Chapter 612: Persist, Persist, Persist!

"Captain!" the First Officer's voice came from behind, "Speed has dropped to twenty knots! The engine room reports two boiler rooms are taking on water, steam pressure falling!"

Twenty knots.

On this battlefield, twenty knots equals a death sentence.

Leider walked to the port window and watched the distant Yingguo fleet. They were still firing, the muzzle flashes rising and falling like an endless lightning show.

He then looked toward the southwest.

It was empty.

Bismarck had not arrived yet.

"Send a signal to King," he said, his voice so calm it surprised even himself, "Kaiser... good luck to you."

The signalman was stunned: "Captain, this..."

"Send," Leider said.

The signal light began to flash.

Thirty seconds later, a response came from the direction of King: only two words, "Persist."

Leider gave a wry smile.

Persist.

How to persist?

Another shell fell.

On Empress Ship, Colonel Lansdorf stood on the deck.

He had stood there since the battle began, never entering the bridge. The adjutant asked three times, and he refused each time.

"I want to watch them," he said, "watch how those Yingguo guys are hitting us."

At this moment he was indeed watching.

Watching King take a hit. Watching Kaiser burn. Watching Ludwig von being concentrated on by two Yingguo warships.

Also watching his own Empress Ship—it had not been hit yet. Yingguo fire was focused on the first three ships; Empress Ship was at the rear, temporarily safe.

But Lansdorf knew this was only temporary.

When the first three are crippled, it will be his turn.

"General!" the lookout's voice came from overhead, "Yingguo are adjusting fire distribution! Two ships are turning, seem to be targeting us!"

Lansdorf nodded.

They're coming.

He turned and walked back to the bridge.

"Full speed," he said, "speed twenty-four knots, heading unchanged. Main Gun aim at the foremost ship—Elizabeth Queen, fire at will."

The order was given.

Empress Ship's speed rose from twenty-three knots to twenty-four knots—it was also overloaded. The hull shivered, the boilers screamed, but it kept moving, firing, fighting.

The forward Main Gun began firing.

Eight 305mm shells flew toward the Yingguo flagship twenty-three thousand meters away. Forty seconds later, a water column rose—much closer than before. The nearest shell landed two hundred meters off Elizabeth Queen's starboard.

Lansdorf's eyes lit up.

Two hundred meters. It was the closest hit since the battle began.

"Continue!" he roared, "keep the aim point, fire!"

Second volley, synchronized fire. One hundred fifty meters.

Third volley, synchronized fire. One hundred meters.

Fourth round—

Hit.

Lansdorf saw with his own eyes that shell land near Elizabeth Queen's bridge. The explosion's flash was blinding in the sunlight, thick smoke rose, obscuring the giant ship's superstructure.

"Hit!" cheers erupted in the bridge.

But Lansdorf did not smile.

He saw Elizabeth Queen's bridge, though bombed, still moving forward. Its turret kept turning, its Main Gun kept firing.

305mm shells, a threat to the Elizabeth Queen Class, nothing more.

Unless they hit a vital spot, it's just a scratch.

"Continue firing," he said.

Ten nineteen.

Schmidt stood in King's bridge, already unable to feel his left foot.

Ten minutes earlier, another shell had hit near the bridge. Shrapnel had sliced a piece of flesh from his left calf; blood had soaked the entire pant leg. He tore off a piece of his sleeve, haphazardly tied it over the wound, and then kept commanding.

Not because of bravery.

But because if he fell now, the ship would be lost.

"General!" the communications officer's voice came from behind, "Kaiser report—speed down to fifteen knots, hull taking on water severely, request... request permission to abandon ship!"

Schmidt's hand paused.

Kaiser.

The warship he had known since 1912. The giant vessel carrying twelve hundred Deguo sailors. The steel fortress that withstood seven hits in the Jide Lan Sea Battle.

It was sinking.

"Permission granted," he said. His voice was terrifyingly calm.

The communications officer was stunned: "General, that is Kaiser—"

"I know that is Kaiser," Schmidt cut him off, "but I know even more that if we delay further, none of the twelve hundred will survive. Send report: permission to abandon ship. Deguo Navy thanks you for your effort."

The telegram was sent.

Thirty seconds later, a response came from the direction of the *Kaiser*: "Received. The German Navy lives forever."

That was the *Kaiser*'s final telegram.

Through the porthole, Schmidt watched the direction of the *Kaiser*. That ship was burning, listing, dying. Its crew was abandoning ship, lifeboats lowering one after another, black specks scattering across the sea surface.

But it was still firing back.

The last functioning Main Gun fired a Shell every two minutes. The Shells landed around the British fleet—though they posed no threat, it kept shooting.

It was telling those five British battleships: The German Navy is not yet dead.

10:27.

The *Kaiser*'s bow began to sink.

Schmidt watched the ship's bow slowly submerge, the foredeck swallowed by seawater, the forward Main Gun turret sinking below the surface, then the bridge—

On the bridge, someone was still waving signal flags.

The signal read: "Long live—"

The last word was never finished. The *Kaiser* lurched violently, its stern rising high, exposing the still-spinning propeller. It hung there on the surface for about thirty seconds—like a dying man gazing up at the sky one last time—then sank vertically to the seabed.

Within one hundred and twenty seconds, it was completely gone.

Only oil slicks, debris, and a few dozen scattered lifeboats remained on the sea.

Schmidt closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again.

"Communications officer," he said.

"Sir."

"Send a telegram to the *Bismarck*—coordinates North XX degrees XX minutes, West XX degrees XX minutes. British main fleet, five Elizabeth Queen Class ships. This fleet is engaging them, estimated to hold out for... forty minutes. Come quickly."

The communications officer looked up: "Admiral, the British will intercept the transmission—"

"Let them intercept it," Schmidt interrupted him. "Let them know the Germans have more than just one *King*."

The telegram was sent.

Thirty seconds later, the communications officer reported: "Admiral, the telegram has been sent. The *Bismarck*—no response yet."

Schmidt nodded.

He knew the *Bismarck* might still be under radio silence, might still be retreating at full speed, might never receive this telegram at all.

But he had to send it.

Because that was the only reason the support fleet existed.

"All ships," he said, "continue fighting. Drag it out as long as you can."

Jellicoe lowered his binoculars, his brow slightly furrowed.

The Germans were still fighting.

Of the four King Class ships, one had been sunk, two heavily damaged, leaving only the last one barely holding on. By all logic, they should have surrendered long ago, retreated long ago, abandoned this hopeless battle long ago.

But they hadn't.

What were they holding out for?