Lieutenant Franz Keller gripped the control stick of his Fi-167, the rickety biplane groaning in protest against the North Sea’s icy grip. Below, the mighty Graf Zeppelin, a leviathan carved from steel, sent a spray of white foam into the churning waves as it launched its fighter escort. Franz, however, wasn't worried about enemy fighters today. Their target – the lumbering behemoth, the HMS Renown, was a lone wolf, separated from its convoy by a freak storm. This was the Mulberry’s, as the British so endearingly called it, chance to shine.

Franz felt a surge of defiance. Sure, the Fi-167 was a relic, a slow-moving target with a fabric skin as delicate as a moth’s wing. But against an unsuspecting enemy, it could be a deadly angel of deliverance.

Suddenly, the sky erupted in a fiery ballet. British radar had picked them up. Messerschmitts from the escort screamed by, their sleek forms a stark contrast to the lumbering Fi-167s. A hail of flak erupted from the Renown, black puffs blossoming against the grey sky. One Mulberry faltered, smoke billowing from its fuselage before it plunged into the churning sea.

Franz gritted his teeth. This was it. He weaved the Fi-167 through the chaos, the plane groaning under the harsh maneuvers. He could feel the sting of sweat in his eyes, a desperate prayer forming on his lips. He had to get close, had to get within firing range.

Then, a break in the clouds. The Renown, a steel island bristling with guns, filled his vision. A cheer erupted in his throat, a primal roar against the roar of the engine. He lined up the shot, the torpedo gleaming under the pale sun.

Just as he released the weapon, the world erupted in a cacophony of sound and fury. A Messerschmitt, crippled in the dogfight, slammed into the Renown's superstructure, a fiery explosion engulfing both. But Franz didn't look away. He watched, heart pounding, as the torpedo punched through the smoke, slamming into the Renown's side with a deafening roar.

A monstrous fireball consumed the battleship, followed by a series of ear-splitting detonations. The once proud vessel, a symbol of British might, began to list heavily, its broken hull spewing smoke like a wounded beast.

Exhilaration coursed through Franz. He had done it. The "obsolete" Mulberry had delivered the killing blow. As he limped back to the Graf Zeppelin, battered but victorious, he knew this battle would be etched in history. The day the slow, ungainly Fi-167 brought down a giant.