World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"But Scheer is still alive, and most of the German warships are still alive," Study said.

"Yes," Jellicoe nodded. "So the war will continue. But today, the Royal Navy has proven that she remains the master of the North Sea."

He turned around, preparing to return to his cabin to rest. But after taking two steps, he stopped again.

"Send a telegram to the Admiralty," he said. "Say: Today we engaged the main force of the German High Seas Fleet and sank one enemy battlecruiser, one old battleship, two light cruisers, and several destroyers. We lost two battlecruisers and one armored cruiser. The enemy has retreated, and we have control of the battlefield."

"Should we specify the ship's name?" the communications officer asked.

Jellicoe thought for a moment: "Let's mention the 'Lützow' and the 'Pommern.' As for our losses... let's mention the 'Indulgence,' the 'Queen Mary,' and the 'Defense' (an armored cruiser that sank in the engagement and hadn't been mentioned before)."

"Yes, General."

The communications officer ran off to send a telegram. Jericho took one last look at the sea, then turned and left.

Behind him, the night over the North Sea was as deep as ink. The flames had been extinguished, the cannon fire had ceased, and only the sound of waves crashing against the warships and the distant whistles of destroyers rescuing those who had fallen into the water could be heard.

A major naval battle has ended.

But the war is far from over.

The seawater was icy cold.

Fritz Berg struggled to the surface in the darkness, spitting out salty seawater and gasping for breath. Around him floated various objects—planks, oil drums, corpses, and still-burning wreckage.

He was a survivor of the HMS Emperor. In the final moments before the ship sank, he and several others climbed out of the deformed turret doors and jumped into the sea. Sergeant Horst did not emerge—he was trapped by the collapsing steel structure while helping others escape.

"Hold on! Hold on!" Fritz told himself, and to the other survivors he could see.

He grabbed onto a floating plank and used it to support himself. The plank was small, barely enough to support one person. He looked around, trying to find more survivors.

"Here! Help me!" a voice rang out from not far away.

Fritz rowed past. It was Hans—no, not the Hans who died in the turret, but another Hans, the Hans in the engine room. He was clutching a wooden crate, but the crate was sinking. (Anyway, there were many German Hans.)

Fritz held out his hand: "Grab me!"

Two young people struggled in the icy water, sharing a small piece of plank. They clung tightly to each other, warming each other with their body heat.

"Will we die?" Hans asked in the engine room, his voice trembling.

"No," Fritz said, though he himself wasn't sure. "Rescue will come. Our ship, or... the British ship."

"The English?" Hans's voice was filled with fear.

“They’re all the same,” Fritz said, recalling Sergeant Horst’s words: “At sea, a person who falls overboard is a person who falls overboard. Nationality doesn’t matter.”

He looked into the distance. In the darkness, he saw lights—beams of searchlights sweeping across the sea. Warships were approaching.

"Look!" he exclaimed excitedly, "A ship is coming!"

But the shape of the ship, in the fleeting moments when the searchlight occasionally illuminated it, revealed a familiar outline—not that of a German warship.

It is a British warship.

A British destroyer was slowly approaching, its searchlights carefully scanning the sea. Whenever the lights shone on the survivors, it would stop and lower a small boat or rope ladder.

Fritz and Hans exchanged a glance. Fear and the will to survive clashed in their eyes.

In the end, the will to survive won.

They raised their hands and shouted with all their might, "Here! Help us!"

Searchlights were turned on them, the blinding light making it almost impossible for them to open their eyes. Then, the destroyer slowly approached, and rope ladders were lowered from the side.

A British sailor's face appeared on the side of the ship; young, tired, but with gentle eyes.

"Can you climb up?" he asked in accented German.

Fritz nodded. He first helped Hans grab the rope ladder, then followed him up. Cold seawater dripped from his body, each step was incredibly heavy, but he persevered.

When he finally climbed onto the deck, a pair of strong hands supported him.

"Blanket! Hot soup!" the British sailor shouted to his comrade.

Fritz was wrapped in a rough but dry blanket, and a steaming iron cup was tucked into his hands. The soup was salty, but warm, warming him from his throat all the way to his stomach.

He looked around. Dozens of survivors were already sitting on the deck, some Germans and some British—the latter having been rescued from other sunken British warships.

No one spoke. Everyone just sat quietly, drinking their soup, wrapped in blankets, and watching the dark sea.

Despite the language barrier and different uniforms, they shared the same expression—the bewilderment of surviving a catastrophe, the grief of losing comrades, and the fear of the future.

Fritz finished his soup. He returned the iron cup to the British sailor and said in broken English, "Thank you."

The British sailor nodded and replied in equally broken German, "You're welcome."

It's a very simple sentence, but on such a night, on such a sea, it carries special weight.

Fritz leaned against the ship's side, gazing at the still-burning wreckage on the distant sea. Those were his warships, his home, the graves of many of his comrades.

But he survived.

He survived in the icy sea, thanks to the enemy's rescue.

He didn't know what this meant. He didn't know how long the war would last, or what the future held.

But at least for this moment, on the deck of this British destroyer floating in the North Sea, he was alive.

As long as you live, there is hope.

These were Sergeant Horst's last words to him.

At 11:47 p.m., the officers' conference room on the Iron Duke was filled with smoke.

Six men sat around a long table—Fleet Commander Admiral John Jellicoe, First Sea Lord Vice Admiral Frederick Study, Chief of Intelligence Rear Admiral William Hall, the Navigation Officer, the Gunnery Officer, and Vice Admiral Jerram, Commander of the Second Battle Fleet, who had just been transferred from the damaged USS Marlborough. Each had charts, telegrams, and reports laid out before him, but all eyes were fixed on Jellicoe.

"So the current situation is," Jellicoe drew on the nautical chart with a pencil, "that Scheer's main fleet is about twenty-five nautical miles northeast of us, retreating towards Heligoland Bay at a speed of sixteen knots. Their formation is chaotic, but they still have at least eighteen capital ships available for combat."

The pencil moved to another location: "We're here, roughly southwest of them. Betty's remnants are about fifteen nautical miles to our west, regrouping—the Lion, Princess Royal, and New Zealand are still combat-ready, but the Tiger requires urgent repairs."