But Hipper had done nothing of the sort and stayed on his vessel, instructing his men to defend Seydlitz if approached by the Dutch. Tension ran high for a week, and then the Governor-General of the Dutch East Indies colony, Alexander Idenburg, had relented, keen on avoiding a diplomatic incident with the Reich, which could invade the home country at any moment if the Kaiser was mad enough. After all, the Netherlands was surrounded by occupied Belgium and bordered Germany to its east.

  (…) Bridge of battlecruiser Seydlitz, April 17th, 1916 (…)

  “Have we heard anything from Ambassador Handel?” asked an impatient von Hipper, pacing back and forth on the bridge of his vessel. The man was restless (his crew was in an even worse state), having been stuck in Batavia for over three months, with Berlin doing little about it. But it appeared that the Kaiser was now finally ready to pressure The Hague for the ship’s release.

  The way was clear in the Java Sea, Admiral Beatty having left a while ago; he had gone back to anchor his fleet in Singapore, thinking the matter of Seydlitz settled. There were rumors that the British admiral was going to sail back to Europe now that the German raider was supposedly neutralized. There were also rumors of the impending arrival of a Japanese battle fleet, another enemy of the Reich. The Empire of the Rising Sun had occupied most of the German territories in the Pacific and was said to be eager to test its newly commissioned dreadnought battleships against the Germans.

  “Sir, we are still awaiting news from either the embassy or from the Dutch themselves.”

  (…) Batavia, nightfall, April 17th, 1916 (…)

  Tropical rain drummed on the iron roofs of the naval dockyard. In the harbor, the German dreadnought Seydlitz lay at anchor, her black hull shining with water and oil. Lightning forked across the sky, revealing her vast silhouette, like a fortress afloat in the monsoon. Dutch patrol boats bobbed nearby, their lanterns dim under tarpaulins.

  On the quay, Governor-General Alexander Idenburg stood beneath a dripping umbrella as his adjutant read the telegram aloud for the third time.

  “By order of the government at The Hague, the ship Seydlitz is to be released at once. She must clear Dutch waters within twenty-four hours.”

  Idenburg lowered his umbrella, rain coursing down his face. “They’ve done it,” he said softly. “God help us all.” A few meters away, German Ambassador Handel bowed smartly, his boots splashing in the puddles. “You will be remembered for your decency, Excellency.”

  “Decency?” Idenburg repeated, half-laughing. “No, Ambassador. For our fear.” The German clicked his heels, then turned toward his motorboat to pay a visit to Admiral von Hipper and share the good news.

  (…) The Hague, the next day (…)

  Sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the Prime Minister’s office, bright and clear, throwing long golden bars across the polished floor. The air was already warm, faintly scented with the gardens beyond the Binnenhof. Outside, the flag atop the tower stirred lazily in the summer breeze. For once, the morning was beautiful, with blue sky, clean light, no trace of rain, but the men inside felt none of it.

  Pieter Cort van der Linden stood at the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The sunlight caught in the silver of his hair as he stared down into the courtyard where clerks and orderlies crossed between offices, their shadows crisp and short. On his desk lay two telegrams. One from London, one from Berlin, both unopened. The wax seals gleamed red in the morning light.

  The clock on the mantel ticked softly. From somewhere beyond the Hofvijver pond came the distant sound of church bells in seven clear tones drifting over the roofs of The Hague. The city was awake, but in this room, the world still held its breath.

  The door opened quietly. John Loudon, the Foreign Minister, entered without ceremony, hat in hand. His collar was unbuttoned; he looked as though he had not slept. “It’s done,” he said simply. “Seydlitz should soon clear Batavia Roads. Berlin has confirmed receipt of our message of compliance.”

  Van der Linden did not move. The sunlight caught the edge of his spectacles as he looked out over the rooftops. “And London?” “They’ve already answered in their own way,” Loudon replied. “Two of our merchantmen were taken off the Downs at dawn. The Admiralty calls it ‘preventive detention.’” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “The newspapers will not be kind.”

