In the early morning of Montaña Port, the sun had not fully risen. A dense sea fog enveloped the entire harbor, making the distant lighthouse’s light appear somewhat blurry.
On the docks, rows of giant black silhouettes stood silently—the dormant steel behemoths—the warships of the Saxon Imperial Mediterranean Fleet.
The entire harbor was eerily quiet, with only the rhythmic lapping of the cold waves against the steel hulls and the monotonous, regular sounding of the distant lighthouse.
On the bridge of the Mediterranean Fleet flagship, the Moltke-class battlecruiser Goeben, the watch officer, Lieutenant Commander Müller, was using cup after cup of hot coffee to ward off the drowsiness from his all-night shift.
This was his… well, he had lost count.
But that didn’t matter now. He looked through the porthole at the white expanse outside, calculating that in just over an hour, he could hand over the watch and go get some proper sleep.
Suddenly, the voice tube behind him emitted a sharp buzzing sound. Müller instantly became alert. He swiftly walked over and grabbed the receiver.
“Bridge, speak.”
A voice, suppressing tension, came from the other end: “This is the radio room. We have received an urgent telegram from the Naval General Staff.”
“Confirm the sender’s authentication code?”
Müller instantly became nervous, as telegrams from the Naval General Staff were normally sent to the Mediterranean Fleet Command Headquarters.
Such a direct message to the ship usually meant the Fleet Commander was currently aboard, and the General Staff urgently needed to contact him directly.
And Admiral Spee, Commander of the Mediterranean Fleet, was indeed resting on this newly assigned flagship…
This was his personal habit: whenever he changed flagships, he would stay on the new vessel for a period of time.
“Authentication code verified. Confirmed directly from the Dresden Naval General Staff Operations Department,” the radio officer replied.
“I’ll send someone down immediately. No, wait…” Lieutenant Commander Müller changed his mind. “I will come down personally.”
After hanging up the receiver, Müller looked at a duty sailor on the bridge: “Please ask Captain Richter to come to the bridge immediately and inform him that we have received an urgent telegram from the Naval General Staff.”
The sailor immediately acknowledged the order and left to notify the Chief of Staff of the Mediterranean Fleet to come to the bridge.
Meanwhile, Müller quickly arrived at the radio room below the bridge.
The tense atmosphere in this confined space was almost palpable. Two radio operators were working with the duty officer, whose fingers moved rapidly across the cipher book, translating the number groups into text.
Sweat dripped from the brow of the duty officer responsible for the translation, but he seemed oblivious.
“How much longer?” Müller asked.
“The last group, Lieutenant Commander.”
The duty officer didn’t look up, his pencil quickly marking the specialized telegraph paper.
When the last word was written, the duty officer picked up the telegram, took a deep breath, and solemnly handed it to Müller.
“【TOP SECRET – URGENT】
To: Commander, Mediterranean Fleet:
The war in the Kingdom of Aragon has changed. Authorized by His Majesty, the Mediterranean Fleet is to immediately leave port and commence a combat patrol, awaiting further instructions.
Alfred von Tirpitz, Chief of the Imperial Naval General Staff
February 11, 1914, 0500 Hours”
After reading the telegram, Müller felt he could clearly hear his own heartbeat. He spun around, rushed out of the radio room, and ran back to the bridge at full speed.
Fleet Chief of Staff, Captain Richter, had already arrived on the bridge. He looked sleepy but alert. Müller walked up to him and silently handed him the telegram.
The latter’s pupils contracted sharply as he read it, and a moment later, he let out a barely audible gasp: “My God…”
After reading the telegram repeatedly, Richter looked up at Müller. “Is the Admiral still resting?”
“Yes, he should be in his cabin at this hour, Captain.”
Richter nodded, then spoke to a sailor, who immediately turned and left.
A short time later, Admiral Spee’s aide-de-camp—the young Lieutenant Commander Hassel—appeared on the bridge, his uniform so neat it looked as if he had never taken it off.
