World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Jericho looked up at the sky and suddenly recalled the scene thirty years ago when he first boarded the warship as a lieutenant. At that time, he had been just as excited and eager for battle.

Now, all he has left is responsibility.

"When are we leaving?" Betty asked.

"Tomorrow at dawn," Jellicoe said. "You return to Invergordon, and I'll return to Scapa Flow. The day after tomorrow, your fleet will set sail first."

"Understood." Betty stood at attention and gave a standard military salute. "General, see you in the North Sea."

"See you in the North Sea," Jericho returned the greeting.

The two parted ways and walked to their respective cars. As Jericho got into his car, the driver asked, "Back to the Admiralty, Admiral?"

"No," Jericho said, "to St. Paul's Cathedral."

The driver paused for a moment, but didn't ask any further questions and started the car.

St. Paul's Cathedral was deserted. It wasn't prayer time, and only a few believers were praying.

Jericho entered the church and sat down on a pew in the last row. He didn't pray; he just sat quietly, looking at the huge cross in front of him.

Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting dappled patterns on the floor. The air was filled with the scents of candles and old wood.

Jericho recalled that many years ago, he and Florence had their wedding here. Back then, he was just a lieutenant colonel, full of hope for the future, never imagining that one day he would bear such a heavy responsibility.

"God," he whispered, his voice barely audible in the empty church, "if you truly exist... please bless those children about to set sail. Many of them may never return."

There was no response. Only his own breathing sounded exceptionally clear in the silence.

Jellicoe closed his eyes. The names of those warships floated into his mind—HMS Iron Duke, HMS George V, HMS Orion, HMS Lion, HMS Princess Royal… Each ship carried hundreds, even thousands, of sailors.

Young, old, experienced, and newly commissioned.

They have families, lovers, and dreams.

Now, he is to lead them to the battlefield, to the seas where death is a possibility.

"General?"

A voice sounded behind him. Jericho opened his eyes and saw the church priest standing beside him.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you," the priest said. "Would you like me to pray for you?"

Jericho shook his head: "No, Father. I just... want some peace and quiet."

The priest nodded and prepared to leave, but Jericho called him back.

"Father."

"Please speak."

"If you were to pray for a battle that could kill many people, what would you pray for?"

The priest paused for a moment: "I will pray that the living will remember the dead, and that their sacrifices will have meaning. I will pray that, whatever the outcome, people will find a path to peace after the war."

"What if we can't find it?"

"Then let's continue to pray," the priest said calmly, "until we find it."

Jericho gave a wry smile. The answer was theological, but it didn't solve the problem he was facing.

"Thank you, Father."

"May God bless you, General." The priest made the sign of the cross on his chest and turned to leave.

Jericho sat for a while longer, then stood up and walked out of the church.

Life goes on on the streets of London. Carriages and cars come and go, pedestrians hurry by, and newsboys are still hawking their newspapers—today's headline is "Eastern Front Crisis, Cabinet Holds Emergency Meeting."

No one knew that just moments ago, in the heart of this city, a decision had been made—a decision that would change the fate of countless people.

Jericho got into the car.

"Back to the Navy," he said.

The car started and drove toward Whitehall. Jericho looked out at the passing street scenes and suddenly remembered a story his mother had told him as a child—General Nelson, on the eve of the Battle of Trafalgar, wrote to his lover, "Tomorrow, I will give my life for England."

At that time, he thought it was the romance of heroes.

Now, he only felt heavy.

Because what he was about to give up was not his own life, but the lives of tens of thousands of people.

He couldn't even guarantee whether the sacrifice of these lives was truly worthwhile.

Late that night, at the Navy Headquarters building.

Jellicoe stood before the massive North Sea sand table, holding a model representing the fleet. He repeatedly considered all the possibilities—what if the Germans discovered them beforehand? What if Beatty was severely damaged? What if the weather suddenly changed? What if communications were cut off…

Every "what if" could mean disaster.

"Admiral," Study walked in, "all fleet commanders have received advance orders. Tomorrow morning at six o'clock, all ships will begin final preparations."

"Where's Betty?"

"They have arrived in Invergorden. His fleet is in good condition and high morale."

"High morale..." Jericho repeated the word, "hopefully they can maintain this morale once the battle begins."

Study hesitated for a moment: "John, what are you worried about?"

"I'm worried about everything." Jellicoe put down the model. "I'm worried the Germans are smarter than we think, I'm worried our plans are too obvious, I'm worried Betty is too impulsive, I'm worried..."

He paused. "I'm worried we'll lose."

These words were spoken softly, but Study was still shocked. He had never heard Jericho say anything like that before.

"But we must fight," Jellicoe continued, "because if we don't, we'll lose even faster. The collapse on the Eastern Front has shaken the confidence of the entire Allied Powers, and if we don't take action, the French may collapse, and the Russians may withdraw from the war. Then we'll be facing Germany alone."

Study remained silent. He knew Jericho was right. This decisive battle wasn't their choice; it was forced upon them by circumstances.

"Go and rest, Frederick," Jericho said. "There's a lot to do tomorrow."

"And you?"

"I'll stay a little longer."

Study left. Jellicoe stood alone in front of the sand table, looking at the small models representing the warships.

The British fleet is red, and the German fleet is blue.

On the sand table, they are just blocks of wood and paint. But in reality, they are killing machines made of steel, gunpowder, and flesh.

A few days later, these machines will meet in Beihai.

At that time, the simulations on this sand table will transform into flames, explosions, and death on the sea.

Jericho took his pocket watch out of his pocket and opened the case. Under the dial was a small photograph—a picture of his two sons.

His eldest son was sixteen, and his youngest son was twelve. They both wanted to join the navy, but he stopped them both.

"Wait until the war is over," he said at the time.

Now, he's going to take a gamble to end this war.

If we win, my sons might be able to grow up in a peaceful world.

If we lose...

Jericho closed the watch case and put the pocket watch back in his pocket.

He turned off the lights on the sand table and walked out of the operations room.

The corridor was quiet, with only the echo of his footsteps.

At the top of the stairs, he encountered a young officer on night duty.