  The Prime Minister exhaled slowly and turned from the window. His eyes were red-rimmed but calm. “We are still neutral, John,” he said, as if repeating an oath that had lost its meaning. Loudon hesitated. “For how long?”

  Silence filled the room. The light through the curtains grew brighter, shifting as the sun climbed over the roofs. Dust motes danced in the air, glittering like tiny embers. The warmth pressed against the glass, but Van der Linden still felt cold.

  He walked back to the window and placed a hand on the sill. Outside, the fountains sparkled, the carriages clattered over cobblestones, and the diplomats’ flags along Lange Voorhout fluttered in the calm breeze. They were the sounds of a city at peace, or pretending to be.

  Somewhere beyond that serene morning, past the canals and the meadows, trains were already moving westward, their wheels grinding toward another front, another war. The Netherlands had awoken to sunlight, but beneath the bright sky the same shadow lingered. They had kept the country alive, but not free.

  (…) Batavia, morning of the 18th of April, 1916 (…)

  Night had passed in uneasy stillness over Batavia Roads, the heat never quite lifting from the dark, glassy sea. Aboard the battlecruiser Seydlitz, Admiral Franz von Hipper stood by the bridge rail beneath a canopy of southern stars, the hum of the generators the only sound, except for the slow slap of water against steel.

  Shortly before midnight, a small Dutch launch had come alongside, its lantern dimmed. Ambassador Handel had brought up a sealed envelope, a simple sheet, signed and stamped by the governor’s office: “Permission to depart: 0500 hours. Departure to be conducted under escort. No interference expected.”

  Hipper had read it twice, then folded it neatly and slipped it into his breast pocket. Around him, the bridge officers waited for orders. “Inform the engine room,” he said quietly. “We sail at dawn.”

  When morning came, it came all at once: a blaze of gold over the Java horizon, burning away the mist and the long night’s doubts. Seydlitz lay ready, her decks scrubbed, her turrets turned to centerline, the Imperial ensign half-raised but furled tight against the mast.

  Hipper watched the eastern sky brighten through his binoculars. “Signal the escort,” he said. Moments later, a puff of colored smoke rose from the nearest Dutch patrol cutter, followed by a flare, which served as the agreed-upon confirmation.

  Below, stokers in the engine rooms stripped to their waists and heaved fresh coal into the open furnaces. The turbines began to thrum, a vibration that rose through the deck plates, up the bulkheads, and into the bones of every man aboard. Steam hissed, cables clanked, and the smell of hot oil mingled with the tropical air.

  As the sun broke free of the horizon, Seydlitz’s siren gave a single, deep call, a low and mournful one, rolling across the still water toward the city. Onshore, Dutch soldiers lined the quays, rifles slung, faces pale under their white helmets.

  There were no cheers, no farewells, but only silence, save for the echo of the engines and the cry of seabirds circling overhead. Slowly, Seydlitz began to move. Her anchor came up dripping and black; the screws turned lazily at first, then faster, drawing ripples across the perfect morning sea.

  Her long grey hull slid past the anchored merchantmen and coasters, her reflection flashing on the water like quicksilver. From the bridge, Hipper raised his cap to the Dutch harbor command in a gesture of civility, perhaps gratitude, perhaps irony.

  Then he turned to his flag captain, Moritz von Egidy, “Let’s head northeast,” he said simply. “We make for the open sea before the wind shifts.” By the time the city’s bells began to toll eight, Seydlitz was already a distant shape against the molten sky, her black smoke trailing west like a ribbon of defiance. In Batavia’s harbor, the Dutch officers exhaled as if released from a spell.

  They had done their duty, obeyed their government, and preserved neutrality, but every man among them knew he had just watched history sail away.

  (…) Singapore, almost at the same time (…)

  Admiral David Beatty, commanding Task Force B, cracked a large, wolfish smile as he read the telegram. “… German Battlecruiser Seydlitz has been released by the Dutch authorities following German diplomatic pressure. It sailed out of Batavia Roads an hour ago.”

