Boarding the Ship: Humiliation in the Details

German sailors stood in formation on both sides of the gangway of the Westphalian. Each one was impeccably dressed in uniform, their shoes gleaming, and their posture as straight as javelins.

When the British officers boarded the deck, the first shock came from the sight.

It's too clean.

It's not that British warships weren't clean, but the deck of HMS Westfall was so clean it didn't look like a warship at all—there were no haphazardly piled-up cables, no carelessly placed toolboxes, no oil stains, and no rust. All equipment had designated storage locations, and all pipelines were neatly laid along the edges of the hull.

"This is..." A British engine officer crouched down and touched the coating on the deck surface. "Anti-slip coating? But the texture is different."

"Our newly developed composite material," explained the accompanying German engineer, "has 40 percent better anti-slip properties than traditional coatings, and it's also corrosion-resistant and easy to clean. Most importantly, it reduces the secondary effects of shell fragments—traditional wooden decks produce a lot of sawdust and fragments when hit, but ours doesn't."

The British officers silently took notes.

The number of sailors on deck was also shockingly small. For a warship of the same tonnage as the Westphalia, a British warship of the same class would require at least eight hundred men, but visually, there were fewer than one hundred German sailors on deck.

"What is the staff size?" Sir William May couldn't help but ask.

"The standard strength is 670 men," Captain Trotta replied, "but through automated design, it can be reduced to 600 men in wartime while still maintaining full combat capability."

"Six hundred men..." a British captain murmured. "Our Edward VII-class destroyers need 820 men."

What does saving 220 people mean? It means less living space required, less supply consumption, and a lower casualty rate...

"This way, please." Tirpitz led the way himself. "We'll visit the engine room first."

The process of descending to the engine room itself astonished the British officers. On traditional warships, the ladders leading down were steep and narrow, but the Westfall's interior passageways were spacious enough for two people to walk side by side, and it had excellent lighting and ventilation systems.

Then they saw the four steam turbines.

The massive metal contraption hummed softly as it operated, its blades spinning rapidly through the observation window. There was none of the violent vibrations and noise of a reciprocating steam engine, only a deep, steady hum.

"The output power is 23,000 shaft horsepower." Lieutenant Colonel Schmidt's tone was filled with pride. "During the top speed test, it reached 25,000, with a speed of 22.3 knots. Moreover, the steam turbine can reverse instantly without the need for a complicated reversing mechanism—which means that our turning radius is 30 percent smaller than that of a reciprocating steam engine warship of the same tonnage."

A British marine engineer leaned close to the observation window, looked for a full minute, then turned around, his face pale, and asked:

How to control bearing temperature? Lubrication under high-speed rotation...

"Forced circulation oil cooling system," Schmidt pointed to the network of pipes next to him. "We used twelve auxiliary pumps to ensure the lubricating oil circulates under high pressure. In addition, the turbine blades use a new alloy formula, which improves the high-temperature resistance by two hundred degrees."

"Two hundred degrees..." The British expert smiled wryly, "Our materials laboratory is still struggling to raise the temperature by fifty degrees."

After visiting the engine room, the group proceeded to the fire control room.

This place is more like a science laboratory than a warship's cabin. There are complex instrument dials, rows of scales, and that device called the "mechanical computer"—a brass monster made of gears, cams, and sliding rulers.

Major Hoffman demonstrated the operating procedures. One operator cranked a handle to input the target distance, another turned a knob to input the wind speed and direction, and a third pulled a lever to select the type of shell…

Then, the pointer on the dial moves automatically and eventually stops on a set of numbers.

"This is the elevation angle, this is the azimuth angle, and this is the fuse setting," Hoffman explained. "The data will be transmitted synchronously to each turret via circuitry. The gunner only needs to adjust according to the indicator lights and then wait for the firing command."

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

"The system itself has an error of less than three per thousand. The actual hit rate depends on the ranging accuracy and sea conditions—but at least we have eliminated human calculation errors."

The British officers fell silent.

They saw the gap—not just a little, but a whole generation's difference. The Germans had transformed warship design from an "art of experience" into a "precision science."

The last item on the tour was the cafeteria.

This may seem insignificant, but Tirpitz insisted on showing it to his British counterparts.

"The combat effectiveness of a warship ultimately depends on its sailors," he said. "And the sailors' condition depends on what they eat and how they live."

