World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The Pearl River was hit on its starboard side. The shell penetrated the secondary gun deck and exploded inside the ship. The shockwave threw Zhou Zhenguo to the ground, his head hitting the leg of the chart table, and his vision went black for a moment.

"Captain!" The adjutant rushed over to help him up.

Zhou Zhenguo pushed away his adjutant and struggled to his feet.

"Report damage!"

The damage control officer's voice came through: "Sir, water is taking on the starboard side! Three compartments are flooded! Speed... speed has dropped to twenty knots!"

Section 20.

Zhou Zhenguo's heart tightened suddenly.

Speed ​​is the Pearl River's greatest advantage. If it slows down to twenty knots, it will be as slow as a British battleship. At that point, eight British warships will swarm it...

"Damage control team! All-out repairs!" he roared. "Keep the water inflow below twenty tons per hour! Now!"

He turned to the megaphone: "Huaihe, report your situation!"

Thirty seconds later, the Huaihe replied: "The Huaihe is heavily damaged, speed 18 knots. Still fighting."

Eighteen sections.

Zhou Zhenguo closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Old Zhang thought, "We can't hold on much longer."

On the bridge of HMS King George V, Jellicoe stood by the window, a smile finally appearing on his face.

Those two "German warships" are finally nearing the end of their service life.

He raised his binoculars, looking at the two massive ships in the distance, billowing smoke. Their speed had noticeably decreased, and the rate of fire from their main guns was slowing. Flames and thick smoke filled the decks, and damage control teams were desperately fighting the fires.

"General," Chief of Staff Crowley approached, his voice brimming with excitement, "they're almost at their limit! In another half hour, we can get them all to the bottom of the sea!"

Jericho nodded.

"Order all ships," he said, "not to give them a chance to breathe. Full speed ahead, focus fire on the lead ship—take it down, and the other one will be finished."

"yes!"

The order was given. Eight British warships accelerated simultaneously, surrounding the two dying "German warships" from all sides.

As Jericho watched this scene, an indescribable sense of satisfaction welled up inside him.

He had been waiting for this day since the HMS Hood sank. He had been waiting for this day since the HMS Queen Elizabeth sank. He had been waiting for this day since the HMS Resolution sank.

Now, he has finally gotten what he's been waiting for.

The Bismarck. The Tirpitz. Those two damned German warships that killed countless British sailors were finally going to sink in his hands.

He could almost see himself returning to London as the "hero who sank the Bismarck"—the awarding of honors at Buckingham Palace, the applause of Parliament, the front page of newspapers, and the cheers of the people.

Since Nelson, the Royal Navy's greatest victory.

"General," Crowley suddenly said, "don't you feel... something's not right?"

Jericho turned to look at him: "What's wrong?"

Crowley pointed to the two warships: "They've been fighting for two hours. Twelve against two, we've sunk one and severely damaged three, while they've been hit by more than a dozen shells and their speed has dropped below twenty knots. But they..."

He paused. "They were still fighting. They didn't turn and run, they didn't raise a white flag, they didn't abandon ship. They just kept firing while the ships were ablaze, like...like they didn't know what surrender meant at all."

Jericho was silent for a second.

Of course he noticed it.

The two ships' tenacity exceeded his expectations. Logically, being hit by more than a dozen 356mm and 381mm shells should have rendered any warship combat ineffective. But those two ships continued to fight, continued to retaliate, and continued to cause his warships to catch fire, take on water, and be forced to withdraw from the battle one after another.

"Those were Germans," Jellicoe said. "It's a Prussian military tradition to fight to the death."

Crowley nodded, but the doubt on his face did not disappear.

"But General," he said, "they haven't flown their flag. They've been fighting for two hours, and they still haven't raised it. This…"

Jericho paused for a moment.

He almost forgot this detail.

Yes, those two ships have not flown any flags since the start of the war. This is a violation of international law—warships of any belligerent nation should fly their national flags to identify themselves during combat.

Why?

"Perhaps...they want to hide their identities?" Crowley said. "Perhaps they aren't the Bismarck and the Tirpitz?"

Jericho's heart skipped a beat.

No?

Who are they?

He walked to the chart table and looked at the Arabian Sea chart that marked the positions of both sides.

The Bismarck and Tirpitz had been undergoing repairs in Dubai for seven days and were supposed to set sail today. The logic is sound: these two ships came out from the direction of Dubai without flying their national flags, and after being intercepted, they immediately returned fire.

But what if they aren't?

What if they are from Lanfang?

"No way," Jellicoe shook his head. "The Lanfang people wouldn't send two capital ships to their deaths. They haven't declared war on us, so why should they?"

Crowley didn't say anything.

But that thought pierced Jericho's heart like a thorn.

He raised his binoculars again and looked at the two dying warships.

Their turrets were still turning, still firing. On their decks, sailors were still running, still fighting fires. On their bridges, commanders were still standing, still giving orders.

That tenacious stance, that spirit of fighting to the death—

They look too much like Germans.

But it's also too... too tragic.

Jericho suddenly had a bad feeling.

But he couldn't explain what that premonition was.

At 8:40 a.m., the Huaihe had reached its limit.

The speed dropped to 18 knots. Only one of the four main gun turrets was still operational. Five compartments on the port side were flooded, and the drainage pumps had been running at overload for forty minutes and were on the verge of burning out. The deck was littered with shell craters and debris, and flames were burning in several places. The damage control team was desperately fighting the fires, but the fires were still spreading.

Zhang Zhen stood in the wrecked bridge, his left hand gripping the window frame, his right hand holding binoculars. Blood was still seeping from his forehead, his left arm was cut by shrapnel, and his uniform was soaked in blood, but he felt nothing.

He could no longer feel the pain.

"General," the adjutant's voice came from behind, trembling with tears, "please sit down and rest for a while. I'll keep watch."

Zhang Zhen shook his head.

"Need not."

He watched as the eight British warships closed in on him in the distance. HMS Revenge, HMS Ramirez, HMS Royal Oak, HMS Sovereign, HMS Conqueror, HMS King George V, HMS Centurion, HMS Ajax—they were forming a huge encirclement, tightening little by little.

There are still less than 15,000 meters to go.

In another twenty minutes, they will be within their most effective firing range. At that time, the nearly one hundred main guns of the eight warships will fire simultaneously, riddling the Huaihe with holes.

"What about the Pearl River?" he asked.

The adjutant reported: "The Pearl River is traveling at 20 knots and is engaged in a dogfight with the Conqueror and Repulse on its port flank. They... they won't last much longer either."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

He turned and looked at the reporters in the corner of the bridge.