“Lieutenant Commander Hassel,” Richter handed him the telegram. “An urgent message from the Naval General Staff. It must be delivered to the Admiral immediately.”
Hassel took the telegram, clipped it onto the message board he held, and nodded gravely: “Understood, Captain.”
The passage from the bridge to the Admiral’s cabin seemed many times longer than usual. Hassel could hear his footsteps echoing in the corridor.
The sailor standing guard outside the Admiral’s cabin, seeing the message board in Hassel’s hand, silently stepped aside and gently tapped on the cabin door.
However, there was no immediate response.
Hassel and the guard exchanged a look. Hassel then stepped forward and knocked again, more firmly this time.
A muffled inquiry came from inside: “What is it?”
“Your Excellency the Admiral, I apologize for disturbing you… but we have received an urgent telegram from the Naval General Staff.”
Hassel pushed the door open, simultaneously turning on the small light switch near the door.
Admiral Maximilian von Spee, Commander of the Saxon Imperial Navy’s Mediterranean Fleet, was already sitting up in bed. His gray hair was slightly disheveled, but his eyes were fully alert.
He asked nothing. Taking the telegram, he glanced at it in the dim light of the cabin and immediately stood up.
“Sound the emergency anchor alarm! Hoist the signal flags on the mainmast, and summon all Captains to a meeting on the flagship!”
“Also, inform all ships to immediately begin boiler pressurization!”
A series of clear and decisive commands came from his mouth.
“Yes, Your Excellency!”
Lieutenant Commander Hassel immediately saluted, then quickly ran toward the bridge to relay the Fleet Commander’s orders.
Soon, a piercing whistle broke the stillness of the harbor, awakening the entire sleeping fleet from its slumber.
In a hammock on the armored cruiser Scharnhorst, Chief Engineer Karl Berg was emitting a thunderous snore.
When the shrill emergency anchor alarm whistle penetrated the layers of decks and reached his ears, he sprang from his hammock almost instinctively, his body hitting the cold deck heavily.
The Chief Engineer hadn’t even fully awakened yet, but his hands were already fumbling for his boots.
“Damn it! What the hell is going on?” he cursed under his breath, but his movements didn’t stop.
“All hands to stations! Boiler pressurization! All stokers, get to your posts immediately!”
He roared as he rushed down the narrow ladder, plunging into the labyrinthine depths of the warship’s hull.
When he entered the boiler room, a blast of heat washed over him. Only explosion-proof lights cast a dim, yellowish glow in the pervasive oil mist and mineral dust.
Huge steam pipes, wrapped in thick asbestos insulation, crawled across the ceiling and walls like giant pythons.
Despite using heavy oil boilers, the Saxon Imperial Navy’s warships currently used a mixed-fuel system. The duty stokers, working in pairs, brutally pulled open the doors of each boiler.
The scorching red light instantly illuminated their faces, which were shiny with sweat and brilliant crystal mineral dust.
They frantically hurled specially treated brilliant crystal mineral ore into the not-yet-fully-extinguished furnaces with their shovels.
In addition to using the ‘crude oil’ distilled from brilliant crystal ore, the brilliant crystal mineral itself, after crushing, washing, and other specialized treatment, could still be used directly as fuel, allowing the boilers to reach maximum pressure in an extremely short time.
“What’s the pressure now?” Berg shouted at a stoker operating a valve.
“Reporting, sir! Only 50! Just enough to maintain basic power generation on the ship!”
A stoker yelled back, his voice slightly muffled by the roar of the machinery.
“I want 300! You must reach 300 within one hour!”
Berg knew clearly that under normal procedures, starting from cold boilers to full-speed pressure would take at least four hours.
However, according to the basic regulations of the Imperial Navy, the boilers of all ships moored in port, except those under maintenance or major repair, were never allowed to be fully extinguished precisely to handle situations like this.
So he believed his lads, and the ‘big girl’ beneath their feet, could do it.
On the warship deck, a similar scene of frantic activity unfolded.