The Westfallen's mess hall was spacious and bright, with real tables and chairs instead of makeshift benches. The menu was posted on the wall—today's dinner was roast pork chops, mashed potatoes, sauerkraut, and apple pie. There was even a small cold storage room in the galley.

"The standard daily ration for each person is: 600 grams of bread, 200 grams of meat, 300 grams of vegetables, plus butter, cheese, and coffee," Captain Trotta said. "His Majesty the Emperor has specifically instructed that the Imperial sailors should eat as well as they would at home."

British officers recalled the rock-hard biscuits, the perpetually overcooked corned beef, and the moldy cheese on their own warships…

It's not that they don't care about the sailors, but the military budget is limited. Spending money on food means buying one less shell.

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

By the time the visit ended, the sun had already begun to set.

Sir William May, representing the Royal Navy, offered his thanks, his words as polite and appropriate as ever. But as he turned to descend the gangway, Tirpitz clearly saw that the old admiral's back was slightly hunched.

That's not hunchback caused by age.

It is the helplessness that comes after pride is shattered.

That evening, in the Cabinet meeting room at 10 Downing Street, London.

The meeting had been going on for two hours, and the atmosphere had gone from tense at the beginning to a powder keg.

"At least fifteen million pounds! Fifteen million!" Chancellor of the Exchequer Herbert Henry Asquist's voice was almost screaming. "That's twice the Navy's annual budget! Do you know what that means? It means tax increases! It means cuts to education, healthcare, and pensions! The House of Commons will never pass it!"

Lord John Fisher, First Sea Lord, looked at him coldly: "And what does Mr. Asquist suggest? Write a polite letter to the Germans, asking them not to build too many warships? Or pray to God that those six Westphalias sink?"

"We can mediate diplomatically! We can sign an arms limitation agreement..."

"Do you know what the German Emperor said in his speech in Berlin today?" Fischer pulled a telegram from his folder. "'The German fleet will guard the Reich's legitimate interests around the world like a fence protecting its homeland.' A fence! He called the navy a fence! Would you negotiate with your neighbor at the height of your own fence?"

Sir Henry Campbell-Bannaman, the Prime Minister, rubbed his temples. "Lord Fisher, we need a more realistic solution. Ten dreadnoughts, at two million pounds each, that's twenty million. Add in the ammunition, maintenance, and personnel training, and it'll easily be twenty-five million. The finances are indeed..."

"You really can't afford it?" Fisher suddenly stood up, his hands on the table, leaning forward like a lion ready to pounce. "Then let me tell you, if war breaks out now, how many ships would the Royal Navy lose facing six Westvale-class destroyers in the North Sea?"

He didn't wait for a reply; he stated the number himself.

"At least four capital ships were sunk! More than five thousand casualties! And that's assuming we could encircle them with numerical superiority! If the Germans used their speed advantage to wage a mobile war, that number could double!"

The meeting room was deathly silent.

Fisher pulled a stack of photographs from his briefcase and slammed them onto the table. The photos slid open; they were all taken that afternoon in Portsmouth—the impeccable uniforms of the German sailors, the spotless deck of the Westfallen, and the undisguised astonishment on the faces of the British officers during their visit.

"Look! Look everyone! This is what our officers saw today on the German warship! This isn't speculation, not intelligence assessment, it's what they saw with their own eyes!"

He grabbed a photograph and pointed to the intricate dial on it:

"Do you know what this is? A mechanical computer! The Germans have already installed it on their warships! We have a similar prototype in our lab, but it will take at least two more years before it's ready for practical use! Two years! The Germans have six warships equipped with this system right now in the North Sea!"

Another photo, a close-up of a steam turbine:

"The Parsons steam turbine, a British invention! But the Germans used it better than us! Why? Because they had more advanced bearing materials and a more efficient lubrication system! Our engineers came back and said that, just in terms of the turbine itself, the Germans were at least eighteen months ahead of us!"

Fisher's voice grew louder and louder, almost roaring:

"Gentlemen, this isn't about falling behind by a percentage point or two in the technological race! It's a generational gap! It's the difference between a horse-drawn carriage and an automobile! By the time our 'Dreadnought' is launched next year, the Germans may already have eight or ten more advanced warships! At that time, who will control the North Sea? Who will have the right of passage through the English Channel? Who will protect the British Empire's trade routes?!"

Foreign Secretary Lord Langsden attempted to reassure him: "Fischer, calm down. The Germans displaying strength doesn't necessarily mean they want war. Emperor Wilhelm may simply be trying to gain a better negotiating position..."

