World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

In the Hall of Life at Dolmabahçe Palace, the air was thick with the mingled scents of gunpowder and death. The forty-eight-year-old Sultan Mehmed V lay on a gilded bed, his cheeks sunken, his breath so faint it seemed as if a thread might snap at any moment. Six royal physicians knelt outside a screen, heads bowed, like prisoners awaiting judgment.

War Minister Enver Pasha and Grand Vizier Halim Pasha knelt three steps from the bed, their foreheads touching the ground. They had been kneeling for twenty minutes, the patterns of the Persian carpet beneath their knees deeply imprinted on their trousers.

"Your Majesty..." Halim spoke for the third time, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping, "The text of the agreement is here, Your Majesty, please review it."

The attendant, trembling, picked up the sheepskin scroll and unfurled it before the Sultan. The scroll was inscribed in both Ottoman Turkish and Arabic: "The Agreement between the Ottoman Empire and the Lanfang Republic concerning the concession and military assistance in Mesopotamia."

The Sultan's eyelids twitched slightly. He had inherited a mess on all sides, with an empty treasury. For eight months, news of defeat in the Caucasus, the retreat of Palestine, the siege of Mesopotamia, and Arab tribal rebellions had been raining down like poisoned arrows. He already had a heart condition, and now he was on his last legs.

"Recite..." Sultan's lips uttered a faint breath.

Halim Pasha took a deep breath and began to read the key clauses. With each clause he read, Enver Pasha clenched his fist on his knees tighter.

"Article 1, Concessionary Area: Centered on Basra, the area extending 50 kilometers north of the Persian Gulf coast, including but not limited to the ports of Zubair, Fao, and Umm Qasr, covering a total area of ​​approximately 32,000 square kilometers..."

「第二条，特许期限：自公曆1916年8月20日起，至2015年8月19日止，共计九十九年……」

"Article 3, Concession Rights: The Lanfang Republic shall have the exclusive right to explore and extract all mineral and oil and gas resources within the concession area; the right to construct and operate ports, railways, highways and factories; the right to maintain public order and establish security forces..."

"Article Four: The Ottoman Empire retains nominal sovereignty, His Majesty the Sultan remains the supreme ruler of the region, and Lanfang must hold an annual flag-raising ceremony to pay tribute to the Sultan..."

"Article 5, Consideration: The Lanfang Republic promises to arm and train ten modern infantry divisions for the Ottoman Empire within twelve months, providing them with a full set of equipment including tanks, artillery, and machine guns; and to provide a low-interest loan of five million pounds sterling for the purchase of food and medicine..."

When the word "ninety-nine years" was read, the Sultan suddenly opened his eyes.

Those eyes had witnessed the empire's final glory—in 1909, when he visited Berlin as Crown Prince, Wilhelm II hosted a banquet at Sanssouci Palace, where envoys from various countries vied to offer him a toast. At that time, although Ottoman was seriously ill, he could at least still sit upright at the world negotiating table.

And now...

"Ninety-nine years..." The Sultan's voice suddenly became clear, carrying a kind of final, powerful strength. "My great-grandfather, Mehmed II, conquered Constantinople in fifty-three days. My grandfather, Abd al-Majid I, ruled the empire for thirty-nine years. My father... reigned for thirty-three years." (AI data, Arabic names are too convoluted)

He turned his head with difficulty, his gaze sweeping over the two high-ranking officials: "The agreement you want me to sign is a lease that lasts longer than either of their reigns. Longer than my lifespan..."

Enver Pasha broke out in a cold sweat. The 34-year-old war minister, a strongman of the Young Turks party, dared not raise his head.

"Your Majesty," Halim Pasha's voice choked with emotion, "how could we have dared to propose this unless absolutely necessary? But the British army is only a hundred kilometers from Basra, and the 60,000 soldiers in Kut are about to run out of food. On the Caucasus front, the Russian army has reinforced its troops with five more divisions. In Palestine... the British have already amassed eight divisions in Sinai, and the Gaza defenses are hanging by a thread."

He crawled forward two steps on his knees, holding a military intelligence report above his head: "This is an urgent telegram received early this morning. The Imperial Treasury... has less than eight tons of gold left. Enough to pay the army's salaries for only three months. In the rural Anatolia, people are already eating grass roots and tree bark. Your Majesty... the Empire... is starving."

The Sultan stared at the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. It was the work of French craftsmen, its three thousand six hundred crystals reflecting the shimmering waves of the Bosphorus Strait outside the window. Once upon a time, the Ottoman fleet crisscrossed this strait, from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean, from Tripoli to the Gulf of Aden, the crescent flag invincible.

"Halim," Sultan said softly, "raise your head."

Grand Vizier slowly raised his head, his old face streaked with tears.

"Tell me the truth," the Sultan said, emphasizing each word, "what will happen to the Empire three years from now if we don't sign this agreement?"

Silence. Only the suppressed cough of the imperial physician could be heard.

Enver Pasha suddenly looked up, his eyes bloodshot: "Your Majesty! We can fight! I am willing to go to Palestine myself and lead the army to fight the British to the death! We still have loyal soldiers, and..."

"How much more?" the Sultan interrupted him, his voice eerily calm. "Enver, you are the Minister of War. Tell me, how many combat-ready troops can the Empire muster right now? How many artillery shells? How many machine guns?"

Enver opened his mouth, but ultimately slumped down in despair.

Halim answered for him: "Your Majesty, on the Eastern, Western, and Southern Fronts, the Empire still has a total of sixty-two divisions. However, thirty-seven of these divisions are less than half their authorized strength, fifteen lack heavy weapons, and eight have not received their pay for three months. The entire army has fewer than two thousand machine guns, and its artillery ammunition reserves are only enough for a medium-sized campaign. In contrast, the British have eight hundred heavy artillery pieces and two thousand machine guns in the Middle East. The Russians have six hundred thousand troops in the Caucasus..."

"Enough." Sultan closed his eyes.

Tears streamed down his face and soaked into the silk pillowcase.

"Sign it," he said, his voice as soft as a sigh. "Future historians will condemn us as traitors, will say that I, Mehmed V, am a sinner of the Ottoman Empire. But at least... at least the core of the empire can survive a few more years. At least the children of Anatolia... will have food to eat."

The attendant handed over the quill pen with trembling hands.

The Sultan's hand trembled violently; the first time he signed, the ink smeared across the parchment. He caught his breath, gripped the pen tightly, and signed his name a second time in cursive script—the Sultan's imperial approval, signifying that the agreement was officially in effect.

The moment the pen touched the paper, the call to prayer from the minaret suddenly came from outside the window. The long, drawn-out "Allah is the Greatest" echoed across the Bosphorus Strait, like the final elegy of an empire.

After signing, the Sultan seemed to have all his strength drained away, the pen slipping from his fingers. He looked at Halim and, with his last breath, said, "Tell the Grand Commander Lanfang...please...treat the people of that land kindly. They...are also the children of God."

After saying that, he fell into a coma.

Three days later, Muhammad V died. The empire entered a three-month period of national mourning, while the agreement that would change the fate of the Middle East had come into effect.