World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The last remaining working main gun fired a shell every two minutes. The shells landed around the German warship, posing no threat, but it was still firing.

It was telling those two German warships: the British Royal Navy is not all dead.

2:08 PM.

Another shell struck near the waterline of the Resolution. Seawater rushed in through the breach, exceeding the ship's displacement. The ship began to list—five degrees to starboard, ten degrees, fifteen degrees—

Colonel Boyle stood in the wrecked bridge, looking at the British naval ensign that was still flying.

"Abandon ship," he said.

The first mate rushed forward: "Captain, you must—"

"I am the commander," Boyle interrupted him. "This is my ship. I will be with it until the very end."

The first mate saluted, turned and rushed off the bridge.

The Resolution slowly capsized. Its hull, covered in barnacles, revealed its bottom and still-spinning propeller. It remained upside down on the surface for about three minutes before beginning to sink.

Colonel Boyle stood on the ceiling of the bridge—now the floor—watching seawater rush in through the broken portholes.

He recalled the moment thirty years earlier when he first boarded a warship. Back then, he was a young naval lieutenant, standing on the deck of that old cruiser, looking at the portrait of Queen Victoria, and vowing to serve the British Empire faithfully.

He has done his part.

The seawater submerged him.

3:20 PM.

On the bridge of the Bismarck, the sounds of tallying battle results could be heard continuously.

"HMS Royal Oak confirmed sunk. HMS Resolution confirmed sunk. HMS Sovereign Sovereign is heavily damaged and is retreating northwest. HMS Revenge and HMS Conqueror are approaching, approximately 25 nautical miles away."

Scher stood in front of the chart table, looking at the numbers.

Two ships were sunk and one was severely damaged.

But what's the cost?

"Damage report for this ship," the damage control officer's voice came through the intercom. "The Bismarck has been hit by a total of four shells."

"One shot hit the port aft side, penetrated the secondary gun deck, and exploded in the storage compartment. The fire has been extinguished, and there was a small amount of water entering the adjacent compartments. The drainage pumps are operating."

"One shot landed below the bridge, blowing off the external antenna of the radio room. The main radio equipment was intact, but the backup antenna was damaged."

"One shot landed near turret B, and shrapnel severed part of the hydraulic lines. Turret B's loading speed decreased by 30%."

"The most critical incident—a breach near the starboard waterline—has caused a flooding of approximately 30 tons per hour. The damage control team is working to plug the leak and expects it to be under control within two hours."

Scher remained silent for a few seconds.

Four shots hit. Not fatal, but not light either.

"Report from the Tirpitz." The communications officer handed over another slip of paper. "Three hits: one near the boiler room, causing minor flooding; one on the aft deck, destroying a seaplane; and one in turret C, which is now jammed and cannot be rotated."

The C turret is stuck.

Of the Tirpitz's four main gun turrets, only three remain.

"Fuel left?" Scheer asked.

The quartermaster opened his notebook: "Bismarck has 58 percent remaining, Tirpitz has 54 percent remaining. At a speed of 20 knots, they can continue sailing for approximately... 40 hours."

Forty hours.

Scheer walked to the porthole and raised his binoculars.

To the southeast, the Revenge and Conqueror were approaching. They were still traveling at twenty-one knots; though they couldn't catch up, they were still pursuing. Evans-Thomas was a tenacious opponent; he wouldn't give up.

"Turn around," Scheer finally said. "Heading 350, speed 26 knots. Head north and withdraw from the battlefield."

The navigator hesitated for a moment: "General, north? The Persian Gulf is to the north—"

"I know," Scheer interrupted him. "North, to Dubai."

There was a moment of silence on the bridge.

Dubai. Lanfang's Dubai.

"The Bismarck needs repairs," Scheer said. "So does the Tirpitz. We can't keep sailing with these damages. The British will send more ships."

He paused. "Go to Dubai. That's the closest safe haven to here."

The order has been issued.

The Bismarck slowly turned north. The Tirpitz followed closely behind.

The two German warships sped north at a speed of 26 knots.

Behind them, the Revenge and Conqueror grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, until they finally disappeared on the horizon.

On the bridge of the HMS Revenge, Evans Thomas stood by the porthole, looking in the direction where the two German warships had disappeared.

He stood there for a long time.

Chief of Staff Crowley walked over and whispered, "Commander, they've escaped. We can't catch them."

Evans Thomas remained silent.

He looked at the empty sea. Three hours ago, there were five British battleships there. Now only two remained.

HMS Resolution sank. HMS Royal Oak sank. HMS Sovereign is badly damaged; it's uncertain whether it will even make it to Mumbai.

Two Bismarck-class battleships were traded for two Revenge-class battleships, and one was severely damaged.

This debt...

"Commander," Crowley said again, "what do we do?"

Evans Thomas finally spoke.

"To Mumbai," he said, his voice hoarse and unlike his own. "To bring the Royal Sovereign into port for repairs. We... will also go into port for rest."

He paused, then said, "Send a telegram to London. Say..."

He was silent for a long time.

"Report that the German fleet has fled north and is suspected of entering the Persian Gulf. Our fleet has suffered heavy losses and is unable to continue the pursuit. We request...request reinforcements."

Crowley lowered his head.

"Yes," he said.

The telegram was sent.

Evans Thomas stood alone on the bridge, looking at the gray-blue sea to the north.

He recalled the Battle of Jutland. In that battle, he too had watched the Germans escape. At that time, he thought that one day he would catch up with them and make them pay the price.

What now?

He caught up.

Then he let them go again.

At 6 p.m., the Bismarck continued northward at a speed of 24 knots.

The sun was setting, turning the sea a golden-red hue. In the direction of the Persian Gulf, a faint gray line appeared on the horizon.

Scheer stood at the porthole, looking at the gray line.

That's land.

That's the direction of Dubai.

"General," the naval officer approached, "at the current speed, we should reach the waters off Dubai by tomorrow morning. Should we send a telegram to Lanfang in advance?"

Scher remained silent for a few seconds.

"Send it," he said. "Tell them the Bismarck and Tirpitz need urgent repairs. Request...request to enter port."

The navigator nodded and turned to make the arrangements.

Scher continued to stand by the window.

He recalled the battle that day.

Two ships sank, and one was severely damaged. Their own ship, also damaged, was fleeing towards a neutral country's port.

This debt...

"General," the communications officer approached, "Lanfang has replied."

Scheer took the telegram.

Just one sentence:

"Dubai Port welcomes the German hero. Arrangements for his arrival have been made. — Chen Feng"

Scher stared at that sentence for a long time.

Then he folded the telegram and put it in his pocket.

"Full speed," he said. "To Dubai."

Outside the window, the sun was sinking below the horizon. The waters of the Persian Gulf shimmered in the sunset, like burning liquid.

Ahead lies Dubai.

It's Lanfang.

Tomorrow is an unknown future.