18 November 1907 — Danzig. German Works Shipyard.
The shipyard did not feel like a factory that morning. It felt like a fortress.
Armed sentries stood at every gate. Patrols moved in measured routes between warehouses and slipways. Even the workers—men who had built steel all their lives—submitted to multiple searches and identity checks before they were allowed onto the grounds.
It was cumbersome. It was humiliating.
And no one complained.
They knew what day this was.
Today marked the completion of sea trials for the lead ship of the Nassau-class. After years of sketches, arguments, budget fights, secrecy, and relentless work, SMS Nassau had returned from the Baltic with her machinery proven and her guns tested.
She was ready.
From this day forward, the Imperial German Navy would no longer be the fleet of yesterday—pre-dreadnoughts and compromises.
It would enter the new age.
The dreadnought era.
The importance of the occasion was made plain by who was coming.
Kaiser Wilhelm II himself would travel from Berlin to attend the commissioning. With him came Prince Oskar—Acting Crown Prince of the Empire—still marked by scars beneath his uniform, still watched by the nation as if he were both savior and omen.
And behind them, like a procession of steel-clad constellations, came the Empire's most powerful men:
Alfred von Tirpitz, State Secretary of the Imperial Naval Office, eyes bright with triumph he barely bothered to hide.
the Chief of the Naval Staff, stiff as a pike and twice as sharp.
Prince Heinrich, Commander-in-Chief of the High Seas Fleet, carrying the calm confidence of a man who actually expected to fight.
Admiral Müller, Chief of the Naval Cabinet.
experts of the Naval Technical Committee—some of whom arrived with faces like men attending their own funeral.
For the Committee, the commissioning was a ceremonial humiliation.
They had rejected the concept once. Mocked it. Delayed it. Smiled thinly and called it "reckless." And now the ship floated in the harbor anyway—real, enormous, and undeniably superior.
The ship was a slap.
And they had no choice but to stand and applaud.
The Army had come as well, because even generals understood what was changing.
Chief of the General Staff Moltke the Younger, War Minister von Falkenhayn, and senior officers arrived in full dress uniform—not because they loved the Navy, but because they feared a world where Germany could not break a blockade.
War would not be decided by infantry alone.
Not anymore.
And besides… both Wilhelm II and Prince Oskar had made it clear: the navy was not a hobby. It was destiny.
Near the main dock, Brutus, the general manager of German Works, looked like a man walking on nerves.
His suit was immaculate. His eyes were red with fatigue. He had the expression of someone who had not slept properly in weeks—and yet beneath it all burned a fierce, almost boyish excitement.
He knew what this day meant.
A single mistake would not be blamed on "workers."
It would be blamed on the shipyard.
It would embarrass the Kaiser. It would embarrass the Acting Crown Prince. It would embarrass the Navy.
And embarrassment, in an empire like this, could kill careers as easily as bullets killed men.
"Everyone," Brutus hissed to his staff, voice low and urgent, "stay alert. We absolutely cannot embarrass His Highness. Security must be flawless. If anything goes wrong today, we all drown."
"Yes, Herr Direktor," the men answered quickly, grinning despite themselves.
Even the clerks and foremen wore the look of people about to witness history.
The imperial motorcade arrived.
Cars and carriages rolled onto the dock under a canopy of flags. Guards snapped to attention. Cameras waited like insects.
When Wilhelm II stepped down, the air seemed to tighten.
He did not rush. He did not fidget. He walked like a man who wanted the world to understand that this—this ship, this day, this moment—belonged to him.
Prince Oskar followed, towering above the crowd, escort close at his flanks. His expression remained controlled, almost cold, but his eyes flicked once toward the harbor—and something hard and satisfied passed through them.
Then everyone saw her.
SMS Nassau lay moored in the water like a dark island. Her hull sat heavy and predatory, the lines of her armor belt unmistakable even from the dock. The superstructure rose in compact layers. The great turrets—still partially covered—made the air feel smaller.
She looked less like a ship and more like an argument made of steel.
Wilhelm II stopped at the edge of the dock and stared.
For a moment, he looked like a boy at a toy shop window—except the toy was a weapon that could tear a city apart.
"What a magnificent sight," he breathed. "This is what the Imperial Navy needs."