A boatswain, whose voice was louder than the ship’s whistle, commanded the sailors operating the massive anchor engine.
The heavy iron chain rattled loudly, being pulled up link by link from the warm waters of the Mediterranean, bringing up large amounts of seaweed and silt.
“Hurry up! You slow-moving snails! His Majesty the Emperor is watching us!”
Meanwhile, in the Combat Information Center (CIC) of the flagship Goeben, Admiral Spee stood before a large nautical chart.
The Captains of the Mediterranean Fleet ships had arrived in succession by launch and now stood around him with solemn expressions.
Outside the portholes, black smoke and white steam had begun pouring from the funnels of each warship. Like awakened giants, they were beginning to breathe rapidly.
“Gentlemen,” Admiral Spee’s voice was low but clearly audible to everyone, “We have just received an order from the Naval General Staff and His Majesty the Emperor, requiring us to urgently leave port.”
He pointed to the content of the telegram. “The telegram mentions the situation in the Kingdom of Aragon… My personal judgment is that His Majesty the Emperor wishes our Saxon Navy to first demonstrate a posture to the Britannians through a combat patrol.”
“Of course,” he shifted his tone, his eyes becoming sharp, “if the Britannians act rashly, this could very well escalate into a real war.”
The Captains exchanged glances. The Captain of the lead ship of the Moltke-class battlecruisers, the Moltke, then spoke:
“Admiral, if we proceed with a combat patrol, not only the Britannians, but also the Gauls and even the Pope’s fleet might react…”
“The Austro-Hungarian Navy will also mobilize in response to the Joint Defense Treaty,” another officer quickly added.
“Indeed~”
Admiral Spee nodded, then continued:
“Although Grand Admiral Tirpitz did not explicitly state it in the telegram, I have understood his meaning. If both we and the High Seas Fleet demonstrate a strong stance, stirring the waters more thoroughly, the Britannians will have to seriously consider the risks of war.”
“Especially since the Gauls would be very happy to stab them in the back~” a Captain of an armored cruiser added.
A collective, suppressed smile appeared on the faces of those present in the operations room.
If the cooperation between the Britannians and the Gauls during the previous Moroccan Crisis had made the officers of the Saxon Imperial Navy feel a constant sense of crisis, then in the last two years, as the ‘little ship of friendship’ between the two sank visibly due to conflicts over overseas colonial interests…
The pressure on the Saxon side had significantly reduced. The Gauls were now also sparing no effort to give the Britannians ‘a hard time.’ The Gaulish Navy had even made several visits to Saxon Imperial ports.
After Spee gave a few more detailed instructions, he pointed his baton directly at a route on the nautical chart.
“I now command: the Reconnaissance Squadron will act as the vanguard, leaving port first, and proceeding along this route for enemy search.”
“The Main Fleet will follow, exiting the port in ‘Line of Advance Sequence Three’ formation, and rendezvous with the Reconnaissance Squadron in the predetermined channel.”
The Captains quickly recorded the orders in their notebooks. No one raised any questions.
Years of rigorous training and countless exercises had made them intimately familiar with this entire procedure.
“Very well, gentlemen, return to your warships.”
Admiral Spee concluded:
“I want to see the last ship of the fleet sail out of this harbor in one hour. May God protect Saxony.”
“Yes, Admiral!”
The Captains crisply saluted, then quickly turned to leave, boarding their respective launches to return to their warships.
One hour later, the harbor’s morning fog gradually lifted.
The Saxon Imperial Navy’s Mediterranean Fleet, emerging from the mist with a deafening, prolonged blast of the ship’s whistles, sailed out of Montaña Port in succession, like awakened steel giants, heading out toward the Mediterranean Sea.
Author note: Regarding the protagonist’s absence… well, didn’t he appear yesterday? Perhaps it’s my personal style, and this book is somewhat ensemble-focused, so it’s genuinely impossible to constantly focus only on the protagonist~
(End of this Chapter)