Chapter 414: Oh God!

At 2 p. m., two battleships crossed the Helgoland Bay warning line and entered the waters actually controlled by the German Navy. The fog had cleared, and summer sunlight fell on the deep‑gray hulls, coating the cold steel with a warm golden hue.

On the deck of the "Yellow River," the sailors began the final cleaning work. They scrubbed the gun barrels, hosed the deck, and organized the ropes—though the ships would be handed over to the Germans in a few hours, the Lanfang Navy took pride in delivering equipment in the best possible condition.

Li Te changed into his formal uniform in the captain's cabin: a dark‑blue Lanfang Navy officer's coat, shoulder boards re‑affixed, and a medal from the East Sea battle pinned to his chest.

He recalled Chen Feng's words at the Dubai dock when seeing him off: "General Li, this mission is not just about delivering two ships. You must show the Germans that Lanfang not only has advanced weapons, but also professional, rigorous, trustworthy soldiers. We are building not merely trade ties, but long‑term strategic mutual trust."

At the time Li Te asked, "President, do you really believe Germany will win?"

Chen Feng did not answer directly, only saying, "I believe that whoever wins, the world will never return to the way it was before 1914. What we must do is secure a favorable position in the new world."

A knock interrupted the memory. Zhao Gang poked his head in: "General, the German lead‑ship has arrived. It's a light cruiser, sending a signal for us to follow it into port."

Li Te adjusted his collar one last time: "Notify the whole ship, prepare for handover. Tell the lads to keep the best military bearing. We represent Lanfang."

William Port, 9 a. m., July 19.

The breakwaters, piers, and warehouse roofs of the harbor district were packed with people. Naval officers and soldiers, shipyard workers, officers' families, and even civilians who had rushed from nearby towns—over twenty‑thousand people gathered around the port just to catch a glimpse of the two legendary giant ships.

The piers had been cleared. The Number One and Number Two deepwater piers, which had originally moored the under‑repair "Sedlitz" and "Maoqi," were now temporarily towed to an anchorage outside the harbor area. Workers cleaned the pier surfaces through the night and laid brand‑new collision cushions. The port authority even brought in four firefighting vessels to spray water salutes as the battleships entered—a highest‑level welcome ceremony.

On the observation deck on the third floor of the Port Authority building, Admiral Tirpitz stood alone. He wore the full naval admiral's dress uniform, the dark‑blue worsted glinting with a muted sheen in the morning light, medals covering almost his entire left chest. The 67‑year‑old veteran stood upright, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the harbor entrance.

Behind him stood Chief of Staff Major General Te Luota, the William Port Base Commander, and senior officials from the Navy Department who had arrived from Berlin. All held their breath, waiting.

"It's here!" the lookout's voice came through the megaphone.

On the distant sea surface, the first thing to appear was a column of smoke. The black smoke columns were not one but two, thick and straight, like a giant's fingers reaching toward the sky. Then the ship's silhouette rose slowly from the horizon—first the mast, then the bridge, and finally the massive hull.

Even with mental preparation, when the two Bismarck Class battleships fully came into view, the port still erupted with suppressed gasps.

Too big.

That was everyone's first impression. The "Frederick the Great" is the German Navy's largest battleship, with a standard displacement of 27,000 tons. Yet these two ships before us looked, by eye, a whole circle larger than the "Frederick the Great." Their slender hulls, sleek lines, compact superstructures, and the four twin‑turret Main Gun towers—whose barrels were so massive they made the heart race.

"God…," Major General Te Luota murmured.

Tirpitz said nothing. He lifted his binoculars and examined every detail: the bow's wave‑cutting shape clearly optimized by fluid dynamics; the Main Gun turrets used a back‑mounted layout, all capable of firing forward and aft; the bridge was a tower structure integrating fire control, navigation, and communications; the rear of the smokestack housed a huge seaplane catapult…

Even more striking were the details: the side armor belt was slanted, increasing effective thickness; all secondary guns employed a casemate design for better protection; the anti‑aircraft gun positions were dense, with at least sixteen medium‑caliber AA guns…

"Admiral," the base commander said softly, "according to data Lanfang provided in advance, the Yangtze and Yellow River have a standard displacement of 41,000 tons, fully loaded over 50,000 tons. The Main Guns are 380 mm L/45, armor‑piercing shells weigh 800 kg, max range over 35,000 m. The thickest armor is 360 mm, speed 30 knots…"

"I know the figures," Tirpitz interrupted him, putting down the binoculars, "but paper data and what you see with your own eyes are two different things."

His mood was extremely complex. On one hand, these two ships proved that the "ideal battleship" the German Navy had pursued for twenty years—heavy firepower, heavy armor, high speed, a trinity—was achievable. On the other hand, they were not built by Germany but by Lanfang, a nation that twenty years ago did not exist, a place Europeans called "Far‑East barbarians," yet it produced battleships more advanced than any European country's.

It was both a humiliation and an enlightenment.

The two giant ships began to turn, preparing to enter the harbor. Their movements were smooth and precise, lacking the clumsiness typical of large battleships. The rudder response was evidently excellent, and the propulsion system reacted swiftly.

"Their turbine technology…" Major General Te Luota whispered, "to reach 30 knots requires at least 150,000 horsepower. Our Bavaria class only has 48,000 horsepower."

Tirpitz nodded. That was his main concern. The Sino‑German‑Lanfang naval battle proved that speed is life. The faster you can go, the more you can choose the battlefield, the more you can decide whether to fight.

The Yangtze led the way into the channel. The German light cruiser guiding it looked like a child's toy beside it. The harbor's firefighting vessels began spraying water, dozens of streams forming arches in the air. The crowd on the pier erupted in cheers, hats were tossed into the air, and some people even wept with excitement.

This was Germany in July 1916: Verdun was bleeding, the Somme was about to erupt, domestic food rationing grew tighter, and casualty notices from the front fell like snowflakes. People needed a bit of hope, needed to see something powerful, beautiful, something that could prove Germany was still great.

And these two steel behemoths perfectly satisfied that psychological need.