World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Jericho closed his eyes. Two thousand eight hundred and seventy-three people had vanished just like that. In the icy seawater, in the burning oil, in the flames of the explosion.

"What about the losses to the destroyers?"

"Eight ships confirmed sunk, three heavily damaged and rendered combat inoperable." Study turned a page. "In total... the Royal Navy lost three battlecruisers, three armored cruisers, and eight destroyers in yesterday's engagements. Dead... 6784 men. Wounded... still being tallied, estimated to be over two thousand."

Six thousand seven hundred and eighty-four people.

Jericho recalled the scene before they set sail—the crowds seeing them off on the dock, the excited faces of the young sailors, the resolute eyes of the officers. Now, more than six thousand of them would never return.

"Where are the Germans?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Based on our confirmed results," Study said in another report, "we sank the old battleship HMS Pomeranz, the light cruisers HMS Wiesbaden, HMS Fraunlob, HMS Elbin, and at least five destroyers. We severely damaged the battleship HMS Emperor (which later sank), the battlecruisers HMS Seydlitz, HMS Derfflinger, and several other capital ships."

他抬起头：「德国方面的损失估计为：前无畏舰1艘、轻巡洋舰4艘、驱逐舰5艘。阵亡……根据情报部门的估算，约3000至3500人。」

"Exchange ratio," Jericho said.

"In terms of tonnage, we lost about 115,000 tons, and they lost about 62,000 tons," Study said softly. "In terms of the number of ships, we lost 14, and they lost 11. In terms of personnel, we lost 6784 people, and they lost about 3021."

pause.

"So," Jericho opened his eyes, looking at the gradually brightening sky, "numerically speaking, we lost."

"But strategically, we've won," Study said immediately. "The German High Seas Fleet has been severely damaged and is unlikely to challenge our naval supremacy anytime soon. The blockade remains intact, and is even... tighter."

Jellicoe did not reply. He turned away from the harbor and looked south—the direction of London, the Admiralty, the Cabinet, and the nation awaiting news.

"How will they see these numbers, Frederick?" he asked, his voice betraying a weariness for the first time. "The public doesn't look at strategic situations; they only look at the headlines: 'Royal Navy loses three battlecruisers, Germans lose one.' They'll ask, why were our ships so easily blown up? Why did Beatty chase us into the trap? Why…"

He didn't finish his sentence. But Stuart knew what he was going to say—why didn't Jellicoe pursue them at night and completely annihilate the German fleet?

"We need to prepare a detailed report," Study said. "Explaining tactical decisions, explaining the battlefield situation, explaining..."

"Explain why over six thousand people died while the German fleet escaped," Jellicoe interrupted him, his voice bitter. "I know. I will write this report, and I will take full responsibility."

"This isn't entirely your fault, Admiral," Study said urgently. "Betty's recklessness, the design flaws of the battlecruisers, the problems with the shell fuses... these are not things you could control."

"But I am the fleet commander," Jellicoe said. "The ultimate responsibility always rests on the commander's shoulders."

He walked back to the chart table, looking at the dense markings—arrows representing fleets, areas of battle, and locations of sinking ships. It was an abstraction of everything that had happened yesterday, but behind those markings lay real flames, explosions, and death.

"Send a telegram to the Admiralty," he said. "Content: The Royal Navy's Grand Fleet returned to Scapa Flow this morning. Yesterday, it engaged the main force of the German High Seas Fleet, inflicting heavy losses and forcing them into a rout. Detailed battle reports will follow. Jellicoe."

"Should we mention our losses?" the communications officer asked.

"Mention it," Jellicoe nodded, "but put it later. Let the people know first that we've won—at least strategically."

The communications officer saluted and left. Jericho looked out the window again, at the warships that were anchored. Sailors began clearing the decks, medics were treating the wounded, and chaplains were preparing to hold a ceremony for the fallen.

The day of war has ended.

At nine o'clock in the morning, Wilhelmshaven, Germany, was shrouded in an eerie atmosphere.

Thousands of people gathered on the dock—naval officers and soldiers, shipyard workers, officials, journalists, and ordinary citizens. They had heard that the fleet had returned and that a "major victory" had been achieved, so they had come early to welcome the heroes home.

But when the first warship entered the port, the cheers were abruptly cut off.

It was the battlecruiser "Seydlitz," but she could hardly recognize it. The bow was deformed by bombs, the forward main gun turret was askew, and the hull was covered with charred bullet holes and repaired steel plates. She sailed slowly and laboriously, like a wounded behemoth, slowly approaching the shore with the help of tugboats.

Next came the "Von der Tann," also riddled with wounds. Then came the "Moldyck," the "King," the "Great Elector"... each ship bore the marks of battle, each was terrifyingly silent.

Whispers began to circulate among the crowd.

"Didn't we say we won?"

"Why is our ship so badly damaged?"

"What about the other ships? What about the Emperor?"

No one answered. The officers maintained order with grim expressions, and the reporters snapped photos frantically, but no one dared to ask the most pressing question: How much have we actually lost?

On the bridge of the flagship "Frederick the Great", Admiral Reinhard Scheer looked at the crowd on the dock with mixed feelings.

On the one hand, he felt fortunate—his fleet had returned, or at least most of it. To sail along the edge of a minefield on such a perilous night and ultimately return safely was a miracle in itself.

On the other hand, he felt a heavy sense of guilt. The Emperor was sunk, the Pomeranian was sunk, and there were so many light cruisers and destroyers, and so many young lives.

"Prepare to disembark, Admiral." Chief of Staff Rear Admiral Trotta walked up to him. "Representatives from the Navy are waiting at the dock, and... reporters as well."

Scheer nodded and straightened his uniform. Although exhausted and heavy-hearted, he had to project the demeanor befitting a fleet commander—firm and confident, even if only superficially.

The atmosphere on the dock suddenly changed as he stepped off the gangway.

An officer from the Admiralty—whom Scheer recognized as Field Marshal Tirpitz's adjutant—stepped forward, stood at attention, and saluted: "Welcome back, Admiral! The Field Marshal pays his highest respects to you and all the officers and men!"

Then, turning to the crowd, he announced loudly: "The High Seas Fleet of the Imperial German Navy, under the valiant command of Admiral Scheer, achieved a major victory yesterday in battle against the main force of the British Grand Fleet in the North Sea! Three British battlecruisers, three armored cruisers, and several destroyers were sunk! The enemy was severely damaged and forced to retreat!"

The crowd erupted in cheers. Reporters frantically took notes, their flashes going off incessantly.