January 1915 found Europe still at war.
On parts of the Western Front, soldiers had recently tried to remember what Christmas felt like.
In the East, very few were given that luxury.
Snow continued falling over the trenches in Poland.
Men froze to death in the Carpathian Mountains.
And in the Black Sea, two empires were already preparing new ways to strike each other.
The harbor of Sevastopol awoke long before sunrise.
Shells were being loaded onto ships.
Coal crews worked without pause.
Sailors carried crates of supplies.
Officers shouted over the noise of the docks.
The cold air smelled of seawater, coal, and engine oil.
Steam rose above the harbor from the funnels of warships.
The Black Sea Fleet was preparing to sail.
Andriy Pokrovsky stood on the deck of Russian battleship Evstafi and watched the harbor.
Nearby, Russian battleship Ioann Zlatoust was completing final preparations.
Farther away stood Russian battleship Panteleimon and Russian battleship Tri Sviatitelia.
Destroyers moved constantly between the larger battleships.
Russian cruiser Almaz was completing its own preparations.
Mykola Maksymov stopped beside him.
For a while, both men silently watched the harbor.
Then Maksymov said:
—"It's strange watching an entire fleet prepare for battle in this kind of silence. Land battles are usually much louder before they begin."
Pokrovsky looked toward the battleships.
—"Armies on land fight geography. They have rivers, forests, hills, and neat arrows on maps."
He paused.
—"At sea, you can spend hours staring at empty water and then lose a ship in ten minutes."
Maksymov nodded.
—"And people still call naval service comfortable."
Pokrovsky gave a faint smile.
—"Usually people who say that have never drowned."
A staff officer appeared on deck.
—"Senior officers to briefing."
Inside the command room, naval maps covered nearly every table.
The Bosphorus.
Ottoman fortifications.
Coal ports.
Minefields.
Patrol routes.
Estimated positions of SMS Goeben.
Estimated positions of SMS Breslau.
The admiral began without unnecessary introductions.
—"Our primary objective is the bombardment of Ottoman coastal fortifications near the Bosphorus."
His finger moved across the map.
—"Our secondary objective is to damage coal infrastructure supporting Ottoman naval operations."
One captain asked:
—"Expected resistance?"
—"Coastal batteries."
A brief pause.
—"And possibly Goeben."
The room grew quieter.
Everyone understood what that meant.
SMS Goeben remained the most dangerous ship in the Black Sea.
One captain broke the silence.
—"And if we encounter her directly?"
The admiral answered calmly.
—"Then we sink her."
A few officers quietly laughed.
Most did not.
After the briefing, Maksymov walked beside Pokrovsky.
—"At the academy, they taught us that a battleship fleet makes the Black Sea safe for the empire."
Pokrovsky glanced at the maps still in his hands.
—"Then the Germans sent one battlecruiser and forced every admiral in the region to rewrite those lectures."
Maksymov allowed himself a smile.
—"One ship shouldn't change the balance that much."
—"In theory."
Pokrovsky looked toward the sea.
—"War enjoys humiliating theory."
By noon, the fleet began leaving Sevastopol.
Civilians gathered near the harbor.
Some waved.
Some simply watched in silence.
Many were saying goodbye to relatives.
Massive anchors rose from the seabed.
Engines thundered.
One after another, the battleships moved toward open water.
Some sailors crossed themselves.
Others kissed small icons.
Some simply stared at the horizon.
Pokrovsky looked back at Sevastopol one final time.
The city slowly disappeared into winter fog.
Ahead lay the Black Sea.
And beyond it—another battle was waiting.
By evening, Sevastopol had completely disappeared beyond the horizon.
Only the sea remained.
Cold wind.
And heavy warships moving south.
Winter in the Black Sea proved far less calm than many people on land imagined.
Waves slammed against steel hulls.
Destroyers nearly vanished between massive walls of water.
At times, freezing spray crashed across the decks.
Sailors worked in soaked uniforms while cursing both the weather and the sea.
Mykola Maksymov stood on the upper deck of Russian cruiser Almaz and tried to make out the rest of the squadron.
At times, the silhouette of Russian battleship Evstafi appeared through the fog.
Then disappeared again.
Farther away, Ioann Zlatoust and Tri Sviatitelia pushed through the darkness.
By nightfall, the entire fleet had become moving shadows.
On the bridge, officers studied maps of known minefields.
The Ottoman fleet actively used mines.
German officers used them even more effectively.
One mistake could send even a battleship to the bottom.
The navigation officer reported:
—"Approximately eight hours until the operational zone."
The captain nodded.
—"Night signals?"
—"Minimal."
—"Radio?"
—"Emergency use only."
The captain calmly added:
—"I have no intention of informing SMS Goeben that we're here before necessary."
Later, Maksymov entered the officers' mess.
Andriy Pokrovsky was already there.
He was drinking tea that had gone cold long ago.
