© Max Lamirande, 2025-2026

  Published by Max Lamirande

  Edited by Richard Moncure

  © 2025-2026 Saguenay, Quebec, Canada

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or modified in any form, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without Permission in writing from the publisher.

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  PROLOGUE

  “Our armies fight on, but the storm has no season. The war drags all nations with it, deeper and deeper.”

  Emperor Franz Joseph, Winter 1915-1916

  Niederdorf district, Spiegelgasse 14

  Zurich, Switzerland, April 16th, 1916

  “That’s a fucking German diplomat,” said former General Lavr Kornilov, now in exile in Switzerland. “Indeed, Sir,” said Anbatoli Starsky. The two men watched as the man, escorted by two other bulky-looking men (probably soldiers or men from the German secret services).” According to our files, this man is a German diplomat based in Bern,” continued Starsky as he filed through his paperwork for a moment before continuing: “His name is Richard von Kuhlmann, and he is an established diplomat from the Reich embassy, and is well-connected with the Marxist.”

  Starsky was an agent in the Okhrana (Okhrannoye otdeleniye), also known as the secret police of the Russian Empire, which was created in 1880 to protect the Tsar and suppress revolutionary activity. Operating under the Ministry of the Interior, it was one of the most feared intelligence organizations in Europe. Its agents monitored, infiltrated, and dismantled radical groups such as the Marxists, anarchists, and Socialist Revolutionaries. The Okhrana maintained extensive networks of informants, spies, and provocateurs both within Russia and abroad, in cities such as Paris, Geneva, and Zurich, where exiled revolutionaries, including Lenin, resided. Using surveillance, mail interception, and infiltration, it often manipulated or incited revolutionary acts to justify repression. The organization’s files kept records on thousands of citizens, creating an atmosphere of paranoia that fueled resentment against the autocracy it sought to defend. While the Okhrana achieved deep penetration of underground movements, its brutality and corruption undermined the very stability it was meant to preserve.

  Lavr Georgiyevich Kornilov was the former commander of the now-annihilated Russian Army 48th Infantry Division, destroyed during the retreat from Budapest. From there, he’d been transferred to an Austro-Hungarian castle-prison in the Tyrol, from where he escaped and was able to escape to Switzerland in the late summer of 1915.

  Since his arrival in the neutral country, he was housed at the Russian Embassy in Zurich, pending his repatriation to Mother Russia, which was no simple matter, as it was cut off from any land or naval link with either Switzerland or any Entente country.

  He’d thus taken to integrate himself in the counter-intelligence and anti-Marxist activities of the Okhrana in the city. The secret Russian organization wasn’t officially acknowledged to be in Switzerland, as such recognition would have been unacceptable to the Swiss authorities, but it was tolerated. Lavr had been tasked, along with Starsky, with surveilling one particularly active and virulent Marxist, Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, also known by his revolutionary name, “Lenin.”

  “So, the Germans are talking to him,” said the Okhrana agent. “What would they discuss with such a man? He is a revolutionary who wants to spread Bolshevism in Germany and across Europe. He is also their enemy.” “Indeed, General, and we have to find out why.”

  The implications of the Germans speaking with Lenin were immense and critical to the Russian Empire. Under no circumstances could the revolutionary be permitted to return to Russia or be assisted by the Kaiser in any way.

  The two men were perched high on the second floor of a rented apartment facing the apartment Lenin occupied with his wife and mistress on the narrow medieval street. From there and from behind heavy black curtains, they could watch the comings and goings of the house, and their job was for now to observe and report. Kornilov was the man in charge of the operation, as he was a general and had little else to do.

  “We need to report this to the embassy, Sir.” “Indeed,” answered Lavr as he watched the back of the departing German diplomat.

  Sortie

  The St-Nazaire Breakout attempt, April 21st, 1916

  The prow of the German dreadnought battleship Posen slashed the waves, cutting through the grey waters of the St-Nazaire harbor, while recently named Admiral Friedrich Gädecke watched the armada he was commanding pick up steam. Everywhere he looked to starboard, port, the bow, or the stern, ships surrounded the mighty vessel he commanded. All of them had their guns trained toward the horizon, and every one of the fleet’s sailors knew their duty. An epic fight was about to break out.