Tirpitz stepped beside him, unable to hide his pride.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice thick with satisfaction, "based on all current intelligence, none of the British battleships—built, building, or planned—can match Nassau. And our Heligoland-class ships are already rising behind her. In the dreadnought race, we have not merely caught up."
He smiled like a man tasting victory.
"We have seized the initiative."
Wilhelm II's eyes gleamed.
"Yes," he said, almost fiercely. "We will surpass them further—until they dare not oppose us."
The Kaiser still clung, stubbornly to a sliver of hope, to a fantasy: that if Germany became powerful enough, Britain would accept the new reality and step aside.
That naval strength could frighten England into peace.
A beautiful delusion.
Oskar did not contradict him. Tirpitz did not either. Both men understood that it would not be so easy to have Britain relinquish supremacy. Britain's only response to the German challenge would most likely be the same response Britain always gave: build more ships.
And build faster.
But today was not the day for arguments.
Today was the day for symbolism.
At 10:00 a.m., the commissioning ceremony began.
Wilhelm II stepped forward to the podium, the wind tugging faintly at his coat, and began to speak:
"Gentlemen… welcome to the commissioning of SMS Nassau. This is the first dreadnought of the Imperial German Navy—"
The words carried across the dock, over the water, and into history.
Wilhelm II's speech did what it always did when he stood before a crowd: it turned anxiety into posture.
Men who had arrived with tight jaws and cautious eyes found themselves standing straighter by the end. The words were familiar—duty, destiny, German greatness—but today they had something new beneath them:
Proof.
Not a theory on paper. Not a committee memorandum. Not an argument in a ministry.
A dreadnought sat in the water behind the Kaiser like a black verdict.
When the applause faded and the ceremonial prayers ended, the formal handover began.
At the head of the dock, Alfred von Tirpitz produced the documents with the smoothness of a man who knew he was changing history with ink. Brutus stood rigid beside him, hands sweating inside his gloves, trying not to look like an ordinary shipyard manager about to faint in front of the Emperor.
Prince Oskar stepped forward—Acting Crown Prince, scarred, silent, and watched by every camera and pair of eyes.
For all his size and reputation, he looked almost still, as if conserving energy the way a predator conserved it.
Tirpitz read the final line, and Brutus—voice trembling—confirmed receipt.
Then Tirpitz lifted the ship's ensign.
The flag snapped open in the winter wind.
A cheer rolled across the dock.
From that moment onward, SMS Nassau was no longer merely a product of German Works.
She belonged to the Imperial Navy.
To Germany.
To war, if war came.
They boarded her by the gangway, boots ringing on steel decks still smelling of fresh paint and new machinery. For many present, it was their first time standing on a dreadnought. For the shipyard workers watching from below, it was like seeing a cathedral being walked upon by kings.
Everything aboard was new—tight corridors, armored doors, strange new ventilation systems, cables and pipes arranged with an almost modern logic.
But the real pilgrimage was to the turrets.
They climbed into the shadow of the first triple mount, and even hardened officers went quiet.
The sheer scale of it was obscene.
Three guns in one turret—three throats of iron that could throw death across kilometers.
Even under the sheathing and safety caps, the outline alone drew involuntary murmurs.
"A monstrous thing," a naval captain breathed, half in awe, half in fear.
Wilhelm II turned his head slightly toward Oskar.
"Oskar," he asked, voice controlled but eager, "when will the other three Nassau-class ships join her?"
Oskar answered without theatrics.
"The other three are in sea trials," he said. "If no faults emerge, they will be commissioned by the end of this year—certainly before Christmas."
Wilhelm II nodded, visibly pleased.
"Very good," he said. "German Works expanded quickly, yet its performance exceeds expectation. Even our older yards would struggle to match this pace."
Oskar allowed himself a small, diplomatic smile.
"Germany has the hardest-working men in Europe," he said. His gaze flicked to Brutus. "And German Works has a very capable general manager."
Brutus swallowed. His face reddened. He looked like a man trying not to burst.
Wilhelm II turned to him.
"Herr Brutus," the Kaiser said, voice warming by a fraction, "you have served the Reich well. Germany will not forget what you have done here."
Brutus bowed so quickly his spine almost snapped.
"Your Majesty… this is my duty," he managed.
It was only half a sentence, but it was the proudest half a sentence of his life.
Wilhelm II moved on, appetite rising as it always did around ships.
"And the battlecruisers?" he asked. "The Blücher-class. When will they be ready?"
