World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Foreign Secretary Edward Gray finally spoke. He had been silent until now, holding the telegram that Ambassador Mary had just delivered.

"Prime Minister, President Wilson has sent another telegram."

Asquith looked up.

"What did he say?"

Gray looked at the telegram and read it aloud, word by word:

"The government of Merleka is deeply concerned about the situation in Asia. Our country will send an expeditionary force to France, and the first batch of 14,000 people has already arrived in the port of Saint-Nazaire. Merleka has no intention of being an enemy of Lanfang and hopes that both sides can resolve the dispute through peaceful negotiations."

The conference room was deathly silent.

Then, someone laughed. The laughter was cold and bitter, like it came from hell.

It was Walter Long, the Secretary of State for Colonial Affairs.

"No intention to be enemies with Lanfang?" he repeated. "Fourteen thousand men went to France, but not a single soldier came to Asia. Is this what our allies are?"

Gray put down the telegram and sighed.

"Wilson is waiting. He'll wait until we and Lanfang are both severely weakened, then he can come out and clean up the mess."

"A lose-lose situation?" Kitchener sneered. "We're being attacked unilaterally right now, how can it be a lose-lose situation?"

The debate lasted for two hours.

Some advocated withdrawing more troops from Europe to reinforce Asia, while others argued for abandoning Asia and focusing all efforts on Africa. Some advocated kneeling and begging for mercy from Merika, while others advocated for secret peace talks with Lanfang. Everyone had their own ideas, and everyone claimed their ideas were the best, but no one could convince anyone else.

Asquith listened to the arguments, and his head began to throb more and more.

He recalled three years earlier, when the war had just broken out. Back then, everyone said it would be over before Christmas. Back then, everyone said the British Empire was invincible. Back then, everyone said the Germans wouldn't last a year.

Three years have passed.

The Germans were still fighting. The people of Lanfang joined in. And the British Empire was losing its colonies piece by piece.

The door was pushed open again.

This time, it wasn't an aide-de-camp, but a middle-aged man in a naval uniform. His face was deathly pale, and he held a telegram in his hand, which was trembling slightly.

"Prime Minister," his voice trembled, "just received news. Caporetto..."

Asquith suddenly stood up.

"What happened to Caporeto?"

The naval officer swallowed hard.

"The Italians... have attacked. Thirty-six divisions have launched a massive offensive against the combined German and Austro-Hungarian forces."

A gasp rippled through the conference room.

"An attack?" Kitchener's eyes lit up. "The Italians have finally made their move? Good! Excellent! As long as the Italians hold off the German and Austro-Hungarian forces, we can..."

"But—" the naval officer interrupted him, his voice trembling even more, "but the Italians lost. They lost. Thirty-six divisions, crushed in two days. The German and Austro-Hungarian forces are advancing into Italy. Prisoners…more than two hundred thousand prisoners."

The conference room was deathly silent.

Two hundred thousand prisoners.

Two days.

Thirty-six divisions were defeated in just two days.

Asquith slowly sat down, covering his face with his hands.

"God," he murmured, "what have we done to deserve this punishment?"

The meeting was still ongoing at 2 p.m.

The debate had shifted from "what to do" to "who is responsible." The Navy accused the Army of failing to defend the colony, the Army accused the Navy of being afraid to go to sea and fight, the Colonial Affairs Department accused the Foreign Ministry of failing to secure the support of the locals in time, and the Foreign Ministry accused the Colonial Affairs Department of exploiting the colony too much, leading to the locals turning against them.

Noisy.

The door was suddenly pushed open.

Everyone turned around at the same time, and then stood up simultaneously.

King George V strode into the conference room.

He wasn't wearing civilian clothes, but rather a full naval admiral's uniform, his chest adorned with medals. His face lacked its usual gentleness, instead displaying an indescribable anger and weariness. He walked to the top of the long table and stood before the chair next to the head of the table—a chair prepared specifically for him, rarely used.

Everyone stood; no one dared to sit down.

King George V scanned the room, his gaze sweeping over every face. That look sent chills down the spines of those present—it was the gaze of a hunter surveying its prey, the gaze of a king scrutinizing his subjects.

"Please sit down," he finally spoke, his voice not loud, but each word sounded like a nail driven into a wooden board.

Everyone sat down, but no one dared to speak first.

King George V picked up the stack of telegrams on the table and read them one by one. Singapore, put down. Burma, put down. Iran, put down. Caporeto, put down. Jellicoe's fleet report, put down. Merika's telegram, put down.

He looked around for a long time; the meeting room was so quiet that you could hear the clock on the wall ticking.

Finally, he put down the last telegram and looked up.

"Can anyone tell me," his voice was calm, but that calmness was more terrifying than a roar, "what have we lost these past few days?"

No one answered.

He stood up and walked to the huge world map on the wall. He pointed to the location of Singapore.

"Singapore. The Gibraltar of the East. We've been in business for a hundred years. Four days, gone."

The finger moved to Myanmar.

"Myanmar. Rice, oil, rubber. We fed half of India with it. In a few days, it was all gone."

The finger moved to Iran.

"Iran. Oil. Our fleet depends on it to move. Two days, gone."

He turned and looked at the silent ministers.

"Four days. The British Empire, built over two hundred years, lost a third of its foundation in just four days."

He walked back to his seat, but instead of sitting down, he stood behind the chair, his hands supporting him on the back of the chair.

"Can any of you tell me what will be lost next? India? Egypt? Or Canada?"

Kitchener finally spoke, his voice hoarse.

"Your Majesty, we will do everything in our power to protect Egypt. As long as the Suez Canal remains, our ties with India will not be severed."

"Do everything in your power?" King George V looked at him. "Mr. Secretary of War, is your 'doing everything in your power' to make 30,000 soldiers surrender in Malaya? To make the Burmese garrison flee in droves? To let the Iranian oil fields be handed over to the Lanfang people intact?"

Kitchener lowered his head, speechless.

George V turned to Admiral Jellicoe.

"Mr. Jericho, what is your cousin, General Jericho, doing now?"

Jericho kept his head down, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.

"In...in Mumbai."

"What are you doing in Mumbai?"

"They're...resting."

"Resting," King George V repeated, then suddenly laughed. That laugh sent chills down the spines of everyone present. "He fought twelve capital ships against two training ships for three hours and still couldn't win, and they even took pictures. Now, four of their capital ships are blocking the entrance, and he's resting in port."

He walked back to the map and pointed to the location of Mumbai.

"Mr. Jericho, are you aware of the current situation in Mumbai?"