  Gädecke had been newly named admiral in order to be the commander of the High Seas Fleet component in St-Nazaire as it attempted to get out of the mouse trap it was in. The Entente forces were progressing toward St-Nazaire itself, after several battles on the Savenay-Lavau-sur-Loire defensive line. They hadn’t broken through yet; the timing of the sortie on April 21st was an attempt to surprise the blockading fleet, since the Entente would reasonably expect that the Germans would only sortie when impending doom threatened.

  The general idea was that the German Army wouldn’t hold the Entente forces forever and that its lines were too far extended to the southwest to defend St-Nazaire. By sortieing now, this would succeed or fail; however, in a strategic sense, the troops defending the city just east of it could wheel north and organize a much stronger line of defense without the need to defend the ships.

  Thus, the attempt was a gamble-it-all effort to both surprise the enemy and address the major strategic issue the Germans faced in the Loire Valley. Their troops were dangerously exposed and outnumbered, and they stayed there only to defend ships that were already doomed. So why not take the bull by the horns and attempt something bold?

  Hugo von Pohl, the commander of the Kaiserliche Marine, had pondered the matter extensively and conferred with his staff at the Navy Command, as well as with von Tirpitz, the Minister of Marine. A breakout was possible under the right circumstances, including favorable weather, luck, and tide. Pohl thus proposed a bold plan to Gädecke: barge through the blockading squadrons in a single, concerted push.

  First, everything would be put in place to build up a giant smoke screen with everything the Marine had, simultaneously from land and from the handful of destroyers and other smaller ships, to try and partially mask the German fleet’s sortie. Then, every cargo ship, trawler, and anything large enough to carry a gun and that could float had been mustered and modified to act as floating gunships or artillery batteries. The sacrificial vessels were to go out first and draw enemy fire, while Gädecke’s main units slipped under the smoke screen to try and get underway into the open sea.

  Feints from the ships in Brest, raids, and false radio traffic were also launched from all along the German-occupied French coastline to confuse the Anglo-Americans, while Zeppelins were used for the first time in a naval capacity.

  Their basic value at sea was simple and profound: they could see far beyond the visual horizon for hours at a time, carry wireless telegraphy, and remain aloft in patrol patterns that no surface ship could match. That made them ideal for reconnaissance, fleet spotting, convoy patrol, long-endurance escort, and limited bombing.

  High above the gray Atlantic swells, the great Zeppelins drifted silently over the battleship Posen and the rest of the German squadron. The airship’s silvered envelope caught the first light of dawn, turning it into a ghostly guardian that followed the fleet’s slow emergence from Saint-Nazaire. Below, the columns of battleships, cruisers, and destroyers formed in disciplined lines, their wakes cutting pale scars through the water. From the gondola, observers peered through rangefinders, plotting bearings, their reports crackling down to the flagship by wireless code.

  Below the Zeppelins, Gädecke inhaled one last time before he barked his orders, for the fight was about to start. The Zeppelins above had already spotted the oncoming enemy ships; his sacrificial gunship platforms were out of the harbor, and the rest of his fleet glided right after. The German fleet wasn’t shabby, with seven dreadnought battleships, 2 pre-dreadnoughts, four protected cruisers, six light cruisers, and six destroyers.

  The problem lay in the dozens of opposing dreadnoughts and pre-dreadnoughts (it was estimated that the Entente was blockading Best and St-Nazire with well over thirty of the big ships). In short, the Anglo-Americans outnumbered the Germans by a large margin.

  (…) Bridge of dreadnought battleship Posen (…)

  Out of the smokescreens the destroyers were putting up just outside the harbor, the battleship Posen loomed like a steel fortress come to life. The thing was a dark, massive shape with her four great turrets glinting faintly in the burgeoning morning sun. The tide rolled beneath her hull, and the smell of salt and coal smoke mingled with the metallic tang of freshly oiled machinery. A low rumble trembled through her decks as the engines stirred, propeller shafts beginning to turn at revolutions approaching full speed.

