Slowly, Admiral Bruce Fraser walked past the huddled officers, panic on their faces and laced into every syllable they shouted.
For Fraser, all that remained was ringing. A German naval bomber had crashed into part of the bridge, nearly killing him and the rest of the crew. He had survived only because he had been further down the ship.
He continued walking. Behind him, a small fire was smoldering, and a large section of the outer hull of the bridge had been torn away, replaced grotesquely by the nose of an airplane.
"Hah." He breathed in the fresh sea air deeply, the same air he had breathed for such a long time. It was his one true friend.
He lowered his hat and leaned onto the metal railing, watching the apocalyptic scene before him.
The sky was a canvas of planes, some flying high, others not flying at all, falling instead. Some crashed into the sea, others, perhaps the lucky ones for the Germans, struck British ships.
Wherever he looked, he rarely saw a British fighter. All he saw were Iron Crosses.
On the sea, he saw the state the British Home Fleet was in. His own ship was mostly intact, with only light damage in the front compartment and, obviously, the bridge. The newly built HMS Duke of York was sturdy after all. It was a fact he felt a quiet pride in when looking at the other ships.
Many light vessels were already nearly sunk. Some of the larger ones, seven light and heavy cruisers as well as the Nelson, had suffered a catastrophic swarm attack by an unbelievable mass of planes. The Nelson, one of the older battleships still poorly equipped against anti-air combat, had been nearly powerless, trying to flee the battle. Yet her fate had been sealed eighteen minutes ago, when one last torpedo hit her starboard side, toppling the giant to its knees.
Fraser sighed, the distant flames reflecting in his pupils. Quietly, his gaze moved further toward the horizon, where several gray silhouettes rested on the water.
"The Germans and their fleet..." Fraser shook his head. Yes, the Germans had suffered too, perhaps worse than the British in comparison to overall strength, but the British had lost far more in terms of numbers. Not because of the German fleet. No.
"These goddamn planes..." Fraser spat, clenching his hand, the sounds of the battle finally beginning to return.
A distant explosion rolled across the water, followed by the metallic groan of a dying ship. Somewhere below, men shouted orders, their voices swallowed by the wind.
"Sir!" A lieutenant shouted, far too loud, his voice sharp and uneven, as if his ears had been damaged.
Another engine roared overhead, low and violent. The deck trembled beneath their feet.
Fraser snatched the paper from the sergeant's hand, almost ripping it, his eyes racing across the lines.
"They want us to stay. Are they goddamn serious?" Fraser shouted, his fist slamming against the metal railing again and again.
Somewhere to their left, a column of water erupted into the air as a bomb struck the sea.
Fraser clenched his jaw, spit flying from his mouth as he shouted, "They want us to remain in this graveyard, acting like meat shields?"
A burning aircraft screamed across the sky, trailing black smoke before vanishing behind a curtain of flames on the horizon.
Fraser shook his head.
"No, no, no," he repeated, meeting the eyes of the lieutenant, who now stared back with unmistakable defiance.
"We will retreat. Retreat." Fraser nodded to himself, pushing past the man and heading toward the still intact part of the bridge.
Then he stopped.
No, he was forced to stop.
The lieutenant from before had grabbed his arm.
Another explosion thundered nearby. The railing vibrated under Fraser's hand.
"What is this insolence, Lieutenant?" Fraser shouted.
"Are you intending to defy orders, Admiral?" the lieutenant asked, his teeth clenched, as a plane tore past them, close enough to whip their coats and hair violently in the wind.
"I am," Fraser answered, resolutely.
The lieutenant shook his head, breath heavy.
"Then I will have to detain you. I cannot tolerate such treason."
Fraser's arm tensed, his hand snapping around the lieutenant's wrist and forcing it away.
"Do not mistake resolve for weakness, Lieutenant."
The ship shuddered as another salvo was fired from the massive turrets. More officers gathered. Burned, limping, bloodied. Yet none of them looked away.
They did not blink.
Fraser's gaze moved across their faces.
"We withdraw," he said, firm and controlled. "That is an order."
Silence.
Only the distant roar of engines and explosions.
Then the lieutenant straightened.
"We are the Home Fleet, sir. We are Britain."
A murmur followed. Low. Unyielding.
Fraser exhaled sharply. "Other ships are already retreating. Look."
Through the smoke, silhouettes turned away, vanishing into the gray horizon.
But not them.
Not the Duke of York.
Fraser's jaw tightened. "This is not courage. It is suicide."
"It is duty."
The words came from several mouths now.
Fraser stepped forward, voice rising. "And what do you think this proves? That pride keeps ships afloat?"
A deafening blast cut him off. The deck lurched violently. Somewhere, a man screamed.
No one moved.
For a moment, Fraser simply stared at them. Then something in his expression faltered.
"I can still save you," he said, quieter now.
No answer.
Then, softly, a voice began to sing.
"…Rule, Britannia…"
It was weak. Broken.
Almost swallowed by the wind.
"…Britannia, rule the waves…"
Another voice joined. Then another.
Fraser's head lifted.
"…Britons never, never, never shall be slaves…"
The song spread across the deck, carried by hoarse throats and bloodied lungs. Not loud at first. Not proud.
But steady.
A plane screamed overhead. Bombs fell. Water erupted beside the hull.
The guns answered.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
"…Rule, Britannia…"
Louder now.
Men staggered back to their stations. Hands shaking, they loaded shells, rammed them in, fired again.
Faster. And faster.
The Duke of York erupted, firing everything it had. Every machine gun. Every caliber.
"…Britannia, rule the waves…"
Flames climbed higher. Another impact tore through the superstructure. Steel shrieked. Still, they sang.
Louder.
"…Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!"
Fraser stood motionless, listening.
His eyes moved once more across the burning sea, across the fleeing silhouettes, across his dying ship.
Then, slowly, he straightened. He placed his hat atop his head once more.
"…Bloody fools," he muttered.
But there was no anger left.
Only something like understanding.
He adjusted what remained of his uniform and turned back toward the battle.
"Very well."
Another wave of aircraft descended.
The next explosion came without warning.
White light.
The world tore apart.
The order to retreat had already been given, yet this time, no one was left to receive it.
And still, through fire and thunder, through collapsing steel and screaming guns, the song carried on.
"…Rule, Britannia…"
Until, one by one, the voices were gone.
They were replaced by the slow, steady sound of waves.
Then came new voices, carried across the wind. German ones.
Young and old. Hoarse and clear.
Different, yet the same.
They laughed. They shouted. And then, just as the British had before them, they began to sing.
The melody rolled over the graveyard of ships, over burning wrecks and drifting bodies, over the place where the Duke of York had made its stand.
All of them were gone.
Only the song remained.
And so the cycle began again.
Voices rising. Guns waiting. Perhaps, next time, it would be British voices that carried over the water once more.
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