World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Scher stood there, his face maintaining a standard military expression, but his heart was filled with mixed feelings, like a spilled spice bottle.

Yes, they sank British warships. But what was the cost? Why is no one mentioning the cost?

The adjutant continued reading the "victory" report, his words eloquent and his emotions surging. He described the bravery of the German sailors, the brilliance of their tactics, and the disarray of the British.

As Scher listened, he felt these words becoming increasingly distant and unreal.

The real war. Not these fancy words, not this political propaganda.

"General," the adjutant said, walking up to Scheer after finishing his speech and lowering his voice, "the Marshal wants you to go to Berlin to report as soon as possible. His Majesty the Emperor... also wishes to see you."

Scheer nodded: "I will go. But before that, I need to handle fleet affairs—the care of the wounded, the repair of warships, the list of the dead…"

"These things will be handled by someone," the adjutant said. "Your primary task is to go to Berlin. This is a direct order from the Marshal."

Orders. Scheer knew the weight of that word. In the Navy, orders were everything.

"I understand," he said. "Give me two hours; I need to speak with my officers about some things."

"One hour, General." The adjutant's tone left no room for argument. "The special train is already waiting at the station."

Scheer looked at him, at this young officer from Berlin, dressed in a crisp uniform, with a bureaucratic smile on his face. He suddenly realized that for those people in Berlin, this naval battle was just a numbers game, a political bargaining chip. But for him, for everyone in the fleet, it was a matter of life and death, bloodshed, and a wound that could never be forgotten.

But he couldn't say those things. He was a soldier; he had to obey.

"I'll be at the station in an hour," Scheer said, then turned and walked toward his officers.

He needed to tell them he was going to Berlin and might need a few days. He needed to arrange an acting commander, explain the repair priorities, and so on…

But what he really wanted to say was an apology. I'm sorry I led you into this trap. I'm sorry so many didn't come back. I'm sorry I lived, while Hipper died.

But he couldn't say it. Because the commander couldn't apologize, couldn't show weakness, and couldn't show any doubt.

So he said, "During my absence, Rear Admiral Trotta will act as fleet commander. Priority will be given to treating the wounded, repairing the warships as quickly as possible, and compiling detailed battle reports."

The officers stood at attention and saluted: "Yes, General!"

Scher returned the greeting, then turned and left. He walked across the dock, past the still-cheering crowd, and past the reporters taking pictures.

He heard someone shouting, "General Scherr! Say a few words! Tell us about our victory!"

He didn't turn back, he didn't stop.

Because what echoed in his mind was not cheers, but the sounds of cannons and explosions.

victory?

He smiled bitterly.

If this is a victory, he doesn't want to experience it a second time.

The corridors of the William Harbour Naval Hospital were packed with stretchers and wheelchairs.

The wounded, fresh from the warship, received initial treatment here before being assigned to different wards or operating rooms based on the severity of their injuries. The air was thick with the stench of disinfectant, blood, and burnt flesh.

In the third surgical ward, Hans Weber—the young engineer who jumped overboard before the Derfflinger sank—lay on his bed by the window, staring blankly at the ceiling.

His injuries weren't serious, mainly frostbite and dehydration, along with some abrasions. The doctor said he could be discharged after two days of observation, and then... then he might be assigned to another warship.

But Hans didn't know if he wanted to go back to the sea.

He closed his eyes, and images immediately flashed through his mind: the boiler room turning into a hellish inferno in the explosion, the screams of his comrades being scalded to death by high-pressure steam, the cold and darkness as seawater rushed in, and watching his companions stop breathing one by one while he was floating at sea.

"How are you?"

A voice interrupted his thoughts. Hans opened his eyes and saw a nurse standing by the bed, holding a medical record board. She was probably thirty years old, with a gentle face, but her eyes held the same weariness as all medical staff.

"I...I'm fine," Hans said, his voice hoarse.

The nurse checked his IV line, recorded a few data points, and then asked, "What do you need? Water? Food?"

Hans shook his head. He didn't want to eat or drink anything. He just wanted to... forget. But the more he tried to forget, the clearer the memories became.

"Do you know... how the others are?" he asked. "The other survivors of the Doverlinger?"

The nurse's expression became somewhat uneasy: "I'm not quite sure. The hospital has received many wounded soldiers from different ships..."

She didn't finish, but Hans understood. There probably weren't many survivors on the Derfflinger. He remembered that when he jumped overboard, the entire warship had already disintegrated in the explosion; few people had managed to escape.

And he was one of them.

Why? Why did he survive while everyone else died? The old chief engineer who always looked after him, the sergeant who taught him how to operate the boiler, the recruit friend who stole kitchen cookies with him…

They are all dead.

And he is alive.

Is this fair?

"You should get some rest," the nurse said, gently patting his hand. "It's lucky you survived."

After she left, Hans turned and looked out the window. From the third-floor ward, one could see part of the harbor, the battered warships, and the crowds coming and going on the docks.

He saw a group of people surrounding an officer as he walked past—it was General Scheer, who was heading to the station with the officers, ready to go to Berlin.

The crowd was cheering and waving.

Hans watched, a strange feeling welling up inside him. Those people were cheering victory, celebrating the return of their heroes. But did they know? Did they know how terrifying the heat inside the boiler room was? Did they know how cold the seawater was? Did they know what it felt like to watch their comrades die?

He didn't know the answer.

All he knew was that from that moment on, whenever he heard a ship's horn, he would think of an explosion. Whenever he saw flames, he would think of a burning warship. Whenever he closed his eyes, he would see the faces of the dead.

The war is over—at least this naval battle is over.

But for him, and for many like him, the war will never truly end.

It will always be in my memory, in my nightmares, in every quiet night.

11:00 AM, Admiralty Building, London.

First Sea Lord, Field Marshal Henry Jackson, sat at the head of the conference table, a preliminary battle report from Jellicoe spread out before him. There were six other people in the room—other senior officials from the Admiralty, and the Prime Minister's military advisors who had just arrived from Downing Street.

"So," Jackson took off his glasses and rubbed his nose, "we lost three battlecruisers, three armored cruisers, and eight destroyers. Nearly seven thousand men were killed."

His voice was calm, but everyone in the conference room could hear the heaviness in it.