World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Enver returned the salute and stepped to the front of the ranks. The soldiers stood tall, striving for their best posture. They were young, most under twenty-five, their eyes filled with fear, but also hope—the hope that the new equipment and training would allow them to survive on the battlefield.

"Soldiers!" Enver shouted in Turkish, "You are the hope for the modernization of the Empire! Defend the Motherland with your new guns! Defeat the enemy with the new tactics you have learned! God bless the Ottomans!"

"God bless Ottoman!" the soldiers responded in unison, their voices echoing across the plateau.

After the inspection, Enver returned to the barracks. Halimpasha was already waiting there, his face grave.

"Urgent telegram from the Palestinian front." The Grand Vizier handed over the telegram. "The British have reinforced their troops in the Gaza Strip, by at least two divisions. Intelligence indicates they may launch an offensive next month."

After reading the telegram, Enver remained silent for a long time before asking, "How many troops do we have?"

"The Palestinian Army Group has five divisions in name, but its actual strength is less than 70,000 men. It lacks heavy weapons and has enough ammunition to support a week of medium-intensity combat."

"What about the equipment Lanfang promised?"

"The first batch has arrived in Basra, but it will take time to transfer it. And..." Halim hesitated for a moment, "Lanfang has proposed sending 'military observers' with the equipment to monitor its use."

Enver's face darkened: "Oversight? What do they take us for? A colony?"

“They are creditors,” Halim said calmly. “We owe them five million pounds in loans and the equipment for ten divisions. Creditors have the right to know where their money went and whether their equipment was wasted.”

He paused, then lowered his voice: "And Enver, you and I both know—these 'observers' are actually intelligence agents. They'll draw maps of our defenses, assess our combat capabilities, and record our weaknesses. After the war… all of this will become Lanfang's bargaining chips."

"So you still agree?"

"Because we had no choice," Halim said wearily. "Either accept Lanfang's 'help,' or be defeated by the British. Tell me, which do you choose?"

Enver opened his mouth, then slumped down. He recalled Sultan Mehmed V's dying words: "Preserve the core of the empire, preserve Anatolia."

But what if we can't even defend Anatolia?

"Then let them come," he finally said, "but restrict their movement; they're not allowed into the core defense zone. Also, have our officers keep an eye on them, they're watching us, and we're watching them—to see just how good Lanfang's army really is."

Halim nodded: "There's one more thing. Chen Feng sent a message through diplomatic channels, asking if we're interested in... buying tanks."

"Tanks?" Enver's eyes lit up. "You mean those armored vehicles that can cross trenches?"

"Yes. But it's very expensive, costing the equivalent of an entire artillery battery. Furthermore, it requires a supporting training, maintenance, and logistical system. Given the Empire's current situation..."

"Buy them!" Enver said without hesitation. "Buy ten, no, twenty! Form an armored assault battalion. Where will the money come from? From...from local taxes, from my special funds! If all else fails, we'll take out a loan from Lanfang!"

Halim looked at his fanatical expression, hesitant to speak. He knew what Enver was thinking: to create a miracle with new weapons, to save the Empire with a victory.

But a miracle is a miracle precisely because it is rare.

What the empire needs is not miracles, but solid reforms, a radical transformation and rebirth.

But he didn't say anything. Because it would be pointless. The empire was terminally ill; everyone knew it, but everyone pretended not to.

It's like someone who has a terminal illness, who should be preparing for the worst, but is still looking for folk remedies and fantasizing about recovery.

"I'll arrange it," Halim finally said.

As he left the barracks, he glanced back. Enver was still sitting there, staring at the map on the wall, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table, a final flame burning in his eyes.

That flame might illuminate the way forward.

Perhaps, it will only burn everything to ashes.

At 9 p.m. on September 30, 1916, three fleets set sail simultaneously from three corners of the earth.

The cargo ship "Bohai" sounded its horn and slowly sailed out of Nagasaki Port. This 10,000-ton Lanfang cargo ship had undergone special modifications: ventilation systems were installed in the cargo holds, fresh water storage tanks were added to the deck, and the words "Humanitarian Aid Supplies" were written in both German and Chinese on the side of the hull.

The cargo hold contained five thousand "laborers." They wore uniform gray work clothes—rough, but at least new. Each person was given a backpack containing a blanket, a lunchbox, a water bottle, and a German phrasebook teaching them how to say "yes," "no," "hungry," and "sick."

Kim Soon-sik was among them. He sat near the bulkhead, clutching the amulet his mother had given him. Seven days earlier, they had received basic military training: how to form ranks, how to obey commands, and how to use a rifle—a Type 38! Even in a performance, they had to go all the way!

The instructor was a Japanese military officer, but his instructor was from Lanfang. The training was brutal; if you didn't learn, you were beaten, and if you made a mistake, you were punished. But Kim Soon-sik learned very quickly because he knew that the faster he learned, the greater his chances of survival.

He didn't know where he was going, only that it was far away and would take a month by ship. Some of his fellow passengers were crying, some were praying, and some were staring blankly at the cabin walls.

Kim Soon-sik closed his eyes. He thought of spring in his hometown, the azaleas on the mountain, and the kimchi rice his mother made.

Those things, we may never see again.

As the cargo ship "Huang Hai" departed Incheon Port, a light rain began to fall. The raindrops pattered on the deck, washing away the dust, but not the despair.

The ship's destination was Singapore, where five thousand able-bodied men from Cao County would transfer to British transport ships bound for France. They would be the first "Oriental laborers" employed by Britain, nominally for labor export, but in reality—as everyone knew—they would be sent to the battlefield.

On the dock, Japanese officers stood ramrod straight in the rain, watching the ships depart. Their faces were expressionless, as if they were seeing off cargo, not people.

Inside the ship's hold, a new batch of able-bodied men huddled together. They were younger than the previous batches, many looking only fifteen or sixteen, their thinness heartbreaking. Someone whispered, "Where are we going?"

No one answered.

Because the answer was too cruel.

The destroyer "Zhujiang" served as the flagship, leading a convoy of three cargo ships out of Dubai. This was the second batch of military aid delivered by Lanfang to the Ottoman Empire: 20,000 rifles, 500 machine guns, 100 mortars, and supporting ammunition and spare parts.

More importantly, there were also fifty "military advisors" on board—ostensibly to help the Ottoman army master new equipment, but in reality to gather intelligence, assess combat capabilities, and pave the way for future oil development.

Chen Feng stood atop the Dubai Port control tower, watching the fleet depart through binoculars. Wang Wenwu stood beside him, holding the latest report.

"All three routes have commenced," Wang Wenwu said. "They are for the British, Germans, and Ottomans! President, this move of yours... is truly a grand strategy."

Chen Feng put down his binoculars: "Is it big? Not big enough."

He turned and pointed to the world map on the wall: "Look, routes A and B transport lives. Route C transports weapons. Three routes, three directions, but only one purpose: to keep the war going."