Chapter 166
Chapter 166
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 166
Chapter Title: Albatross Operation (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"Open fire!"
"Feuer!"
Kwaaang!!
On August 20, 1913, the Imperial Navy's raid on the Russian port began in Riga Bay amid a massive roar of gunfire.
Kwaaang! Kwarung! Boom!!
"Load the Chattans!"
"Smash them all to pieces!"
The city of Riga—once the heart of the Hanseatic League and now the fifth largest in the Russian Empire—crumbled under the merciless barrage from the Friedrich-class battleships.
The few Russian ships anchored in Riga Harbor desperately tried to fend off the German Imperial Navy's assault, but it was like hurling eggs at a boulder.
"Direct hit! Direct hit!"
"Aaaargh!"
Before long, they sank into the sea alongside their own ships, torn to shreds by the battleships' onslaught.
"Admiral Heinrich, Riga Bay seems sufficiently handled."
"Good. Gentlemen, next up: the Gulf of Finland!"
"Jawohl!"
Having pulverized every port in Riga Bay—from Riga to Pärnu and Kuressaare—the German Baltic Fleet turned its prows toward the Russian Empire's front yard: the Gulf of Finland.
Their next targets: Reval and Helsinki.
"G-Germans! The German fleet's coming!"
"Everyone, flee the harbor!"
The screams of fleeing residents in Reval and Helsinki mingled with the ceaseless thunder of distant cannon fire, creating a discordant symphony.
"Our cities are burning, and what the hell is the Baltic Fleet doing?!"
"All we've done is offer up our wives and daughters to Petrograd and Rasputin, and now they expect us to just protect the Tsar?!"
As Reval and Helsinki went up in flames under the German fleet's raid, the homeless rage of Estonians and Finns turned toward the inept Russian Empire and its Tsar.
They have no intention of protecting us—why should we submit to Russian rule?
The voices of those long dissatisfied with Russian domination grew louder across Finland and the Baltic states, and the Russian imperial government began to sweat, sensing the dire turn of events.
"The German Baltic Fleet is parading right under Petrograd's nose, and what is our Baltic Fleet doing?!"
"With our Baltic Fleet's strength, we could take on the Germans! Why cower like cowards?!"
To make matters worse, the repeated provocations by the German Baltic Fleet pushed the pride-wounded Russian nobility to their breaking point.
They relentlessly demanded that the Navy strike back against the Imperial Navy mocking the Russian Empire.
If most of the Baltic Fleet had been lost at the Dragon Palace, it might be different, but to them, the current Baltic Fleet was stronger than ever.
In truth, their claims weren't entirely baseless. The Russian Baltic Fleet remained intact, spared from Tsushima, and some forces from the Pacific Fleet—whose importance had diminished after Port Arthur's return—had been reassigned to it.
Moreover, spurred by the Friedrich-class hype, construction and launches of the Gangut-class battleships had accelerated, with several already deployed to the Baltic Fleet.
On paper, the Russian Baltic Fleet boasted the empire's strongest navy. They argued that while it might struggle against Germany's main High Seas Fleet, it could certainly hold its own against the similarly equipped German Baltic Fleet.
"Admiral Essen, my damned brother-in-law is raising hell in our front yard—can't we sortie the Baltic Fleet?"
"No, Your Majesty! This is a ploy by the German Imperial Navy to lure our fleet out of Kronstadt!"
Yet Nikolai Ottovich von Essen, commander of the Russian Baltic Fleet, remained firmly against sortieing.
Of course, even Essen burned with the desire to teach the German Baltic Fleet a lesson for rampaging freely in the Gulf of Finland, their own backyard.
In fact, Essen was offensively minded rather than defensive. In the original history, he had aggressively operated against the German Navy—tasking the future White Army leader Kolchak, protagonist of "The Admiral's Lover," to lay mines off Kiel and Danzig under cover of night.
But just because our forces look equal on paper doesn't mean our fleet's quality matches theirs!
Essen wasn't a fool like the loose-lipped Russian nobles.
He was, after all, considered the most capable Russian admiral to participate in World War I.
Though, given the Russian Navy's near-total inaction in that war, the praise was rather hollow.
In Essen's view, the German Baltic Fleet's actions screamed one thing: lure the Russian Baltic Fleet out of Kronstadt.
And what came next was obvious.
Fleet battle.
A head-on clash where fleets smashed each other with raw power in a fight to the death.
And in a head-on fight, the Imperial Navy holds the advantage!
Naval battles aren't decided solely by numbers.
Quality mattered just as much.
Numerically, the Russian Baltic Fleet seemed a match for the Germans, but qualitatively—whether ships or crew—it was no contest.
The Russians had only four Gangut-class battleships, while the Germans fielded super-Friedrichs like the Kaiser-class, plus numerous fast battlecruisers.
Thus, despite mounting pressure to sortie, Admiral Essen held firm, and Tsar Nicholas II's chronic indecision led him to postpone the order once more.
But the Russians didn't know.
The Germans had more tricks up their sleeve to draw out the Baltic Fleet.
At 4,000 meters altitude, the sky was cold and biting.
