World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Five o'clock in the morning, Pier No. 3.

Zhang Zhen stood on the bridge of the Huaihe warship, watching the busy crew members on the deck. It wasn't fully light yet, but the lights on the dock illuminated the warship as if it were daytime.

The adjutant approached: "Sir, the Pearl River is ready. Captain Zhou asked, when do we set sail?"

Zhang Zhen glanced at the nautical clock—5:07.

"Six o'clock sharp," he said. "Have Zhou Zhenguo check it again. The fire control radar must be on the whole time, but the main gun muzzle must be kept at zero elevation. No one is allowed to raise it in advance."

"yes!"

After the adjutant left, Zhang Zhen walked to the starboard window and looked at the "special passengers" boarding the ship on the dock.

Four reporters, three men and one woman, were carrying cameras and spare film reels. The officer in charge of their reception was arranging a cabin for them—not an ordinary cabin, but a semi-protected spot below the bridge, offering a view of the battle outside while remaining relatively safe.

The reporter leading the team, surnamed Fang, was in his forties and had reportedly worked in the newspaper industry for twenty years, covering wars, disasters, and countless grand scenes. But at this moment, standing on the deck of the Huaihe, looking up at the four massive 380mm main guns, he had an expression on his face that Zhang Zhen was very familiar with—the expression that anyone seeing this behemoth for the first time would have.

In awe.

Zhang Zhen walked out of the bridge and onto the deck.

Upon seeing him, reporter Fang quickly approached and greeted him: "General Zhang!"

Zhang Zhen nodded: "Reporter Fang, is the cabin arranged?"

"Alright, alright, thank you for your consideration, General." Reporter Fang paused, then lowered his voice, "General, the Commander-in-Chief's men have already given us instructions. We know what to film."

Zhang Zhen looked at him.

"Film the first moment the British opened fire," reporter Fang said. "Film the shells landing on the ship, film our wounded men, film our counterattack—the more gruesome, the better, the more realistic, the better."

Zhang Zhen was silent for a second.

"Reporter Fang," he said, "if a fight really breaks out, I might not be able to take care of you. You guys stay hidden and don't rush forward."

Reporter Fang laughed: "General, don't worry. I have more experience than you in filming war movies. I'll know when to hide and when to shoot. I won't die."

Zhang Zhen nodded, turned around and walked back to the bridge.

Behind him, reporter Fang had already called to his companions to check the camera and adjust the lens.

At 6:00 AM sharp, the Huaihe River ship sounded its whistle.

The mooring lines were retracted, and the gangplank was withdrawn. The massive hull of the Huaihe slowly departed from the dock, gliding into the Persian Gulf in the morning light.

The Pearl River followed closely behind.

Two massive ships, each over 30,000 tons in size, sailed silently into the distance without flying any flags.

On the dock, several early-rising workers stopped to watch the two warships gradually disappear into the distance. They didn't know where the ships were going or what they were going to do.

All they knew was that the two ships were very beautiful.

At 6:30 a.m., on the bridge of the Bismarck.

Scheer stood by the window, watching the two warships that had already disappeared above the horizon.

He could no longer see them, but he knew they were there, sailing eastward, gradually making their way towards the British cannons.

Major Meyer, the watch officer, approached: "Sir, the Tirpitz reports that everything is ready. Boilers preheated, main engines on standby."

Scher nodded.

"Let the crew rest. We'll set sail promptly at noon." He paused, then added, "Tell the mess hall to prepare a special lunch. Let everyone have a good meal."

Meyer paused for a moment, then smiled: "Yes, General!"

Scher continued to stand by the window.

He thought of Zhang Zhen, and the general who, without hesitation, declared at the meeting, "My ship can hold out for four and a half hours." He thought of the 1,600 Lanfang sailors on the Lanfang battleship; they didn't know what they were going to do, but they went anyway.

He recalled Tirpitz's remark, "The Chinese are cunning, cunning."

Yes, cunning.

But this kind of cunning is the kind that keeps the enemy awake at night, and the kind that allows one's own people to survive.

He suddenly realized that it was the German Navy's good fortune to be considered a friend by such a "cunning" person.

In the distance, the sun had fully risen. The surface of the Persian Gulf shimmered with golden light, as if sprinkled with broken gold.

As Scheer gazed at the golden expanse, he suddenly recalled the sunrise over Kiel.

The sunrise there is also golden.

He said softly, "I'll go home after I finish this battle."

Major Meyer heard it from behind, but said nothing.

He knew what the general was talking about.

Come back home.

Everyone who goes out to sea wants to go home.

At 9:00 AM, Dubai Harbour Pier 3.

Tirpitz stood there alone, watching the Bismarck set sail.

He didn't go up. He was sixty-eight years old, and climbing up and down was inconvenient for him, and besides—he didn't want the crew to see him. With the old marshal there, the crew would be nervous and wouldn't be able to relax.

He stood there, gazing into the distance at the warship named after him.

The Bismarck was quiet. Few people were moving about on deck, only a few sailors were conducting final checks. A few wisps of smoke occasionally drifted from the funnels, indicating that its main engines were ready.

Tirpitz suddenly recalled the scene many years ago when he first proposed the "Dreadnought" plan.

He was young then, his hair still black, standing on the podium of the Reichstag, shouting to the members of parliament who were questioning the naval budget: "Germany needs a powerful fleet, not for provocation, but for survival!"

Thirty years later, his fleet was still there.

But survival remains a problem.

In the distance, on the deck of the Bismarck, a young sailor was cleaning the secondary guns. He was shirtless, his skin tanned dark by the sun, and his movements were practiced. After cleaning the gun barrels, he straightened up, stretched, and happened to see the old man standing on the dock.

The young sailor paused for a moment, then stood at attention and saluted.

He didn't know who it was, but he knew that anyone who could stand alone on the dock watching the warships must be someone important.

Tirpitz saw the salute.

He raised his hand and returned the greeting from a distance.

Then he turned around and slowly walked toward the car waiting by the roadside.

Behind them, the Bismarck lay quietly on the dock, awaiting its next voyage.

Twelve hours later, it will head to the battlefield.

Heading towards the battle that will change everything.

Sailing towards destiny.

At 4 a.m., on the bridge of HMS King George V.

Jericho hadn't slept well for three days.

Ever since receiving intelligence that the Bismarck and Tirpitz were about to leave Dubai, he had been on board the flagship. He spent his days studying the course at the chart table and his nights dozing in his deckchair, easily awakened by the slightest noise. His staff urged him to go back to his cabin to rest, but he wouldn't listen—seven days! Those two damned German warships had been in Lanfang's port for a full seven days; who knew what they'd accomplished?