"Admiral, please—just give me a chance, my man."
The words tumbled out of Oskar's mouth before Birkenhagen could reach for the telegram form. If the director sent a message to Wilhelm II saying that his son had arrived in Kiel only to refuse naval training, then everything Oskar had gambled on so far would go straight into the furnace. He would not merely lose whatever chance he had of negotiating freedom at the Academy; he might burn through the final scraps of his father's patience as well.
Birkenhagen turned back slowly, his cold eyes pinning Oskar in place. Had Oskar been anyone other than a Prince of Prussia, the admiral would probably have ordered him removed from the building already. As things stood, he regarded him with the strained politeness reserved for extremely important idiots.
"Speak," Birkenhagen said. "Quickly."
Oskar drew in a breath and tried to arrange his German before it escaped him again. "Admiral, I understand. Man who studies in Kiel Naval Academy for years becomes big man. Very smart. High improvement to one's abilities." He nodded firmly, hoping confidence might disguise the grammar. "But, my man, for me… it is four years of garbage. I will be garbage here for four full years. Then I come out, turn into man of lowly second lieutenant after quest completion. Very bad trade."
Somewhere halfway through the explanation, his German had collapsed into gamer language.
Birkenhagen stared at him blankly for a second. Then the meaning reached him.
The admiral's jaw tightened, and his entire body seemed to stiffen with offense. "Your Royal Highness," he said, his voice turning glacial, "if you do not wish to join the Navy, I will not force you. But do not ever call four years of training at this Academy 'garbage.' It is precisely because of those 'lowly second lieutenants' that the German Navy exists at all. This institution is the pride of the Reich, not your personal wastebasket."
Oskar realized, several seconds too late, that he had essentially just called the entire naval officer corps trash.
He bowed his head quickly. "I apologize, Admiral. Wrong words. Bad vocabulary." He tapped one finger against his temple. "Brain good. German bad."
Birkenhagen's nostrils flared, but he remained silent, which Oskar decided was probably the closest thing to permission he was going to receive.
"Look, my man, forgive me if I speak bluntly," Oskar continued. "German Navy grows and grows, yes? But gap with British grows also. They have big number of colonies, many lands, much trade. Those lands give them big bills, and they take big bills and build big boats." He lifted one hand and moved it vaguely through the air like a ship crossing an invisible sea. "But what about German boats? Our geographic situation forces us to spend big bills on army on land. So money for Navy is… small next to British. If this continues, if this rolls on, our wish to become big like British Navy goes directly into sewer, my man."
When Oskar finally stopped, Karl stood off to one side wearing the expression of a man silently begging God to invent subtitles.
Birkenhagen, however, did not immediately dismiss him. For all the absurdity of the prince's language, there was enough substance buried beneath it to make the old officer pause. He had spent decades watching the German Navy grow from relative insignificance into a fleet that increasingly demanded the attention of Europe, and he understood better than most how enormous Britain's maritime advantages remained. Their finances ran deeper, their overseas reach farther, their commercial network wider, and their ability to sustain naval construction rested upon resources Germany could not simply conjure into existence through patriotic speeches.
"Although our opponent is powerful," Birkenhagen said stiffly, "the German Navy will never surrender itself to inferiority. We will grow. We will improve. And someday, if circumstances demand it, we will meet the British on equal terms and defeat them through skill and discipline, even if we cannot equal them in numbers."
Oskar nodded slowly. There was something stubborn about the answer, almost painfully so, but he respected it. He genuinely respected these men. Their discipline was real, their effort was real, and so was the pride they took in building something from almost nothing. Their problem was not laziness or cowardice.
Their problem was history.
Oskar could already see the ending they could not. In his mind came images of a future war in which the German fleet never quite gained the decisive advantage its builders had dreamed of, while Britain tightened a blockade around the Reich like a rope. At the end of it all came proud gray warships lying useless in foreign waters, many of them eventually sent beneath the waves by their own crews rather than surrendered intact.
"Admiral," Oskar said more carefully, "German Navy already very strong. Second in world. Big achievement. Every officer, every man—you all did great things. Respect."
Birkenhagen's stern expression eased by perhaps a millimeter.
"But strong is not enough," Oskar continued. "British have more money, more friends, more colonies, and we have…" He hesitated, then spread his hands. "Austria."
Karl looked away.
"In future big war, British can build two big ships for every one of ours. Their blockade game is stronger. In age of big guns and steel hulls, lady luck becomes… very small. Numbers, industry, logistics—those become big."