Oskar's tone shifted—more practical now.
"They are progressing slower," he said. "They will not complete sea trials until the middle of next year."
Tirpitz stepped in smoothly, as if to soften the disappointment.
"Your Majesty, that is still remarkable speed," he said. "By mid-1908, we will have four Nassau-class dreadnoughts in service and the first of our battlecruisers joining them. The High Seas Fleet will step into a new level of strength."
Wilhelm II's eyes gleamed with that familiar hunger.
"And the British?" he asked at once. "How many dreadnoughts will they have by then?"
Tirpitz's smile returned—thin, professional.
"By our estimates," he said, "their Bellerophon-class will enter service around that time. Their Invincible-class battlecruisers as well. They are accelerating their work under pressure, but even the British cannot create ships from air."
"Only four battleships and three battlecruisers?" Wilhelm II asked, frowning. He didn't like numbers that sounded equal.
Oskar answered before Tirpitz could.
"Father," he said calmly, "their shipbuilding capacity is greater than ours. And they can devote more money to the navy because they do not maintain a continental army as we do."
He paused, letting the truth sit.
"We cannot realistically defeat Britain by matching them ship for ship. Not in the long run. Our advantage must be quality. Doctrine. Concentration. And geography."
Wilhelm II's expression tightened, but he nodded. He knew it was true. He just hated it.
Tirpitz recovered the tone of reassurance.
"Your Majesty," he said, "Britain's ships are dispersed worldwide—Mediterranean, Atlantic, colonies. Ours are concentrated near home waters. In a decisive clash, circumstances can favor us."
That was what Tirpitz always returned to:
A decisive battle.
A moment when numbers mattered less than positioning and preparedness.
Wilhelm II's frown eased slightly.
Then Moltke the Younger spoke.
He did not raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"If by the middle of next year," Moltke said smoothly, "we possess a relative advantage in new capital ships… could we not consider war at that moment?"
The dock seemed to chill.
A few officers actually turned their heads as if to confirm they had heard correctly.
War. Next year.
Wilhelm II's eyes flashed—interest and restraint fighting behind them like dogs.
Oskar answered immediately.
"No," he said bluntly.
The word landed hard enough that even Moltke blinked.
"We are not ready," Oskar continued. "Not politically, not materially, not in stockpiles. And do not forget: Britain still has more than fifty pre-dreadnoughts and armored cruisers that can still fight. Dreadnoughts are superior, yes—but they do not fight ten against one."
He looked Moltke in the eye.
"A premature war would be gambling Germany's survival on a single year's advantage. That is not strategy. That is intoxication."
For a moment, Moltke's expression tightened. Then he shrugged faintly, as if he had merely asked an academic question.
Wilhelm II exhaled once, the temptation visibly restrained.
"We continue building," he said at last. "We continue preparing. We do not rush to war like fools."
Moltke said nothing more.
But the idea had been spoken aloud.
And once ideas were spoken aloud in rooms like this, they tended to find their way into plans.
After the tour of SMS Nassau, the party crossed the yard to the other slipways.
They walked past the skeletal ribs of future giants—steel frames braced in scaffolding, gangs of workers moving like ants over hull plating. The air smelled of salt, paint, coal smoke, and hot iron. Rivets rang like distant gunfire.
The Blücher-class battlecruisers dominated one section: long, predatory hulls with their superstructures still incomplete, cranes hanging over them like vultures. Farther along, the first Heligoland-class hull rose in its cradle—wider, heavier, a ship that looked built to take punishment and answer it back with interest.
It was only after lunch, when the formal ceremonies were done and the day's excitement cooled into calculation, that the real meeting began.
They assembled in the shipyard conference room: a long table, heavy chairs, maps of the North Sea and shipbuilding schedules pinned on the walls, and a stack of reports that smelled of ink and alarm.
This was not for speeches.
This was for decisions.
Wilhelm II took the central seat like a man claiming a battlefield, with Tirpitz at his right hand and Prince Heinrich nearby, calm as a winter sea. Moltke the Younger sat with the Army men, expression fixed in polite skepticism. Oskar sat slightly forward, posture relaxed but eyes sharp.
Brutus stood at the side like an anxious servant, trying to appear invisible in the presence of gods.
Oskar opened first—not with grand rhetoric, but with the tone of a man reading the future off ledgers.