Maksymov sat across from him.
—"On land, at least you can usually see the direction death is coming from."
Pokrovsky looked at the steel wall of the cabin.
—"That's because army officers are obsessed with geography. They have rivers, forests, hills, and elegant arrows on maps."
He took a small sip.
—"The sea has a worse temperament. It lets you relax before it kills you with something you never saw."
Maksymov smirked.
—"Very encouraging conversation before battle."
—"I try to support younger officers."
The ship suddenly rolled hard.
Shouting erupted above.
Both officers rushed back onto the deck.
Signal crews were already working.
One destroyer had sharply changed course.
Signals were sent to the flagship.
For several tense minutes, the entire squadron slowed.
Sailors stared into the dark water.
Many expected an explosion.
A mine?
A torpedo?
A submarine?
Several minutes later, another signal arrived.
False alarm.
Floating debris.
Tension eased.
But only briefly.
Before dawn, the weather began improving.
The fog slowly thinned.
Dark outlines appeared on the horizon.
The Ottoman Empire.
The bridge immediately became more active.
A lookout shouted:
—"Land directly ahead!"
Another officer yelled:
—"Fortifications confirmed!"
Andriy Pokrovsky raised his binoculars.
The defensive positions near the entrance to the Bosphorus were now visible.
Some batteries remained silent.
That would not last long.
An officer beside him quietly said:
—"Strange."
Pokrovsky did not lower his binoculars.
—"What exactly?"
—"Constantinople is so close."
He continued staring at the horizon.
—"Empires have fought over these straits for centuries."
Pokrovsky answered after a pause.
—"Yes."
Then calmly added:
—"And the people who pay for those ambitions are rarely the ones who made the decisions."
Signals rose from the flagship.
The squadron began shifting into battle formation.
Gun turrets slowly turned toward shore.
Shell crews moved into position.
Ammunition began moving upward.
One senior artillery officer crossed himself.
Then looked toward the coast.
—"Well."
He adjusted his gloves.
—"Time to remind the Ottomans that we also have a navy."
Within minutes, the first shots would be fired.
With the first light of dawn, the Black Sea turned gray.
Low clouds hung over the water.
The Ottoman coastline became clearer with every passing minute.
First came a dark line on the horizon.
Then hills.
Then fortifications.
The coastal batteries guarding the entrance to the Bosphorus.
On the bridge of Evstafi, officers worked without unnecessary words.
Rangefinders shouted distances.
Signalmen tracked orders from the flagship.
Artillery crews moved into final positions.
Andriy Pokrovsky studied the coastline through binoculars.
He could already see movement.
Ottoman crews had spotted the Russian squadron.
Guns were being repositioned.
Signal flags rose above the coastal batteries.
The artillery officer spoke calmly, as if this were a training exercise.
—"Distance: eleven thousand meters."
Another officer quickly adjusted calculations.
—"Crosswind from starboard."
—"Corrections ready."
A command came from the bridge.
—"Open fire."
Evstafi fired first.
The entire battleship shuddered violently.
The thunder of the guns rolled across the sea.
Massive clouds of smoke rose above the turrets.
Several seconds later, shells landed near the Ottoman fortifications.
The first salvo fell short.
—"Two hundred meters farther."
A second salvo.
This time, one shell struck directly into a defensive position.
A massive explosion erupted across the hill.
Stone, dirt, and shattered artillery positions were thrown into the air.
Seconds later, Ioann Zlatoust fired.
Then Tri Sviatitelia joined.
Within minutes, the entire coastline shook beneath heavy shellfire.
Inside one Ottoman battery, a young officer screamed orders through the explosions.
His men struggled to reload a heavy coastal gun.
One crew was killed by a direct hit.
The remaining men kept working.
—"Fire!"
The Ottoman gun fired back.
Seconds later, a massive wall of water exploded beside Evstafi.
Sailors on deck were drenched.
—"Short!"
The next Ottoman shell landed much closer.
Fragments tore through part of the upper structure.
One sailor collapsed.
Two others were wounded.
Andriy Pokrovsky moved quickly toward the damaged section.
One sailor was clutching his blood-covered arm.
Another lay motionless.
A ship doctor was already working nearby.
Pokrovsky looked toward shore.
—"They found our range faster than I expected."
The artillery officer answered immediately.
—"German instructors."
Pokrovsky nodded grimly.
That explained enough.
On Russian cruiser Almaz, Mykola Maksymov watched the coastline descend into chaos.
Smoke covered large sections of the batteries.
At times, it became impossible to tell whether a target had been destroyed—or simply disappeared behind smoke.
A signalman shouted:
—"Fire in the port!"
Maksymov raised his binoculars.
Coal depots were burning.
Black smoke climbed into the sky.
An older officer beside him muttered:
—"At least the admirals will receive a beautiful report."
Maksymov glanced at him.
