Chapter 367: The Reception at William Port 2

Sher stood there, his face maintaining the standard military expression, but inside he felt like a tipped seasoning jar, a jumble of five flavors.

Yes, they sank the Yingguo warship. But at what cost? Why does no one mention the cost?

The adjutant continued reading the "victory" battle report, using ornate language, his emotions high. He described the bravery of Deguo sailors, the brilliance of the tactics, the disgrace of the Yingguo.

Sher listened, feeling those words grow more distant, more false.

The real war. Not these flowery phrases, not this political propaganda.

"Admiral," after the adjutant finished speaking, he walked to Sher's side, lowered his voice, "Marshal wants you to report to Berlin as soon as possible. Your Majesty… also wishes to see you."

Sher nodded: "I will go. But before that, I need to handle fleet matters—wounded personnel placement, warship repairs, casualty lists…"

"Those will be taken care of," the adjutant said, "Your primary task is to go to Berlin. This is the Marshal's direct order."

Order. Sher knew the weight of that word. In the navy, an order is everything.

"Understood," he said, "Give me two hours; I need to brief my officers on some matters."

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

Sher looked at him, at this young officer from Berlin, dressed in crisp uniform, with a bureaucratic smile. He suddenly realized that for those in Berlin, this sea battle was just a numbers game, a political chip. But for him, for everyone in the fleet, it was life and death, blood, an indelible wound.

But he could not say that. He was a soldier; he must obey.

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

He needed to tell them he was heading to Berlin, that it might take a few days. He needed to appoint an acting commander, set repair priorities, and…

But what he most wanted to say was an apology. I'm sorry I led you into a trap. I'm sorry so many didn't return. I'm sorry I'm alive while Siepel died.

But he could not say it. Because a commander cannot apologize, cannot show weakness, cannot display doubt.

So he said: "During my absence, Major General Tuo Ta will act as fleet commander. Prioritize treating the wounded, repair the warships promptly, and compile a detailed battle report."

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

Sher returned the salute, then turned and left. He walked past the pier, past the still cheering crowd, past the photographers.

He heard someone shout: "Admiral Sher! Say a few words! Talk about our victory!"

He did not look back, did not stop.

Because in his mind, what rang out was not cheers, but cannon fire, explosions.

Victory?

He gave a wry smile.

If this is victory, then he does not want to experience a second.

In the William Port naval hospital, the corridor was packed with stretchers and wheelchairs.

The wounded just brought down from the warships received initial treatment here, then were assigned to different wards or operating rooms according to injury severity. The air was thick with disinfectant, blood, and the smell of burnt flesh.

In the third surgical ward, Hans Weber— the young engine man who had leapt into the sea before the Defflinger sank— lay on a window‑side bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

His injuries were minor, mainly frostbite and dehydration, plus some abrasions. Doctors said he could be discharged after two days of observation, and then… then possibly be assigned to another warship.

But Hans did not know whether he still wanted to return to sea.

He closed his eyes, and immediately the scenes flooded his mind: the boiler room turning into a furnace in the explosion, comrades screaming as high‑pressure steam scalded them, the cold and darkness as seawater rushed in, and while drifting at sea, watching companions one by one stop breathing.

"Are you all right?"

A voice interrupted his thoughts. Hans opened his eyes to see a nurse standing at the bedside, holding a medical chart. She was about thirty, gentle‑faced, but her eyes held the fatigue common to all medical staff.

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

The nurse checked his IV line, recorded a few numbers, then asked, "Do you need anything? Water? Food?"

Hans shook his head. He wanted nothing to eat, nothing to drink. He only wanted… to forget. Yet 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 Defflinger?"

The nurse's expression grew a little uneasy: "I'm not sure. The hospital has taken in many wounded from different ships…"

She didn't finish, but Hans understood. The Defflinger probably had few survivors. He remembered that when he jumped, the whole warship was already disintegrating in the explosion, and few could escape.

And he was one of them.

Why? Why did he survive while others died? The old chief engineer who always looked after him, the sergeant who taught him boiler operation, the new recruit who stole kitchen biscuits with him…

They all died.

And he lived.

Is this fair?

"Rest well," the nurse said, gently patting his hand, "Surviving is luck."

After she left, Hans turned his head toward the window. From the third‑floor ward one could see part of the harbor, the scarred warships, the bustling pier.

He saw a crowd clustering around an officer as he passed— it was Admiral Sher, escorted by officers, walking toward the station, preparing for Berlin.

The crowd cheered, waved.

Hans watched, a strange feeling rising inside him. Those people cheered victory, celebrated the hero's return. But did they know? Did they know how terrifying the boiler room's heat was? Did they know how icy the seawater was? Did they know what it felt like to watch comrades die?

He did not know the answer.

He only knew that from now on, whenever he heard a whistle, he would recall the explosion. Whenever he saw flames, he would recall the burning warship. Whenever he closed his eyes, he would see those dead faces.

The war ended— at least this sea battle ended.

But for him, for many like him, war would never truly end.

It would linger in memory, in nightmares, in every silent night.

11 a. m., London Naval Ministry Building.

Marshal Henry Jackson, First Sea Minister, sat at the head of the conference table, a preliminary battle report from Jellico spread before him. Six others were in the room— senior naval officials and the prime minister's military adviser who had just arrived from Downing Street.

"So," Jackson removed his glasses, rubbed his nose bridge, "we lost three battleship‑cruisers, three armored cruisers, eight destroyers. Nearly seven thousand killed."

His voice was calm, but everyone in the conference could hear the weight behind it.