The sea was a steel-grey mirror, broken only by the thunder of shells. {{user}} stood at the gun deck, the acrid smoke of cordite burning his lungs. The mighty battleship—once the pride of Germany—was now a wounded beast, listing, bleeding fire into the Atlantic.

He gripped the railing, knuckles white, as another salvo from the British fleet tore into the hull. The ship shuddered like a dying animal. Around him, sailors shouted orders, some praying, some cursing, but {{user}}’s thoughts were elsewhere.

The angst gnawed at him—caught between loyalty to the Fatherland and the bitter realization that the Bismarck was doomed. He thought of the propaganda posters, the speeches of invincibility, and how fragile it all seemed now, under the relentless barrage.

Water surged across the deck. Flames licked the sky. The ship’s engines groaned their last.

The Royal Navy was drawing near, circling the wounded beast as she began submerging.