  A whistle shrieked. On the signal bridge, the watch
officer’s voice cut across the wind: “General quarters!” Within seconds, the ship was alive. Hatches slammed, boots clattered across steel decks, and men poured down the corridors: stokers, gunners, signallers, and electricians, each vanishing into the labyrinthine passageways toward their stations. The ship’s bell tolled the rhythm of battle preparation, echoing through the metal heart of the vessel like a drumbeat before a storm.

  On the upper deck, the gun crews assembled under the shadow of Posen’s 28-centimeter twin turrets. They were like steel beasts and named Anton, Bruno, Caesar, and Dora. Bare-chested sailors hauled open ammunition hoists, sweating despite the morning chill, as brass shells, each standing higher than a man’s waist and weighing hundreds of pounds, rose from the magazines below. The breech blocks swung open with mechanical precision, gears clanking, oily smoke curling from their joints. The gunnery officer, monocle glinting, called out corrections to rangefinders mounted high on the foretop, where signal flags snapped in the strengthening breeze. His voice carried over the noise: “Elevation six degrees; target remains to be confirmed by the spotters and the Zeppelins!”

  The gun captains moved like clockwork. One man polished the sighting lenses, another checked the hydraulic recoil buffers, while loaders locked shells into ready racks. Electricians tested the turret motors, their hands blackened with grease, shouting results to the bridge. Steam hissed from the vents along the casemates, and the ship shuddered as her turbines gained speed. Below decks, in the boiler rooms, firemen stripped to the waist shoveled coal into the roaring furnaces. The air was suffocatingly hot; the walls dripped with condensation. Each thrust of the shovel was timed to the rhythm of shouted commands: “Pressure steady! Keep her breathing!”

  Amidships, the damage-control parties checked the watertight doors, dogged them shut, and ran through emergency drills with methodical calm. In the plotting room, officers bent over charts lit by the dim orange glow of electric lamps. The ship’s compass card turned slowly, aligning with the narrow channel that would lead her out to sea. On the bulkhead, a framed portrait of the Kaiser stared down as the chief navigator murmured range estimates to the bridge.

  On the weather deck, the wind rose. A cry from the crow’s nest: “Zeppelin above!” and all eyes turned skyward. Through the thinning mist, a massive silver shape appeared, moving with solemn grace above the estuary. One of the airships, its gondola glinting as sunlight caught the metal. A cheer went up along Posen’s decks. Men paused in their work to look skyward, momentarily reassured by the presence of their aerial guardian. Flags flashed from mast to mast as the Zeppelin signaled coordinates; below, the battleship’s wireless hummed with the answering message.

  “Engines ahead half,” came the order from the bridge. Posen’s twin screws churned the green water into froth, and her massive hull continued its forward momentum out of St-Nazaire and into the open sea.

  Her forward guns trained slightly to port, their barrels rising like watchful serpents. The gunners stood by their sights, helmets strapped, hands resting on levers, eyes fixed on the horizon. Somewhere beyond the mist lay the Entente blockade, full of distant silhouettes waiting to pounce. Posen, pride of the German fleet, moved steadily toward them, her armor glistening with dew, smoke trailing from her funnels like banners of defiance.

  Inside the conning tower, the admiral adjusted his binoculars. “Let them come,” he murmured, voice steady despite the rumbling beneath his boots. “The fleet is ready.” And as the signal lamps flashed their coded orders across the line of advancing ships, Posen’s siren sounded a long, mournful note that rolled across the water like thunder.

  The great ship surged forward into battle, her crew at their stations, her guns loaded and trained, and above her, the Zeppelin turned in silent orbit.

  “Sir, L47 above us reports that they see the enemy on the horizon, and they seem to be approaching fast.” The noise on the ship’s bridge then stopped all at once, every sailor and officer seeing the news as the signal for the beginning of the battle.

