World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Beside him lay a young soldier named Mario, only nineteen years old, his face still bearing the traces of youth. His eyes were fixed on the misty mountain peak ahead, and he was muttering something—it was unclear whether he was praying or trying to encourage himself.

"Corporal," Mario suddenly spoke, his voice low, "do you think we can win?"

Rizzo glanced at him.

"have no idea."

Mario paused for a moment, then became even more nervous.

"Corporal, you've been fighting for years, how could you not know?"

Rizzo was silent for a few seconds.

"Because every time I felt I could win, I lost."

Mario opened his mouth, but couldn't say a word.

A rapid engine roared in the distance. A three-wheeled motorcycle sped up from behind and stopped beside the trench. An officer jumped off and strode toward the command post.

A few minutes later, the whistle blew.

Sharp, piercing sounds shattered the silence of the valley.

"attack!"

Rizzo got up and rushed forward with the crowd.

The slope was very steep; you slipped and slid every few steps. The ground was loose gravel and mud, feeling soft and unstable underfoot. The Austro-Hungarian army's machine guns roared down from the mountaintop, bullets raining down like a storm, striking the rocks with a thud.

Soldiers around him fell one after another. Some were hit in the head and fell straight down; some were hit in the thigh and screamed as they rolled down the hillside; some were hit in the chest, twitched a few times on the ground, and then lay still.

Rizzo lay behind a rock, panting heavily.

Mario lay beside him, his face deathly pale. His left ear was cut by shrapnel, and blood was streaming down his cheek, but he didn't bother to wipe it away.

"Corporal, I...I've been shot?"

Rizzo looked at his wound.

"It's a superficial wound; you won't die."

Mario breathed a sigh of relief, then became even more frightened.

"Corporal, should we continue the charge?"

Rizzo did not answer.

He peered out and looked at the mountaintop. The Austro-Hungarian machine guns were still firing, and there were many figures in the trenches, his exact number unknown.

"Wait for the artillery," he said.

After waiting for twenty minutes, the artillery finally opened fire.

Shells whistled in from behind, landing on the mountaintop and exploding in plumes of smoke. The machine gun fire thinned out a bit.

"Rush!"

Rizzo got up and continued rushing towards the top of the mountain.

This time, he reached the top of the mountain.

In the trenches, Austro-Hungarian soldiers were retreating. Some threw down their guns and ran; some raised their hands and knelt on the ground to surrender; some continued to resist and were stabbed to death by Italian soldiers with bayonets.

Rizzo jumped into the trench, panting heavily.

Mario followed him and jumped in. His legs were shaking, his hands were shaking, his whole body was shaking.

"Corporal, we...we won?"

Rizzo looked at him without saying a word.

He looked up into the distance—towards the second line of defense, where more Austro-Hungarian troops were gathering. They hadn't been defeated; they were merely retreating. Retreating to more advantageous positions, waiting for the Italians to charge again.

"No," he said. "We haven't won yet."

Mario paused for a moment, then followed his gaze.

On the distant hillside, the Austro-Hungarian army's battle flags were still flying.

Meanwhile, in Bern, Switzerland.

Alberto Castellani, the Italian ambassador to Switzerland, sat in an unassuming café with a cup of cold coffee in front of him. Outside the window, the snow-capped peaks of the Alps shimmered in the sunlight, a scene as beautiful as a postcard.

But he wasn't in the mood to appreciate the scenery. His gaze remained fixed on the doorway, waiting for the person to appear.

The door was pushed open, and a middle-aged man in a dark gray overcoat walked in. He glanced around, his gaze lingering on Castellani for a second, before walking over and sitting down opposite him.

"Mr. Castellani?"

Castellani nodded.

"I am."

The man took off his hat and placed it on the table. It was an ordinary face, ordinary features, an ordinary expression—the kind of person you'd easily lose in a crowd.

"I'm a staff member of the German Foreign Ministry, my name is Meier," he said, his German with a slight Swiss accent. "What would you like to discuss?"

Castellani looked at him and remained silent for three seconds.

"Mr. Meyer, let's get straight to the point. Italy is willing to return to the Allies."

Meyer narrowed his eyes slightly, but his face remained expressionless.

"Willing to return to the Allies? You didn't say that two years ago."

Castellani gave a wry smile.

"Two years ago was two years ago, now is now. The situation has changed."

Meyer nodded.

"The situation has indeed changed. The British are on the verge of defeat, and the Lanfang people are winning. Are you jumping back now to try and get a share of the spoils?"

Castellani did not deny it.

"You could say that."

Meyer remained silent for a few seconds.

"What are the conditions?"

Castellani took a document out of his pocket and pushed it in front of Meyer.

"Our terms. Please take a look."

Meyer took the document and quickly glanced through it. Then he looked up at Castellani.

"You want France to cede Corsica? And Savoy? Nice?"

Castellani nodded.

"This is what we deserve. We fought for Germany, so we should get something in return."

Meyer gave a cold laugh.

"Benefits? When you betrayed us two years ago, why didn't you think about the benefits?"

Castellani looked at him.

"Mr. Meyer, politicians have neither permanent friends nor permanent enemies. You understand this better than I do."

Meyer stared at him for a long time.

Then he folded the document and put it in his pocket.

"I will pass it on to Berlin. But I can't guarantee they will agree."

Castellani nodded.

"Thank you for your help."

Meyer stood up, put on his hat, and prepared to leave. After taking two steps, he suddenly stopped and looked back at Castellani.

"Mr. Castellani, there's a question I've always wanted to ask."

"Please speak."

"What is your Prime Minister Boselli thinking? On one hand, he's attacking our ally, Austria-Hungary, in Caporetto, and on the other hand, he's sending you to negotiate with us. Whose side is he really on?"

Castellani was silent for three seconds.

"Mr. Meyer, the Prime Minister's side depends on which side wins."

Meyer sneered, pushed open the door, and left.

Castellani sat alone in the café, looking out at the snow-capped peaks.

He suddenly felt very tired.

He had served as a diplomat for the country for decades, witnessing countless betrayals and treachery, and doing countless things against his conscience. But this time, even he himself didn't know what he was doing.

Dubai, the presidential residence.

Chen Feng sat in his office, holding a newly delivered intelligence report. It was an Italian telegram intercepted by the intelligence department—Boselli was secretly contacting the Germans while ordering the attack on Caporetto.

After reading it, he put down the telegram and gave a cold laugh.

Wang Wenwu stood beside him and asked, "Commander-in-Chief, are the Italians... hedging their bets?"