—"You say that like you don't intend to survive today."
The older officer remained calm.
—"I intend to survive strongly enough to avoid reading whatever report the admirals write afterward."
Despite the battle, Maksymov laughed.
Naval officers seemed to preserve their humor in strange ways.
Another Ottoman shell struck the water near Almaz.
The explosion knocked several sailors off their feet.
One man disappeared overboard.
—"Man overboard!"
The alarm spread instantly.
But the captain never turned his head.
—"Maintain course."
Maksymov stared at him.
The captain remained calm.
—"If we stop now, everyone becomes an easier target."
Maksymov said nothing.
He knew the captain was right.
That did not make watching a man disappear into freezing water any easier.
One by one, the Ottoman batteries began falling silent.
Some had been destroyed.
Others simply stopped firing.
For a moment, it seemed the operation was succeeding.
And then a lookout aboard Evstafi shouted:
—"Smoke on the horizon!"
The bridge fell silent.
Another observer raised binoculars.
His expression changed instantly.
—"Large fast-moving warship."
A pause.
—"Very large."
Andriy Pokrovsky slowly lowered his binoculars.
He already knew exactly what they were about to see.
At first, only smoke appeared on the horizon.
A dark line above the water.
Then came the silhouette.
Long.
Fast.
Dangerous.
For several seconds, no one spoke on the bridge of Evstafi.
Officers silently stared through binoculars.
There was almost no doubt.
The observer was the first to say what everyone was already thinking.
—"SMS Goeben."
Another silhouette appeared farther away.
Smaller.
Faster.
—"SMS Breslau confirmed."
The Ottoman coastal batteries that were still operational resumed firing.
Now the Russian squadron found itself trapped between the shore and the German-Ottoman ships.
On the bridge of Evstafi, officers quickly evaluated the situation.
One officer proposed:
—"Continue the bombardment for several more minutes."
Another immediately disagreed.
—"In several minutes, Goeben will begin firing from favorable range."
Andriy Pokrovsky listened carefully.
Then spoke calmly.
—"We've already done enough damage to the shore. If we stay between the batteries and Goeben, we'll hand the Germans the perfect firing position."
The captain gave a short nod.
—"Agreed."
Signals rose from the flagship.
The Russian squadron began turning.
But Goeben had already opened fire.
The first salvo landed far away.
Massive walls of water erupted near Tri Sviatitelia.
The second landed closer.
The third struck.
A shell tore through part of the superstructure.
Fire erupted across the deck.
Men were thrown by the blast wave.
On Almaz, Mykola Maksymov watched through binoculars.
—"Damn..."
An older officer beside him remained calm.
—"Now the real battle begins."
The Russian ships began returning fire.
Evstafi fired.
Missed.
Ioann Zlatoust fired next.
Its shells landed closer.
Rangefinders screamed corrections.
Signal crews relayed commands.
The sea exploded around the ships as heavy shells crashed into the water.
SMS Goeben used its greatest advantage.
Speed.
It constantly shifted range.
It refused to let the Russians fully correct their fire.
On the German battlecruiser, officers worked with equal discipline.
A German artillery officer reported:
—"The Russians are maintaining formation better than in previous engagements."
The captain replied:
—"They're learning."
The German officer answered coldly:
—"Then we should kill them before they learn too much."
Another German salvo struck Panteleimon.
One shell penetrated the deck.
The damage was severe.
But the ship remained in the fight.
On Evstafi, Andriy Pokrovsky watched the gun crews.
Some sailors were already working with blood-covered hands.
A young signalman was killed beside the mast.
Another sailor silently stepped into his place.
Pokrovsky looked toward the artillery officer.
—"How much more time do we need?"
The officer never looked away from his calculations.
—"Either one good correction."
A short pause.
—"Or a miracle."
A minute later, Evstafi fired again.
Everyone watched.
The shells landed dangerously close to Goeben.
One overshot.
One fell short.
And one struck directly.
Smoke erupted from Goeben.
Shouts exploded across the bridge of Evstafi.
—"Hit confirmed!"
—"Direct hit!"
But the battle wasn't over.
SMS Breslau moved toward the Russian destroyers.
A chaotic close-range exchange followed.
Destroyers maneuvered between giants.
Torpedoes missed.
For several minutes, the battle became complete chaos.
Smoke.
Water.
Fire.
Explosions.
Signals.
Screams of the wounded.
Then Goeben began withdrawing.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
The German captain understood that several more hits could change the outcome entirely.
Breslau also withdrew.
The Ottoman coastal batteries had nearly gone silent.
The Russians remained in control of the battlefield.
But the victory came at a cost.
Wounded sailors lay across damaged decks.
Burned sections of ships still smoldered.
Some men would never see Sevastopol again.
Andriy Pokrovsky watched Goeben disappear into the distance.
And understood:
the next meeting might be even bloodier.