The headquarters of the Imperial German Navy stood in Berlin, within the heavy stone walls of the Bendlerblock, where maps ruled as much as men did.
By the end of August, the room had not known rest for over a month.
Lines had been drawn, erased, redrawn again across the great wall maps—North Sea, Atlantic, trade routes, convoy lanes—all marked with pins, chalk, and the slow accumulation of decisions that would shape the war at sea.
For weeks now, while Oskar had fought in the east, reports had reached him with growing frequency.
The raiding fleet was no longer as efficient as it had been.
At first, the damage had been immense—hundreds of British ships sunk, merchant, fishing, even warships—but now the British were adapting. Smaller vessels, destroyers, patrol ships, old cruisers—everything that could float and carry a gun—had been thrown into service. Convoys had begun to form. Merchant ships no longer sailed alone.
And where once German raiders had hunted freely—
now they were being watched.
Measured.
Prepared for.
Germany had the tools—submarines, battlecruisers—but not in the numbers required to strike large, well-guarded convoys without risk. And risk, at sea, could mean the loss of irreplaceable ships.
So the navy had adapted.
By Oskar's instruction, they had turned toward something else.
The fishing fleets.
It had seemed a small thing at first. Harsh, perhaps even unnecessary. But now, by late August, its effect was undeniable. The number of British vessels lost—merchant, fishing, auxiliary—was approaching eight hundred.
And yet, it was still not enough, because Britain was too big and it was adapting.
And now it moved to deploy yet another method to counter Germany.
In the late evening of the 24th of August, Oskar entered the naval headquarters in Berlin without ceremony.
The doors opened, and the room shifted.
Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Officers straightened. Heads turned.
His presence filled the space before he had even taken three steps inside.
Tirpitz saw him first.
For a brief moment, relief crossed the old admiral's face—real, unguarded relief—before discipline returned and smoothed it away.
Around the room, men straightened.
Fists rose to hearts.
"Your Highness."
The gesture passed through the room like a ripple, one after another, officers and staff alike bringing fist to chest in silent acknowledgment.
Oskar returned it with the slightest motion of his own hand, then stepped fully inside.
Even without speaking, his presence settled the room.
"Your Highness—" Tirpitz began, moving toward him at once, voice tight with urgency. "I must apologise for calling you here so soon after your return. I am aware you would have wished to remain with your family longer, but—"
Oskar raised a hand.
"Marshal," he said calmly, "there is no need."
A faint pause.
"You may call on me whenever the matter is worth it."
That eased something in Tirpitz immediately.
Oskar's gaze swept the room—maps, officers, chalk lines across the Atlantic, pins marking routes and losses.
"Now," he said, stepping toward the central table, "tell me what has changed at sea."
The officers closed in instinctively, tightening around the map.
Tirpitz turned first, gesturing toward the wide Atlantic spread.
"The situation has evolved," he said. "Not in our favour."
A pointer tapped the Canadian coast.
"Our intelligence confirms that the British are assembling a convoy in Canada—far larger than any previously attempted. Dozens of ships… perhaps forty or more. Food, metals, industrial supplies, ammunition. Enough to significantly relieve their shortages at home."
He paused.
"It is not a routine movement."
Admiral Hugo von Pohl, the Chief of the Admiralty Staff stepped forward, composed as ever.
"We have intercepted signals through our channels in Norway and through U-boat monitoring in the Atlantic. British naval units are repositioning—not merely to escort…"
A beat.
"But to shape the engagement."
He looked at Oskar directly.
"We believe this convoy is intended as bait."
A murmur passed through the room, low but unavoidable.
Admiral Reinhard Scheer followed, voice firm, measured.
"If we strike it, we strike something of real value. But we will not strike alone. The British are preparing a response—likely a concentrated force, held just beyond immediate range, waiting for us to commit."
Tirpitz folded his arms.
"And if we do not strike," he added, "the convoy reaches Britain intact. With it… confidence. Stability. And a method they will repeat again and again."
Silence followed.
Because both paths carried risk.
Oskar said nothing.
He studied the map.
