Chapter 613: The Final Persistence

"General." the Chief of Staff walked over, "the radar room reports we intercepted a telegram sent by the Deguo. It appears to be addressed to the Bismarck."

Jielike turned around: "Content?"

"Coordinates. Our coordinates."

Jielike was silent for two seconds.

Then he walked to the chart table, bent over to look at the North Atlantic map marked with both sides' positions.

The Deguo support fleet's position: latitude XX°XX′, longitude XX°XX′.

The Bismarck's estimated position: … based on earlier intelligence, it should be about one hundred twenty nautical miles to their southwest.

One hundred twenty nautical miles.

At the Bismarck Class's top speed, reaching here would require—

"Four hours." he said softly.

The Chief of Staff leaned in: "General, what did you say?"

Jielike straightened up, looking at the empty sea to the southeast.

"The Deguo are waiting." he said, "they are waiting for the Bismarck."

The Chief of Staff was startled: "The Bismarck? Aren't they being pursued by us? How could—"

"What if they never fell within our pursuit from the start?" Jielike cut him off, "What if they've been retreating at full speed, if their speed is faster than we expected, if—"

He didn't finish.

But he knew that possibility existed.

What is the Bismarck Class's top speed? Intelligence says thirty knots. But do they really have only thirty knots? Or thirty‑one? Thirty‑two?

If the Bismarck is truly above thirty knots, if it has been at full‑speed retreat from the start—

Then it could already be more than eighty nautical miles away, receiving this telegram, turning around, and bearing down on us.

Jielike walked to the port window, watching the Deguo battleship still ablaze.

"Full speed." he said, "finish the fight quickly. Sink the remaining three completely."

The order was given.

The fire from the five Yingguo battleships grew even fiercer.

Ten forty‑one.

The Ludwig Borde's speed had dropped to twelve knots.

It was under concentrated fire.

Since ten minutes earlier, Barham and Valiant had poured all their fire onto this straggling Deguo battleship. Three‑gun salvo, five‑gun salvo, seven‑gun salvo—

The Ludwig Borde's side was torn open by several huge gashes. Sea rushed in madly through those breaches, flooding all three boiler rooms, stopping the main engine. It lost power, drifting sideways on the sea like a living target.

Yet it kept firing.

The aft Main Gun kept firing. Every two minutes, two 305‑mm shells flew toward the Yingguo fleet. The forward Main Gun had already failed—its turret pierced, the gun crews inside all killed.

Colonel Miller stood on the bridge, watching the battleship he had commanded for four years die.

He felt no sorrow.

From the moment the first shell fell, he knew this day would come. He just hadn't expected it to arrive so quickly.

"General." the executive officer's voice came from behind, "damage‑control report… water ingress uncontrollable. Estimated… about fifteen minutes left."

Miller nodded.

Fifteen minutes.

Enough to do many things.

"Main Gun continue firing." he said, "fire all the shells."

"Yes."

The bridge fell silent. Only the damage‑control reports echoing through the intercom and the faint distant gunfire remained.

Miller walked to the port window, watching the distant Yingguo fleet. They were still firing, the muzzle flashes glittering in the sunlight.

He looked again toward the southwest.

It was empty.

The Bismarck hadn't arrived yet.

But he knew it would come.

Because the telegram had already been sent. Because General Schmidt was waiting. Because those two Deguo most advanced battleships would not abandon their comrade.

"Signal the King." he said, "Ludwig Borde… thank you. German Navy forever."

The signal lamp flashed.

Thirty seconds later, a reply came from the direction of King: "Received. German Navy forever."

Miller turned, facing the officers on the bridge.

"Gentlemen." he said, "it has been my honor to serve with you for four years."

No one spoke.

Everyone stared at him, eyes reddening, but no one wept.

"Abandon ship." Miller said, "I will stay till the end."

"General!" the executive officer rushed forward, "You must—"

"I am the commander." Miller cut in, "this is my ship; I will stay with it to the end."

The executive officer opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

He saluted, then turned, leading the bridge officers down to the deck.

Liferafts were lowered one after another. Sailors leapt into the icy water, swimming hard toward the tiny rafts.

Miller stands on the bridge, watching them.

Then another Shell falls.

10:51.

The Luitpold erupts in a violent explosion—its magazine detonates. Flames gush from inside the hull, wrapping the entire battleship in a massive fireball. The mast snaps, the turret is torn away, and the hull splits into two sections.

The two wreckage halves each sink to the seabed.

On the sea surface only burning heavy oil and scattered fragments remain.

Schmidt watches the sinking spot of the Luitpold.

Two remain.

The King and the Empress Ship.

And the Yingguo have five—five intact, still firing Elizabeth Queen Class ships.

"General," the Chief of Staff's voice comes from behind, "we…"

"Continue firing." Schmidt does not turn, "Fire until the last Shell."

The Chief of Staff is silent for two seconds, then says, "Yes."

Another round of Shell falls.

The King is hit again. This time on the aft deck, the explosion flings the spare anchor chain, fragments sweep the deck, and three sailors fall.

Schmidt does not turn.

He looks toward the southwest.

It is still empty.

But he knows something is approaching there.

That is Deguo's hope.

It is also Deguo's future.

As long as those two ships remain, the German Navy will not perish.

As for him—

His fingers release the rail, and he turns to face the officers on the bridge.

"Everyone," he says, "prepare for the final battle."

11:00 a. m. sharp.

The King and the Empress Ship, two scarred battleships, still fire at enemies five times their size.

Their Shells are few. Their hulls are taking on water. Their crew are falling.

Yet they still fire.

Because they are the German Navy.

11:07 a. m.

Schmidt can no longer feel his left foot.

It is not numbness but total loss of sensation. The flesh cut away by shrapnel had long stopped bleeding—its blood had dried. The wound he tied with half a sleeve is now dry and black, like a dead branch.

Yet he still stands.

Holding the edge of the chart table, he still stands.

"General," the Chief of Staff's voice comes from far away, as if through a thick pane of glass, "you must go to the medical cabin—"

"Coordinates." Schmidt interrupts, "Has the Bismarck recovered?"

The Chief of Staff is silent for a second.

"No. General, still no."

Schmidt nods.

He knows.