"Gentlemen," he said, "British shipbuilding has accelerated again."
He laid a report on the table.
"According to intelligence, the Admiralty has moved to begin new dreadnought construction next year. Their St. Vincent-class is being prepared. Their next battlecruiser program—what they are calling the Indefatigable-class—is also advancing."
A few brows rose.
Oskar's voice remained level.
"When those ships enter service, we will face a significant numerical disadvantage in the new capital categories. Not immediately—but soon. And Britain's greatest weapon has never been a single ship."
He tapped the table once.
"It is their capacity to build more than anyone else."
Moltke the Younger could not resist.
He leaned back, hands lightly folded, and spoke with a smooth confidence that carried a faint edge of ridicule.
"Your Highness," Moltke said, "even if the British begin construction of those classes, their threat is limited. We have five Heligoland-class battleships planned. Britain will only have a handful of ships of the types you mention."
His eyes flicked toward Tirpitz, then back to Oskar.
"And our ships are superior in quality. Your warnings are… rather alarmist."
Oskar did not flinch.
He had learned something in court: if you react emotionally to Moltke, you lose. The man's entire talent was turning irritation into weakness.
So Oskar answered calmly—coldly, even.
"Quality matters," he agreed. "But quality does not change geography. Britain does not need to win by fighting us ship for ship in one decisive duel."
He looked down the table, making sure everyone heard him.
"They win by existing. By blockading. By choking trade. By forcing us to spend resources just to breathe."
He paused.
"And Britain can build faster than we can. That is the point."
Moltke's lips tightened faintly.
Oskar continued, voice sharpening slightly.
"Also—do not forget Britain does not stop at two classes. They have other programs, other yards, other reserve funds. If we grow complacent because we believe ourselves 'superior,' we will wake up one day and realize they have rebuilt their dominance while we congratulated ourselves."
Tirpitz spoke, voice low, heavy with authority.
"His Highness is correct," he said.
Moltke looked almost amused—until Tirpitz turned his head and fixed him with a stare like a coastal gun battery.
"This is naval strategy," Tirpitz said. "Not an army parade. Unless war is declared and a Supreme Command is formed, the General Staff does not dictate our shipbuilding."
The room went quiet.
Moltke lifted his hands slightly, smiling as if in surrender.
"As you say, State Secretary," he replied. "I merely wished to ensure we do not panic."
Tirpitz's moustache twitched.
"We are not panicking," he said. "We are preparing."
Wilhelm II watched them both, his eyes flicking between army and navy like a man studying two blades.
Then he looked at Oskar.
"All right," the Kaiser said. "Tell us what you want."
Oskar's gaze moved to the map of the North Sea and the chalked lines marking British sea lanes.
"Father," he said, "Blücher is strong. But Britain's Invincible-class battlecruisers will enter service around the same time. And once their next class follows…"
He pointed at the line of British routes.
"…three battlecruisers will not be enough."
He met Wilhelm II's eyes.
"We will need battlecruisers not only to fight, but to raid. To threaten their commerce. To force them to defend everything at once."
Wilhelm II's brow furrowed. The battlecruiser concept still felt strange to him—fast capital ships designed to hit where the enemy was soft. But he had learned one thing in the last years:
Britain's empire was not defended by soldiers.
It was defended by shipping.
Tirpitz nodded immediately.
"Your Majesty," he said, "three battlecruisers cannot achieve our strategic objectives. We require more."
Prince Heinrich spoke quietly, almost casually.
"More ships," he said, "means more options. More options means initiative."
Wilhelm II exhaled slowly.
"Then speak," he said to Oskar. "Show them."
Oskar stood and unrolled a large blueprint.
The paper crackled as it spread across the table.
Even before the numbers were read, the shape drew silence.
Longer.
Broader.
Cleaner lines.
A superstructure compact and purposeful.
Turrets arranged with predatory logic.
Oskar began.
"This is the next class of battlecruiser."
He read without dramatics, as if speaking about engineering rather than history:
"Length: 185 meters.
Beam: 28 meters.
Draft: 9.1 meters.
Full load displacement: approximately 29,000 tons."
Several men stiffened at the displacement alone.
Oskar continued.
"Main armament: three triple-mounted 343mm / 50-caliber guns.
Secondary: 150mm, anti-torpedo defenses, and rapid-fire guns as required."
