World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

At 9:40 a.m., the sky over the Arabian Sea was cloudless.

The sun was high in the sky, illuminating the sea. Visibility was excellent; ships could be seen clearly from at least twenty-five nautical miles away. There was no fog, no rain, only the almost transparent azure blue characteristic of tropical waters.

Scheer stood by the porthole on the bridge of the Bismarck, holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold. He had been standing there for a full five hours since the radar detected the target at four in the morning.

On the radar screen, the five dots became increasingly clear.

"General," the voice of Lieutenant Erich Walter, radar officer, came from the corner, tinged with tension, "Target confirmed. Five large warships, heading 295, speed 21 knots. Approaching our ship."

Scher nodded without saying anything.

He walked to the chart table and leaned over to look at the positions of both sides that the staff had just marked.

Bismarck: Latitude XX degrees XX minutes North, Longitude XX degrees XX minutes East. Heading 160, Speed ​​28 knots.

Tirpitz: 5,000 meters to port and aft, same heading and speed.

British Fleet: Southeast, about 30 nautical miles away, moving northwest at a speed of 21 knots.

Scheer's finger traced lightly across the nautical chart. Thirty nautical miles. At their current course and speed, they would be at… His finger stopped at a point.

XX degrees XX minutes North latitude, XX degrees XX minutes East longitude.

"Captain," he said, "calculate where the British will meet us if we maintain our current course and speed."

Navigation officer Lieutenant Commander Fritz Brunk's finger moved rapidly across the nautical chart, slideped the slide rule, and marked with a pencil. Thirty seconds later, he looked up:

"General, if we do not change course, at approximately 11:15, the two sides will meet at around XX degrees XX minutes north latitude and XX degrees XX minutes east longitude. At that time, the distance will be approximately... 22,000 meters."

22,000 meters.

Scher remained silent for a few seconds.

This distance is within the effective range of the Bismarck-class's 380mm main guns. It is also within the effective range of the British Revenge-class's 381mm guns, but the shell's power will be reduced—at 22,000 meters, the shell's angle of incidence is too large, posing a limited threat to the Bismarck-class's vertical armor.

"Keep course," he said. "Let the British catch up."

The navigator hesitated for a moment: "General, not turning?"

Scher shook his head.

"Why turn around?" he said. "They can't catch us. Twenty-one against thirty, a nine-quarter difference. Even if we stand still, it will take them three hours to catch up."

He walked to the porthole and raised his binoculars.

In the footage, there was nothing on the sea surface yet. But he knew that the five warships were there, rushing towards him at full speed.

"Let them chase us," he said. "We'll fire a few rounds when they reach 22,000 meters. Then we'll run away, run to 25,000 meters, and let them chase us again. If we keep doing this, their boilers will explode before dark."

A suppressed laugh rang out from the bridge.

Sher did not laugh.

He put down his binoculars and looked at the empty sea.

"Order all ships," he said, "to load armor-piercing shells into their main guns. Once they are within 22,000 meters, open fire on my command."

Meanwhile, thirty nautical miles away, on the British fleet flagship HMS Revenge, the atmosphere was completely different.

Rear Admiral Hughes Evans-Thomas, the fleet commander, stood in the center of the bridge, his hands behind his back, his brow furrowed. He was fifty-seven years old, had served for thirty-five years, fought in Jutland, commanded a squadron, and sailed back and forth across the North Sea countless times. But never before had he stood before the chart table, staring at the positions of those two dots, a nameless unease welling up within him.

"Commander," Chief of Staff Colonel Henry Crowley approached, holding a radar report he had just received, "the Germans haven't changed course; they're maintaining their original heading and speed. They're moving southeast."

Evans-Thomas took the report and glanced at it.

Southeast direction.

That's the direction away from the Arabian Sea, towards the depths of the Indian Ocean.

"They want to run away?" he muttered to himself.

Crowley shook his head: "Commander, at their speed, if they wanted to run, we couldn't catch them at all. But they weren't running at full speed, only twenty-eight knots. This means..."

"What does that mean?"

"That means they want to fight," Crowley said. "They want to use their speed advantage to engage us at the maximum range."

Evans Thomas remained silent for a few seconds.

He knew Crowley was right. The Bismarck-class could run at thirty knots, nine knots faster than his Vengeance-class. If Scheer really wanted to run, he would have been fifty nautical miles away by now. But he didn't. He lingered thirty nautical miles away, like a lion deliberately slowing its pace, luring the hunter behind him closer and closer.

"He wanted to lure us into a chase, then slowly wear us down using his range advantage," Evans-Thomas said. "He'd fire a few rounds, then run away, and come back when he was far enough away. His guns were more accurate than ours, his radar was better, and his ships were faster. He could play all day long, and we wouldn't even have a chance to fight back."

Crowley looked at him: "Commander, what do we do?"

Evans-Thomas walked to the chart table and leaned over to look at the densely marked chart.

"We can't let him play like this," he said. "We have to find a way to force him into close combat."

He looked up: "Order all ships to maintain their speed and course. But instruct the destroyers to advance at full speed and flank the Germans from both sides. If the Germans dare to stop and attack, send the destroyers up to launch torpedoes. Torpedoes don't care about range."

Crowley paused for a moment: "Commander, the destroyers are engaged in a battle between capital ships..."

“I know,” Evans-Thomas interrupted him. “Destroyers will die. But as long as we can force the Germans to turn, as long as we can get them into our main gun range, it’s worth losing a few destroyers.”

He paused. "War always results in death. What difference does it make who dies?"

Crowley lowered his head and remained silent.

Three minutes later, the order was issued.

Six British destroyers burst forth from either side of the capital ship, speeding northeast at thirty knots. Their funnels billowed black smoke, leaving six long trails on the sea like six arrows aimed at their prey.

On the bridge of the USS Revenge, Evans Thomas held up his binoculars, watching the destroyers getting further and further away.

"Go ahead," he said softly, "go and cause the Germans some trouble."

10:50 a.m.

The distance is 23,000 meters.

Scheer stood on the bridge and saw the tiny black dots approaching at high speed through his binoculars.

"Destroyers," he said. "Six of them. They're flanking us from both sides."

The gunner's voice came through the loudspeaker: "General, should we prepare the secondary guns?"

Scher was silent for three seconds.

Destroyers. That was the only option for the British. Use smaller vessels to force it to turn, giving their capital ships a chance to get closer.