"Fire."
The order had barely left Rear Admiral Carroll's lips when the great guns of HMS King George V began to answer.
Turrets locked. Elevation set. The massive barrels shuddered as they prepared to unleash their full weight across the narrowing distance. At fifteen kilometers, it was not ideal—but it was enough. Enough to strike. Enough to hurt.
Carroll stood at the front of the bridge, eyes fixed ahead, jaw tight with anticipation.
"Let's see you run now…" he muttered.
The guns fired.
Flame burst outward. The deck trembled. The shells rose into the sky—
—and the German line turned.
Not slowly.
Not hesitantly.
But cleanly, decisively, as though the movement had been prepared long before the British guns had ever aligned.
They turned east.
Away.
Again.
Carroll's eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face as the shells fell—not upon steel, not upon enemy hulls—but into empty sea. Columns of water erupted where the Germans had been moments before.
Missed.
All of it—missed.
"Damn them!" he snapped, his voice rising sharply. "Damn those bloody Germans!"
Ahead, the German battlecruisers were already pulling away again, their speed carrying them out of range with frustrating ease, their rear guns still firing methodically, still punishing the shrinking British escort force that struggled to close the distance.
Between the two fleets, the remains of that escort were being torn apart.
Four destroyers now.
One light cruiser.
All of them battered, scattered, and still pushing forward through the storm.
Shells fell among them in relentless succession. Great plumes of water rose and collapsed, shockwaves rolling across their decks, guns silenced one by one as crews were killed or driven back.
Carroll watched it all, fury building with every second.
"Are they determined to run forever?" he growled. "Do they have no honour at all? No pride to stand and fight?"
Another explosion.
Another destroyer gone.
Three remained.
The light cruiser still held.
Carroll's fist clenched.
For a moment—just a moment—the thought came.
Call it off.
They were too far. The Germans were too fast. The escorts were dying for nothing. His dreadnoughts could not close the distance in time.
"…Damn it," he muttered, breath heavy.
He was about to give the order—
And then—
he saw it.
The German line shifted again.
Not east now.
South.
Full speed.
A clean, aggressive movement, their formation tightening as they drove further down across the sea, their course cutting away from the British fleet—but not aimlessly.
Carroll stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he followed their movement, tracing their path across the horizon.
And then he saw it.
Smoke.
Far to the south.
A vast, dark smear of black against the sky, thick and unmistakable—the kind only a large convoy could produce. Coal-fired boilers, dozens of them, pushing slow, heavy ships across the ocean.
The convoy.
Carroll froze.
"…Oh, bollocks."
The words slipped out quietly.
Realization hit him all at once.
"They're not running…"
His voice hardened.
"They're heading for the convoy."
Around him, the bridge went silent.
If the Germans reached it—
Light escorts. Merchant ships. No real protection.
They would tear it apart.
Carroll turned sharply.
"Helm—bring us south! Full speed! We pursue!"
"Aye, sir!"
Engines roared.
The dreadnoughts surged forward once more, pushing hard to close the distance—but the German fleet was already ahead, already faster, already dictating the pace.
They were being led.
And he knew it.
But he had no choice.
Behind him, an officer stepped forward quickly.
"Sir! Signal from the north—reinforcements approaching! Vice Admiral David Beatty—thirteen ships with escorts—just over the horizon!"
Carroll turned instantly, stepping out toward the railing, raising his glass toward the northern horizon.
And there—
he saw them.
Smoke.
More of it.
Lighter, faster, sharper lines cutting across the sky as the reinforcement fleet drove south at speed.
Relief flickered—
then died just as quickly.
"Too far…" he muttered.
They were still nearly an hour away.
And he—
he was moving away from them.
"Damn it all…" he hissed.
Ahead, the German fleet continued southward, still firing back over their shoulders, their guns now focused entirely on the last of the British escorts.
One of the destroyers fired.
Torpedoes slipped into the water, cutting forward—
and fell short.
Too far.
Another followed.
Then another.
All of them dying in the water before they could ever reach their mark.
