Chapter 28

Before the gangway of the Westfalen, German sailors stood in formation on both sides. Each was immaculately uniformed, with polished shoes, standing as straight as a spear.

When the British officers stepped onto the deck, the first impact came from sight.

It's too clean.

It's not that British warships aren't clean, but the Westfalen's deck is so clean it doesn't look like a warship—no tangled ropes piled haphazardly, no toolboxes strewn about, no oil stains, no rust. All equipment has a fixed storage place, and all pipes are neatly laid along the hull's edges.

"This is..." a British engineering officer crouched, touching the deck's coating, "Non-slip paint? But the texture is different."

"It's a new composite material we developed." the accompanying German engineer explained, "Its slip‑resistance is forty percent higher than traditional coatings, and it's corrosion‑resistant and easy to clean. Most importantly, it reduces the secondary effect of shell fragments—traditional wooden decks produce large amounts of wood splinters when hit, but ours do not."

The British officers silently took note.

The number of sailors on deck was also surprisingly low. For a ship of the Westfalen's tonnage, a British counterpart would need at least eight hundred crew, but visually there appeared to be fewer than a hundred German sailors on deck.

"What is the crew complement?" Sir William Meyer couldn't help asking.

"The standard complement is 670 men." Captain Trotta replied, "But through automation, in wartime we can reduce it to 600 while still maintaining full combat power."

"Six hundred..." a British captain murmured, "Our 'Edward VII' class requires 820 men."

What does saving 220 men mean? It means smaller living‑space requirements, less consumption of supplies, a lower casualty rate…

"This way, please." Tirpitz personally led the way, "Let's first visit the engine room."

The very act of descending to the engine room shocked the British officers. On a traditional warship the ladders down are steep and narrow, but the Westfalen's interior passages are wide enough for two people to walk side by side, and they have complete lighting and ventilation systems.

Then they saw those four steam turbines.

The massive metal contrivance rumbled low as it turned; through the observation window one could see the blades spinning at high speed. There was none of the violent vibration and noise of a reciprocating steam engine—only a low, steady hum.

"Output power is twenty‑three thousand shaft horsepower." Lieutenant Colonel Schmidt said with pride, "During high‑speed trials it reached over twenty‑five thousand, giving a speed of 22.3 knots. Moreover, the steam turbine can reverse instantly, without a complex reversing mechanism—this means our turning radius is thirty percent smaller than that of a reciprocating‑steam‑engine warship of the same tonnage."

A British marine engineering expert leaned close to the observation window, stared for a full minute, then turned his head, his face pale, and asked:

"How is bearing temperature controlled? Lubrication under high‑speed rotation…"

"A forced‑circulation oil‑cooling system." Schmidt pointed to the pipe network beside him, "We use twelve auxiliary pumps to ensure the lubricating oil circulates under high pressure. In addition, the turbine blades employ a new alloy formulation, raising their high‑temperature resistance by two hundred degrees."

"Two hundred degrees..." the British expert gave a wry smile, "Our materials lab is still struggling to gain even fifty degrees."

After touring the engine room, the group proceeded to the fire‑control room.

This place resembled a scientific laboratory more than a warship compartment. Complex instrument panels, rows of dials, and a device called the "mechanical computer"—a brass contraption of gears, cams, and sliding rules.

Lieutenant Colonel Hofmann demonstrated the procedure. One operator moved a lever to input target range, another turned a knob to input wind speed and direction, a third pulled a rod to select shell type…

Then the pointers on the dials moved automatically, finally coming to rest on a set of numbers.

"This is elevation, this is azimuth, this is fuze setting." Hofmann explained, "The data are transmitted via electrical circuits to all turrets in sync; the gunners need only adjust according to the indicator lights and then await the fire order."

"What about the error rate?" a British fire‑control officer asked.

"The system's intrinsic error is within three per mille. Actual hit rate depends on range‑finding accuracy and sea conditions—but at least we have eliminated human calculation error."

The British officers fell silent.

They saw the gap—not a little bit, but an entire generation's gap. The Germans had turned warship design from "empirical art" into "precision science."

The final stop of the tour was the mess hall.

This might seem trivial, but Tirpitz insisted on bringing the British delegation to see it.

"A warship's combat power ultimately depends on its sailors," he said, "and the sailors' condition depends on what they eat and how they live."

The Westfalen's mess hall is spacious and bright, with proper tables and chairs instead of simple benches. The menu is posted on the wall—tonight's dinner is roast pork chops, mashed potatoes, sauerkraut, and apple pie. The kitchen even has a small refrigeration unit.