Then, without looking up—
"How many ships have we taken so far?"
"Approaching eight hundred," Tirpitz replied. "Merchant, fishing, auxiliary combined."
Oskar nodded once.
"And yet," he said quietly, "they continue to move."
No one argued.
Because it was true.
Tirpitz shifted slightly, then continued, his tone darkening.
"There is more, Your Highness."
Oskar's eyes lifted.
"Japan," Tirpitz said. "Despite… your prior arrangements."
A brief pause.
"They have entered the war as you have surely heard. And with that, more concern's have risen."
That alone tightened the room.
"The port of Qingdao is no longer viable," Tirpitz went on. "Our agreements with the former Qing government no longer hold under the Republic. Under pressure from Japan, China has embargoed us. Our merchants have withdrawn where possible—many have fled inland, toward Tibet, Bhutan, or further west into neutral lands."
Another pause.
"Our eastern position is effectively neutralised."
Oskar listened.
Still.
"Japan has nothing left to take in Asia," Tirpitz continued. "Which leaves only one direction for their effort."
He gestured toward Africa.
"Our colonies."
Scheer stepped in.
"British forces from India have already attempted landings in East Africa," he said. "Repelled, for now. In Cameroon, bombardment attempts have been made against Southern Bauxi Town."
A faint nod followed.
"Your fortifications held."
"But only for now," Tirpitz added. "Pressure is increasing. If Japan commits naval assets alongside the British, the situation may deteriorate rapidly. Togoland has already fallen, and our Namibian Southwest Africa colony has been invaded by British South Africa. And like Togoland, I fear the rest of our colonies might fall… in time."
The weight of that settled.
Then—
Tirpitz returned to the Atlantic.
"At sea," he said, "our efforts have been effective—but limited. The restriction imposed by His Majesty remains in place. We are not permitted unrestricted warfare."
A faint edge entered his voice.
"Neutral shipping continues to supply Britain. Most notably from the United States."
Pohl nodded.
"Our attacks have forced adaptation, but not collapse."
Scheer added quietly—
"And now, with the convoy system… they are learning."
Oskar's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Convoys," Tirpitz said, "supported by large numbers of lesser vessels. Inefficient in theory… but effective in practice."
A pause.
"And this convoy from Canada… is their next step."
Another silence.
Tirpitz looked up at Oskar directly now.
"If they succeed," he said, "they will restore flow. Perhaps not fully—but enough. And if they do…"
He did not need to finish it.
"They will learn," Pohl said quietly.
"They will adapt," Scheer added.
"And we," Tirpitz concluded, "will have lost our advantage."
The room stilled.
Completely.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
"Your Highness…"
A pause.
"What do you think we should do?"
All eyes rested on Oskar.
He did not answer immediately.
Instead, he stood there in stillness, one hand resting lightly upon the edge of the table, the other rising slowly to his powerful chin. His fingers brushed along it in a quiet, thoughtful motion, eyes fixed not on the men—but on the map.
The Atlantic.
Africa.
Asia.
Lines of war stretching farther than most of the men in that room could truly comprehend.
For a moment—
he said nothing.
Then—
a slow breath left him.
"How unfortunate…" he murmured.
The words were quiet, but they carried.
"How unfortunate indeed."
His gaze shifted—eastward now, far beyond the walls of Berlin.
"I had expected Japan might honour its Anglo-Japanese Alliance with Britain," he continued. "That much was… predictable."
A pause.
"But China…"
There was the faintest tightening in his expression.
"I had hoped," he said, "that they would resist."
Another breath.
"That they would remember the goodwill shown to them. The opportunity given."
His hand lowered from his chin, resting lightly upon the map.
"But instead," he went on, voice steady but colder now, "they choose to bend."
He tapped the eastern edge of the map once.
"To embargo us… under pressure."
A faint shake of his head followed.
"In my eyes, that is no different from declaring war."
The officers exchanged brief glances.
None spoke.
"They spit upon what was offered to them," Oskar continued. "And treat it as though it held no weight at all."
A pause.
"But…"
He exhaled.