The Germans answered.
A shell struck the final light cruiser.
It hit midships.
There was no gradual destruction.
The ship simply… broke.
A violent detonation tore through its center, splitting it in two, the bow and stern lifting apart before collapsing into the sea, the wreck vanishing beneath the surface in a churning mass of foam and debris.
The last of the escort—
gone.
Carroll lowered his glass slowly.
His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
Around him, the guns of his dreadnoughts remained silent, still out of effective range, still unable to touch the enemy that now dictated every movement of the battle.
Ahead—
the Germans turned again.
West.
Cutting across his path.
Reforming.
And on the bridge of SMS Moltke, Admiral Reinhard Scheer watched it all with something close to exultation.
His eyes burned with intensity as the last British escort vanished beneath the sea, as the enemy was stripped down, reduced, isolated.
"Yes…" he murmured, voice low and fervent. "Yes… that's it…"
He stepped forward, almost leaning into the moment.
"More," he said, louder now. "Give me more!"
His grin widened, something fierce and almost unrestrained.
"Sink them all!" he roared. "For God and Fatherland, untill the death—sink them!"
The German line completed its turn westward, their formation tightening once more, their broadsides aligning as they prepared to face the remaining British dreadnoughts.
Scheer raised his hand.
"Now…" he said, voice dropping again, cold and certain.
"…we finish this."
The German line moved as one.
Six battlecruisers swung into perfect alignment, their hulls cutting across the sea as they turned westward, forming a clean, deadly broadside. Ahead of them, the two remaining British dreadnoughts answered the motion, HMS King George V and HMS Ajax grinding through the water to mirror the maneuver, their own massive guns turning to meet the threat.
For a fleeting moment—
the lines aligned.
Side to side.
Steel to steel.
And then—
the Germans fired.
It was not a volley.
It was a storm.
Nearly fifty heavy guns spoke at once, a thunderclap that rolled across the sea as flame burst from the German line and shells screamed outward in a dense, converging wave. They did not scatter. They did not search.
They were aimed.
All of them.
At HMS Ajax.
The sky seemed to darken for a heartbeat as the shells descended, then the sea erupted around her—columns of water rising in violent succession, bracketing her hull—
—and then they hit.
One struck along her forward section, exploding against armor that held but shattered everything around it in a storm of flame and fragments. Another slammed into her deck, detonating with brutal force, tearing through exposed positions, killing men instantly, hurling others across the deck like broken dolls.
A third struck near a turret.
It did not pierce.
But it did not need to.
The impact alone was catastrophic—the blast tearing through the gun housing, the crew inside vaporized in an instant, the turret itself left intact but silenced, its guns frozen in place.
Inside the ship, the effect was worse.
The entire hull shuddered violently as shockwaves tore through the structure, men thrown against bulkheads, equipment ripped loose, compartments rupturing as water began to force its way inward through newly opened seams.
HMS Ajax staggered—
—but she did not stop.
On the bridge of HMS King George V, Carroll saw it all.
"Oh… bollocks…"
Then, instantly—
"Return fire! Return fire!"
The British guns answered.
Flame roared from their barrels, shells rising in disciplined arcs toward the German line—but the range, the motion, the timing—
it was off.
The shells fell short.
Wide.
Columns of water rose harmlessly around the German ships.
"No hits, sir!" an officer called.
Carroll's jaw tightened.
"Bloody hell…"
Then louder—
"Reload! Faster! Armor-piercing—use armor-piercing shells! Tell the gunners to steady themselves—aim and fire properly or we'll be sunk where we stand!"
"Aye, sir!"
The guns were worked again, crews moving with desperate urgency, shells rammed home, charges set—
—and before they could fire—
the Germans struck again.
Another wave.
Another storm.
Shells fell upon Ajax once more, closer now, heavier, more precise. Impacts rang out across her hull, explosions walking along her deck, tearing at her again and again as the sea erupted around her in violent succession.
And still—
she held.
Still she pushed forward.
Still she fought.
Then—
"TORPEDOES!"
