AWB Chapter 343 Betty Wants to Make a Bet
Chapter 343 Betty Wants to Make a Bet
Betty, at a speed of 22 knots, will arrive at approximately 56 degrees 30 minutes north latitude and 4 degrees east longitude an hour later.
That location was less than thirty nautical miles from the Germans' rendezvous point.
Thirty nautical miles—what does that mean at sea? In good visibility, a battleship's main guns can fire from 20,000 yards away. Thirty nautical miles is roughly 55,000 yards—that's too far. But in dense fog, no one knows what might happen. Perhaps two fleets will brush past each other, or perhaps they'll suddenly collide in the fog, close enough to see the flags on each other's bridges.
"Send an urgent telegram to Beatty." Jellicoe's voice remained calm, but his pace quickened considerably. "The German main fleet may be lying in ambush to your southeast. I strongly recommend an immediate turn to 080 degrees and close in on the main fleet. I repeat, I strongly recommend an immediate turn."
This time, he used "strongly recommend" instead of "recommend".
The difference is obvious.
The communications officer dashed off. Jellicoe turned to face all the staff officers: "Order the entire fleet to adjust course to 085 degrees and increase speed to 18 knots. Objective: Establish a barrier between Beatty and the main German force."
"General," an aide objected, "if the main German force is indeed in that position, adjusting our course will create distance between us and Beatty. If they suddenly turn to attack Beatty, we might not be able to provide support in time."
"I know," Jellicoe said, "but if we don't adjust, the Germans might assemble at the rendezvous point and then meet us with their full formation. That would be worse."
He walked to the megaphone and connected the ship's broadcast system.
"Attention, all ships! This is Fleet Commander Jellicoe. We are now en route to our designated operational area. In the next few hours, we may encounter the German High Seas Fleet. I order everyone to remain at your posts and on high alert. Remember, you are the Royal Navy, and your ancestors have achieved glory at Trafalgar, on the Nile, and before the invincible Armada. Today, it is your turn."
His voice was amplified through loudspeakers to every corner of the Iron Duke and also transmitted to other ships in the fleet via radio.
"May God bless the Royal Navy."
The broadcast ended. Silence fell over the bridge.
At the same time, Betty's fleet flagship, the "Lion".
David Beatty stood on the bridge, holding two telegrams he had just received. One was Jellicoe's first "recommendation," and the other was a second "strong recommendation." The two telegrams were similar in content, but their tones were completely different.
"The main German fleet may be lying in ambush to your southeast..." he read the telegram aloud, a slight smile appearing on his lips.
"Lieutenant General," Chief of Staff Colonel Chatfield said worriedly, "Admiral Jellicoe's warning is clear. We should consider turning back and moving towards the main fleet."
Betty put down the telegram and walked to the porthole. It was still foggy outside, but occasionally the outlines of her own warships could be seen moving through the fog, like silent giants.
"Chatfield," he said without turning around, "why do you think Hipper maintained a distance of fifteen nautical miles? Why didn't he speed up to break free or slow down to engage?"
Chatfield thought for a few seconds: "He's trying to lure us in."
“Yes.” Betty turned, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “He’s enticing us. But the question is, where is he leading us? To what?”
He walked to the chart table and traced the pursuit route with his finger: "Starting from the Denmark Strait, Hipper has been retreating southeast. If he only wanted to escape back to Wilhelmshaven, he should have gone due east or northeast. But he didn't. He's heading southeast, towards Dogg Beach."
"There might be the main German fleet there," Chatfield said.
"Possibly," Betty nodded. "But it's also possible that Hipper is just bluffing. He wants us to think there's an ambush, to keep us from pursuing. That way he can retreat safely and write in his report: 'Successfully induced the British fleet to stop the pursuit.'"
He paused. "If it were you, Chatfield, what would you do? Trust the intelligence's speculation, stop the pursuit, and let Hipper escape? Or continue the chase and take a gamble?"
Chatfield fell silent. As chief of staff, he tended to be cautious. But as a soldier, he also understood Beatty's eagerness—this was the first time since the battlecruiser fleet was formed that they had the opportunity to engage an adversary of equal caliber.
"Lieutenant General," he finally said, "if there really is an ambush, we could suffer heavy losses. The battlecruiser's armor..."
"I know!" Betty interrupted him, her voice suddenly rising. "I know battlecruisers have thin armor, I know they're called 'glass cannons.' But I also know that the design philosophy of battlecruisers is speed plus firepower! They're not meant to engage battleships head-on, but to hunt down cruisers, pursue and annihilate the remaining enemy forces, and conduct forward reconnaissance!"
He walked to the nautical chart and pointed heavily at the position representing Hipper's fleet: "Now, we have five German battlecruisers before us. This is the perfect target! If we can sink two, three, or even all of them, it will be the Royal Navy's greatest victory since the start of the war!"
"But Admiral Jericho's orders..."
“Jellicoe’s suggestion was to turn around,” Beatty corrected. “He didn’t give the order. Besides, he’s a hundred nautical miles away, and I’m on the battlefield. I can see the smoke plumes of Hipper’s fleet, hear their radio signals, and sense their movements.”
He stared at Chatfield: "I trust my judgment. Hipper is bluffing. Even if there is an ambush, we have the speed advantage. At 22 knots, we can run and fight. Moreover, Jellicoe's main fleet is to the west; if things go wrong, we can retreat westward."
Chatfield wanted to say something more, but Betty had already turned and given the order to the communications officer:
"Reply to Admiral Jellicoe: I have received your warning and will remain vigilant. However, based on the battlefield situation, the pursuit should continue. I will adjust my course to 105 degrees, slightly south, to maintain contact while avoiding a direct assault on potential ambush points."
The response was clever—it neither completely disobeyed Jericho's warning nor gave up the pursuit.
"Furthermore," Betty added, "order the entire fleet to a state of high alert. Load armor-piercing shells into the main guns, maintain maximum boiler pressure, and have all personnel in position. We must be prepared to engage in combat at any moment."
"Yes, Lieutenant General!"
The order was relayed. On the bridge of the HMS Lion, the atmosphere suddenly became tense. Officers ran to their battle stations, messengers darted through the narrow passageways, and the hiss of boilers pressurizing came from the engine room.
Betty walked to the open bridge and took a deep breath of the damp sea breeze. The thick fog clung to his face, bringing a cool touch.
"David," Chatfield said, walking up to him in a low voice, "What if... what if we're wrong?"
Betty gazed at the silhouette of the HMS Royal Princess, faintly visible through the fog—his second battlecruiser and the flagship of one of his best friends, Rear Admiral Parkenham.
"If we're wrong," he said slowly, "then we'll fight. Fight like battlecruisers—fast, fierce, and without giving the enemy a chance to breathe."
He turned to Chatfield: "But believe me, we're not wrong. I can sense that Hipper is afraid. He's afraid we'll catch him, afraid we'll corner him. So he's stalling, he's enticing, he's praying we won't dare to pursue."
His eyes burned with the flames of battle: "And I will thwart his prayers."
A faint ship's horn sounded in the distance. Through the fog, the outlines of the British fleet appeared and disappeared one by one.
Like a pack of predators waiting to hunt, they stealthily crept through the morning mist.