Chapter 368: Anglo‑German Losses

"What about the German losses?" an official asked.

"According to Jielike's report, it confirms the sinking of one battlecruiser, one pre‑dreadnought, four light cruisers, and five destroyers." Jiekexun read the document, "Casualties are estimated at about three thousand."

A brief silence.

"The tonnage exchange ratio is unfavorable to us," the Navy Construction Bureau Director said, "We lost over 110,000 tons; they lost about 60,000 tons."

"But strategically we won," another official retorted, "The German fleet suffered heavy damage and cannot challenge our sea control for at least the next three months. The blockade line…"

"The public won't care about strategy!" the Prime Minister's Military Advisor interrupted, sharply, "The public will only read the newspaper headline: 'Royal Navy suffers a disastrous defeat in the North Sea, losing three capital ships.' Do you know what effect this will have on morale? Do you know how the opposition will exploit this?"

The conference room fell silent again.

Jiekexun put his glasses back on and looked at the North Sea map on the wall: "We need a narrative. One that the public can understand, that preserves the navy's reputation, and that can withstand political attacks."

"Emphasize the German losses?" someone suggested.

"Not enough," Jiekexun shook his head, "One battlecruiser versus three; the ratio is too obvious."

"Emphasize the tactical situation?" another person said, "We forced the German fleet to retreat; they fled back to port…"

"But we also halted the pursuit," the Prime Minister's Military Advisor said coldly, "Why didn't Jielike pursue at night? Why let them escape?"

The question silenced everyone. It was also their greatest worry—if the opposition seized on this, attacked the navy for cowardice, and blamed Jielike for a command error, it would become a political storm.

"Night combat is too risky," Jiekexun finally said, "In extremely poor visibility, pursuit could cause greater losses. Moreover, the Germans excel at night fighting and have systematic training…"

"Will the public understand these explanations?" the advisor asked, "Will politicians accept them?"

No one answered.

Jiekexun took a deep breath: "We need to align our messaging with Jielike. Before he submits the detailed report, we must first set the tone."

He looked at the communications officer: "Send a telegram to Scapa Flow: request Lieutenant General Jielike to submit a complete battle report as soon as possible, emphasizing the following points: 1) Our forces dealt a heavy blow to the enemy, forcing their retreat; 2) The German fleet has lost the ability to challenge our sea control in the short term; 3) Our officers and soldiers performed heroically, especially the battlecruiser units; 4) Halting the pursuit was a prudent decision based on tactical risk."

He paused, then added, "Additionally, advise him to detail the battlecruiser's design flaws and ammunition‑magazine safety issues in the report. This is not shirking responsibility; it is… an explanation."

Everyone in the conference room understood the subtext of this "suggestion"—to shift part of the blame onto ship design and equipment issues, easing pressure on the command decision.

"Would this… damage the navy's reputation?" a young official asked hesitantly.

"It's better than letting the public think our commander is incompetent," Jiekexun said, "And it's factual—the battlecruiser's armor is indeed thin, and the magazine protection is indeed problematic. The sinking of the Mary Queen Ship and the Indefatigable were almost entirely caused by magazine explosions."

He stood and walked to the window, looking at the streets of London: "The war continues. We cannot let a naval battle—even a costly one—undermine the public's confidence. Therefore we need to tell a story, a story of courage, sacrifice, and ultimate strategic victory."

"What about the seven thousand dead?" someone asked softly.

Jiekexun fell silent. He looked out the window at the passersby, the ordinary Yingguo citizens who knew nothing of the just‑fought naval battle.

Seven thousand people. Seven thousand sons, husbands, fathers, brothers. Seven thousand lives that will never return home.

"They will be remembered," Jiekexun finally said, his voice low, "On monuments, in history books, in the memories of their loved ones. But for those still alive, for those still able to fight, we must press on."

He turned to face the room: "Now, get to work. Draft the news release, prepare the parliamentary inquiry response tone, coordinate the press coverage direction. We must define the meaning of this battle before the opposition and the Germans."

The officers rose one by one, leaving the room. Jiekexun stayed alone, staring at the battle report on the table and the cold numbers.

Six thousand seven hundred eighty‑four.

Three thousand twenty‑one.

Tonnage, ship count, casualty ratio.

War is reduced to numbers, but behind each number lies a living life, a shattered family, a life cut short.

As the First Sea Minister, he must contemplate strategy, politics, and public opinion.

But as a person, he can only feel a heavy sorrow.

He picked up the phone and reached the secretary: "Make arrangements; tomorrow I will go to Scapa Flow. I need to speak with Jielike in person."

"Yes, sir."

He set the phone down and walked to the honor board on the wall. There hung portraits of historic naval commanders—Nelson, Rodney, Jervis…—they are commemorated in glorious victories.

But war is not only victory. There is defeat, tragic victory, and battles that cannot be defined by simple win‑loss.

The Anglo‑German Sea Battle—or, as the Germans call it, the Skagerrak Strait Battle—is such a battle.

How will history record it? As Yingguo's strategic victory, or Deguo's tactical victory? As Jielike's prudent wisdom, or a missed opportunity?

He didn't know.

He only knew that on this June morning, in the London Naval Office's conference room, he had to choose: how to tell this story, how to define the battle, how to face those seven thousand souls that will never return.

And whatever narrative he chooses, those souls are already silent.

Noon, Dubai Presidential Palace.

Chen Feng put down the telegram in his hand, leaned back in his chair, and remained silent for a long time.

Wang Wenwu stood at the desk, waiting. He knew the President needed time to digest the information—the first complete battle report from Europe about the North Sea battle.

"So," Chen Feng finally spoke, his voice eerily calm, "Yingguo lost three battlecruisers, Deguo lost one. Yingguo casualties near seven thousand, Deguo about three thousand. In the tonnage exchange ratio, Yingguo's loss is greater."

"But strategically," Wang Wenwu said, "Yingguo still controls the North Sea. The Deguo fleet has withdrawn to port and cannot challenge sea control in the short term."

Chen Feng nodded, rose, and walked to the world map on the wall. His finger traced from Scapa Flow to Port William, then from Port William to Heuen Reef.

"A tragic victory, or rather, a battle with no clear victor," he evaluated, "Yingguo achieved its strategic aim but at a terrible cost. Deguo secured a tactical victory but failed to break the blockade."

He turned to Wang Wenwu: "Do you know what this means?"