  “Very well, thank you, Lieutenant,” answered Admiral Gädecke. “Signal them to let us know as soon as we enter into range. I want firing coordinates.” “Yes, Sir.” “Also, signal both Schaumann and Schmidt that the enemy has been sighted.”

  (…) Bridge of battleship Iron Duke (…)

  The sea around HMS Iron Duke was calm, with heavy fog rolling low over the waves, muting sound and softening the light of the early morning. Somewhere beyond the gray curtain of smoke put up by the enemy ships, the French coast waited, and beyond that, the German squadron that looked like it was attempting to break out of Saint-Nazaire.

  The Grand Fleet’s flagship sailed at the head of the Anglo-American blockade line, her grey hull broad and resolute, funnels breathing slow columns of smoke that merged with the mist.

  On the quarterdeck, the boatswain’s pipe shrilled. “Hands to stations! Clear for action!” The order ran the length of the ship. Hatches clanged open, boots rang against steel, and the great vessel came alive. Below, deep in the engine rooms, stokers stripped to their undershirts and shoveled coal into open furnaces. Each thrust of a shovel cast orange light across sweating faces, the sound of roaring fire blending with the rhythmic thud of the feed pumps. Steam hissed through pipes as gauges quivered toward full pressure.

  Up top, the gun crews stood ready at their 13.5-inch turrets, named, in typical stoic British fashion, A, B, X, and Y. Breech mechanisms swung open with clean precision; hoists lifted cordite charges and shells from the armored magazines. The air was filled with the metallic smell of oil and powder. The gunnery officer, a tall man with a telescope under one arm, barked out bearings: “Train starboard thirty degrees, elevation five!” His voice cut through the murk as rangefinders whirred in their armored hoods high above the bridge.

  Signal flags broke from the halyards, sending orders down the line to the American battleship New York, holding station off Iron Duke’s port bow. From horizon to horizon, faint gray silhouettes appeared: they were the dreadnoughts and pre-dreadnoughts of the Grand Fleet and their American allies, forming their blockade line like sentinels across the sea. The low growl of turbines built steadily as Iron Duke eased ahead, her bow cutting through the slow Atlantic swell.

  On the bridge, Admiral of the Fleet Sir John Rushworth Jellicoe stood wrapped in his greatcoat, binoculars fixed on the eastern horizon. He only saw the thick wall of smoke the enemy was putting up, but it was obvious it wasn’t doing that for no reason. The German admiral in command of the trapped fleet was attempting a sortie. He turned to the gunnery director. “Keep the forward turrets on target once they’re in range. No waste. Every salvo counts. Signal and telegraph officers,” he continued, “get the message across the fleet that we are about to engage the enemy.”

  Above the bridge, the British lookouts strained their eyes through the haze. Somewhere out there, beyond the murk and the throb of engines, lay the sound of distant guns, faint, muffled thunder rolling over the sea. Jellicoe’s lips tightened. He could feel the tension aboard his ship, the mixture of fear and grim anticipation that ran through every man.

  “Raise speed to fifteen knots, and make sure the rest of the ships are following on both flanks,” came the next command. “We are going to close in with the bastards.” Funnels belched darker smoke, and Iron Duke surged forward, her hull groaning as she turned into battle formation. Below decks, the turbine whine deepened; above, the massive guns pivoted in unison, their barrels lifting toward the unseen enemy.

  In that moment, as the fog began to thin and the gray dawn brightened, HMS Iron Duke was the embodiment of the British Empire’s will. A steady, unflinching, and waiting resolve. Across the water, the men could see faint shadows on the horizon, with the first hints of the German fleet breaking from its harbor. Jellicoe lowered his binoculars. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Signal the line; prepare to engage.”

  And as Iron Duke’s siren bellowed its deep, defiant note over the sea, the Grand Fleet moved as one, a wall of steel and steam awakening to meet its foe.

  On its left and right were the assembled might of no less than twelve dreadnought battleships, twelve pre-dreadnoughts, and over twenty support ships, including protected cruisers, light cruisers, and destroyers.