World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Hindenburg was the last to reach the door, then suddenly stopped and glanced back at Wilhelm II. The Emperor remained seated, gazing out the window, motionless.

He sighed, pushed open the door, and went out.

When Ludendorff walked out of the palace, the sun was already setting.

He didn't take a car, but walked towards the city center. He wanted to see with his own eyes what Hindenburg had described—the people queuing for bread, the children who were skin and bones from hunger, and the women who wept because their husbands had died on the battlefield.

After walking for ten minutes, he saw the first bakery.

A long queue stretched out of the store, all the way to the street corner. The people in line were of all ages and genders, but all wore the same expression—exhaustion, numbness, and despair. They stood there, motionless, like statues.

Ludendorff walked over and stood at the back of the line.

Ahead was a middle-aged woman, wearing an old dress covered in patches, holding a child in her arms. The child was very thin, skin and bones, with frighteningly large eyes. He leaned against his mother's chest, his eyes closed, it was hard to tell whether he was asleep or had fainted from hunger.

"Madam," Ludendorff asked softly, "how long have you been waiting?"

The woman turned her head and glanced at him. That look sent a shiver down Ludendorff's spine—empty, numb, like two dry wells.

"Three hours," she said, her voice hoarse.

"How much longer do I have to wait?"

"I don't know. Maybe an hour, maybe two hours. Once the bread is sold out, it'll be gone."

Ludendorff remained silent.

He watched as the people ahead of him moved forward one by one, each step seeming to require all their strength. Some could no longer walk and leaned against the wall, panting; some held children who were crying from hunger; some muttered curses under their breath, cursing the government, the war, and those who had made them go hungry.

An old man walked out of the store, carrying a paper package in his hands. It was the bread he had waited in line for four hours to buy—a small piece, dark and mixed with sawdust. He held the package as if it were the most precious thing in the world, walking away step by step.

As Ludendorff watched that retreating figure, he suddenly recalled the scene when he left Berlin three years earlier. Back then, everyone thought the war would end soon, and everyone joyfully saw the soldiers off to the front lines. There were no queues for bread in the streets, no emaciated children, and no despairing eyes.

Three years.

Three years later, everything has changed.

He turned around and continued walking forward.

After walking two blocks, he saw a boy selling newspapers. The boy was about twelve or thirteen years old, as thin as a bamboo pole, standing on the street corner shouting loudly:

"Breaking News! Breaking News! Lanfang wins big! The British lose half of Asia! Latest news from the Berlin Daily!"

Ludendorff went over and bought a newspaper.

The newspaper's front page, printed in large font, proclaimed: "Lanfang's advance is unstoppable! The British Empire is on the verge of collapse!"

He glanced at it a few times, folded the newspaper, and stuffed it into his pocket.

The boy looked at him and suddenly asked, "Sir, are you a military officer?"

Ludendorff nodded.

The boy's eyes lit up.

"Sir, if we win, will we get bread? My mother hasn't eaten for three days."

Ludendorff looked at him—those bright, sparkling eyes, that thin face, that old, patched-up coat. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but something seemed to be stuck in his throat, and no sound came out.

Finally, he took a few coins out of his pocket and put them into the boy's hand.

"Go buy some food."

The boy paused for a second, then nodded frantically, turned and ran.

Ludendorff stood there, watching the small figure disappear into the crowd.

He suddenly recalled Hindenburg's words: "What about those who are alive? Will they continue to die?"

he does not know.

All he knew was that the boy's mother hadn't eaten for three days.

At 7 p.m., Ludendorff returned to the command post.

Hindenburg was sitting at his desk, looking at a report. Hearing footsteps, he looked up and glanced at Ludendorff.

"You saw it?"

Ludendorff nodded.

Hindenburg didn't ask any more questions. He lowered his head and continued reading the report.

Ludendorff walked to the window and looked out at the night. Berlin was exceptionally quiet in the night, not a normal quiet, but a deathly quiet—no lights, no noise, no people. Only the occasional bark of a dog echoed through the empty streets.

The door was pushed open.

A quartermaster in an old uniform walked in, his face pale. He saluted Hindenburg, his voice trembling.

"Marshal, urgent report."

Hindenburg looked up.

"explain."

The quartermaster swallowed hard.

"The coal miners in the Ruhr region have gone on strike. They say they won't go down into the mines until they get their wages."

Hindenburg put down his report and looked at him.

"Salary? How much do they want?"

"They said the price would increase by 300%. And it had to be paid in kind, not paper money."

Hindenburg remained silent for a few seconds.

"Three hundred percent. With physical goods. Do they know what that means?"

The quartermaster lowered his head.

"Marshal, they know. But their families are starving. Paper money is worthless; what buys a loaf of bread today might only buy half tomorrow. They have no choice."

Ludendorff turned around and looked at the quartermaster.

What's the situation in the Ruhr region right now?

The quartermaster looked up, his voice hoarse.

"Deputy Chief of Staff, half of the factories in the Ruhr region have already stopped operating. Without coal, trains can't run, ships can't sail, and power plants are about to shut down. If there's another strike, the entire German industry will be paralyzed."

Hindenburg stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to them.

"How much money is left in the national treasury?"

The quartermaster was silent for three seconds.

"Marshal, the national treasury... is empty."

empty.

The two words, like two stones, struck everyone's heart.

Hindenburg turned around and looked at the quartermaster.

"Empty? Didn't it have 30 million marks last week?"

The quartermaster shook his head.

"We did last week. But this week we paid the soldiers, bought food, and paid off factory orders—it's all gone. And the Treasury says that next week we still have to pay two million soldiers, buy relief food for four million starving people, and..."

"That's enough," Hindenburg interrupted him.

The quartermaster shut his mouth.

Hindenburg walked back to his desk and sat down. He looked at the report on the Ruhr strike for a long time. Then he looked up at Ludendorff.

"Ludendorff, do you think we can continue fighting?"

Ludendorff did not answer.

He remembered the middle-aged woman queuing to buy bread, the boy who was skin and bones from hunger, and the child who shouted, "If we win, we'll get bread!" He remembered the soldiers in the trenches, dizzy with hunger, and the young people who cried because their letters home said, "Mom is starving to death."

He recalled Hindenburg's question: "What about those who are alive? Will they continue to die?"

He walked to the window and stood side by side with Hindenburg.

Outside the window, the night was deep. Berlin lay silent in the darkness, like a dying giant, still breathing, but no longer able to stand up.

"Marshal," he finally spoke, his voice soft, "perhaps His Majesty is right, Lanfang's victory is indeed good news."

Hindenburg looked at him.

"But perhaps you're right, we really can't continue."

The two remained silent for a long time.

In the distance, a faint commotion arose. It was a marching crowd gathering in the city center. They chanted slogans, held up signs, and demanded an end to the war, the distribution of food, and a way to survive.

As Ludendorff listened to the shouts, he suddenly felt very tired.

After three years of fighting, millions of people have died, and the country is now in chaos. Soldiers are so hungry they can't even hold their guns, while the enemy continues to win victories.

When will this end?

he does not know.