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

He paused, letting each word resonate deeply in everyone's ears:

"This is humiliation! It's like slapping the Royal Navy in the face in front of the whole world! They're saying: Thank you for teaching us, but now the students have surpassed their teachers!"

Asquist tried to argue, "But finances..."

"Finance!" Fisher finally exploded, grabbing a teacup from the table—the set of Chinese porcelain used by the Prime Minister—and smashing it on the ground!

Porcelain shards flew everywhere!

Everyone was stunned.

Fisher was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, but his voice suddenly became cold and calm:

"Mr. Asquist, do you know the meaning behind the name 'Dauntless'? 'Fearless.' For three hundred years, the Royal Navy has protected the Empire with this belief. But now, the Germans have instilled fear in us."

He surveyed the entire room, speaking slowly and deliberately:

"Today, in Portsmouth, I watched our officers disembark from German warships. I will never forget the look in their eyes—shock, frustration, anger, but deep down, fear."

"What were they afraid of? They were afraid that on their next voyage, they would not encounter opponents similar to themselves, but monsters like the Westvale. They were afraid that their cannons would miss the enemy, while the enemy's cannons could easily tear them apart. They were afraid that dying for their country would not be an honor, but a meaningless massacre."

Fisher's voice began to tremble, not from fear, but from suppressed anger:

"Gentlemen, I come from the Navy. I spent forty years on warships. I've seen sailors at their proudest—when their warships enter foreign ports, people look up at those giant cannons with a clang, and the song 'God Save My Queen' echoes across the sea."

"But I've also seen their deepest fears—when their warships are old and in disrepair, when they're short of ammunition, when they know their ships are obsolete, yet they're still ordered to go to sea."

He took a deep breath:

"Today, I saw that fear return. And this time, it's not because the warships are old, but because the enemy's warships are too advanced."

Fisher straightened up and adjusted his uniform. His voice returned to its initial coldness:

"So, Mr. Asquist, you ask me what to do about the finances? I'll tell you: raise taxes, cut other expenditures, issue national bonds—anything goes. But if money causes the Royal Navy to lose its technological advantage, and our sailors to go to sea in fear..."

He paused:

"Then I might as well take off this uniform now, because I have no face to wear it and watch the empire slide into the abyss."

After saying that, Fisher turned around and strode out of the conference room.

The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy thud.

There was a three-minute silence in the meeting room.

Prime Minister Sir Campbell Bannerman slowly rose to his feet, walked to the window, and gazed at the night view of Whitehall Street. After a long while, he turned back, his face showing a determined expression.

"Let's vote," he said. "Should we approve Lord Fisher's emergency plan to build ten dreadnoughts?"

A hand was raised. It was Sir Richard Burden, the First Lord of the Army—he understood that if the North Sea fell, the British Army would have to prepare for home defense.

The second hand was Joseph Chamberlain, chairman of the Trade Commission.

The third one, the fourth one...

Of the ten cabinet members, seven voted in favor and three against. The dissenting votes came from Asquist and two other fiscal conservatives.

"Passed," the Prime Minister announced. "Tomorrow I will personally submit the '1906 Naval Emergency Bill' to the House of Commons. Burden, you are responsible for contacting the Conservative Party and securing cross-party support. Langstown, you are responsible for the diplomatic explanation—tell the French, the Russians, and the Americans that this is a defensive measure."

He paused:

"As for Fisher... let him prepare detailed construction plans. Tell him that there will be money, there will be docks, there will be workers. The British Empire's three hundred years of maritime dominance cannot end in our generation."

The meeting ended in a somber atmosphere.

But just as Asquist was packing up his documents to leave, the Prime Minister called him back.

"Herbert, let me say something privately."

The Chancellor of the Exchequer turned around.

Sir Campbell Bannerman walked up to him and lowered his voice:

"I know money is a big issue. But have you considered this—if we lose the naval race because we try to save money, if the Germans actually control the North Sea, then the price we have to pay might be more than just money."

Asquist fell silent.

"Think about China after the Opium War." The Prime Minister patted him on the shoulder. "We understand the consequences of technological lag better than anyone. Because all along, we have had a technological advantage."

After saying that, the Prime Minister left.

Asquist stood alone in the empty conference room, staring at the broken shards of porcelain on the floor. After a long while, he bent down and picked up a piece; its edge was so sharp it could cut his finger.

As Fisher said, this is no longer a technology race.