A few of the old committee men looked as if someone had slapped them twice.
Triple turrets again.
343mm.
And 50-caliber.
This was not merely catching up.
This was threatening to run ahead of Britain's entire doctrine.
Oskar's finger moved down the page.
"Propulsion: oil-fired boilers and turbines. Four shafts. Total output: 64,000 horsepower. Maximum speed: 27 knots."
A low breath escaped someone near the end of the table.
Twenty-seven knots.
That was not a battle line ship.
That was a wolf.
"And armor," Oskar said, voice steady, "is not sacrificed. Belt: 330mm. Turrets: 330mm. Conning tower: 330mm. Deck: increased as needed."
For a battlecruiser, it was obscene.
It was closer to a battleship that refused to be slow.
Wilhelm II stared at the blueprint like a man watching the future.
Then Oskar added, almost casually:
"I propose we name this class… the Moltke-class."
Silence.
Everyone turned their heads toward Moltke the Younger.
Moltke's expression froze.
He looked as if someone had poured cold water down his spine.
Oskar's voice remained polite, almost warm.
"To honor Field Marshal Moltke's immortal contributions to the unification of the German Empire," he said. "It is fitting that the name be carried by a ship designed to defend what he helped create."
It was the perfect knife.
Because it was also a public demonstration:
Even the man who opposes me will be honored by ships built under my influence.
Moltke the Younger swallowed.
He knew the room was watching him. He knew refusing would look petty. Accepting would look like surrender.
For once, he had no clean move.
Tirpitz's moustache twitched with restrained amusement.
Wilhelm II's eyes gleamed.
And Oskar, standing at the head of the table with the blueprint laid out like a conquered flag, looked every inch what the Empire whispered he was becoming:
Not merely a prince.
A force.
The conference room did not remain a conference room for long.
Once Oskar's blueprints were on the table, it became something older and more dangerous: a war council disguised as planning. Men leaned in. Fingers traced turret arcs and belt thickness. Pencils scratched numbers that would become steel, and steel that would become graves—if the world chose that road.
Wilhelm II listened to the final objections with the patience of a man pretending they mattered.
Then he nodded once, firmly.
"A very good warship," the Kaiser said. "And a very good name."
The phrase carried further than it seemed.
It was not only approval of design. It was approval of method—of how Oskar had struck Moltke the Younger with a velvet glove instead of a sword. Naming a class after Moltke was diplomacy in steel. It reminded everyone in the room that this new crown-prince-in-all-but-name understood something essential:
An emperor needed force.
But he also needed restraint.
Tirpitz, standing at Wilhelm's right hand like a man guarding a treasure, allowed himself a rare expression of visible satisfaction.
"Your Majesty," he said, "the Moltke-class will strengthen the Fleet greatly. If these ships enter service as designed, they will not merely match British battlecruisers."
He glanced at the blueprint again.
"They will terrify them."
Wilhelm II's gaze moved to the Naval Technical Committee.
In principle, no ship of this size was built without their formal approval. In practice, none of those elderly experts wished to repeat the humiliation of the Nassau affair—mocking a prince's designs only to watch them prove superior at sea.
Count von Warren cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty," he said carefully, choosing words like a man handling glass, "the Committee finds His Highness's Moltke-class battlecruiser design outstanding. Our only concern is… the cost."
Oskar nodded once, as if he had expected the question.
"It will be expensive," he said. "Approximately sixty million Marks per ship."
The room reacted despite itself.
A quiet intake of breath.
A few stiff blinks.
Even Wilhelm II's moustache twitched.
Sixty million was not a number men spoke casually, not even in an empire that worshipped battleships. Without Oskar's industrial revenues and his private funding streams, such ships would be fantasy.
Oskar did not flinch.
"Naval war is expensive," he said evenly. "And we cannot defeat Britain by building more hulls than she does. We must defeat her by making each ship count for two."
He tapped the blueprint.
"Performance requires technology. Technology costs money. The price is high—because the alternative is higher."
No one argued that.
Numbers were brutal, but they were honest.
Wilhelm II looked around the table.
"Any objections?" he asked.
None came. Not even from Moltke, who—whether out of pride or calculation—seemed unwilling to oppose a class that now carried his family's name.
"Then it is approved," the Kaiser said.
A simple sentence.
And the ship became real.
Oskar added, "Father, the class is planned as three ships. You must name the other two."