  “Well, well, well, you damn old Hipper. Looks like our little game of naval chess isn't over.” The lieutenant standing beside him (he was the same man who had brought the telegram) straightened, but also smiled. “Thank you, Lieutenant Hazerby. Please call Rear-Admiral Fullam to inform them that we need to sail by the end of the day. We’ve got a raider to catch.”

  Beyond Bois de la Roche Ridge

  April 21st, 1916

  (…) U.S. 2nd Division, “Indian Head” (…)

  Captain George Patton fired both his Model 1873 .45 Long Colt Single Action revolver and .45 Smith & Wesson M1817, both bullets slamming into the back of a running German. “Quick, men, we’ve got the bastards on the run!” he yelled, urging his soldiers along with wide arm gestures.

  Artillery blasts catapulted earth and shrapnel skyward all around him and the rest of the American soldiers, as the retreating Germans tried to flee their formerly “impregnable” position on the Bois-de-la-Roche while their artillery covered their movement by slamming a splattering of shells at the attackers.

  Left and right of Patton, U.S. soldiers climbed over trenches, filleted enemies in the back as they ran, while others shouldered their M1903 Springfield rifles to fire and then run toward the Krauts again. The ground rocked and shook from the concussion, while the air buzzed with flying bullets and zigzagging shrapnel.

  From above, the scene was also a chaotic affair of smoke, holes, and trenches that looked like deep gouges in the land. The Americans, along with their French and British allies, had attacked the Bois de la Roche forested ridge protecting Savenay for over a week. The Germans had built a very strong position, with four lines of mutually-supporting trenches, redoubts, bunkers, and everything in between, all supported by a large number of artillery batteries in the rear.

  The Bois-de-la-Roche ridge no longer looked like a forest at all. What had been four lines of German trenches and timbered redoubts were now just gashes of mud and ash winding through shattered trees. The earth was churned into a thick, grey paste, with shell craters merging into one another, filled with brown water and fragments of barbed wire that clung to everything. The once-solid dugouts had collapsed into pits lined with splintered beams and the twisted iron of machine-gun frames. Smoke drifted low across the wreckage, smelling of damp powder and burned pine, veiling the slopes in a heavy haze.

  Here and there, American infantrymen moved through the ruin, advancing and investing the fourth trench line, their helmets dull with mud, rifles slung, voices low. Some picked their way over the old parapets, others worked to drag the wounded from what had been communication trenches. A few stood staring at the carnage, silent, as if uncertain they had truly won anything at all. In the hollows, fires still smoldered where shells had struck ammunition pits, and the air quivered with the deep thud of artillery farther east. The ridges of Bois-de-la-Roche had been taken. However, at ground level, victory looked no different from ruin.

  It had taken a major push and over 250,000 soldiers attacking all at once to finally take one trench line after another and achieve victory over what would have been an insignificant ridge in peacetime.

  “We’re in the last trench,” yelled one of Patton’s men enthusiastically. “Yeahhh!” answered another. Patton reflected on it as one man after another jumped inside, with the last few German soldiers' backs visible as they sprinted down the slope to some new line of defense, now at the edge of Savenay itself. He signaled three lieutenants he could see, and five NCOs, to come to him. They did, and then he barked some more orders through the din of battle and yet another enemy shell that exploded near them, showering their helmets and uniforms with dirt.

  “Search this place, get the men to spread out. We need to make sure there aren’t any Germans left before we move. Our orders were to take the fourth trench and wait, and that’s what we’re going to do. Detail half the men on clearing-out duties, and get the other half to rest and guard the trench western side in case the Krauts decide to counterattack.” They all nodded and went about their business.

  (…) Württemberg Mountain Battalion (…)

  Captain Erwin Rommel finally made it to the new set of defenses down the ridge built at the edge of Savenay. He was winded, but had made it alive. The maelstrom he’d just fought in for the last week had been a mindboggling fight of epic proportions. Overwhelmed, outnumbered, and shelled to oblivion at every moment during the battle, he hadn’t slept much in the last four days, only staying awake by some kind of miracle or the constant rush of adrenaline to save his life.