"…such is to be expected of a government that does not yet understand itself."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"The Republic," he said, almost dismissively. "Born in haste. Held together by ambition, not unity. Men like Yuan Shikai do not build nations—they struggle merely to control them."
Another pause.
"A pity."
His gaze drifted for a moment—past the room, past the present.
"The old court was flawed," he said quietly. "But it endured. It understood continuity… even in its weakness."
A faint, almost distant note entered his voice.
"And when it died… it took stability with it."
He shook his head once, lightly.
"But that matter is no longer ours to shape."
Just like that—
the thought was gone.
Dismissed.
"As for Japan," he continued, returning fully to the present, "they have chosen their path. And China has chosen weakness."
A pause.
"There is nothing we can do about either of them… for now."
That settled.
Firm.
Final.
His gaze shifted again—south this time.
Africa.
"Our colonies," he said.
Tirpitz and the others straightened slightly.
"They are exposed," Oskar continued. "That much is clear. And they will suffer for it."
There was no denial or comfort, only truth.
"But they are not the priority."
That drew a few looks.
"German Cameroon will hold," he said. "It was built to hold. And as long as it stands… we have a point of consolidation."
He traced a slow line across the map.
"If the worst comes, our people from the other colonies can be withdrawn through the interior to German Cameroon where we will hold. They will not be lost."
That was certainty.
"But let us not deceive ourselves," he added. "Cameroon will not stand forever. Nor need it."
That shifted something within the men. Because now came what they were waiting for.
"These losses…" Oskar said, "…are not the war."
He turned slightly then, his gaze sweeping back across the room.
"They are symptoms of it."
Silence.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice steady, controlled, "Africa and Asia are… distant concerns. Important, yes. But not decisive."
His hand returned to the map of the Atlantic.
"To win this war," Oskar said at last, his voice calm but carrying through the room, "we do not need to hold every colony. We need only break one thing."
His finger pressed lightly against the center of the British navy, Scapa Flow.
"Their precious Navy there."
That landed heavily.
Everything else—Japan, China, Africa—fell away in that moment, stripped of illusion and reduced to what they truly were.
Secondary.
"And until that is done," he continued, "nothing else will matter."
Silence followed, long enough for the weight of it to settle.
Then his gaze lowered again, tracing the convoy routes, the patrol lines, the thin but persistent artery running from Canada to the British Isles.
"The British have set a trap. That is good." he said.
A faint smile touched his lips.
A few officers shifted.
"It means they are where we want them," Oskar continued. "Because the convoys were never the true target. You all understand this."
No one spoke—but they did.
"We have attacked their trade," he went on, "their merchants, their fishing fleets, their supply."
A slight shake of his head followed.
"That was never the end."
His finger tapped the map once.
"It was the means."
Now the room tightened.
"To force them to react. To force them to divide. To force them to protect what they cannot afford to lose."
Another pause.
"And now—look at them."
He gestured across the board.
"Their fleet is no longer concentrated. It is stretched—from the Atlantic… to Africa… to their colonies."
A quiet tap.
"We have split them."
His voice lowered slightly.
"And that… is weakness."
The words settled, not loudly, but with certainty.
"They are no longer a single fist, but fingers." Oskar said.
A few men exchanged glances.
"And fingers can break, much easier than a fist, if placed under enough pressure," he added calmly, "And now, we have our opportunity to break them."
The officers leaned in—not from duty, but because they understood.
"The convoy," Oskar said, tapping the route, "is both a trap… and a prize."
He looked at them.
"If we ignore it, they succeed. If we strike blindly, we fail. But if we strike correctly…"
His finger pressed harder against the map.
"…we destroy what protects them."
Now they saw it clearly.
"The ships that matter," he continued, "are not the ones carrying cargo. They are the ones protecting it. Their precious warship's."
That drew the room tight.
All eyes were on Oskar, the room held in a quiet tension as the officers waited for him to speak.
"Now then, according to the reports you have presented," he said calmly, "the British convoy is being escorted by four King George V-class battleships. Four super-dreadnoughts—each armed with five twin 343mm guns—forming the backbone of their line. If we can destroy them in a single engagement, the damage to the British Navy will be… significant."
