World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

In the footage, two plumes of smoke are moving rapidly in this direction. Below the smoke, the outlines of two warships become increasingly clear—long hulls, tall bridges, and those iconic twin-gun turrets—

Bismarck class.

Two more Bismarck-class ships.

Jericho's mind went blank for a moment.

How is that possible?

How could the Germans possibly have four Bismarck-class battleships? The intelligence clearly stated there were only two—the Bismarck and the Tirpitz!

He increased the magnification of his binoculars and stared intently at the masts of the two ships.

Two flags were flying on the mast.

Red, white, and black.

German naval flag.

Jericho's hands began to tremble.

He slowly lowered his binoculars and looked at the two "German warships" that were already teetering on the brink of collapse in the center of the battlefield.

They did not display the national flag.

They have never flown a national flag.

A terrifying thought struck him like lightning—if those two ships belonged to the Germans, then these two ships in the center of the battlefield also belonged to the Germans?

If they are Germans, why don't they fly a flag?

If you're from Lanfang...

Cold sweat instantly soaked Jericho's back.

"Chief of Staff..." His voice was hoarse, unlike his own, "If those two ships... are the Bismarck and the Tirpitz... whose ships did we attack?"

Crowley was deathly pale and couldn't utter a single word.

The entire bridge was deathly silent.

Only the two plumes of smoke in the distance were silently approaching.

At 9:05 a.m., the Bismarck entered the battlefield.

Scheer stood on the bridge, holding up his binoculars, watching the scene unfold before him.

Eight British warships were ganging up on two massive, already teetering ships. The two ships were listing badly, their decks ablaze with flames and thick smoke, but they were still fighting, still retaliating with their remaining main guns.

Huaihe. Pearl River.

They held on.

It lasted for a full three hours.

"General," the communications officer's voice came through, "the Huaihe has sent a signal—'Welcome to the battlefield.'"

Scher paused for a moment.

Then he laughed.

That smile was one of admiration and gratitude, the highest respect a soldier could give to another.

"Call back," he said, "'Leave the rest to us.'"

He put down his binoculars and walked to the megaphone.

"All ships, prepare for battle. Load armor-piercing shells into main guns. Target—British fleet."

He paused, then said, "Turn on the public channel and shout in both English and German simultaneously."

The communications officer paused, startled. "General, what are you shouting for?"

Scher thought for a moment, then spoke slowly and deliberately:

"This is the Bismarck of the German Imperial Navy. British Fleet, cease attack immediately. I repeat, cease attack immediately. You are attacking warships of the Lanfang Republic Navy. You have declared war on a neutral country without authorization. Cease attack immediately. Otherwise—open fire."

The communications officer's hands trembled on the telegraph keys.

Thirty seconds later, the message was broadcast across the entire battlefield via public channels.

Once in English, once in German.

Again and again.

On the bridge of HMS King George V, Jellicoe heard that message.

"This is the Bismarck of the Imperial German Navy. British Fleet, cease attack immediately. Repeat, cease attack immediately. You are attacking warships of the Lanfang Republic Navy. You have declared war on a neutral country without authorization..."

Jericho's face drained of all color in an instant.

Lanfang Republic Navy warships.

Not German.

He is from Lanfang.

He was hitting people from Lanfang.

He slowly turned around and looked at the two warships in the center of the battlefield, which were almost sinking. They were still firing and returning fire, but they had never flown any flags.

It's not that they don't fly flags.

They never intended to hide their identities.

They are Lanfang's warships.

They just weren't flying flags.

And he gave the order to open fire.

"General..." Crowley's voice seemed to come from a great distance, "What...what do we do?"

Jericho opened his mouth, but couldn't utter a single word.

He recalled a line from the pre-war intelligence: "Lanfang has four Bismarck-class ships anchored in Dubai—the Huaihe, the Zhujiang, the Dingyuan, and the Zhiyuan."

Four ships.

It was written very clearly in the intelligence report.

But he did not send a letter.

He thought those were ships belonging to the Lanfang people that wouldn't move. He thought the Germans would come out once they finished repairing them. He thought the two ships without flags were the Germans.

He thought...

"General!" the lookout's voice rang out again, "The German fleet is accelerating! 22,000 meters away! Main guns are being raised!"

Jericho looked up.

In the distance, the two Bismarck-class battleships, flying the German flag, were charging towards this location at a speed of thirty knots. Their guns were already raised, aimed in this direction.

22,000 meters.

It has entered effective firing range.

Jericho managed to stay upright by holding onto the window frame.

He slowly looked at the two Lanfang warships in the center of the battlefield. They were still firing and returning fire, but their cannon fire was becoming increasingly sparse, and their ships were listing more and more.

He fought them for three hours.

Twelve ships against two, they can't win.

Now, two fully revived Bismarck-class destroyers have arrived.

He only had eight damaged British warships at his disposal.

"General," Crowley asked softly, "Should we... retreat?"

Jericho was silent for three seconds.

Then he shook his head.

"It's too late," he said, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping against steel. "It's already too late."

On the bridge of the Huaihe, Zhang Zhen leaned against the window frame, watching the two German warships getting closer and closer.

The Bismarck. The Tirpitz.

They are coming.

They finally arrived.

"General," the adjutant's voice trembled with tears, "the Germans are here! We're saved!"

Zhang Zhen nodded.

He neither cheered nor got excited; he simply watched calmly as the two giant ships rose from the sea, their cannons aimed at the British fleet, and the red, white, and black German naval flag fluttering in the sea breeze.

Three hours.

1,800 minutes.

It has been a full three hours since the first shell landed.

The Huaihe was hit by eleven bullets. The Zhujiang was hit by eight bullets. In total, of the 1,600 sailors on both ships, 127 were killed and 304 were seriously wounded.

But they held on.

"Reporter Fang," Zhang Zhen turned around, looking at the trembling reporters, "did you get the photos?"

Reporter Fang looked up, her face covered in tears, but her hand was still pressing the shutter button.

"It's been filmed, General. The whole thing. The exact moment the Germans appeared—it's been filmed."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

He walked to the porthole and took one last look at the British warships that were turning.

They started running.

They began to run under the guns of the Bismarck and Tirpitz.

"Order all positions to cease fire. Let the Germans take over." Zhang Zhen said.

A voice came through the megaphone from Turret A: "Turret A received... Cease fire."

That was the last order for the Huaihe to fire.

Then, it could finally rest.

Zhang Zhen leaned against the window frame and slowly slid down to sit.

His vision blurred, but he didn't close his eyes. He watched the two German warships outside the window, watching them rush towards the British fleet at full speed, watching their cannons spew fire.

Then he heard the sound of cannons.

Those were the cannon shots fired by a Bismarck-class battleship.

Those were the sounds of cannons for revenge.

That is--

The sound of cannons firing in victory.