World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The engine room was deathly silent. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared blankly at the intercom. Eighty people, just fifteen meters above their heads, had been instantly vaporized in the explosion.

Onodera felt his throat go dry and his stomach churn. But he forced himself to calm down: "Take stock of the damage. Boiler No. 4 is completely destroyed. How much power is left?"

"Only boilers No. 2 and No. 3 remain, with an output power of... less than 40,000 horsepower."

"Is that enough to sustain eight sessions?"

"Barely... but if the tilt angle exceeds ten degrees, the propeller might spill water..."

"Then try your best to maintain your balance!" Onodera struggled to his feet, though the excruciating pain in his legs made his vision blur. "Go check all the watertight doors! Make sure the engine room doesn't flood! That's our last line of defense!"

The technician nodded, turned, and ran away. Onodera, meanwhile, slowly sat down against the wall and began examining the wound on his leg.

A steel pipe pierced his thigh, and blood had soaked through his trouser leg. He knew that if he didn't act quickly, he might bleed to death. But he couldn't leave his post—he was the chief engineer, the heart and soul of the ship. If he fell too, the Kongo would truly be doomed.

"Chief Engineer Onodera."

A voice suddenly rang out. Onodera looked up and saw a young sailor covered in blood standing in front of him, holding a hacksaw.

"Who are you……"

"I'm a medic, sir." The sailor knelt down and examined his wound. "This needs immediate attention. I'm going to saw through the pipe now and stop the bleeding. It will hurt, so please bear with it."

Onodera nodded and bit down on a piece of belt. The sailor began sawing steel pipes, the ear-piercing sound of metal scraping echoing in the engine room. Each pull of the saw blade brought a tearing pain, and Onodera's forehead was instantly covered in cold sweat.

But he didn't cry out. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling of the engine room, his ears listening to the sounds coming from outside—cannon fire, explosions, shouts, and… singing?

Yes, someone is singing. The sound is faint and intermittent, but it is indeed a song. A military song widely circulated in the Imperial Navy:

"We are the guardians of the sea."

Set sail under the rising sun.

Whether it's a storm or war

Nothing can stop us from going our way...

The singer was an old stoker, over fifty years old, who had served in the navy for thirty years. At that moment, he was adding coal to the boiler while humming a song in a hoarse voice.

Then, a second person joined. He was a young mechanic, his face still showing signs of immaturity, but his eyes were resolute.

Then the third, the fourth...

Soon, everyone in the engine room who could still speak was humming the song. The song echoed in the steel cage, drowning out the roar of the machines, the vibrations of the explosions, and the fear of death.

Onodera felt his eyes welling up. He gritted his teeth, enduring the excruciating pain of the saw blade cutting into his bone, but a smile crept onto his lips.

This is the Imperial Navy. This is his ship, this is his men.

Even if they are to sink here today, they will sing as they sink.

The Kongo's reserve command room is located below the main armor belt, five meters above the waterline.

This area was much narrower than the main bridge, with only twenty square meters of space, crammed with a dozen or so officers and staff. The emergency lights were dim, and the air was hot and humid, mixed with the smells of sweat and blood.

Kato Yusaburo sat in the only chair, as a military medic re-bandaged his wounds. This time, the injuries were more severe: a laceration to his forehead, at least three broken ribs, a fractured left arm, and multiple shrapnel abrasions all over his body. But he refused morphine; he needed to remain conscious.

"Report the situation." His voice was soft, but every word was clear and forceful.

Operations staff officer Major Matsumoto unfolded a damaged nautical chart: "Current situation: Kirishima confirmed sunk, Haruna lost contact and likely sunk, Hiei heavily damaged and out of power. Our Kongo... superstructure severely damaged, aft engine room hit, speed reduced to 8 knots, listing 12 degrees to starboard, multiple compartments flooded."

"Where are the enemy ships?"

"The exact location and number are still uncertain. However, based on the density and frequency of the shelling, there were at least three to four capital ships with a caliber of over 380 mm and a range exceeding 25,000 yards. It is speculated that they were Bismarck-class battleships from Lanfang."

Kato closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Three to four Bismarck-class destroyers. That legendary 50,000-ton monster, armed with eight 380mm guns and 14-inch thick armor. If the intelligence was accurate, then each Bismarck-class destroyer could take on two Kongo-class destroyers single-handedly.

Now, they have three or four.

"How much fighting strength do we still have?" he asked.

"Main guns: Turret A is damaged, Turret B is barely usable, and Turret C is silent. More than two-thirds of the secondary guns have been lost. All torpedo tubes are intact, but..." Matsumoto paused, "...the range is insufficient. Our Type 93 torpedoes have a maximum range of 40,000 meters, but they require guidance. Given the current inability to observe enemy ships..."

"It's just scrap metal," Kato finished for him.

Silence fell over the command center. Everyone understood their predicament: the Kongo was a blind, clawless tiger, while the enemy, out of sight, relentlessly stabbed it with spears until it bled its last drop of blood.

"What about cruisers and destroyers?" Kato suddenly asked.

"The First Mine Squadron is still on the outer perimeter, but..." Matsumoto hesitated for a moment, "The Chikuma reports that they encountered heavy medium-caliber artillery fire while attempting to approach the direction of the incoming shells. At least four cruiser-class enemy ships have formed a barrier around the capital ships."

"So we can't even get close." Kato smiled bitterly. "Perfect tactics. Long-range capital ship bombardment, mid-range cruiser cover—we don't even have a chance to fight back."

He stood up, using the table for support, staggered slightly, but quickly regained his balance. The army doctor tried to help him, but he waved him off.

"Matsumoto-kun, how many years have you been with me?"

Matsumoto was taken aback: "Ten...twelve years, sir. From the time you became the captain of the destroyer."

"Twelve years." Kato nodded. "Do you think I'm a qualified commander?"

"Sir, you..."

"Tell the truth." Kato stared at him.

Matsumoto remained silent for a long time before finally lowering his head: "I don't know, sir. I only know that you led us to victory in exercises, and that you led us to demonstrate the Empire's might in the Indian and South Pacific. But today... today's battle has exceeded everyone's expectations. This isn't the commander's fault, it's..."

"It's the fault of the times," Kato said for him. "We're still fighting with the mindset of the Russo-Japanese War, while the enemy has entered a new era. The legendary radar, fire control computers, ultra-long-range artillery... We lost, not because of courage, not because of training, but because of the times."