"Standard daily rations per person: 600 grams of bread, 200 grams of meat, 300 grams of vegetables, plus butter, cheese, and coffee." Captain Trotta said, "His Majesty the Emperor specifically ordered that imperial sailors be fed as well as they would be at home."

The British officers recalled the rock‑hard biscuits, eternally overcooked salted beef, and moldy cheese on their own ships…

It wasn't that they didn't care about the sailors, but the military budget was fixed. Spending money on provisions meant buying one fewer shell.

But the Germans seemed to have found a balance—or perhaps they simply had more money.

By the time the tour ended, the sun had begun to slant westward.

Sir William Meyer thanked on behalf of the Royal Navy, his words still courteous. But as he turned and walked down the gangway, Tirpitz clearly saw that the old general's stoop was slight.

That was not a stoop from age.

It was the helplessness after pride had been shattered.

That evening, London, No. 10 Downing Street cabinet room.

The meeting had been underway for two hours; the atmosphere had shifted from an initial gravity to a present powder keg.

"At least fifteen million pounds! Fifteen million!" Chancellor of the Exchequer Herbert Henry Asquith's voice nearly screamed, "This equals twice the navy's annual budget! Do you know what that means? It means raising taxes! It means cutting appropriations for education, health, and pensions! The House of Commons will never pass it!"

First Sea Lord Lord John Fisher coldly regarded him: "What does Mr. Asquith suggest? Write a polite letter to the Germans asking them not to build so many battleships? Or pray to God that those six Westfalen‑class ships sink?"

"We can pursue diplomatic negotiation! We can sign an arms‑limitation agreement…"

"What did the German emperor say in his Berlin speech today, you know?" Fisher pulled a telegram from his folder: "'The German fleet shall be like a fence guarding the home, protecting the empire's legitimate interests worldwide.' A fence! He calls the navy a fence! Would you negotiate over the height of your own fence with a neighbor?"

Prime Minister Sir Henry Campbell‑Bannerman rubbed his brow: "Lord Fisher, we need a more realistic plan. Ten Dreadnoughts at two million pounds each would be twenty million, plus ammunition, upkeep, and personnel training—even twenty‑five million wouldn't cover it. The finances are indeed…"

"Really unaffordable?" Fisher leapt to his feet, hands braced on the table, torso leaning forward like a lion ready to pounce, "Then let me tell you all: if war broke out now, how many ships would the Royal Navy lose facing six Westfalen‑class vessels in the North Sea?"

He didn't wait for an answer, but gave the figure himself:

"At least four capital ships sunk! Casualties over five thousand! And that's assuming we can overwhelm them with numbers! If the Germans use their speed advantage to fight a maneuver war, that figure could double!"

The conference room fell dead silent.

Fisher flung a stack of photos from his briefcase onto the table. The pictures scattered, all taken this afternoon at Portsmouth—German sailors in immaculate bearing, the Westfalen's spotless deck, and the British officers' barely concealed looks of astonishment during their tour.

"Look! Look! This is what our officers saw today on a German battleship! Not speculation, not intelligence assessment—it's what they witnessed with their own eyes!"

He grabbed a photo and pointed at the complex instrument panel on it:

"Do you know what this is? A mechanical computer! The Germans have already installed it on their battleships! Our labs have similar prototypes, but making them practical will take at least two more years! Two years! The Germans now have six ships equipped with this system in the North Sea!"

Another photo, a close‑up of the steam turbine:

"The Parsons steam turbine—a British patent! Yet the Germans use it better than we do! Why? Because they have more advanced bearing materials and a more efficient lubrication system! Our engineers report that, just on this turbine alone, the Germans are ahead of us by at least eighteen months!"

Fisher's voice rose higher and higher, almost to a roar.

Gentlemen, this isn't just falling behind by one or two percent in a technical race! It's a generational gap! It's the difference between a horse carriage and an automobile! When our "Dreadnought" launches next year, the Germans may already have eight, ten even more advanced battleships! By then, who will control the North Sea? Who will have passage rights through the English Channel? Who will protect the British Empire's trade routes?

Foreign Secretary Marquess Lansdowne tried to soothe: "Fisher, calm down. The Germans displaying strength doesn't necessarily mean they want war. Kaiser Wilhelm may just be seeking a better negotiating position..."

"Negotiating position?" Fisher turned to him, his eyes full of scorn, "Marquess, do you know what Tirpitz said in Portsmouth today? He said: 'The Royal Navy is the model for the world's navies; the German Navy has learned many valuable lessons from the Royal Navy.'"