The words settled heavily across the table.
Marshal von Pohl shifted slightly, his expression tightening with concern. "Your Highness, the British will not expose such ships without preparation. There will be other fleets—hidden, waiting. Our commerce raiding force may be strong enough to deal with those four battleships, but if we are caught in an ambush…" He paused. "Then the consequences could be severe."
Oskar did not answer immediately. Instead, a faint smile touched his lips, as if the concern itself had confirmed something he already knew.
"Then let us continue the analysis," he said, almost lightly. "The British are not fools. They understand our strengths. They know our raiding force is built around battlecruisers, and they know precisely what that means—that we are faster than any battleship they can field."
He moved a finger slowly across the map, tracing unseen lines of thought.
"If they intend to trap us, they must use ships capable of catching us. And that leaves them with only one practical option—their battlecruisers."
A few heads nodded.
"After the loss of the Lion," Oskar continued, "they still possess nine battlecruisers. Three Invincible-class. Three Indefatigable-class. The remaining Lion-class ships, and the newly completed Tiger. Of these, only the Lion and Tiger classes are of any real concern."
His gaze lifted, steady and certain.
"The others are… inadequate. Thinly armored, structurally weak, designed for speed at the cost of survivability. They are no match for our own battlecruisers. We have already proven this. The Lion-class themselves, even at their best, are inferior to our Moltke-class, and at most comparable to our Blücher-class."
A brief pause followed.
"So even if the British attempt an ambush using their battlecruisers," he concluded quietly, "the threat remains limited. For us… it is an opportunity."
That word lingered.
A golden one.
Field Marshal Count Tirpitz, however, did not relax. His brow remained furrowed as he leaned slightly forward. "And if they do not rely solely on battlecruisers?" he asked. "If they commit battleships as well? Your Highness, your conclusion depends on an assumption—that they will not."
Oskar inclined his head slightly.
"That is a valid concern," he admitted. "And one I have already considered."
His gaze sharpened.
"Which is precisely why we will not rely on assumptions."
A faint shift moved through the room.
"Our advantage," he continued, "has never been limited to what the British believe we possess."
A pause.
"And it is time we remind them of that."
He straightened slightly.
"The Derfflinger-class."
The name alone altered the air.
"These ships," Oskar said, his voice steady, "have remained hidden for a reason. But that reason has now served its purpose. They will be deployed as a supplementary force to our raiding fleet. They will not reveal themselves immediately—but when the British commit… when their ambush takes form…"
A faint smile returned.
"They will strike."
No one spoke.
Because they understood what that meant.
"The Derfflinger-class battlecruisers are not merely improvements," Oskar went on. "They are a generational leap. Three triple-mounted 380mm main guns, with fifty-caliber barrels. Firepower beyond anything currently fielded at sea. Their armor has been strengthened, their structural integrity improved—far beyond that of our previous designs."
He let the implications settle.
"In a direct engagement," he said quietly, "even British battleships would struggle to withstand them. Until the Mackensen-class enters service, they are the most powerful battlecruisers in existence."
And that was not said as pride.
But as fact.
For long, they had remained concealed. The British had searched, probed, speculated—but found nothing. Intelligence, counter-intelligence, deception—all of it had done its work.
And now, the time had come to use it.
Tirpitz remained still for a moment longer, his gaze fixed upon the map before him, before he exhaled slowly.
"If we deploy them," he said at last, voice measured but firm, "there will be no hiding it any longer. The shock of them—the advantage of secrecy—will be lost. The British will know. They will understand that we possess capital ships armed with 380mm guns."
That lingered.
It was not a small thing.
It was the kind of revelation that changed shipyards, doctrines—entire wars.
Pohl stepped in then, careful, respectful, but unwilling to ignore the danger.
"Indeed, Your Highness," he said, inclining his head slightly. "We do not question your decision. It is a sound plan—strategically, it is… compelling." A pause followed. "However, there is another matter we must consider. The blockade."
