Chapter 594: These Revised Chapters Give Me a Splitting Headache

"It's to let the British know that we can cut off their lifelines at any time, any place," Sheer said, "It's not occupation, it's existence. Not decisive battle, it's deterrence. The Bismarck doesn't need to sink every merchant ship; it only needs each merchant captain, before setting sail, to ask himself, 'Is there something in the sea today?'"

He paused:

"Fear will do the rest of the work for us."

Tirpitz looked at him for a long while.

"You're gambling."

"Yes." Sheer did not deny, "but what I'm betting on is that the British fear grows faster than their courage."

Wilhelm II stood up.

He walked to the chart, looking down at the blue area sliced into fragments by countless pencil lines. North Atlantic, North Sea, English Channel—over the past twenty years, he had seen this map at countless military meetings and heard countless generals argue about offense and defense.

But today was different.

Today, he was not listening to generals argue. He was to make a decision.

"Tirpitz," he said.

"Your Majesty."

"I know you oppose. I know you have your reasons." Wilhelm II did not turn, "For twenty‑nine years you have devoted your life to the German Navy. When I ascended the throne, the German Navy didn't rank among the top five in Europe. Now we are second in the world."

He paused:

"In these twenty‑nine years I have taken countless of your suggestions. Some were correct, some in hindsight were not. But I have never questioned your loyalty."

Tirpitz lowered his head.

"Today," Wilhelm II finally turned, "I will not adopt your advice."

The old marshal's shoulder trembled slightly.

"But I still trust your loyalty." Wilhelm II's voice softened, "I only need you to do one thing."

"Please, Your Majesty, give the order."

"Stay." Wilhelm II said, "Stay and watch how I walk this path. If I go astray, you are the only one who would dare tell me, 'Your Majesty, you are wrong.'"

Tirpitz was silent for a long time.

The firewood in the fireplace burst with a crisp crack, sparks splashing on the furnace edge and dying out quickly.

"As you command." the old marshal said. His voice was very low, low enough to sound like a sigh squeezed from deep within his chest.

Wilhelm II turned to Sheer and Siepel:

"The battle plan, you will make it. How much time is needed?"

Sheer and Siepel exchanged a glance.

"Three days," Sheer said, "and after three days the Bismarck and the Tirpitz can set sail."

"Good." Wilhelm II said, "In three days I will see you off at Wilhelm Port."

He glanced at the mantel clock:

"You may go down and prepare."

The three rose, saluted the emperor, and turned toward the doorway.

When Tirpitz's hand touched the door handle, Wilhelm II's voice came from behind:

"Old marshal."

Tirpitz stopped.

"The memorandum you gave me back then—" Wilhelm II paused, "I've kept it all this time."

Tirpitz did not look back. He pushed the door open and walked into the dimly lit corridor.

Sheer followed behind him, Siepel last.

The door was closed from the outside.

The study was left with only Wilhelm II. He stood before the chart, looking down at the blue area sliced into fragments by countless pencil lines. On the North Atlantic routes, his two most advanced battleships were about to set sail.

He suddenly recalled a saying of Frederick the Great:

"If my army believes I am invincible, they will truly become invincible."

He believed the Bismarck and the Tirpitz were the most powerful battleships of the time.

He believed Sheer and Siepel were the German Navy's finest officers.

He believed that thirty knots speed, 380‑mm Main Guns, 350‑mm side‑belt armor—these numbers added together were enough to counter any enemy.

But.

Yet when Tirpitz's silhouette vanished behind the door, and the study was left with only him facing the chart—

He suddenly was unsure whether everything he believed was true.

Tirpitz walked in the corridor of the Carefree Palace.

His steps were slow, so slow that Sheer and Siepel behind him had to slow their pace. The corridor windows let in February's gray‑white daylight, cutting alternating light and shadow geometric patterns on the floor. The old marshal's shadow flickered among these lights and shadows, like his unsettled mind at that moment.

No one spoke.

The corridor was long, its sides hung with portraits of the Hohenzollern family's successive rulers. Frederick William, Elector of Brandenburg; Frederick III, the first King of Prussia; Frederick the Great, whose eagle‑like gaze looked down on every person who passed the corridor. Tirpitz had walked this corridor for twenty‑nine years, from black hair to white hair, from navy lieutenant to Imperial Marshal.

Today was the slowest he had ever walked.

When he stepped out of the palace's main gate, a cold wind slapped his face. Tirpitz stopped, inhaled a deep breath of Berlin's February chill. His lung felt as if sliced by an ice blade.

Sheer stood at his side, waiting silently.

Siepel, a few steps behind, was quietly briefing a navy lieutenant with something.

"Marshal." Sheer said.

Tirpitz did not look at him.

"You have something to say to me."

This was not a question.

Tirpitz finally turned his head, looking at the fifty‑three‑year‑old Commander of the Open Sea Fleet. She Er's eyes were sunken, cheekbones prominent, shrapnel from the Jutland battle still lodged in his left shoulder, aching faintly on rainy days. Yet now his face showed no expression—no calm, no resolve, just a deep, heavy tranquility.

"General She Er," Tirpitz said, "do you believe Your Majesty is right?"

She Er was silent for a few seconds.

"Marshal, you are asking whether Your Majesty is right, or whether I ask myself if I believe?"

"Is there a difference?"

"There is," She Er said, "whether Your Majesty is right is a strategic issue. Whether I believe it myself is a soldier's issue."

Tirpitz looked at him.

"Strategic issues," She Er said slowly, "require time to verify. Only after the Battle of the Atlantic is over will we know whether Your Majesty's choice today was right or wrong."

"And the soldier's issue?"

She Er did not answer immediately.

A cold wind stirred fallen leaves across the plaza before Wuyou Palace; the withered oak leaves spun on the stone slabs. In the distance, the faint command for guard relief could be heard.

"The soldier's issue," She Er finally said, "is that Your Majesty has issued an order, and I ask myself whether I am ready to carry it out."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," She Er said, "I have been ready ever since the day I accepted the appointment as Commander of the Open Sea Fleet."

Tirpitz was silent.

At that moment, Xi Peier walked over and stood beside She Er. His military bearing was always immaculate; every button on his coat was fastened correctly, his gloves were snow‑white, without a single crease.

"Marshal," Xi Peier began, his voice still calm, "I have something I wish to tell you."

Tirpitz looked at him.

"You have always taught us that a navy soldier's duty is to defend the nation, not to serve an individual. You said the fleet is merely a tool, strategy is the foundation," Xi Peier paused, "I have kept that sentence for twenty years."

"So?"

"So I want to tell you—" Xi Peier lifted his head, meeting the old Marshal's eyes, "today you did not persuade Your Majesty, not because your strategy was wrong."

Tirpitz gave no reply.