Chapter 614: Winning Makes the Heart Panic!

Schmidt nodded.

He knew.

Since the first telegram was sent, twenty-one minutes have passed. Twenty-one minutes is enough for the Bismarck to steam eleven nautical miles at full speed. If it had begun turning the moment it received the telegram, if it had been racing here at full speed from the start, then now—

He shook his head.

There is no if.

There are no ifs in war.

"Send again," he said, "Repeat the coordinates. Add: Caesar Ship sunk, Louis T. Borde Ship sunk. King Ship and Empress Ship heavily damaged. Expected to hold… twenty minutes."

The communications officer's hand trembled on the telegraph key.

"General, twenty minutes—"

"Send."

The telegraph key began to click. The 'dit-dit-dit-dit' sound echoed through the shattered bridge, like an ancient dirge.

Thirty seconds later, the telegram was sent.

Silence fell again.

Schmidt walked to the porthole—its glass long gone, leaving only a warped frame. Cold wind poured in through the breach, carrying the scent of gunpowder and seawater.

He looked toward the southwest.

It was still empty there.

But he knew something was approaching.

It must get closer.

It must.

Another shell fell.

This time it struck the foredeck of the King Ship. The explosion hurled the spare shells from Turret A—six 305‑mm shells detonated, flames leapt from the deck like a blooming flower.

Schmidt was thrown to the deck by the blast wave. His head struck the leg of the chart table, and darkness flashed before his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw the Chief of Staff leaning over him, lips moving, but his voice was distant.

"... General! General!"

Schmidt struggled to rise.

"Report casualties."

The Chief of Staff was momentarily stunned, then turned and shouted, "Damage control! Report casualties!"

From the speaking tube came a broken voice: "Turret A… six killed… fire… being fought…"

Schmidt steadied himself on the chart table and stood.

He could no longer feel his left foot, nor his right hand—the area grazed by shrapnel was tingling, perhaps nerve damage.

But he was still standing.

"Can the Main Gun still fire?" he asked.

"Turrets B and C are operational. Turret D's ammunition feed is damaged, loading speed halved."

Schmidt nodded.

Two and a half turrets. Ten guns reduced to five.

That's enough.

"Continue firing," he said.

On the Empress Ship, Lansdorf finally came down from the deck.

He didn't choose to descend; he couldn't—his left shoulder was hit by shrapnel, the entire arm hanging limp like a lifeless rope.

A medic bandaged him on the bridge. There was no anesthetic, only a bottle of cheap spirits. When the liquor was poured onto the wound, Lansdorf frowned briefly, and that was all.

"General," the medic's hand trembled, "this wound requires surgery, the shrapnel must be removed, I can only—"

"Only stop the bleeding," Lansdorf cut him off, "then stop the bleeding. After that I'll keep commanding."

The medic opened his mouth, but said nothing in the end.

Lansdorf turned his head toward the chart table.

The Empress Ship's speed had dropped to seventeen knots. Three side hull breaches were taking on water; two had been sealed, one still leaked. The pumps ran at full tilt, yet water ingress still exceeded drainage.

At this rate, another forty minutes and the hull flooding would surpass the critical point.

Forty minutes.

Enough time to do many things.

"Main Gun status," he asked.

The gun captain's voice came through the speaking tube: "Turret B disabled—direct hit, turret jammed. Turrets A and C still operational. Turret D's ammunition supply cut, under emergency repair."

Two turrets. Ten guns reduced to four.

Lansdorf nodded.

"Target," he said, "the Queen Ship. Continue firing."

Four 305‑mm guns fired again.

The shells flew toward the Yingguo flagship twenty thousand meters away. After forty minutes, the nearest shell landed 150 meters off the starboard side.

One hundred fifty meters.

Still not enough.

Lansdorf watched the water column raised by the near‑miss, his mouth twitching.

If it's not enough, that's that.

Fire until it's enough.

Jielike stood at the porthole, his brows tightly knit.

The battle had been going on for an hour. Deguo's support fleet had four battleships, two sunk and two heavily damaged. By any standard, this was an overwhelming victory.

But he did not feel victorious.

He felt uneasy.

"General," Chief of Staff walked over, holding a freshly intercepted telegram, "Deguo are transmitting again. Same frequency, same call sign—Bismarck."

Jielike took the telegram.

He was already familiar with its contents: coordinates. Enemy situation. Remaining time.

This time the interval was twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes.

The Deguo were saying they could hold out for another twenty minutes.

Why twenty minutes?

Jielike walked to the chart table, leaning over the densely marked North Atlantic map.

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

Bismarck's estimated location—based on the last reliable intel, about one hundred twenty nautical miles to their southwest.

One hundred twenty nautical miles.

At the Bismarck Class's top speed…

His finger moved across the chart.

Thirty knots, covering thirty nautical miles per hour. One hundred twenty nautical miles requires four hours.

Four hours.

And now, from the sinking of the Queen Ship until now, it has already been…

He glanced at the marine chronometer: 11:15 a. m.

The Queen Ship sank at 8:45 a. m. Since then, two hours thirty minutes.

Two hours thirty minutes. If Bismarck had been retreating at full speed from the start, it should now be about seventy‑five nautical miles to the southwest. If it began turning the moment it received the first telegram—

Jielike's finger stopped on a point.

Seventy‑five nautical miles. Full‑speed pursuit would take two hours thirty minutes.

Two hours thirty minutes.

He lifted his head, looking toward the empty sea to the southeast.

Empty.

It is still empty now.

But what about after two hours thirty minutes?

"General," Chief of Staff whispered, "what are you worrying about?"

Jielike was silent for a few seconds.

"I am worried," he said, "why the Deguo are still fighting."

Chief of Staff was momentarily stunned.

"They have already lost. Four against five, they never had a chance from the start. They should surrender, they should retreat, they should…"

Jielike paused:

"They should go back alive."

He looked at the two still‑burning Deguo battleships:

"But they haven't."

"Waiting for what?"

"Waiting for what's behind them," Jielike said, "waiting for the two things that can truly threaten us."

Chief of Staff fell silent.

"Send the order," Jielike said, "full‑speed to finish the battle. Sink those two Deguo ships…"