World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

London, 10 Downing Street, 9 p.m., September 8, 1916.

The emergency meeting of the war cabinet had been going on for three hours. Two telegrams were spread out on the table: the one on the left was sent by Asquith from the "Malaya", detailing the contents of his meeting with Chen Feng; the one on the right was from the Sinai front command, reporting that the Lanfang 1st Mechanized Infantry Division's fortifications in Koldesa were 60% complete and the artillery positions were fully formed.

"Therefore, Chen Feng proposed this plan." Foreign Minister Sir Edward Grey rubbed his reddened eyes. "Using Japanese soldiers in exchange for our tacit approval of Hurdlesa."

Lord Kitchener, the Secretary of War, stared at the small red dot of Hurdlesa on the map, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table. "What about the price? Did he say so?"

"It wasn't explicitly stated, but a cut is definitely in the works," Navy Minister Balfour sneered. "That Eastern merchant won't let any opportunity to make money slip by."

"The problem is—" Gray lowered his glasses, "—whether we should accept it? Or, could we bypass him and negotiate directly with the Sakura Kingdom?"

There was a few seconds of silence in the meeting room.

Sir Smith Cumming, Director of MI6, said, "Technically, it's feasible. We have an embassy in Tokyo and can directly contact Prime Minister Saionji Kinmochi. But there are two risks: First, Chen Feng will be unhappy and may cause trouble in other areas; second, Japan may not be willing to send troops to both sides of the conflict at the same time—there's a possibility of friendly fire on the battlefield."

"Then we'll find a way to get them to agree," Kitchener said in a low voice. "Tell them that if we only send troops to Germany and not Britain, Britain will remember that after the war..."

The threatening meaning in those words is quite obvious.

Prime Minister Asquith then spoke, pale but with sharp eyes, having just returned from the sea: "Gentlemen, we are not discussing a moral issue, but a matter of survival. From Versailles to the Battle of the Somme, in two months of war, we have already suffered 420,000 casualties. Domestic manpower is nearly exhausted; even men in their fifties are filling in at the factories. If we cannot achieve a breakthrough by next spring…"

He didn't finish his sentence, but everyone understood: the war couldn't be dragged on any longer.

“So,” Asquith looked at Gray, “send a telegram to Tokyo. In my name, invite Prime Minister Saionji to ‘exchange views on the situation in the Far East.’ At the same time, have the ambassador to Japan, Sir Frederick White, make private contact to probe the attitude of the Japanese government.”

"What if Saionji refuses?" Balfour asked.

"Then we'll increase the stakes." Asquith said expressionlessly, "Tell him that Britain can recognize Japan's special rights in Shandong, support Japan's entry into the League of Nations after the war, and even... provide a low-interest loan."

Gray paused, his hand still holding the notes. "Prime Minister, these conditions..."

"It's bait," Asquith interrupted him. "Whether it will be fulfilled after the war is another matter. Right now, we need soldiers, soldiers who can carry guns in the trenches and fight to the death in a charge."

He stood up, walked to the wall, and traced a map of Europe with his finger: "The Germans have been using Japanese soldiers for eight months, and you've seen the results—at the Battle of Verdun, the Japanese forces suffered twice the casualties of the Germans, but their advance was also twice as fast. They're not afraid to die, or rather… their commanders don't care if they die."

The temperature in the meeting room plummeted. Everyone understood the unspoken message: trading other people's lives for the lives of the British.

"But morally..." a young cabinet secretary couldn't help but ask.

Asquith turned around, his gaze sharp as a knife: "Young man, come talk to me about morality when you're signing five hundred death notices every day."

The secretary lowered her head, not daring to say anything more.

"It's settled then." Asquith returned to his seat. "Send a telegram to Tokyo. Be polite, but put enough pressure on them. Tell Saionji: This is a request from the British Empire, and also... a test."

The telegram was sent to the communications room. Half an hour later, the encrypted radio waves crossed Eurasia and flew to distant Tokyo.

The person who received the telegram was kneeling in the Japanese-style room of the Prime Minister's official residence, staring blankly at another document in front of him.

Tokyo, Prime Minister's Official Residence, at the same time, 2:00 AM on September 9th.

Saionji Kinmochi knelt on the tatami mat, his back straight, but his shoulders slumped slightly. He was a 67-year-old man who hadn't slept well for three nights in a row; the dark circles under his eyes were particularly noticeable in the dim light of the kerosene lamp.

Three documents lay before him, like three mountains pressing down on his heart.

The first document was an "informal memorandum" delivered by the British Embassy this afternoon. The wording was polite, but the text conveyed an undeniable pressure: "...The British Empire sincerely hopes that the Government of the Imperial Kingdom of Japan can demonstrate the substance of its traditional friendship with Britain under the current international circumstances...Regarding the matter of troop replenishment, we hope you will give it positive consideration..."

The second document was a "urging letter" delivered yesterday by the German military attaché in Japan. It was more direct and blatant: "...The fourth batch of ten divisions (250,000 men) must depart before October. The Imperial Army urgently needs to replenish its ranks with experienced personnel; the price can be increased by 10% compared to the first batch..."

The third document, an "invitation" sent this morning by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Lanfang, is placed at the top. It is concise yet meaningful: "...Borneo has a bumper rice harvest and wishes to share it with its neighbors. President Chen Feng cordially invites His Excellency Prime Minister Saionji Kinmochi to visit Pontianak in the near future to discuss regional food security and economic cooperation..."

Three documents, three directions.

The British wanted soldiers, the Germans wanted soldiers, and Chen Feng... wanted to talk about rice.

Saionji closed his eyes. He could imagine the reaction of those in the military—Army Minister Kenichi Oshima would definitely slam his fist on the table and say, "Agree! Agree to everything! The British are making political promises, the Germans are giving money, why not agree?"

But he is the prime minister, so he has to think further ahead.

What would happen on the battlefield if troops were simultaneously deployed to both sides in a conflict? Would Japanese soldiers, in the muddy trenches of France, use rifles made in Japan to shoot and kill another group of fellow Japanese soldiers, dressed in different uniforms? How would the families of those soldiers feel if they found out? How would public opinion in Japan react?

Even more terrifying is the post-war period. Regardless of which side wins, Japan will offend the victors for "fence-sitting." If Germany wins, they'll accuse you of disloyalty; if Britain wins, they'll accuse you of betraying the alliance. Then…

He dared not think any further.

The paper sliding door was gently pulled open. The secretary cautiously poked his head in: "Prime Minister, Army Minister General Oshima requests an audience, saying it's urgent."

Saionji sighed. "Let him in."

Kenichi Oshima strode into the tatami room, his military boots making a dull thud on the tatami. He skipped the pleasantries and knelt directly opposite Saionji, pulling a document from the inner pocket of his uniform.