships! Confirmed to be British Revenge-class!"

Scheer raised his binoculars.

In the footage, the silhouettes of five warships slowly rise from the sea. Low bridges, short, stubby funnels, and those iconic twin 381mm gun turrets—HMS Revenge, HMS Resolution, HMS Ramirez, HMS Royal Oak, and HMS Sovereign.

Five ships.

They've all arrived.