World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Europe was ablaze, Asia was awakening, and America was watching. Lanfang, like a newly born star, slowly rose in the night sky of history, its light growing ever brighter.

He knew he was taking a risk. But as he told Zhou Tieshan—a tightrope walker who only looks at the abyss beneath their feet will fall. Only by looking at the finish line can they cross it.

His ultimate goal is a strong, independent, and respected Chinese nation.

He was willing to take any risk for this.

The clock struck midnight outside the window. A new day had begun.

Chen Feng turned off the light and walked out of the office. The corridor was quiet, with only the echo of his footsteps.

The sun will rise as usual tomorrow.

Lanfang will continue to move forward.

Amidst the roar of steel behemoths, beneath the soaring sky of the Kunpeng, and on the rolling wheels of history.

April 3, 1916, 6:30 a.m.

In the confidential communications room of the Dubai Presidential Palace, the 24-hour teletype machine hummed rhythmically. The duty secretary, Chen Wenya—a 25-year-old woman wearing tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and a neat khaki uniform—was tearing a recently received telegram from a roll of paper.

This is the first daily summary of international news, compiled and edited by Lanfang News Agency from its twelve global bureaus, and sent back to Dubai in the early hours of the morning. The content typically includes updates on the European war, political developments, financial market fluctuations, and occasionally some off-the-beaten-path news.

Chen Wenya skillfully marked the telegram with red pen, preparing to deliver it to the President's office in half an hour. Her hands moved quickly through the pages, her eyes scanning line after line of text:

Reuters, London, April 2: The British Army announced that preparations for the Battle of the Somme are progressing well, with 30 additional artillery batteries already deployed…

AFP, Paris: French Prime Minister Briand stated in parliament that the Germans could not possibly break through the Verdun Line…

Associated Press, New York: President Wilson again called on the warring parties to negotiate peace...

It was all routine stuff. Chen Wenya yawned and prepared to pour herself a cup of coffee. Just then, the telegraph machine suddenly started ringing urgently—a sign of an emergency.

She quickly returned to her seat and watched as the paper tape slowly produced new text. The first few lines were normal:

Lanzhou News Agency, North X, April 3, 6:00 AM: Chinese President Yuan Shikai announced today…

Then there was blank space, and the telegraph machine paused for a few seconds. Chen Wenya frowned and patted the machine. Then the paper tape started moving again, but much slower, as if the telegraph operator was carefully choosing his words:

...To fulfill international obligations and demonstrate the national character of Chinese civilization, it has been decided to dispatch 150,000 Chinese laborers to the Western Front in Europe to assist the Anglo-French allied forces in non-combat work such as logistical support and fortification construction. The first batch of 30,000 laborers will depart from Tianjin Port on April 15th...

Chen Wenya stopped. She blinked and read it again.

150,000 Chinese laborers. Western Front in Europe. Non-combat work.

The combination of these words gave her a strange sense of unease. She continued reading:

...This measure was reached through friendly consultations between the Chinese government and the governments of Britain and France, and Chinese laborers will enjoy the same treatment as Allied logistics personnel. Foreign Minister Lu Xiang stated that this move will enhance China's international standing and lay the foundation for its post-war participation in international affairs...

...Labor recruitment has begun in provinces such as Zhili, Shandong, and Jiangsu, with enthusiastic applications. Each laborer will receive a basic wage of twenty silver dollars per month, ten of which will be sent directly to their family...

The paper tape stopped. Chen Wenya stared at the few lines of text, her mind racing. Having worked at the Presidential Palace for three years, she had absorbed some basic understanding of international politics. What was the Western Front of Europe? Verdun, the Somme, Ypres… these place names appeared repeatedly in the war reports, each time accompanied by casualty figures of tens or hundreds of thousands.

Non-combat work? Building fortifications, transporting ammunition, and burying corpses a few kilometers from the front lines—is that really "non-combat"?

She grabbed the telegram, rushed out of the communications room, and started jogging down the corridor. The government building was still quiet in the early morning, with only the rhythmic scrubbing of cleaners on the marble floors.

"Secretary Chen, so early?" A familiar voice called out to her.

It was Wang Wenwu. The Minister of Commerce arrived exceptionally early today, carrying a briefcase, his eyes dark, clearly having stayed up late again last night.

"Minister Wang, urgent telegram." Chen Wenya handed over the paper. "Something terrible has happened in Beijing."

Wang Wenwu took the telegram and read it quickly under the corridor light. His expression shifted from calm to doubt, from doubt to shock, and finally settled on an indescribable complex look—anger, disbelief, and a hint of…sadness?

"This...this is impossible," he murmured. "Has the Northern XX Prefecture gone mad?"

"The news has already been released; Reuters and AFP have both reprinted it," Chen Wenya said in a low voice. "Minister Wang, should we wake the President now?"

Wang Wenwu glanced at his watch: 6:45. Chen Feng usually gets up at 7:00 and starts work at 7:30.

"Let him sleep for another fifteen minutes," Wang Wenwu sighed. "This news... requires a clear head to handle."

But he himself had become completely sober. 150,000 Chinese laborers, the Western European front, twenty silver dollars a month... every number pierced his heart like a needle.

Wang Wenwu was also Chinese; his grandfather's generation had gone to Southeast Asia to make a living. He grew up listening to his elders tell stories of Chinese laborers—those who went to America to build railroads, those who went to Peru to dig guano, and those who went to South Africa to mine. Of those people, three out of ten died on the way, three died on the construction site, and the rest returned alive, but were left with a host of injuries and illnesses.

Now, the Northern XX government is sending 150,000 compatriots to the European battlefield, which is a hundred times more dangerous than those places.

"Minister Wang," Chen Wenya asked cautiously, "is this matter... very serious?"

Looking at her young and confused face, Wang Wenwu suddenly found himself speechless. How could he explain? How many people died every day in the trenches of Europe? How could he explain that when shells fell, the laborers building fortifications were blown to pieces just like the soldiers fighting? How could he explain that those British and French officers simply didn't care about the lives of the yellow-skinned laborers?

"It's very serious," he finally said. "So serious...it could change a lot of things."

The two walked to the rest area outside the President's office. Wang Wenwu sat down, then stood up again, walked to the window, and then came back. Chen Wenya silently went to make two cups of tea.

"Secretary Chen," Wang Wenwu suddenly asked, "if you had a younger brother, twenty years old, and someone offered him twenty silver dollars a month to go to the European battlefield to build fortifications, would you let him go?"

Chen Wenya was stunned. She had a younger brother who was nineteen years old and studying at a teacher's college in Borneo.

"I...I won't," she said honestly. "No amount of money would make me."

Why?

"Because no matter how much money you have, you only have one life," Chen Wenya said. "Besides, that was a European war; what does it have to do with us?"