World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Tumarti placed the tray on the table and did not leave. He had served Wilson for many years, starting as president of Princeton University, and could read the president's every subtle expression.

"Today's meeting with the British Prime Minister...was it difficult?"

Wilson gave a wry smile: "They were very direct. No beating around the bush, no diplomatic language, just laying the harsh reality out in front of me: either help or watch our economy collapse."

Do you believe what they're saying?

“The data doesn’t lie.” Wilson pointed to the documents on the table. “At least the economic data doesn’t. As for the military situation… I’ve had intelligence personnel from the War Office and the Admiralty verify it, but the initial feedback is that the British assessment is generally accurate.”

Tumarti was silent for a moment. He walked to the window and looked out at the dark south lawn.

“My father fought in the Civil War,” he said suddenly. “He lost a leg in the Battle of Antietam. He often said that the worst thing about war isn’t death, but that it makes good people do bad things and rational people go mad. He said that once you fire the first shot, there’s no going back.”

Wilson watched his secretary's retreating figure. Tumarti rarely talked about his family.

"Do you think we should go to war, Joseph?"

Tumarti turned around, a rare serious expression on his face.

"I am not the president, sir. I am not qualified to make this decision. But I know one thing: if we are to go to war, it must be for the right reason—not for the bankers' money, not for the politicians' ambitions, but for something truly worth sacrificing."

"for example?"

"For example, preventing a larger massacre. For example, protecting the weak. For example... making the world a little better, even if it's just a little bit better." Tumarti paused. "The British called the Germans barbarians. I don't entirely believe it, but I do believe that if a country gains hegemony through aggression and slaughter, it sets a terrible precedent. Next time, perhaps no one can stop them."

Wilson fell into deep thought. Tumarti's words touched something deep within him. Yes, he was an idealist, but not a naive one. He understood the logic of power, the cruelty of international politics. Perhaps, sometimes, the use of force is to ultimately eliminate force—this paradox had tormented him for a long time.

November 20, 1916, 11:40 p.m.

Map room in the east wing of Sanssouci Palace, Berlin.

The huge map of the European theater of operations on the wall was densely marked with red and blue thumbtacks, each thumbtack representing a division-level unit. The intricate network of trenches on the western front, illuminated by the kerosene lamp, resembled an ugly scar stretching from the English Channel to the Swiss border. The eastern front, however, appeared much sparser—the Russian red thumbtacks had been largely withdrawn, forming only a thin encirclement around a few key cities.

Wilhelm II stood before the map, dressed in the dark blue uniform of a Prussian field marshal, but with two buttons undone at the collar, revealing a sweat-soaked shirt collar. In his left hand he held a glass of brandy, and in his right hand he gripped a slender oak whip, the tip pointing directly at Verdun, France.

"Here," the Emperor's voice was hoarse and urgent, "Falkenhayn promised me that he would use the meat grinder of Verdun to bleed the French dry. And now? Ten months, 750,000 casualties, and what have we gained? Six square kilometers of ruins, and a front line that has advanced slightly by two kilometers."

Six people stood around the map table: Field Marshal Paul von Hindenburg, Chief of the General Staff; General Erich Ludendorff, Quartermaster General; Admiral Paul Behnke, Chief of the Naval Staff; Dr. Arthur Zimmermann, Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs; and two royal aides. All of them wore somber expressions, and the room was filled with the smoke of cigars and a heavy silence.

"Your Majesty," Field Marshal Hindenburg cleared his throat. The burly, 69-year-old general, with his signature thick mustache, said, "the Battle of Verdun did not achieve its intended objectives, but it tied down a large number of French troops, creating conditions for our counter-offensive on the Somme. Moreover, our new tanks—"

"Tanks! Tanks again!" Wilhelm II whistled around, his pointer whistling sharply through the air. "Yes, we crushed the British with thirty tanks at the Somme. And then? Three months have passed, and how many new tanks has the Krupp factory produced? Fifteen! Fifteen a month! And the British, the French, even the Russians, are now frantically copying them! Technological advantage is fleeting, gentlemen!"

General Ludendorff stepped forward. The fifty-one-year-old quartermaster general was the de facto operator of the German war machine, known for his ruthless efficiency and obsession with numbers. He held a thick folder in his hand, the cover of which read "1917 War Material Production Plan".

"Your Majesty, the production bottlenecks lie primarily in three areas: special armor steel, high-powered gearboxes, and skilled workers." Ludendorff's voice was flat, as if he were reading from a technical manual. "We have already extended the working hours of the relevant factories to fourteen hours a day, implementing three shifts, but the material shortage cannot be solved by manpower alone. We need more chromium, nickel, and molybdenum—these rare metals, most of which come from overseas colonies, and now..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but his meaning was clear. Britain's naval blockade had surrounded Germany like an iron barrel, cutting off almost all import channels.

"What about Lanfang?" Wilhelm II suddenly asked. "Chen Feng promised to provide the raw materials."

"The cargo ships from Lanfang are on their way," Dr. Zimmerman continued, "but they need to detour through the Ottomans, across the entire Middle East, and then be transported via the Balkan Railway. The first shipment is expected to arrive by the end of December. And..." He hesitated for a moment, "the price is four times higher than before the war."

"Then pay up!" The emperor slammed his wine glass down on the table, spilling amber liquid. "Pay in gold, pay in bonds, pay whatever they want! We need the metal, we need the machine tools, we need everything that can get the production line running!"

Admiral Behnke coughed. The Chief of Naval Staff, who had been standing quietly in the shadows, spoke up now: "Your Majesty, regarding the issue of raw materials, perhaps there is a... more fundamental solution."

All eyes turned to him.

"Go on."

Behnke walked to the map, his finger tracing a line westward from the German coastline across the North Sea, stopping at the location of the British Isles.

"Britain was able to maintain the blockade because their navy still controlled the Atlantic shipping lanes. But if," he pressed his finger firmly on the English Channel, "if we could deliver a decisive blow at sea, forcing the Royal Navy to retreat and even..." he paused, "forcing them to consider a ceasefire, then the blockade would naturally be lifted, and the raw material problem would be solved."