The explanation was crude, but the idea behind it was simple enough. In the age of sail, weather, wind, visibility, and chance could transform a battle in moments. Steel battleships, modern gunnery, rangefinders, industrial shipyards, and enormous national budgets did not remove chance entirely, but they made raw productive power increasingly difficult to ignore.
Birkenhagen clearly disliked the picture Oskar was painting, yet he did not dismiss it. "Prince," he asked after a moment, "are you truly so pessimistic about the future of our Navy? You genuinely believe Germany cannot match Britain and its allies?"
Oskar scratched the side of his head while searching for words. "Admiral, man to man… if we keep same pace, same method, then yes. It is 'game over, man.'" He spread his hands helplessly. "If Navy cannot break British in future war, then bad news bears. They block fishermen, trade routes, all seas. Germany becomes hamster hiding in hole—no food, no trade. If land army also cannot crush enemy quickly, then we get trenches, mud, bleeding slowly. In end, Germany becomes… leaking bathtub."
Karl stared at him. Birkenhagen stared at him. For the metaphors were appalling, but the picture behind them was not.
Neither man shared Oskar's certainty, of course. They had been raised in a Germany that seemed to be growing stronger every year, and confidence in the Empire came almost naturally. Yet they also knew Britain's naval power, France's resources, and Russia's sheer scale. However ridiculous the prince sounded, what he described was not impossible.
Karl was the first to speak. "Y-Your Highness…" His voice had lost some of its usual dryness. "Are you saying there is no hope for Germany?"
Oskar shook his head immediately. "No. Germany still has cards. If we build enough big boats, un-float British boats, break blockade, then… all good. Peace, or at least peace on our terms. As long as Navy can win in future war, Germany becomes close to invincible."
Birkenhagen gave a quiet snort. "So your grand solution is simply to build more capital ships. An admirable fantasy, perhaps, but the Empire does not possess unlimited funds. Competing with Britain vessel for vessel is not realistic."
"Wise words, Admiral. Very wise." Oskar nodded enthusiastically. "Performance of capital ships, we are not worse than British. In some areas maybe better. But if we compete only by number, we fall behind." He paused, gathering himself before finally steering the conversation back toward the reason he had come. "That is why I am unwilling to waste four years at Academy."
Birkenhagen frowned. "And what, exactly, does any of this have to do with your refusal to study here? If the gap is as serious as you claim, that is precisely why the Navy requires talented young men to enter the service and help close it."
Without quite realizing it, the admiral had stopped speaking to Oskar as though he were nothing more than a spoiled royal nuisance. The young prince remained bizarre, certainly, and his German was catastrophic, but somewhere beneath the broken grammar, absurd metaphors, and constant use of my man, there was thought. More than Birkenhagen had expected, at least.
Oskar shook his head. "Admiral, most important thing for Navy is not me doing push-ups in school courtyard." He tapped his coat pocket as though it already contained a fortune. "Most important thing is money. Big bills. If I can get those bills—if I can bring more development funds to Navy by my own effort—then that helps Kaiserliche Marine more than me sitting here memorizing textbooks."
Birkenhagen's eyebrows climbed. Now they were entering fantasy again.
A young prince who could barely assemble a proper German sentence was claiming that he intended to personally raise enough money to influence the development of the Imperial Navy. The idea was so unreasonable that the admiral took a moment to determine whether Oskar was actually serious.
"Your Royal Highness," Birkenhagen said slowly, "the cost of a single modern battleship is enormous. This is not a charity bazaar. You are discussing sums capable of straining the finances of governments. What you are suggesting is simply unrealistic."
Oskar knew that.
He also knew he had already come too far to retreat into something sensible.
He straightened his back and met the admiral's eyes. "Admiral von Birkenhagen, if I can guarantee that within next four years I donate one modern battleship to German Navy—one battleship, paid by me, for Germany, no bullshit scam, my man—then will you agree to my request?"
Karl's mouth fell open.
Birkenhagen went completely still.
Oskar pressed forward before either man could recover. "Let me skip daily classes. I attend examinations. You test me as hard as you want. If I fail, I lose deal. But if I pass, I use my time to make this happen."
Silence filled the office.
Beyond the windows, gulls cried above the harbor while the distant hammering of the shipyards rang across Kiel, steel striking steel as workers built the very future to which Birkenhagen had devoted his life.
Inside, Konteradmiral Ludwig von Birkenhagen stared at the strangest prince he had ever encountered: a young man with terrible grammar, ridiculous metaphors, and a proposal bordering on madness.
And yet, for the first time since Oskar had entered his office, the old officer felt something he had not expected from Wilhelm II's obscure fifth son.
Possibility.