His hand moved across the North Sea on the map.
"We know there are gaps. We have charted their minefields, their patrol routes. And yes—our oil-fired boilers give us a significant advantage. Less smoke, less visibility. At night, especially… it is possible."
A slight tightening in his voice.
"But it is still dangerous. It is not without risk. To commit so heavily—we must be certain we understand the cost."
A murmur of agreement followed.
The room waited.
Oskar did not answer immediately.
Instead, he stood there in silence, his gaze drifting across the map, then beyond it, as if measuring not just the sea—but the pattern beneath it.
Then a faint breath left him.
"I understand," he said quietly.
His eyes lifted.
"I know your concerns. And they are valid."
That alone eased something in the room.
Then—
his tone shifted.
"But tell me," he continued, almost lightly, "have we not already been doing this?"
A few brows furrowed.
"Our submarines," Oskar said, tapping the map once, "have been slipping through this blockade since the war began. Weeks now. Over a month."
Silence.
"We have already passed through it," he went on. "Again and again."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"And we will do so again."
That settled harder than any reassurance.
"How?" Pohl asked quietly.
Oskar gave the smallest shrug.
"That," he said, "I leave to you, gentlemen."
A pause.
"You asked for my judgment. I have given it."
He stepped forward slightly, his voice gaining weight—not louder, but sharper.
"No matter what the British place before us," he said, "I believe—fully—that if we bring the Derfflinger-class into this battle, we will dominate it."
His gaze moved across the room.
"Their guns will outmatch anything the British commit. Battleships, battlecruisers—it will not matter."
A beat.
"And when we win…"
Now the room leaned in without realizing it.
"…the victory will not be measured only in ships sunk."
His voice lowered.
"It will be measured in everything that follows."
He gestured faintly across the Atlantic.
"Lost cargo. Lost investment. Lost revenue. Lost sailors. Lost admirals."
A pause.
"And something far more important."
His eyes hardened.
"Confidence."
That word lingered.
"If we break them here," Oskar continued, "we do not simply damage their fleet—we shake the foundation of their power. Not just Britain… but the entire Entente."
A faint breath.
"We will make them understand," he said, "that the German Navy is not something to be endured."
A pause.
"It is something to be feared."
Silence followed.
Not resistance.
Not doubt.
But thought.
Then Scheer spoke.
"Your Highness…" he said slowly, "…your reasoning is sound."
Another voice followed.
Then another.
Heads nodded.
Reluctantly at first.
Then firmly.
"Yes… it is possible."
"The risk is acceptable."
"We can do this."
The hesitation did not vanish—
but it gave way.
Oskar watched them, then gave a small nod.
"Good."
He straightened.
"Then our path is clear, is it not?"
A beat.
No one disagreed.
Then, more quietly, he added—
"As for unrestricted naval warfare… I will speak with my father."
A faint shift of tone followed.
"But I will not promise anything."
A few exchanged glances.
"Until the British give us cause," Oskar continued, "or events force our hand, I do not believe he will risk drawing the attention of other powers—particularly the United States."
A faint smirk touched his lips.
"We are strong," he said. "But there is no need to anger the entire world."
A brief pause.
"…not yet."
That drew the faintest hint of amusement from a few of the men.
Then it passed.
"Still," Oskar added, "every advantage matters. If we can weaken them further—cut their trade, reduce their supply—we take it. Every card we hold… we use."
He stepped back.
"Now," he said, "if we are agreed—"
The moment crystallized.
Scheer moved first.
"Yes your Highness, your will be done! For God and Fatherland, until the death."
Pohl followed.
Then Tirpitz.
Then the rest.
"For God and Fatherland, until the death."
Fists struck chests in unison.
Not loud.
But absolute.
Oskar watched them.
Then returned the gesture.
"For God and Fatherland," he said calmly, "until the death."
A pause.
"I look forward," he added, "to the results of your actions, gentlemen."
He inclined his head slightly.
"Carry on."
And with that, he turned. And left them to it. He still had other business to attend to. Most of all Karl awaited for him, and so did the talk of economics.