World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

While waiting for the call to connect, he looked out the window. The London night sky was tinged with a dark red by the city lights, and no stars could be seen. A hundred years ago, Nelson commanded his fleet here to defeat Napoleon. Fifty years ago, Palmerston declared here that "the British Empire has no permanent allies, only permanent interests."

What now?

Now, he, Herbert Henry Asquith, the 64th Prime Minister of the British Empire, is about to call the King in the middle of the night and tell him: We need to buy Asian slaves to fill the trenches because our own young men are dying out.

The call was connected.

"Your Majesty, I apologize for disturbing you so late at night... Yes, regarding the situation at the Somme... we need to make some... difficult decisions."

The rain is still falling. Never-ending.

At the same time, in Berlin, at Sanssouci Palace.

Wilhelm II stood in the center of the map room, still wearing his daytime Prussian field marshal's uniform, but the collar was undone, revealing his sweaty neck. He held a glass of brandy in his hand, but didn't drink it, only staring at the huge map of the European theater on the wall.

In the Somme region, a striking red arrowhead extends from the German lines, piercing twenty kilometers into the British lines.

"Your Majesty, the battle report is confirmed." General Falkenhayn stood to the side, weary but with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "Our army has achieved a full breakthrough along the Cambrai-Barbom line. The British army has been routed, and two French divisions have suffered heavy losses. Most importantly—"

He walked to the map and pointed to the red arrow: "Our new tanks, the Panzer I, have achieved an overwhelming victory on the battlefield. Of the thirty tanks that participated, only three were lost, all by close-range explosions, none by frontal artillery fire. Meanwhile, the British Mark I tanks were completely destroyed, all fourteen of them."

"The casualty ratio?" Wilhelm II asked.

"One to four point seven." Falkenhayn's voice was filled with barely suppressed excitement. "And this is despite the enemy having air superiority and artillery support. Your Majesty, this isn't a tactical victory; it's a technological revolution! It's a change in the rules of war!"

Wilhelm II finally took a sip of brandy. The strong liquor burned his throat, bringing a brief, burning sensation.

"Lanfang's technique..." he murmured, "Chen Feng didn't lie to me."

"The technology itself is excellent, but more importantly, it's our improvements," Lieutenant General Bayer, the Director of the Ordnance Department, interjected. "Krupp's carburized armor steel has increased frontal protection by thirty percent, and Rheinmetall's improved fire control system has increased accuracy by forty percent. Your Majesty, if we had three hundred, no, two hundred such tanks, concentrated on a ten-kilometer-wide front, we could tear through any trench defense!"

"And production capacity?" Wilhelm II turned around. "How much can you produce in a month now?"

Bayer's expression stiffened for a moment: "...Fifteen vehicles. Your Majesty, there's a shortage of special steel, the gearbox production line is still being tested, and skilled workers..."

"Too slow!" Wilhelm II slammed his wine glass on the table. "The British and French won't give us time! They'll rebuild their defenses in the winter, bring in more troops next spring, and develop their own new tanks! We must hurry!"

He paced back and forth in the map room, his military boots making a crisp echo on the marble floor.

"Send a telegram to Chen Feng." He suddenly stopped. "I'll dictate it myself."

The secretary immediately prepared paper and pen.

"To His Excellency Chen Feng, President of the Lanfang Republic:" Wilhelm II's voice echoed in the empty room, "First of all, congratulations on the brilliant victory of your country's Panzer I tank on the Somme battlefield. Facts have once again proven that the technological cooperation between Germany and Lanfang was the key to changing the course of the war."

He paused, then continued: "However, victory on the battlefield requires scale. The Empire's existing production capacity cannot meet the needs of the front lines. Hereby, in the name of the German Emperor, I formally request that your country directly export at least one hundred Panzer I tanks in stock. The price may be increased by twenty percent from the contract price, and payment may be made in gold, technical patents, or any equivalent value acceptable to your country."

"Secondly," Wilhelm II walked to the window, gazing at the somber Berlin night sky, "regarding troop replenishment. The Battle of the Somme has shown that Eastern soldiers can unleash astonishing fighting power under certain conditions. But we need more—more trained, combat-experienced soldiers. Please assist in urging the Japanese government to continue fulfilling and expanding the personnel transport agreement. Germany needs at least thirty divisions of Eastern troops for the full-scale offensive next spring."

He turned to his secretary and said, "Add this: Time is of the essence. Germany's victory is also Lanfang Investment's victory. I hope Your Excellency will consider this carefully and reply promptly."

"Yes, Your Majesty." The secretary quickly took notes. "What encryption level is required?"

"The best. Through the Swiss transit point, using the new codebook." Wilhelm II walked back to the map, his finger pointing to the location of Paris. "Next spring... I want to stand under the Eiffel Tower to review the troops."

Falkenhayn and Bayer exchanged a glance. They both saw the familiar fanaticism in the Emperor's eyes—the kind of fanaticism that could lead Germany to war, and also to its destruction.

"Your Majesty," Falkenhayn began cautiously, "even if we acquire a hundred tanks, we will still need to train the crews, provide logistical support, and conduct new tactical drills. This will take at least three months."

"Then we'll use three months," Wilhelm II said. "The whole winter to prepare. And the British..." he sneered, "they'll waste the winter arguing, fighting amongst themselves, and looking for scapegoats."

He remembered Asquith's weary face. That old Liberal was still thinking about war in a nineteenth-century way. He didn't know that twentieth-century wars belonged to steel, oil, and technology.

They are cold-blooded but efficient businessmen like Chen Feng.

"And another thing," Wilhelm II said, remembering something, "order the General Staff to transfer five divisions from the Eastern Front to the Western Front. The Russians are already half-dead; leave only a minimum number of troops to keep them under surveillance. Concentrate all resources on the Western Front."

"But Your Majesty, what if the eastern front collapses..."

"The Russians will collapse on their own," Wilhelm II interrupted Falkingham. "I have received intelligence that lines stretch for kilometers in Petrograd's grain stores, and the Tsar's authority is crumbling. They won't survive the winter."

Faktinghan hesitated for a moment, then finally saluted and said, "Yes, Your Majesty."

The two generals breathed a sigh of relief after the emperor left the map room.

"One hundred tanks..." Bayer smiled wryly. "Lanfang's production capacity is indeed higher than ours, but even they might not have one hundred in stock. That's too much to ask..."

“His Majesty doesn’t need tanks, he needs confidence.” Falkenhayn walked to the map, looking at the red arrow. “The victory at the Somme came at the perfect time. Anti-war sentiment is growing domestically, food rations are decreasing, and strikes are frequent. We need a major victory to rally the people. And tanks are that banner.”