The shout came from below.
"TORPEDOES—BEHIND US! FROM THE NORTH!"
Carroll spun instantly.
"What—?!"
There—
cutting through the water—
thin white wakes.
Not many.
But enough.
Coming from the opposite side—striking from behind, from the unseen depths where the submarines had circled back.
"Damn it!" Carroll snapped. "Evasive maneuvers! Hard to port—turn north! Hard turn!"
The great ship responded at once, her helm thrown over as HMS King George V began to drag herself across the sea, engines surging as she forced the maneuver.
Beside her, HMS Ajax tried to follow.
Too slow.
Too damaged.
The torpedoes came in.
One passed wide of King George V, slicing through the water ahead of her bow.
Another struck.
A violent explosion tore along her stern, the blast shaking the entire ship, steel buckling as water surged into the lower compartments.
"Report!" Carroll barked.
"Minor breach, sir! Flooding contained—for now!"
"Good. Hold her steady."
The report had barely settled when another voice cut in—tight, urgent, already strained with the weight of what it carried.
"Signal from HMS Ajax, sir!"
Carroll turned sharply. "Report!"
The signal officer swallowed, then spoke quickly, reading from the incoming transmission.
"Sir—Ajax reports—propellers hit. Multiple shafts disabled. They've lost propulsion—"
A brief pause.
"…they are dead in the water, sir."
For a moment, Carroll said nothing.
He simply stared ahead.
At the drifting shape of HMS Ajax.
At the way her movement had faltered… slowed… then twisted, her massive hull beginning to swing helplessly as the last of her momentum died beneath her.
"…Damn it," he breathed.
Then louder—
"Secondary batteries—open fire! Sweep the sea! I don't care if you can't see them—drive those bloody submarines off!"
"Aye, sir!"
The smaller guns roared at once, rapid-fire shells hammering into the water in chaotic bursts, explosions ripping across the surface as they tried to force back an enemy that refused to show itself.
"Helm—bring us about!" Carroll snapped. "Turn west—full broadside! We face them again!"
HMS King George V responded, her great hull dragging across the sea as she turned once more, her main guns grinding into position.
Ahead—
the German line was already moving.
Westward.
And firing.
Another storm of shells descended—
not on him—
but on Ajax.
Columns of water rose around her crippled hull, then the hits came. Explosions tore across her decks, flames bursting outward as the wounded dreadnought absorbed blow after blow, unable to maneuver, unable to evade, reduced to a burning, drifting target.
"Return fire!" Carroll roared.
His guns answered.
This time, a few shells found their mark.
Distant flashes along the German line—small explosions, bursts of flame and smoke as rounds struck armor and superstructure. Not decisive. Not crippling.
But hits.
Carroll's eyes lit for a brief moment.
"Yes—keep firing—!"
Then, the Germans moved again, and the line curved south.
A smooth, deliberate turn, their speed carrying them through the maneuver with terrifying ease.
"Helm—follow them!" Carroll snapped. "Keep them in range!"
HMS King George V answered, turning south in pursuit, her engines straining to keep pace.
But the Germans did not hold that course, not for long.
They completed the arc and turned again, East.
It was a clean U-turn.
Then their broadsides came to bear once more.
And this time—
they did not hold anything back.
The German line fired as one, a rolling thunder that seemed to shake the very horizon as dozens of heavy guns discharged in perfect sequence. Flame burst from the muzzles, recoil shuddered through steel hulls, and the shells rose together—tight, deliberate, converging—before beginning their long, deadly descent.
On the bridge of HMS King George V, Carroll saw it.
Not as chaos—
but as pattern.
He saw the splashes walking inward, tightening, correcting, each salvo closer than the last.
And then—
one did not splash.
It struck.
Clean.
A 380-millimetre shell, massive and brutal, came down at a steep angle, its velocity still immense even after its long arc. It hit the deck of HMS Ajax with a shriek of tearing steel—and did not stop.
It punched through.