Wilhelm II hesitated only a moment—then smiled as if he had been waiting for the pleasure.
"Goeben and Seydlitz," he declared.
"Yes, Father," Oskar said smoothly.
Tirpitz's eyes gleamed. Names meant nothing to steel—but names meant everything to politics.
Then Oskar did not pause.
He gestured, and a second drawing was unrolled against the wall.
A battleship.
Bigger than Heligoland. Broader, heavier. A deliberate evolution rather than a reckless reinvention.
"Gentlemen," Oskar said, "we must begin the successor to the Heligoland-class as soon as possible."
He spoke as if discussing railway timetables, not weapons that could erase cities.
"This class will be 185 meters long, 28.5 meters beam, 9.1 meters draft. Standard displacement approximately 28,500 tons, full load 32,500."
He let the numbers settle.
"Main armament: three triple-mounted 343mm / 50-caliber guns. Secondary: fourteen 150mm, sixteen 88mm anti-torpedo guns. Propulsion: improved oil-fired boilers and turbines, four shafts, 64,000 horsepower, maximum speed 23 knots."
He pointed to the armor belt.
"Main belt: 350mm. Turret faces: 350mm. Conning tower: 350mm. Deck: 65mm."
A murmured approval spread—because this was not radical. It was doctrine. It was the natural next step in the dreadnought race.
Oskar did not push 380mm guns yet. He knew Krupp's limits. He knew a step too far could delay everything.
But he had no intention of letting Krupp rest.
Bigger guns would come.
They had to.
Wilhelm II did what he always did now when Oskar laid down a plan: he looked around the room, asked for objections, and found none.
"Approved," the Kaiser said.
Then he smiled—just slightly.
"This class will be named the Kaiser-class."
Tirpitz rose again, formal now.
"Your Majesty, the Kaiser-class plan calls for five ships. We humbly request that Your Majesty name the remaining four."
No one objected. Five ships meant an enormous cost—well over three hundred million Marks—but the capacity existed, the political will existed, and after the Nassau class, no one wanted to be the man who said "no."
Wilhelm II's eyes brightened.
He answered quickly, too quickly, as if the names had been waiting in his pocket for months.
"The first shall be Kaiser," he said. "Then Friedrich der Große. Then König Albert. Then Auguste Viktoria. And the fifth—Prinzregent Luitpold."
A neat collection of symbols: Prussia, Saxony, Bavaria, the Empress—Germany as a unified crown rather than a bundle of jealous states.
Tirpitz bowed his head.
"Your Majesty is wise. Excellent names."
The others echoed the praise. Wilhelm II basked in it for a heartbeat, because a monarch was still a man, and men enjoyed admiration.
Then Count von Warren—ever the practical voice of industry—asked the question that mattered to every shipyard owner in the Reich:
"Your Majesty… Your Highness… eight large ships across two classes. Which yards will receive the contracts?"
Wilhelm II's gaze shifted to Oskar.
It was subtle, but everyone in the room saw it.
The Kaiser was letting the prince answer.
Oskar smiled faintly. He understood the danger.
German Works had already become the envy of the industry. If it swallowed all major contracts again, the resentment would spread like rot. In a capitalist empire, shipyard owners were not merely businessmen—they were political forces.
Sharing the feast meant buying loyalty.
"German Work's should build the lead ships," Oskar said. "Moltke and Kaiser."
Brutus's face lit up like a man seeing heaven.
Oskar continued smoothly.
"The remaining six contracts will be distributed among other major yards. The Navy will choose the best allocations based on capacity and reliability."
Relief moved through the room. Count von Warren exhaled. The other shipyard representatives—silent, waiting, calculating—felt their anger defuse into greed.
Wilhelm II nodded in approval.
"Very good," he said. "A Crown Prince must unite men, not simply enrich himself."
Tirpitz watched Oskar with clear admiration.
He had intended to remind the prince that one shipyard could not be allowed to become a monopoly.
Oskar had solved it before Tirpitz even spoke.
When the meeting ended, the plans were already alive.
Eight new capital ships.
Two new classes.
Names chosen.
Slipways assigned.
And as the guests filtered out into the cold shipyard air, the truth settled in every mind present:
Germany was no longer merely building a navy.
Germany was building a future that would force the world to respond.
And somewhere across the sea, in London, men were already sharpening their own pencils.