World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Secondary guns ready," he said. "But the target isn't a destroyer. It's a capital ship."

The gunnery officer hesitated for a moment: "General, the destroyer is approaching. If we don't engage..."

"Whether we can hit them or not is another matter," Scheer interrupted him. "But if we waste our firepower on the destroyers now, the British capital ships will take the opportunity to get closer. At that point, we won't be able to escape even if we want to."

He paused for a moment: "Let the destroyers handle the destroyers. Z-10, Z-12, Z-15, Z-18—go and meet the British destroyers. Capital ships should handle the capital ships."

The order has been issued.

To the side and rear of the Bismarck, four German destroyers accelerated simultaneously, bursting out from both sides of the capital ship to meet the six British destroyers.

10:55.

The distance is 22,000 meters.

"Fire," Scheer said.

The Bismarck's four twin-mounted 380mm main guns simultaneously spewed fire. Eight shells whistled towards the British fleet 22,000 kilometers away.

Forty seconds later, the observer's voice came through: "Straddle shot! The closest shot is about 200 meters from the Revenge!"

Scher nodded.

First round of cross-firing. Calibration successful.

"Second round, release."

Eight more shells were fired.

This time, the observer's voice changed: "Hit! The Resolution has been hit! Location—the aft deck!"

Scheer raised his binoculars.

In the footage, smoke is billowing from the stern of the HMS Resolution. Flames rise from the aft deck and are dispersed by the sea breeze. The warship's speed decreases slightly—20.5 knots, 20 knots, 19.5 knots.

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

Sher did not laugh.

"Keep your distance," he said. "Turn to 150, speed 30 knots."

The Bismarck traced a huge arc across the sea, increasing its speed from twenty-eight knots to thirty knots. The Tirpitz followed closely behind.

The two German warships, like two lions toying with their prey, cruised in the distance, firing as they went.

The main battleships engaged in combat at a distance of 20,000 meters, but the battlefield for destroyers was closer and more intense.

Commander Heinrich von Andrew, captain of Z-10, stood on the open bridge, the sea breeze whipping his hair into a mess, but he paid no heed to fix it. He held up his binoculars, watching the six British destroyers approaching ahead.

"Captain," the first mate's voice came from behind, "the British are spreading out. Three to the left, three to the right, trying to outflank us."

von Andrews nodded.

"Let Z-12 and Z-15 go to the left, and Z-18 follow us to the right," he said. "Don't let them get close to the capital ships."

The order was given. The four German destroyers split into two groups and headed towards the six British destroyers.

11:10 AM.

The two sides are 10,000 meters apart.

Von Andrews ordered: "Main guns ready. Target—the foremost one. Fire!"

Z-10's four 105mm main guns opened fire simultaneously. Shells flew towards the British destroyer nine kilometers away. First volley, near miss. Second volley, hit.

The British destroyer was hit on the bridge, and the explosion ripped half of the bridge structure off. Its speed dropped from thirty knots to twenty-five knots, and it began to smoke.

"Hit!" the first mate cheered.

Von Andrews did not cheer. He stared at the damaged destroyer, watching it continue to move forward and fire.

"Keep hitting it," he said. "Hit it until it sinks."

But just then, the lookout's voice changed: "Captain! Port! Two British destroyers are approaching! 8,000 meters away!"

Von Andrew turned to port.

Two British destroyers were charging at full speed, their smokestacks spewing black smoke, their bows cleaving through the waves like two mad beasts.

"Turn! Hard to port!" he roared. "Aim the main guns at port!"

Z-10 swerved wildly on the sea. But it was too slow. No matter how fast a destroyer turns, it can't outrun a cannonball.

The first shell landed fifty meters to port, and the resulting jet of water soaked the deck.

The second shot landed thirty meters away, shrapnel swept across the bridge, and an observer fell.

Third shot—

It hit directly.

Von Andrews felt the deck beneath his feet suddenly jolt, and he almost fell. He grabbed the bridge railing and barely managed to keep his balance.

Then an explosion was heard.

The Z-10 was hit amidships. The shell penetrated the thin armor and exploded in the engine room. Flames spewed from the breach, and thick black smoke billowed upwards. The ship's tremors grew increasingly violent, and its speed plummeted from thirty knots to twenty-eight, twenty-five, twenty knots—

"Damage control report!" von Andrew roared.

A distorted voice came through the megaphone: "Captain, the engine room is destroyed! Main engines have stopped! Flooding is occurring—the rate of flooding is out of control!"

Von Andrew closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them again.

He walked to the porthole and watched the approaching British destroyers. They were still firing, the muzzle flashes glinting in the sunlight.

"Abandon ship," he said.

The first mate was stunned: "Captain—"

"Abandon ship!" von Andrew interrupted him. "Get everyone on the life rafts. I'll stay behind."

The first mate opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

He saluted, then turned and rushed toward the deck.

Life rafts were lowered one after another. Sailors jumped into the sea and swam with all their might toward the small rafts.

Von Andrews stood on the bridge, watching them.

Another shell hit Z-10. This time it hit the bow. The explosion blew off the forward main gun, sending debris flying everywhere.

Von Andrew swayed, but did not fall.

He took one last look at the German naval ensign still flying on the mast.

Then seawater rushed into the bridge.

11:35 AM.

On the bridge of the Bismarck, the communications officer's voice changed: "Sir, Z-10... Z-10 has sunk. Eleven men were rescued. Major von Andrew... killed in action."

Scher gripped the railing tightly.

Eleven people. Z-10 has a full complement of one hundred and fifty people.

He took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.

"Location," he said.

The navigator pointed to the nautical chart: "General, our current position is XX degrees XX minutes North latitude and XX degrees XX minutes East longitude. We are approximately 22,000 meters from the British capital ship and about 15 nautical miles from the location where the Z-10 sank."

Fifteen nautical miles.

It's too far. There's nothing we can do about it.

Scheer walked to the porthole and raised his binoculars.

In the footage, the British fleet is still in pursuit. The flames on HMS Resolution have been extinguished, but its speed has noticeably decreased—the shell that hit the aft deck has clearly caused damage. The other four ships are still moving at full speed, twenty-one knots, like four tireless beasts.

"General," the gunner's voice came through, "the Tirpitz reports that they have hit the Royal Oak and it appears to have caused flooding."

Scher nodded.

HMS Royal Oak. It's the oldest of the Revenge-class destroyers, launched in 1914, and participated in the Battle of Jutland. If it takes on water…

"Target switch," he said. "HMS Royal Oak. Focus fire."

The Bismarck's main guns slowly turned.

Sixth salvo. Seventh salvo. Eighth salvo.

The observer's voice kept coming in: "Near miss... straddle... hit! HMS Royal Oak hit on port! Taking on water!"

Scheer saw through his binoculars that the old battleship was smoking on its broadside. Its speed dropped from twenty-one knots to nineteen knots, and it began to break away from the battle line.