He paused, letting each word strike the ears of those present.

"This is an insult! It's a slap in the face of the Royal Navy before the whole world! They're saying: Thank you for teaching us, but now the student has surpassed the teacher!"

Asquith still wanted to argue: "But the finances..."

"Finances!" Fisher finally exploded, he grabbed the teacup on the table—the prime minister's dedicated set of Chinese porcelain—and smashed it hard onto the floor!

Porcelain shards flew in all directions!

Everyone was stunned.

Fisher panted, his chest heaving violently, but his voice suddenly turned icy and calm:

"Mr. Asquith, do you know the meaning behind the name 'Dreadnought'? 'Fearless.' For three hundred years, the Royal Navy has relied on this belief to protect this empire. But now, the Germans have made us fearful."

He looked around the room, word by word:

"Today, in Portsmouth, I watched our officers disembark from German warships. Their expressions, I will never forget in my lifetime—there was shock, there was dejection, there was anger, but deepest of all was fear."

"What are they afraid of? They fear that next time they go to sea, they won't face opponents of similar strength, but monsters like the Westfalen. They fear their own guns won't reach the enemy while the enemy's guns can easily tear them apart. They fear that dying for their country is not glory, but meaningless slaughter."

Fisher's voice began to tremble, not from fear, but from anger repressed to the extreme:

"Gentlemen, I am a navy man. I served on battleships for forty years. I have seen sailors at their proudest—when their battleships entered foreign harbors, people gazed up in awe at those great guns, when the song 'God Save the Queen' echoed across the sea."

"But I have also seen them at their most fearful—when the battleships grew old and neglected, when shells ran short, when they knew their ships were obsolete yet still had to obey orders to go to sea."

He took a deep breath:

"Today, I saw that fear return. But this time, it's not because our ships are old, it's because the enemy's ships are too advanced."

Fisher straightened his body, adjusted his uniform. His voice returned to its initial icy tone:

"So, Mr. Asquith, you ask me what to do about finances? I tell you: raise taxes, cut other expenditures, issue government bonds—whatever works. But if, because of money, we let the Royal Navy lose its technological edge, and let our sailors go to sea fearful…"

He paused:

"Then I might as well take off this uniform right now, for I have no face to wear it while watching the empire slide into the abyss."

Having said that, Fisher turned and strode out of the meeting room.

The door shut behind him with a heavy thud.

In the meeting room, a silence lasting three minutes.

Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, the Prime Minister, slowly rose, walked to the window, and gazed at the night outside Whitehall Street. After a long while, he turned back, his face set with determination.

"Let's vote," he said, "on whether to approve Lord Fisher's emergency plan to build ten dreadnoughts."

One hand rose. It was Secretary of State for War Lord Richard Haldane—he understood that if the North Sea were lost, the British Army would have to prepare for home defense.

The second hand, President of the Board of Trade Joseph Chamberlain.

The third hand, the fourth hand…

Ten cabinet members, seven in favor, three against. The opposing votes came from Asquith and two other fiscal conservatives.

"Passed," the Prime Minister announced, "Tomorrow I will personally introduce the '1906 Naval Emergency Act' to the House of Commons. Haldane, you handle contacting the Conservatives to seek cross-party support. Lansdowne, you handle the diplomatic explanation—tell the French, Russians, and Americans that this is a defensive measure."

He paused:

"As for Fisher… let him prepare the detailed construction plan. Tell him the money will be there, the shipyards will be there, the workers will be there. The British Empire's three-hundred-year naval supremacy cannot end in our generation."

The meeting ended in a heavy atmosphere.

But just as Asquith was gathering his papers to leave, the Prime Minister called him back.

"Herbert, a word in private."

The Chancellor of the Exchequer turned his head.

Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman walked up beside him, his voice lowered:

"I know money is a big problem. But have you considered—if we save money and lose the naval race, if the Germans really gain control of the North Sea, by then the price we pay may be more than just money."

Asquith fell silent.

"Think of China after the Opium Wars." The Prime Minister patted his shoulder, "The consequences of a technological gap, we know better than anyone. For all this time, we have been the ones holding the advantage."

Having said that, the Prime Minister also left.

Asquith stood alone in the empty meeting room, looking at the shattered porcelain on the floor. After a long while, he bent down and picked up a shard, its edge sharp enough to cut a finger.

Just as Fisher said—this is no longer a technical competition.