Chapter 607: Who Can Endure to the End, Who Can Truly Control the Ocean

He recalled that forty‑seven years ago, he was born in a small village near Hanover. His father was a rural teacher, his mother a farmer. The family couldn't afford to send him to university, so at fourteen he entered the naval academy.

He recalled the year he was twenty‑three, his first time boarding a warship. It was an old cruiser with combined sail and steam power, a speed of only fourteen knots. The captain told him, "She Er, the navy's future lies not in sails but in steam. Study hard, and you'll see."

He saw it.

He saw Germany's entire rise from having no fleet to possessing the world's second‑largest navy. He saw Tirpitz sparring with scholars in the Imperial Council, securing budgets for every warship. He saw Wilhelm II at the Kiel Canal opening ceremony embracing the old admiral, calling him "the father of German sea power."

He also saw the Jutland Sea Battle.

In that battle he served as commander of the scouting fleet. He led a division of battleship‑cruisers in a duel with the British Betty Fleet, watching with his own eyes the heavy damage to the Lu Zuofu and seeing the Saide Lizhi limp back with half its hull. That night he stayed awake on the flagship Frederick the Great, listening to the damage control team report the condition of each ship.

The final tally: Germany sank three British battleship‑cruisers, while we lost one battleship‑cruiser and one pre‑Dreadnought. By tonnage, Germany won.

But the next day the British main fleet was still at sea. The third day, still. The fourth day, still.

What about the German fleet? By the third day it had all withdrawn to Wilhelm Port.

From then on, She Er understood a principle: naval combat is not a boxing match where the one who knocks down the opponent more times wins. It is a marathon; whoever can endure to the end truly controls the ocean.

Now he is running another marathon.

Only this time, the pursuer is not a boxer but a five‑headed beast sprinting at full speed.

She Er pressed the cigarette butt into the small metal box he carried—naval regulations forbid discarding any trash overboard, as it would reveal a ship's track. Then he walked back to the center of the bridge.

"Current position?" he asked.

The navigator answered immediately: "Latitude XX°XX′ North, Longitude XX°XX′ West. Distance to the Queen Ship's sinking area about forty‑five nautical miles."

Forty‑five nautical miles.

At twenty‑eight knots for an hour, they pulled ahead of Jelic roughly… He did quick mental math—if Jelic chased at twenty‑four knots, it would cover twenty‑four nautical miles in an hour. The distance between them would have shrunk from eighty nautical miles to roughly…

Wrong.

She Er suddenly leaned over the chart.

They ran for an hour, covering twenty‑eight nautical miles. Jelic ran for an hour, covering twenty‑four nautical miles. The gap is four nautical miles—not shortened, but widened by four nautical miles.

In other words, if Jelic truly chased at twenty‑four knots, the distance between them would not only fail to shrink but would slowly increase.

"Navigator," he said, raising his voice slightly, "calculate Jelic's possible speed. Assuming it began pursuit at maximum speed as soon as it received the Queen Ship's coordinates, how far is it from us now?"

The navigator's fingers moved swiftly across the chart. Thirty seconds later he looked up: "General, if Jelic is chasing at twenty‑four knots, the distance now is about… seventy‑six nautical miles."

Seventy‑six nautical miles.

Only four nautical miles less than an hour and a half ago.

She Er's eyes lit up.

"Recalculate," he said. "Assume Jelic didn't anticipate our full‑speed retreat, searched at twenty knots for the first half‑hour, then after spotting our escape accelerated to twenty‑four knots—under those conditions, how far is it now?"

The navigator recalculated: "Approximately… eighty‑two nautical miles."

Eighty‑two nautical miles.

Farther than estimated.

She Er stood upright and took a deep breath.

That means Jelic could still be beyond eighty nautical miles. At twenty‑four knots it would take over three hours to come within visual range. And after more than three hours, they would have traveled another eighty‑plus nautical miles, still out of Jelic's reach.

It's a gamble of speed.

If Jelic could manage twenty‑five knots—

No, the Elizabeth Queen Class's top speed is twenty‑four knots. Pushing to twenty‑five would cause a Boiler Overload.

If Jelic split its forces to encircle—

That's impossible. In the open North Atlantic, dividing forces weakens the main body; should they encounter a German submarine or another fleet, the risk is too great.

Thus, as long as they maintain twenty‑eight knots, avoid mechanical failure, and the Tirpitz's damage does not worsen—

They might get away.

She Er gripped the rail tightly, sweat on his palms soaking into the cold steel.

Possible.

That word, in war, is the greatest luxury and the greatest curse.

One hundred twenty nautical miles out, four King Class battleships were cutting through the waves at twenty knots.

On the bridge of the flagship King, fleet commander Major General Friedrich Schmidt had been standing for six hours.

He was fifty‑six, nine years older than She Er. He had served thirty‑four years, fought at Jutland, commanded a division of ships, and shuttled countless times between the Baltic and the North Sea. Yet he had never, as he did today, stood at the chart table, repeatedly calculating the positions of those two advance ships.

"Bismarck, any news?" he asked.

The communications officer shook his head: "General, they are still maintaining radio silence. We can only infer their position from the planned route."

Schmidt walked to the chart table.

Planned route: Bismarck should cut south of Iceland into the Atlantic, then maneuver southwest, hunting British transport convoys on the North Atlantic lane. If all goes well, they should already be in the hunting zone, awaiting prey.

But Schmidt's intuition told him not everything could go smoothly.

Would the British be that foolish? After losing Hood, would they let a transport convoy sail unprotected into Bismarck's hunting zone? They must have dispatched a main fleet to escort, waiting for the Germans to walk into the net.

Bismarck may now be in combat. It may have already sunk one or two British warships, or it may be under pursuit.

He must prepare for the worst.

"Chief of Staff." he turned, "what's our current fuel situation?"

The Chief of Staff opened the log: "King has 73 % fuel remaining, Caesar 71 %, Louis‑de‑Borde 75 %, Empress Ship 69 %. At twenty knots, endurance is about…"

"I know," Schmidt interrupted, "I'm asking, if we sprint full‑speed southwest, how long can we run?"

The Chief of Staff hesitated: "Full speed? Twenty‑three knots?"

"Twenty‑four knots. Boiler Overload."

The Chief of Staff's complexion changed: "General, overloaded steaming will dramatically increase fuel consumption, reducing endurance to…"

"I know it will shorten," Schmidt's voice was calm, "but if Bismarck is being chased, every minute could be a matter of life and death."

The bridge fell silent for a few seconds.

The Chief of Staff finally nodded and began recalculating.

Just then, the communications room's bell suddenly blared.