Chapter 372: Save Me, Save Me!

"The Japan‑Germany‑Netherlands proved that we could inflict losses on the Yingguo at the tactical level," Tirpitz interrupted him, "but it does not prove we can break the blockade, it does not prove we can win the war. And the Emperor's current demand…"

He placed the written order before Mu Le: "Launch another sortie in two weeks, seeking a decisive battle. What do you think?"

Mu Le skimmed the order quickly, the excitement on his face gradually fading, turning to confusion, then to worry.

"Two weeks… that's impossible, sir. I've seen the report on the Seydlitz; her damage will take at least two months to repair. And the other damaged battleships, ammunition resupply, crew rest…"

"But the Emperor thinks it's possible," Tirpitz said, "He believes courage and resolve can compensate for everything. He thinks that since we achieved such results while at a disadvantage, then after 'full preparation' (as he defines it), we can secure a decisive victory."

Mu Le fell silent. As a young officer, he instinctively trusted the Emperor, trusted his superiors. But as a professional soldier, he knew the reality of war.

"Sir," he finally said, "what shall we do then?"

"Execute the order," Tirpitz said calmly, "because we are soldiers. But…"

He stood up, walked to the North Sea map on the wall, his back to Mu Le.

"But I will leave some wiggle room in the order… I will tell She Er: 'Two weeks to refit, then prepare to sortie.' But what does 'prepare to sortie' mean? If the battleship is still in the dock, does that count as ready? If ammunition is only half replenished, does that count as ready?"

He turned, looking at Mu Le: "The Emperor wants attitude, wants resolve. What I want is the fleet's survival. Between the two lies a thin line. Walking that thin line is the duty of the fleet commander, and also my duty."

Mu Le understood. It was a subtle act of insubordination, an expedient measure that obeys the surface order while safeguarding substantive interests.

"But if the Emperor discovers…"

"Then let him discover it." Tirpitz walked back to his desk, sat down, "When the time comes, I will take full responsibility. But before that, I will do everything I can to keep the fleet alive."

He picked up the pen and began drafting the order for She Er. The pen tip rustled on the paper, each stroke heavy.

"Ka Er," he wrote as he spoke, "do you know how old I am this year?"

"Sixty‑seven years old, sir."

"Sixty‑seven," Tirpitz nodded, "I spent twenty years building this navy. I watched it grow from nothing to something, from small to large. I took part in the design of every battleship. I reviewed every batch of sailors' training syllabus. To me, this fleet is like… like my child."

His pen halted, he looked up, and in his eyes was an emotion Mu Le had never seen—neither sorrow nor anger, but a deep, almost paternal worry.

"And now, my child is about to embark on a potentially fatal adventure. And I, as a father, cannot protect him. I can only try to make his preparation better, try to let him live longer."

Mu Le felt his throat tighten. He had never seen the Marshal show such emotion. In his mind, Tirpitz had always been the steadfast, hard‑line, iron‑fisted figure who fought for the navy at all costs.

"Sir…" he didn't know what to say.

"It's fine." Tirpitz shook his head, continuing to write, "Go attend to your duties. By the way, send a copy of this battle report to President Chen Feng of Lanfang."

Mu Le was startled: "To Lanfang? Why?"

"Because Chen Feng will understand," Tirpitz said, "he will grasp the meaning behind the numbers, the true cost of this 'victory.' And sometimes, an outsider's comprehension is more important than all the cheers at home."

He finished the order, signed his name, affixed the seal. Then he took the envelope for Lanfang and wrote a line on it:

"To President Chen Feng: Perhaps someone like you can truly comprehend the meaning of power."

Mu Le took the envelope and the order, saluted, and left.

The office was again empty save for Tirpitz. He turned off the desk lamp, sat in the darkness, and remained still for a long while.

Outside, Berlin's night fell. The city's lights came on one by one, but those lights could not reach this office, could not illuminate the darkness in the Marshal's heart.

He recalled the scene many years ago when he first presented the "Risk Fleet" theory to Wilhelm II. Back then the Emperor was young, he was young, everyone was hopeful, believing that through reason, planning, and patience, Deguo could attain its rightful status without sparking war.

But now reason has yielded to fanaticism, planning to impulse, patience to impatience.

And he, the planner, the founder of the fleet, is powerless.

He can only watch his lifelong blood‑work sail toward an unknown, possibly disastrous fate.

"May God bless you," he whispered, unsure whether to the sailors or to himself.

Then he stood up and left the office.

The gas lamp in the corridor stretched his shadow long, very long.

Like a solitary night watchman, facing the approaching storm alone while everyone else slept.

Dubai, Presidential Office, June 5, 3:00 a. m.

Chen Feng stood before the global map in the strategy room, holding the freshly translated German Navy battle report and the handwritten message from Tirpitz. The desk lamp cast a dim yellow halo on the paper, reflecting the thoughtful expression on his face.

"Perhaps someone like you can truly comprehend the meaning of power."

The words seemed to warm under his fingertips. Wang Wenwu stood beside him, awaiting the President's instructions.

"Tirpitz is calling for help," Chen Feng finally spoke, his voice unusually clear in the silent room, "not only asking for our assistance, but also for someone to understand his predicament."

Wang Wenwu nodded, "Berlin must be celebrating now. Only he sees the crisis."

Chen Feng walked to the conference table, spread the battle report. The densely packed data and charts recorded every detail of the Japan‑Germany‑Netherlands sea battle—hit counts, damage reports, ammunition consumption, tactical maneuvers.

"Look here," his finger pointed to a line, "'Seydlitz took nineteen hits, five of which were large‑caliber armor‑piercing shells, took on over five thousand tons of water, yet still returned to Port Wilhelm under her own power.' Next to it are the Yingguo battlecruiser figures: 'Queen Mary took two hits, the magazine detonated, sinking within two minutes.'"

He lifted his head, a sharp glint in his eyes: "This is the source of Wilhelm II's confidence, and also the root of Tirpitz's fear."

Wang Wenwu leaned forward, scrutinizing: "The technological edge is indeed clear. But as Tirpitz said, it does not equal strategic advantage."

"Right." Chen Feng stood, walked back to the map, "Technological superiority can win battles, but only strategic superiority can win wars. And now the Deguo Emperor wants to misread a tactical victory as a strategic turning point—that's the most dangerous illusion."

He drew a circle in the North Sea area: "The Yingguo control all exits of these waters. No matter how hard the German fleet fights, it cannot get out. It's like a tiger locked in a cage—its fangs are sharp, but it cannot bite anyone outside the cage."