Chapter 615: He Has Arrived

11:20.

Schmidt looked at the marine chronometer on the chart table.

Twenty minutes.

Since the last telegram was sent, thirteen minutes have passed.

Seven minutes remain.

In seven minutes, if the Bismarck hasn't arrived—

He didn't think further.

"General," the Communications Officer's voice came from behind, "Empress Ship report: speed reduced to fifteen knots, D turret repair failed, three Main Guns remaining. Request… request orders."

Schmidt was silent for three seconds.

"Tell them," he said, "keep fighting. Fight as long as you can."

"Yes."

Another round of shells fell.

This time it hit the stern of the King. The explosion blew away part of the steering compartment, and steering efficiency began to drop. The hull swayed left and right on the sea like a drunken giant beast.

Schmidt grabbed the chart table and didn't fall.

"Damage control report!"

A changed tone came through the megaphone: "Steering compartment taking on water! Steering efficiency dropping! Repairs underway, but at least twenty minutes needed—"

Twenty minutes.

He didn't have twenty minutes.

"Continue the repairs," he said.

He walked to the portside window and looked toward the southwest.

Empty.

Still empty.

11:23.

Another shell hit. This time it struck the middle of the hull. The blast's shockwave threw Schmidt onto the deck. His head slammed against the steel plate, and darkness flashed before his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw the Chief of Staff's face swaying before him.

"... General! General! You're bleeding!"

Schmidt touched his forehead. His hands were covered in blood.

He pushed the Chief of Staff aside and struggled to get up.

"Report casualties."

"Rear… rear taking on water severely! Three compartments flooded! Speed reduced to below ten knots!"

Ten knots.

At this distance, ten knots equals a death sentence.

Schmidt leaned on the chart table, watching the chronometer.

11:24.

Three minutes remain.

Three minutes.

He walked to the portside window and looked toward the southwest.

Empty.

Still empty.

His fingers clenched on the window frame.

"Communications Officer," he said.

"Here."

"Send the final telegram to the Bismarck," he said, his voice calm, terrifyingly calm, "Content: King is about to sink. Thank you for coming. German Navy forever."

The Communications Officer's hand trembled on the telegraph key.

"General—"

"Send."

The telegraph key began to tick. The 'dit-dit-dit-dit' sound echoed through the ruined bridge.

After thirty seconds, the telegram was sent.

Another silence fell.

Schmidt looked toward the southwest.

Empty.

11:25.

11:26.

11:27—

Then he saw.

On the horizon at the far edge of the southwest, there were two tiny black dots.

The black dots were growing.

They were expanding at an incredible speed.

Schmidt's pupils contracted sharply.

"Signalman!" he shouted, his hoarse voice altered, "Send a signal to that direction—identification code! Quickly!"

The signalman rushed to the damaged signal lamp, his fingers trembling as he pressed the button.

The light flickered.

Thirty seconds later, a response came from that direction—not a signal lamp, but flag code. Two battleships simultaneously hoisted signal flags, red, white and black, strikingly vivid in the sunlight.

German Navy flag.

Bismarck.

Tirpitz.

They have arrived.

Schmidt's body swayed. He grabbed the chart table and managed not to fall.

"General!" Chief of Staff rushed up to support him, "You—"

"I'm fine," Schmidt pushed him away, "Send a signal to Bismarck: Yingguo fleet position—due east, Distance about 18,000 meters. Five Elizabeth Queen Class. Barham, Valiant heavily damaged, still in combat. Good luck to you."

The telegram was sent.

Thirty seconds later, a response came from the direction of Bismarck:

"Received. The rest is left to us."

Schmidt watched the two battleships drawing nearer, his mouth twitching.

It was not a smile.

It was an expression more complex than a smile.

"Everyone," he turned, looking at the officers on the bridge with faces smeared in blood, "Our mission is complete."

No one spoke.

Everyone stared at him, their eyes reddened, but no tears fell.

Schmidt walked to the porthole, taking one last look at those Yingguo battleships.

"Now," he said, "it's our turn to watch."

Eleven thirty.

She Er stood at the Bismarck bridge porthole, clutching the telegram just received from King.

"King is about to sink. Thank you for coming. German Navy forever."

He folded the telegram and slipped it into his inner pocket.

Then he lifted his head, looking ahead.

On the radar screen, five dots flickered. That was the Yingguo fleet—five Elizabeth Queen Class battleships, wildly slaughtering the two remaining German warships about twenty-two nautical miles away.

Twenty-two nautical miles.

At thirty-one knots, it would take forty minutes.

Forty minutes.

She Er's hand clenched on the rail.

"Full speed," he said, "Speed thirty-one knots. Boiler Overload."

The duty officer stared blankly, "General, we have already—"

"Faster," She Er cut him off, "As fast as possible."

The order was given.

From the intercom came the engine room's reply, "Boiler pressure has reached the limit! Going faster will—"

"If it blows, let it blow," She Er said, "If it blows, it's on me."

The engine room fell silent for a second.

Then replied, "Yes."

Bismarck's speed climbed from thirty knots: thirty-point-five, thirty-point-eight, thirty-one knots.

The hull shivered. Not a normal shiver, but an unsettling tremor beyond design limits. The porthole glass emitted a sharp resonant sound, as if it could shatter at any moment.

But it kept moving.

Tirpitz followed closely behind.

Eleven forty.

On the radar screen, five dots had become three—two more fading from the display.

She Er knew what that meant.

King. Empress Ship.

They sank.

His fist hammered the rail hard.

"Radar officer, report distance."

"General, the Yingguo fleet is now about eighteen nautical miles from us, moving southeast at about twenty-two knots. It seems to be withdrawing from the battlefield."

Withdrawing.

She Er's mouth twitched.

Want to run?

"Send a signal to Tirpitz," he said, "Full‑speed pursuit. Target—Yingguo fleet. Open fire freely after entering 22,000 meters."

The signal lamp flickered.

Tirpitz replied, "Received."

Two German warships pursued wildly at thirty-one knots.

Eleven fifty‑two.

The radar officer's report changed tone, "General! Distance entered 22,000 meters! Target locked!"

She Er took a deep breath.

"Main Gun," he said, "load armor‑piercing shells. Target—Barham. Fire at will."

The Bismarck's four twin‑mounted 380 mm Main Guns rose slowly.

The gun barrels pointed due east.

There were five black dots moving on the horizon—those were the Yingguo fleet.

But the radar gave the gunners more precise data: Distance, bearing, speed, and heading.

That is the advantage of radar.