  He entered the redoubt, this time made of stone as it was built inside one of Savenay’s outlying houses; he finally put his hands on his knees to try and catch his breath. Then, he turned to see the remainder of his men sprint down the ridge slope and get into the fortification. They ran like hell, dusty and surrounded by billowing smoke, as enemy bullets buzzed about them. He grimaced, knowing the death toll for his company would be horrible, but there had been no choice.

  Rommel wasn’t the type to admit defeat and to retreat, even in the face of overwhelming odds, but this time, he had had to relent, as his flanks were being overwhelmed and most of the units on his flanks had melted into the movement back toward Savenay. He remembered the moment well. One minute, all had been holding, the Americans and French attacking in front of them having reached the third trench line ... the next, several officers in other companies started barking retreat orders, and the men under them were only too willing to comply.

  He felt shame at losing the Bois-de-la-Roche, but knew that it had been a foregone conclusion from the start, and he had the tacit approval of Colonel Theodor von Dücker, the regimental commander, to move back when he saw fit to do so.

  The redoubt he was in had been a simple house, with a front door (he’d entered through it) that was now closed again. The single window was now a machine gun firing position. Looking around, he saw that the place was occupied by several soldiers, including a lieutenant. “Are you all right, Sir?” asked the younger officer to Erwin. “I am unscathed,” he grated back, his mouth dry. “Water, Sir,” offered the man. “Indeed.”

  Drinking a few mouthfuls, he looked toward the window, as the machine gun was making a lot of noise and smoke while firing. The Maxim sat, its top protruding outward like a black heart beating against the ruined stone. The men had torn the shutters away, heaped sandbags into a low sill, and set the gun’s tripod into the mortar-scored jamb so the barrel cleared the lintel. Its water jacket was dull with grime; a canvas hose ran to a dented can where steam eddied and hissed.

  At the cradle stood a soldier, cheek pressed to the crude sight, a leather glove on the charging handle. Beside him, an NCO (a corporal) fed the canvas belt from a battered wooden ammunition box, his jaw tight, his eyes flicking to the spotters nailed to the window frame. Two lads crouched behind, hauling fresh belts forward and slapping spent boxes aside; one kept the water topped up, ladling with a tin cup between bursts.

  When the soldier’s finger tightened, the Maxim barked in a grinding, metronomic roar that filled the little room and threw splinters from the sill. Brass casings spat in a hot sheet; the muzzle thumped as the recoil shook the tripod and made it splinter the jamb. Through the window, the smoke veiled the lane; tracers stitched low, and the stone face across the field going upward toward the ridge dissolved into a scatter of dust. Between bursts, the men cursed, wiped grease from their hands, and listened for the answering crack of enemy rifles.

  “Have you seen other men from my unit?” said Rommel, pointing to his Württemberg Mountain Battalion’s patch on his left shoulder. “Yes, Sir,” answered the lieutenant between two loud bursts of the Maxim keeping up fire on the incoming Americans, except for when the men were changing the ammo belt. “We’ve seen over ten of them move across through the back door.” The man pointed to a canvas-covered hole in the wall, likely created by the Germans as they prepared their defensive position. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Rommel stormed through the canvas and into the medieval-looking alley beyond, leaving the machine gun barking behind.

  The tight alley was filled with moving soldiers and stacked ammunition crates at the base of the walls. Men were moving up and down, going toward other areas. Erwin pushed through the crowd, trying to find a square nearby, where his men might have decided to stop to wait for him or other officers in the division. “Captain!” yelled a voice behind him, and he recognized the gruff-sounding tone of Private Theo Stark, his best soldier. He turned around. “Private, happy to see you're alive.” “Sir, you are alive as well,” answered the maverick soldier, slapping Rommel on both shoulders. “Where are the rest of the men?” “In the square beyond this alley, Sir. If you will follow me…”

  (…) The overall situation on the Savenay-Lavau-sur-Loire front (…)

  In an overall sense, the German line was barely holding from north to south as the Allies pushed hard with their superior numbers. The Western theater commander, Kronprinz Wilhelm, had already sent orders through the chain of command to prepare for a general withdrawal once the fleet component was out of St-Nazaire, thus rendering holding the city at all costs moot.