Chapter 501: The Sounds of the Street

"What about Lanfang?" Bei Erfu asked, "How should we deal with them?"

Asi Kuis pondered for a moment. "Temporarily maintain relations. No public accusations, but suspend all new procurement negotiations. Express our… disappointment through informal channels. Meanwhile, have the intelligence department fully gather technical details of the Bismarck Class and other weapons of Lanfang."

He glanced at his pocket watch: 3:20 p. m. The meeting had already lasted four hours.

"Gentlemen, that's all for today." Asi Kuis rose. "Sir Ge Lei, please prepare the Washington visit immediately. Sir Bei Erfu, the Navy Department needs a detailed assessment report on what we must obtain from Meilika. Lord Ji Qi Na… also keep a close eye on the Army; a naval failure could affect the Army's morale."

The others rose and left one by by. When only Asi Kuis and Jie Li Ke remained in the conference room, the Prime Minister asked softly, "John, to be honest, do we still have a chance?"

General Jie Li Ke looked at the weary Prime Minister, recalling the days thirty years ago when they studied together at Oxford. Back then the British Empire was at its zenith; no one could have imagined today.

"There is a chance, He Bo Te." Jie Li Ke said, "but it requires time, resources, and… a change in how we think about war. This is no longer the world we knew."

Asi Kuis nodded, saying nothing.

The two walked out of the conference room together, down the long corridor of the Navy Minister. On the walls hung portraits of naval heroes such as Nelson, Rodney, and Saint Vincent, their stern gazes fixed on anyone who passed.

At the far end of the corridor, Asi Kuis suddenly stopped, staring at an oil painting of the Battle of Trafalgar. In it, Nelson's "Victory" led the fleet straight at the Franco‑Spanish fleet, its gun barrels spewing fire.

"One hundred ten years ago," Asi Kuis murmured, "Nelson secured a decisive victory that established a century of British maritime supremacy."

"And now," Jie Li Ke continued, "we need another victory, or that era may end."

The rain kept falling. Through the window at the corridor's end, one could see Whitehall Street, people hurrying under umbrellas. They did not know that moments ago the nation's fate had quietly shifted.

At the same time, in East London, a narrow street.

Margaret Wilson stood on the steps of her front door, clutching tightly in her hand a freshly delivered Times extra edition.

Her fingers trembled.

Not because of the cold, though October London was already chilly. It was because the front page bore a huge bold headline:

Royal Navy fights heroically

Hood sinks in the North Sea

Survivors are being rescued

Below the headline was a blurry photograph, said to have been taken when the Queen Ship returned to port. The details were indistinct, showing only a massive ship silhouette moored at the dock.

But Margaret cared not for the picture. She cared only for the words.

She skimmed the article's body—those official phrasings, the "heroic sacrifices," the "imperial pride"—until the final paragraph, where a list of confirmed fallen officers was given.

Her gaze halted.

Colonel John Tuo Wei, captain of the Hood

Major General Huo Lei Xiao Wei Er Si Li, commander of the task force

…

The list scrolled down.

Officer list (partial)

…

John Miller, Corporal, a Portsmouth native

The world stood still at that moment.

Rain struck the newspaper, the ink beginning to bleed. The name blurred, yet it was already imprinted on Margaret's eyes and etched in her heart.

"No…" she whispered, her voice shattered beyond recognition.

Her John. Her son. The one who had come home three weeks ago, smiling, saying he would request a transfer back to the home fleet after this mission and take her to Brighton for a holiday.

"Margaret?"

Mrs. Smith, the neighbor, stuck her head out from the next door, saw Margaret's pale face, and understood immediately. The middle‑aged woman hurried over, wiping her hands on an apron, and said, "Oh, dear, it can't… can't be John, can it?"

Margaret could not speak, only handed over the newspaper, her finger pointing at the name.

Mrs. Smith glanced, covering her mouth. "God… I saw him just last week, such lively young fellow…"

More neighbors gathered. Many of the men on this street served in the navy, and the women understood what a casualty notice meant. Soft consolations, sympathetic looks, and suppressed sobs—whether for Margaret or for the fate that might befall them.

"How could he…" Margaret finally managed to speak, her voice hoarse, "the paper said the Hood was the most powerful warship, how could…"

"War is like that, dear." Old sailor Thomson came around the corner, having served thirty years in the Royal Navy, and after retirement opened a small grocery on this street, "No matter how mighty a ship, it can't stand up to a Shell and luck."

"But five volleys!" a young woman exclaimed, "my husband works at the shipyard; he said the Hood could sink any Deguo ship within half an hour! Yet the paper says it only fired five rounds before…"

"The paper won't tell us everything." Thomson shook his head, took the newspaper from Margaret, squinting his dim eyes, "'One Shell hits the vital spot'… hm, the vital spot. A warship's vital spot is the magazine, but the armor should protect that area."

"So the ship is at fault?" someone asked.

"I don't know." Thomson sighed, "I only know that in a hundred years the Royal Navy has never lost so badly in a one‑on‑one sea battle. Sir Nelson's spirit would weep."

Margaret could no longer hear the surrounding voices. She turned, walked into the house, gently closed the door, leaving sympathy and gossip outside.

In the cramped living room, the fireplace fire had gone out. On the wall hung a photo of John—him in a sailor's uniform, taken when he enlisted at sixteen, his grin dazzling. Beside it was a picture of her husband, who sank with the battleship‑cruiser "Indomitable" in the Anglo‑German‑Dutch sea battle of May 1916.

Now, November 1916, her son.

Margaret sat in the chair, picking up the unfinished sweater from the knitting basket. It was for John, knitted with his favorite deep‑blue yarn. She had intended to finish it before Christmas, to give him during his next leave.

The needles slipped from her hand.

She stared at her hands, hands that had washed clothes for thirty years, raised two children, seen her husband off, and now were seeing her son off. Why? For the Empire? For glory? Do the gentlemen living in Kensington, riding in cars, sipping afternoon tea, know what the true cost is?

From outside the window came a distant, muffled newsboy's cry: "Extra! Extra! The Navy Department issues a new statement! The spirit of the Royal Navy never sinks!"

Never sinks.