World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Meanwhile, aboard the Pearl River, Zhou Zhenguo was directing his warship to cut into the flank of the British fleet.

"Hard starboard! Twenty-eight knots!" he roared. "Don't let them surround us!"

The Pearl River drew a huge arc on the sea surface and charged toward the left flank of the British fleet at a speed of 28 knots.

The British battle lines were unfolding, attempting to create crossfire using their numerical superiority. However, their speed was too slow—their main battleships could only reach 21 or 28 knots, and while their battlecruisers could reach over 30 knots, their armor was thin, preventing them from getting too close.

This is the advantage of the Bismarck-class battleships. They can fight when they want and run away when they want.

"Target—the Renown!" Zhou Zhenguo pointed to the rapidly moving dot on the radar screen. "Concentrate fire!"

The Pearl River's four twin-mounted 380mm main guns simultaneously turned. The fire control radar locked onto the target, the gunners loaded armor-piercing rounds, and the gunner calculated the firing data.

"put!"

Eight shells flew out of the cannon.

Forty seconds later, the observer's voice came through: "Two hits! The Renown has been hit amidships! The superstructure is on fire!"

Zhou Zhenguo raised his binoculars.

The battlecruiser was smoking. Its speed had noticeably decreased, dropping from twenty-eight knots to twenty-four knots. On deck, the damage control team was desperately fighting the fire.

"Keep firing!" Zhou Zhenguo said, "Fire until it sinks!"

But just then, the lookout's voice changed: "Captain! Port! Two British battleships are approaching! It's HMS Centurion and HMS Ajax!"

Zhou Zhenguo turned to port.

Two British battleships were closing in at full speed, less than 20,000 meters apart. Their guns were adjusting their aim; the next salvo was imminent.

"Hard to port!" Zhou Zhenguo roared. "Turn the main guns to port! Aim at the Centurion!"

The Pearl River was frantically turning on the sea. But it was too slow—a warship is not a car; a steel behemoth weighing over 40,000 tons takes time to turn.

The first 356mm shell landed 100 meters to port, and the resulting jet of water soaked the deck.

The second shot landed fifty meters away, shrapnel swept across the bridge, and an observer fell.

Third shot—

It hit directly.

The Pearl River was hit on its starboard aft side; the shell penetrated the secondary gun deck and exploded above the engine room. The ship shuddered violently, and its speed dropped from 28 knots to 25 knots.

"Damage Control Report!"

"General! The starboard aft section has been hit! Fire has broken out above the engine room! Flooding is minor, but the fire is spreading!"

Zhou Zhenguo gritted his teeth: "Keep firing! Ignore the casualties! Take down the Centurion!"

The Pearl River's main guns opened fire again. Eight shells flew toward the approaching British battleship.

Forty seconds later, it hit.

Two armor-piercing shells struck the bow of the Centurion, blowing away the spare ammunition in the forward main gun turret. Flames rose from the bow, and thick smoke billowed.

The Centurion's speed dropped from 21 knots to 18 knots, and it began to break away from the battle line.

"Hit!" Cheers erupted from the bridge.

Zhou Zhenguo did not laugh.

He turned to the radar screen, watching the approaching British warships—eight more. HMS Revenge, HMS Ramirez, HMS Royal Oak, HMS Monarch, HMS Conqueror… they were closing in from all sides.

The Pearl River has already been hit by two bullets.

What about the Huaihe?

He looked toward starboard. The Huaihe was smoking, its bridge was completely destroyed, but it was still firing.

Hang in there, Lao Zhang. He thought. Hang in there.

In a semi-protected compartment below the bridge of the Huaihe ship, reporter Fang and his three companions were frantically pressing the shutter.

"Take a picture of that! That one's on fire!" he pointed to the Renown in the distance. "Take a picture of its flames, a picture of its smoke!"

A young reporter leaned out of the porthole, his camera pointed at the Renown, the shutter clicking incessantly.

"Got it!"

"Okay! Change direction! Take pictures of ourselves!" Reporter Fang turned to another window, "Take pictures of our wounds, pictures of the wounded on deck, pictures of the sailors fighting the fire!"

Another reporter peered out with his camera, aiming at the damage control team bustling about on deck. Several sailors were dragging hoses toward the fire, their faces covered in soot, but their eyes were resolute. Not far away, two stretcher bearers were carrying an injured comrade toward the cabin; the sailor on the stretcher was covered in blood, but he was gritting his teeth and enduring the pain.

Click. Click. Click.

Reporter Fang's hands were trembling, but he didn't stop.

He's filmed wars for twenty years, from Asia to Europe, from land battles to naval battles—what kind of scenes hasn't he seen? But this time is different.

This time, he was filming his own people.

"Professor Fang!" a reporter exclaimed, pointing out the porthole. "Is that British ship sinking?"

Reporter Fang looked in the direction he pointed—in the distance, the Renown was listing. Its port side had sunk considerably, while its starboard side was tilting upwards, and items on the deck were sliding down.

"That's the Renown!" he roared. "Take a picture! Take a picture of it sinking!"

Four cameras were simultaneously pointed at the dying British battlecruiser.

Three minutes later, the Renown capsized completely. Upside down, its hull, covered in barnacles, and its still-spinning propeller were exposed. It remained upside down on the surface for about two minutes before beginning to sink.

Reporter Fang pressed the shutter one last time.

He watched the giant ship disappear into the sea, his eyes reddening.

Then he turned to his companions and said, "Keep filming. There's more."

At 7:40 a.m., the bridge of the Huaihe ship was completely destroyed.

Three 356mm shells hit the vicinity of the bridge in succession. The radio room was blown away, the navigator's chart table was overturned, and two staff officers were killed on the spot. Zhang Zhen's forehead was cut open by shrapnel, and blood flowed down his cheek, but he didn't bother to wipe it away.

"Report damage!" he roared.

The damage control officer's voice came through the loudspeaker, trembling slightly: "Sir, the ship is taking on serious floodwater! Three compartments on the port side are flooded, and two compartments on the starboard side are flooded. The pumps are operating at full capacity, but the floodwater is still taking on more water than the ship can displace! The speed has dropped to twenty-three knots!"

"Main gun status!"

"Turrets A and B are still operational! Turret C's ammunition feeding mechanism is damaged, reducing its reload speed by half! Turret D... Turret D was directly hit and is jammed!"

Of the four turrets, only two and a half remain.

Zhang Zhen gritted his teeth.

"Keep firing!" he said. "Target—HMS King George V! Fire all the shells!"

The two and a half turrets opened fire again.

The shell flew toward the British flagship. Forty seconds later, the observer reported: "Hit! HMS King George V hit near the bridge!"

Zhang Zhen saw through his binoculars that the bridge of the British flagship was smoking. Its speed was also decreasing—from twenty-one knots to nineteen knots.

Well played.

He turned around and looked at the reporters.

Reporter Fang was still taking pictures. His camera lens was pointed at the British fleet, and the shutter kept clicking. His face was covered in ash, and his eyes were red, but his hand was very steady.

"Reporter Fang," Zhang Zhen walked over, "how many photos have you taken?"

Reporter Fang looked up: "Five rolls of film, General. Every single second was captured. The moment the British opened fire, the footage of us being hit, our counterattack, the sinking of the Renown... everything."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

"Protect those film rolls," he said. "They're evidence."

Reporter Fang looked at him, at his face covered in blood, and at his still determined eyes.

"General," he said, "you should also take care of yourself."

Chang Chen smiled.

The reporter later recalled that the kind of laughter was the kind of laughter that only someone who was prepared to die would have.