Temperatures plunged below minus ten degrees.
Without cold-weather gear, hypothermia would send you straight to Valhalla.
But lighting a stove up here was impossible.
Any fire would not only draw enemy eyes but could turn you into a shish kebab in seconds, vanishing like the fading dawn stars as day broke.
"How many hours until Petrograd?"
"Two hours left, sir!"
"So, arriving around 7 a.m. Perfect time to wake the Russians from their beauty sleep!"
"Hahahahaha!!"
Even without a stove, the sky-dwellers burned hotter than ever.
"It's a real shame we won't see Ivan's faces when they spot our ladies. At least a smoke would ease the regret a bit."
"Unless you want to burn alive in Russian skies, hold it till we return to base."
"Argh, I know, man. Hey, rookie. Sing us a tune."
The youngest pilot looked troubled at his senior's unreasonable demand.
He didn't know many songs to begin with.
Then a tune from the radio recently popped into his head.
"Today we'll sing a little song, drink cool wine so fine."
"Ooh~?"
The senior airmen cheered as the melody echoed through the quiet sky.
They knew it too.
A propaganda song for troops heading from the DRR to the Eastern Front, now popular across army and navy alike.
"And raise a glass together, for we must part, must part tonight."
The soldiers burst into laughter, joining the rookie in song.
It was their anthem, after all.
"Give me your hand, your white hand so grand."
They sang, reminiscing lovers' touches.
Thinking of families awaiting them.
"Farewell, my love. Farewell, my love. Stay well, safe and sound. For we must go, must go away."
They pressed on, cleaving wind and clouds.
"Must go away. To Russia, to Russia!"
Toward Russia's heart: Petrograd.
Thud—
"Mm... Dear? Didn't you hear something just now?"
"Hmm, I didn't hear anything."
On August 25, 1913, mere days after Tannenberg, Tsar Nicholas II scratched his head groggily in the Winter Palace bedroom, responding uncertainly to his wife, Empress Alexandra.
"Probably just heard wrong in your sleep."
Unlike the front lines, his capital—St. Petersburg, now rechristened Petrograd—remained peaceful.
"Damn, thinking of the front pisses me off again."
"Calm down. Rasputin said holding onto anger harms your health."
"Sorry, Alix. I didn't mean to worry you."
Nicholas II apologized to his wife while sighing over the grim frontline reports.
The shocking news of Samsonov's Second Army annihilated without a fight had just reached him.
Two hundred thousand. Exactly that.
Over two hundred thousand troops vanished in a single day.
Even the merciful Nicholas II couldn't stomach such an absurd defeat.
"What the hell was Zhilinsky, the Northwest Front commander, doing?!"
"According to Zhilinsky, Samsonov requested support too late, and by the time reinforcements arrived, it was too late."
Of course, the delay was Zhilinsky's fault, not Samsonov's.
But Samsonov was dead, and the dead speak no tales.
"Rennenkampf's First Army is still intact. He's preparing defenses to halt the Germans—trust him and let's watch a bit longer."
"Sigh... Alright."
At the persuasion of Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich—Russian Army commander-in-chief and the Tsar's cousin—Nicholas II nodded with a heavy sigh.
Of course, as everyone knew, his hopes would be dashed yet again.
"How goes the Galician front?"
"Yes, sir! General Nikolai Iudovich Ivanov's Southwest Front is smoothly seizing Galicia, pushing the Austro-Hungarian forces under Hindenburg toward the Carpathians."
For the generals on tenterhooks after Tannenberg, it was a drought-ending rain, an oasis in the desert.
Yet unease lingered.
"Reports say the German Seventh Army has arrived in Galicia to support the Austro-Hungarians. Nothing like East Prussia will happen, right?"
"O-Of course, Your Majesty. Isn't General Ivanov trusted by both you and the Empress?"
"Hm, true. Ivanov's reliable. We'll leave the Galician front to him."
The Tsar's words brought visible relief to the generals.
Though Nicholas II and his wife trusted Ivanov not for his talent, but because he was a devotee of Rasputin, whom they trusted above all.
"What a frustrating situation, Alix. Ivanov shines in Galicia, but elsewhere..."
"Don't worry. This is just a passing trial from above—things will improve soon."
"I hope so."
Snapping from reverie at Alexandra's comfort, Nicholas II clasped her hand, wishing it earnestly.
Then—
Kuwoong—!
"Hah?!"
"Kyaa!"
The Tsar's palace shook with a massive tremor.
Nicholas II barely caught his nearly falling Empress, calling for his valet in panic.
"Alexandr? Alexandr! What the devil is this racket?!"
"Your Majesty, pardon the intrusion!"
"The Guard Captain?"
Bursting through the bedroom door—ignoring protocol—was not the valet, but the Imperial Guard commander.
"Where's Alexandr? Why are you here?"
"No time to explain. You must evacuate to safety immediately!"
"What? What on earth—"
"It's... uh..."
The Guard Captain stammered, unsure how to describe the unprecedented crisis, then spoke.
"An air raid."
"What? A-Air raid?!"
"Yes. German airships have appeared over Petrograd. The capital is under attack!"