roccoschili Chapter 767 The General's Choice and His Warship Together
Chapter 767 The General's Choice and His Warship Together
The deck erupted in chaos once again.
Some rushed forward, trying to pull him back. Some knelt down, crying and shouting. Some stood frozen, at a loss. The chief of staff rushed to him, his eyes red and his voice hoarse: "General! You can't do this! You will—you will be court-martialed!"
Jericho looked at him calmly. "A military court-martial? Chief of Staff, do you think I'll even survive a military court-martial?"
The chief of staff was stunned.
Jellicoe patted him on the shoulder. "Go, organize the officers and men to disembark. This is the final order."
The chief of staff stood there, motionless.
Jericho looked at him and remained silent for three seconds. Then he turned and shouted to the sailors below:
"Disembark! That's an order!"
The sailors began to move.
Some ran down the gangway crying, some looked back at the warships, and some helped each other walk step by step towards the shore. Jericho stood on the bridge, watching them leave one by one. Some of the younger sailors stopped halfway, turned back to look at him, their lips moved as if they wanted to say something, but nothing came out.
Jericho nodded to them. Then he continued watching.
The chief of staff was the last to approach him. He saluted, his eyes red-rimmed, his voice hoarse as if sandpaper were scraping against steel.
"General, take care."
Jericho returned the gift.
"Go."
The chief of staff turned and walked down the gangway. After a few steps, he suddenly stopped and glanced back at Jericho. Jericho was still standing there, like a statue. The chief of staff gritted his teeth, continued walking forward, and never looked back again.
It was exactly 9:00 AM.
Jellicoe stood on the bridge, looking at the empty deck, the empty harbor, and the sailors standing on the shore in the distance. They were all staring at him, motionless.
He took a deep breath, pulled the telegram from his pocket, and glanced at it again. Then he folded it up and put it back in his pocket. He walked to the control panel and pressed the first button.
A muffled explosion came from the bottom of the ship.
The warship trembled slightly.
He pressed the second button. The third, the fourth, the fifth—each time he pressed it, the warship trembled, and a muffled explosion rang out.
Then he walked out of the bridge and stood on the deck.
The warship began to list. Very slowly, like a giant slowly falling. Jellicoe stood on the deck, looking at the distant coastline, at the sailors standing on the shore, at the city where he had spent three months.
His face was expressionless.
The warship was listing more and more violently. Jericho steadied himself by holding onto the railing. Seawater began to surge onto the deck, icy cold, reaching his ankles, his knees, and his waist.
He didn't move.
He stood there, looking at the sea stretching closer and closer in the distance, at the sun hanging in the sky, and at the oil slicks and debris floating on the water.
He recalled himself thirty years ago, when he first joined the army. He was a young lieutenant, so excited he couldn't sleep the first time he boarded a warship. Back then, he thought he would serve in the Royal Navy for life, perhaps becoming a captain, perhaps an admiral. He thought the Royal Navy's warships would never sink.
The warship continued to sink. The seawater rose past his chest, past his shoulders, past his neck. He looked back one last time at the city, at the sailors standing on the shore, and at the sinking warship.
Then, the seawater submerged him.
At 6 p.m., the battleship Bismarck slowly entered Mumbai Harbor.
Scheer stood on the bridge, looking through his binoculars at the distant sea. The setting sun dyed the sea blood red, and floating on it were oil slicks, planks, debris, and—a few masts protruding from the water.
Those were the masts of a sunken warship. One, two, three… He counted them; there were thirteen in total.
Scheer put down his binoculars and remained silent for a long time.
The chief of staff walked up to him and said softly, "General, the reconnaissance boat has been sent out. The British are on shore, waiting to surrender."
Scher nodded.
"Where's Jericho?"
The chief of staff was silent for three seconds. "General, the British scuttled themselves. Jellicoe... went down with the ship."
Scher closed his eyes.
He stood there with his eyes closed for a full minute. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the blood-red sea in the distance, at the masts protruding from the water, and at the wreckage shimmering in the sunset.
"Let's dock," he said.
When Scheer stepped off the gangway, the dock was already packed with people.
The British sailors stood in formation on the shore, silent and still. Their uniforms were worn, their faces weary, but each one stood ramrod straight. They watched the massive German battleship slowly approach the shore, watched the German sailors disembark, and watched Scheer walk towards them step by step.
Scheer approached a British officer. It was Jellicoe's chief of staff, wearing the rank of colonel on his shoulder. He stood at the front of the column, holding a sword in his hand.
Scher looked at him and remained silent for three seconds.
"Where is General Jellicoe?"
The chief of staff looked up at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, but there were no tears. His voice was hoarse, but every word was clear: "The general has chosen to stay with his warships."
Sher closed his eyes, then opened them again.
He turned and looked at the blood-red sea in the distance. The setting sun was sinking below the horizon, casting its last rays upon the area where the shipwreck lay. The masts protruding from the water stood there silently, like tombstones.
Scheer took off his military cap.
He faced the sea and gave a serious military salute.
Behind them, German sailors raised their right hands in unison. More than a thousand hands, raised in the setting sun, silently saluted. The sea breeze blew, and the flags fluttered. No one spoke, no one moved, they just stood there quietly, saluting.
Scheer stood there, motionless. He saluted for a full five minutes.
Then he lowered his hand, turned around, and looked at the British chief of staff.
"Where is General Jellicoe's sword?"
The chief of staff presented the sword with both hands. Scheer took the sword and looked at the small inscription on the scabbard—"God bless the King." He was silent for three seconds, then returned the sword to the chief of staff.
"Keep it safe. Return it to Britain after the war."
The chief of staff was stunned. "General?"
Scheer looked at him calmly. "He is not a defeated man. He is a soldier. This sword should remain in England."
The chief of staff lowered his head, holding the sword in both hands, unsure of what to say.
Scheer turned to the lined-up British sailors and said, “Your war is over. To the east of here, there are tents set up by the Japanese; there is food and water. The wounded and sick will receive treatment. Once everything is settled, you can go home.”
No one spoke. But someone started to cry.
Scheer said nothing more. He turned and walked toward the Bismarck.
After walking a few steps, he suddenly stopped and looked back at the blood-red sea.
"Old rival," he said softly, "farewell."
The sun finally sank below the horizon. The last rays of light disappeared over the sea, and night began to fall. The masts that had remained above the water gradually blurred in the darkness, eventually vanishing completely.
Scheer stood on the dock, looking at the darkness, for a very long time.
Then he turned and boarded the boat.