Chapter 195: The Galley's Hell

"Starboard C gun position destroyed!"

"Radar antenna damaged!"

"Number two fire control instrument has failed!"

Bad news came one after another.

"Captain, should we turn to return fire?" Chen Qiming asked anxiously.

"No." Lin Haisheng shook his head. "If we turn now, we'll expose our full broadside to Vajra's Main Gun. Keep going forward, pass through the middle. Once we get through this channel, we'll have room to breathe."

He glanced at the clock: six twenty-three. Seventeen minutes left.

Seventeen minutes, in hell.

On the lower deck of Revival, in the galley near the waterline, Old Zhou was using his body to pin down a violently rocking soup pot.

"Xiao Wang! Grab that steamer! Xiao Li, push the flour sacks into the corner and tie them down with rope!"

This veteran in his fifties was like an enraged lion, commanding in the narrow kitchen. Explosions outside rose and fell one after another; every hit made the hull shake violently, and pots, pans, bowls, and ladles clattered noisily.

"Squad leader, are we... are we going to sink?" an eighteen-year-old young cook asked with a tearful voice.

"Sink my ass!" Old Zhou slapped the back of his head. "I've been drifting on the sea for thirty years—what storms haven't I seen? This little skirmish and they think Revival will sink? Dream on!"

That said, Old Zhou actually wasn't sure in his heart either. He could tell that the explosion just now was very close, possibly on the upper deck. And the continuous sound of secondary battery hits meant the Japanese were already chasing very closely.

"Listen up, all of you!" Old Zhou wiped the sweat from his face. "We're cooks, but we're also Revival's soldiers! When the battle's over, the brothers who survive need to eat, and the brothers who are wounded need soup! So this kitchen can't fall into chaos, and the cooking can't stop!"

"But squad leader, who can still eat right now..."

"You cook even if you can't eat!" Old Zhou roared. "That's an order! The captain hasn't given the order to abandon ship, so we hold our posts! Now, Xiao Wang, go watch that pot of congee, don't let it burn. Xiao Li, keep kneading the dough—we're having noodles for lunch today!"

"Lunch?" Xiao Li was stunned. "Squad leader, it's only just past six in the morning..."

"You think you can rest once the battle's over?" Old Zhou glared at him. "After the naval battle ends, there's still emergency repair, still wounded, still... anyway, I told you to cook so you cook!"

The young cooks didn't dare speak anymore and each returned to their posts. Old Zhou walked to the bulkhead and pressed his ear against it.

He could hear sounds from outside: the distant roar of the Main Gun, the near howl of secondary batteries, and faint shouts and... crying?

No, not crying. It was the groans of the wounded.

Old Zhou's expression darkened. He walked to the storage room and opened a locked cabinet. Inside wasn't food, but rolls of bandages, bottles of disinfectant, and surgical instruments.

"Squad leader, this is..." Xiao Wang looked on in surprise.

"Three years ago when we took over the ship, the medical officer quietly gave these to me." Old Zhou spoke softly. "He said, if the fighting gets to the point where the medical bay can't hold any more patients, our place here becomes the second aid station."

He took out a roll of bandages and tucked it into his coat. "You all keep cooking. I'm going out to take a look."

"Squad leader! It's dangerous outside!"

"Dangerous?" Old Zhou laughed, baring teeth yellowed by tobacco smoke. "This life of mine should have been lost in the Yellow Sea back in the Jiawu year. Twenty extra years—I've already profited."

He pushed open the hatch and walked into the smoke-filled corridor.

Almost at the same time, at Revival's forward damage control center.

Damage control team leader Sun Dayong was roaring into the intercom: "Is the fire in Sector B under control? I need a definite report!"

"Under control! But the number two secondary turret is completely destroyed. The gun crew of twelve... all killed in action."

Sun Dayong's hand trembled. He knew the gun captain of the number two secondary turret—a man from Shandong who had just become a father last month.

"Understood. Now go to Sector C. Mist Island's secondary guns have punched through several compartments on the starboard side, there are flooding reports."

"Team leader, Sector C doesn't have enough manpower..."

"Transfer from Sector D! Quick!"

Sun Dayong set down the intercom and wiped the sweat and blood from his face—he didn't know whose blood it was. He was among the first batch of Lanfang Navy damage control team members, trained in Dubai by German instructors under the strictest drills. The instructors had said: a warship's life depends half on its guns and half on damage control.

Now, the guns were roaring outside, while he and his team members were sustaining this warship's life with their flesh and blood.

"Team leader, the medical bay is calling, asking how many bandages and tourniquets we still have..."

"Tell them we don't even have enough for ourselves!" Sun Dayong roared, but then immediately corrected himself. "Wait, give them half from our stock. Wounded first."

The young damage control team member ran off. Sun Dayong leaned against the bulkhead and pulled a photograph from his pocket. The photo showed his wife and five-year-old daughter, taken when they saw him off to war at Dubai port.

"Juanzi, Niuniu," he said softly, "Daddy might be a little late coming home."

A violent explosion interrupted his thoughts. The hull shook violently again, and the lights overhead flickered unsteadily.

"Where was the hit?" Sun Dayong jumped up.

"It seems... the stern! Sector D reports a hit near the number three secondary turret!"

"Damn it!" Sun Dayong grabbed his tool kit. "Squad two, follow me! Squad three, go support the fire-fighting team!"

They rushed into the smoke-filled corridor. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, scorching, and blood. There was already standing water on the floor—he didn't know if it was fire-fighting water or seawater.

Rounding a corner, the sight before him made Sun Dayong suck in a sharp breath.

A 140-millimeter Shell had directly punched through a weak point in the starboard armor and exploded in the corridor. A large hole was torn in the wall, revealing the churning seawater and gloomy sky outside. Seven or eight sailors lay in pools of blood; some were still groaning, others had already stopped moving.

"Save them!" Sun Dayong was the first to rush over.

He knelt beside a young sailor. This sailor was eighteen at most, his chest torn open by shrapnel, blood welling out steadily.

"Hold on! The medic will be right here!" Sun Dayong tore open a first-aid kit and pressed a bandage hard against the wound.

The young sailor's eyes were already growing unfocused; his lips moved, as if he wanted to say something.

"What are you saying?" Sun Dayong leaned his ear closer.

"... Mom... Mom..."

These were the young sailor's last words. Sun Dayong felt the hand pressed against his chest suddenly lose the heartbeat.

Sun Dayong closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then continued to check the next wounded man. He had no time for grief, no time for anger. The only thing he could do was save those who could still be saved, and keep this ship that could still fight afloat.

Six twenty-eight in the morning, fourteen minutes before the Bismarck formation arrived.

Revival had finally passed through the channel formed by Wise Comparison and Hazelnut Name. The price was steep: the superstructure had taken hits in multiple places, three secondary turrets were destroyed, the radar antenna was severely damaged, and casualties had already exceeded a hundred.

But Lin Hai's tactical objective had been achieved—after passing through the channel, Revival had temporarily broken free from the encirclement on all sides. Now, all enemy ships were to the rear and the rear quarters.