Deck armor buckled, then gave way. The shell drove downward, its hardened cap biting through layers of steel, smashing through compartments as it fell deeper into the ship. Bulkheads crumpled before it, ladders twisted, men in its path didn't even have time to react—only a blur of motion, a passing force.
Inside the shell, the delay fuse burned, not for long, but just enough to reach the heart.
Below—
the boiler room.
It was a world of heat and noise, a furnace alive with motion. Fires roared within the boilers, coal fed constantly by men stripped to sweat and soot, their bodies moving in rhythm with the demands of the ship. The air was thick, choking, every breath a labor.
They didn't hear the shell.
They felt it first.
A deep, unnatural vibration ran through the deck above, a violent tremor that didn't belong.
Then, it came through.
The shell burst through the plating overhead, tearing through the last barrier and dropping into the compartment below.
Not fast anymore.
Just heavy.
Like something fallen from a great height.
It struck the deck with a thick, solid thud—like an iron weight dropped from the sky—and rolled slightly, embedding itself against the plating.
For a moment nothing happened.
The boilers still roared, men still moved around, until one of them glanced over, frowning.
"…Jerry…?"
Another turned, wiping sweat from his brow.
"What is—"
He saw it.
A massive steel cylinder, half-buried in the deck, its casing scarred and glowing faintly from the friction of its fall.
At its base was the fuse, spinning slower and slower with each spin.
"…is that what I think it is?"
Silence followed, for just a fraction of a second.
Then—
"…Yes."
The word barely left his mouth.
"RUN—! RUN, YOU—!"
They dropped everything.
Men turned, stumbled, tried to move, but the fuse had already burned its length.
There was no time.
The shell detonated.
The explosion did not flash outward like a surface hit—it expanded, a violent release of pressure and heat that filled the confined space instantly. Steel bulkheads were torn apart from within, machinery ripped free as if it weighed nothing, the boilers themselves rupturing under the shock, releasing scalding steam in a catastrophic surge.
The men were not thrown or scattered, they ceased to exist.
Erased.
The blast surged upward and outward, ripping through the ship's interior in a chain reaction of destruction. Compartments collapsed, decks above buckled, fire ignited wherever the explosion touched.
On the surface, HMS Ajax convulsed.
A deep, internal detonation tore through her midsection, flame and debris erupting outward as the damage spread through her core. The hull shuddered violently, then began to give way, her structure no longer able to hold against the force unleashed within.
Her decks split.
Her spine cracked.
The forward superstructure trembled, tilted and then collapsed.
The bridge, already damaged, gave way entirely, its supports sheared apart as it fell forward like a great tree, crashing down across the deck below. Men inside were thrown against shattered glass and steel, screams lost in the roar as the structure collapsed around them.
Water surged in.
Unstoppable.
Fire poured from the wounds in her hull, smoke rising thick into the sky as the sea began to claim her.
HMS Ajax was no longer a warship.
She was a broken carcass of steel.
And she was dying.
On the bridge of HMS King George V, Carroll did not move.
He stood there, staring.
At what had once been HMS Ajax.
At the broken hull, the collapsing superstructure, the fire still clawing its way out from within as the sea rushed in to claim what remained.
"…No…" he whispered, barely audible.
For a moment—just a moment—he looked like a man who had forgotten where he was.
Then something snapped.
"Helm—bring us alongside!" he roared suddenly, voice cracking with urgency. "Close the distance—now! We are not leaving them there!"
"Sir—"
"That is an order! Move!"
The great dreadnought answered, engines pushing hard as HMS King George V altered course, turning in toward the wreck. Her guns still thundered intermittently, firing back toward the German line, but their rhythm had broken—secondary to what now mattered.
Ahead, men were already jumping.
Figures leapt from the shattered decks of Ajax, some falling cleanly into the sea, others tumbling from collapsing sections of the ship, vanishing into smoke and steam.
"Lower boats!" Carroll shouted. "All available boats—get them in the water!"
On a dreadnought of her class, boats were not many, nor were they designed for rapid deployment in battle. Steam pinnaces, cutters, whalers—secured along the deck, swung out on davits. Crews rushed to them, hands working frantically to release them, to lower them, to get something—anything—into the water.
Lines were cast.
Davits creaked.
The first boats began to descend.
And then—
the Germans fired.
A fresh barrage came in.
Most fell short or wide—towering plumes of water erupting around the ship—but a few found their mark.
One shell struck the deck.
It detonated with brutal force, the explosion ripping across the exposed surface, tearing through men and metal alike. Shrapnel—white-hot fragments of steel—cut through bodies as if they were nothing.
A man was there—
then he was not.
Another screamed as both legs vanished beneath him.
Another stumbled forward, half his torso gone, collapsing before he even understood he had been hit.
Blood sprayed.
Fire ignited.
Chaos.
Another shell fell further aft, exploding against the deck and sending more fragments screaming outward. Men were thrown, bodies torn apart, the deck turning into a slaughterhouse as those trying to lower the boats were cut down where they stood.
Carroll flinched back, fury overtaking him.
"Damn them!" he roared. "Damn those—those Huns!"
His voice rose, raw, unrestrained now.
"Savages! Animals! We're rescuing our own men, you bastards!"
Another impact.
More screams.
The officer beside him grabbed his arm.
"Sir—please! If we stay here, we'll be sunk! We cannot hold position under this fire!"
Carroll hesitated.
He looked back.
At the water.
At the men struggling, swimming, clinging to debris.
At what remained of Ajax.
His jaw clenched so tight it trembled.
"…Damn it…"
Then, with a sharp motion—
"Cut the lines! Drop the boats—now! Get them into the water and pull away!"
"Aye, sir!"
There was no more time for careful lowering.
Ropes were slashed.
Boats dropped hard into the sea below, some striking the water cleanly, others hitting at awkward angles, but still afloat—still usable.
"God help them…" Carroll muttered.
"Helm—bring us about! Full speed north! We withdraw!"
HMS King George V began her turn, pulling away from the wreck, her hull cutting hard through the water as she disengaged. Smoke rose from her deck where fires had taken hold, and she was already taking on water from earlier damage, her condition far from sound.
Behind her the wreck of Ajax slipped further beneath the surface.
The sea began to close over her.
And the survivors, were left to the mercy of the waves and the few boats that remained.
The German guns fell silent.
They did not pursue.
On the bridge of SMS Moltke, Reinhard Scheer watched the British dreadnought turn away.
And he smiled.
A slow, satisfied smile.
"We have them," he said quietly.
Around him, officers allowed themselves brief, restrained expressions of relief—of triumph.
Vice Admiral Maximilian von Spee stepped forward.
"Well fought, Fleet Admiral," he said. "What are your orders now? Do we pursue—or strike the convoy?"
Scheer did not answer immediately.
He looked south, where the faint smudge of smoke still marked the convoy's distant position.
Then north.
Where heavier smoke now rose—thicker, faster-moving.
Reinforcements.
British reinforcements.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"…No."
He shook his head once.
"We pull back."
A pause.
"Signal the fleet—regroup. We link with the Derfflinger-class squadron."
He turned slightly, his expression calm again, composed, controlled.
"The convoy is nothing," he added dismissively. "A distraction. We will not waste ammunition on scraps."
His gaze lifted toward the northern horizon.
"We have larger prey approaching."
Spee inclined his head.
"As you command, Fleet Admiral."
Below them, the sea churned with wreckage and fire, with the last remnants of the British line sinking into the depths.
And as the German fleet turned away to meet the next phase of the battle—
the Atlantic fell, for a brief moment, into silence, but it was not the end.
Only the beginning.
The first clash had passed.
The second was coming.
And this time, both sides would come in strength.
*****
Author's Note:
Hey guys—quick note at the end here.
I recently started a new side project called Jeff Dracula & ZNation. It's a darker (and slightly chaotic) story about a guy who accidentally causes a zombie apocalypse… and then has to live with it.
If that sounds interesting, feel free to check it out and let me know what you think.