World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Hindenburg looked at the words and gave a wry smile.

Concessions. What else can Germany concede?

He put the documents in his pocket, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes.

The train sped through the darkness, the sound of its wheels grinding against the rails monotonous and drawn-out. Hindenburg couldn't sleep; his mind was filled with the arguments from the day's meetings.

Tirpitz said they would wait for Lanfang.

Ludendorff said that the front line must be stabilized.

Wilhelm II said that they should seize this opportunity in Italy.

Only he said, "Don't trust Italians."

But he had no choice but to go. He had no choice but to represent Germany and negotiate with the country that had betrayed him twice in two years.

That's the truth about politics—sometimes you don't have a choice.

The sky outside the window was beginning to lighten. Dawn was approaching.

Hindenburg opened his eyes and looked at the increasingly bright east.

In the distance, a faint red light appeared on the horizon. That was where the sun was about to rise, in the east, in the direction of Lanfang.

He recalled Tirpitz's words: "The outcome is not decided by us, but by those who have not yet given their all."

That red glow in the east represents those who haven't yet given it their all.

They are rising. They are changing the world's landscape.

Germany, the once invincible European hegemon, awaits its judgment.

The train continued onward. Heading south, heading towards Italy, heading towards that uncertain future.

Hindenburg leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

He didn't know what the outcome of these negotiations would be. He didn't know if the Italians were sincere or not. He didn't know if Lanfang would really send troops.

He only knew one thing—

From this day forward, the world has changed.

That morning, newsboys on the streets of Berlin shouted:

"Breaking News! Breaking News! Field Marshal Hindenburg visits Italy! A new turning point in German-Italian relations!"

People bought newspapers from newsboys and stood on the street to read them. Some were excited, some were skeptical, and some glanced at them numbly before folding them up and continuing to queue in front of the bakery.

A newspaper boy stood on a street corner, watching the people walk past him. His voice was hoarse from shouting, but he kept shouting.

"Breaking news! Breaking news! Field Marshal Hindenburg is visiting Italy!"

An old woman came along and bought a newspaper. She looked at the front page and then asked the boy, "Child, does it say here that the Italians are coming back?"

The boy nodded: "Yes, ma'am."

The old woman remained silent for a few seconds.

"My son died on the front lines in Italy."

The boy was stunned and didn't know what to say.

The old woman folded the newspaper, put it in her pocket, and slowly walked away into the distance.

The boy watched her back, that hunched figure moving slowly step by step, and suddenly felt his voice grow even hoarser.

In the distance, a long queue still stretched out in front of the bakery.

The sun rose and shone on Berlin, on the people queuing, on the newspaper boy, and on the old woman who had lost her son.

A new day begins.

More people will die each day.

But at least at this moment, from a window in the Berlin Palace, Wilhelm II looked at the rising sun and felt a glimmer of hope.

Portsmouth Naval Base, November 18, 1917.

The sea breeze was strong, making the port flags flutter wildly. The sky was leaden gray, with thick clouds pressing down overhead like a giant lead plate, making it hard to breathe. In the distance, a Royal Navy battleship lay quietly at anchor, wisps of smoke rising from its tall funnels, indicating that its boilers were preheating.

Asquith stood on the dock, wrapped in a thick coat, watching the warship that was about to carry him across the ocean.

He's been standing here for ten minutes.

Chief of Staff Lloyd George walked up to him and said softly, "Prime Minister, it's time to get on board. The tide waits for no one."

Asquith did not turn around.

"Lloyd, do you think Wilson will meet with us this time?"

Lloyd George was silent for a few seconds.

"He will meet with me. He has no reason not to."

"And then?" Asquith finally turned to look at him. "Fourteen thousand men are already in France. Fourteen thousand men are barely enough to fill a tooth in the entire European theater. What we need is a million-strong army, a full-scale commitment from Milica. Do you think Wilson will provide that?"

Lloyd George opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately said nothing.

Asquith gave a wry smile and patted him on the shoulder.

"Let's go. Whether they give it to us or not, we have to try."

He turned and walked toward the gangway. After a few steps, he suddenly stopped and looked back at the city of Portsmouth behind him.

The buildings in the city appeared particularly somber in the hazy sky. In the distance, the church spires pierced the horizon like fingers pointing to the sky. Further away were the densely packed houses, the mothers and wives waiting for their sons and husbands to return home, and the ordinary people who lined up in long queues outside the bakeries every day.

"Prime Minister?" Lloyd George called him softly.

Asquith withdrew his gaze and continued walking towards the gangway.

As he climbed onto the deck, he took one last look back at the British coastline. The land where he had lived for sixty years, the land for which he had fought his entire life, was now gradually shrinking and becoming blurred.

He didn't know if this trip would be successful.

But he knew that if this trip failed, Britain would be finished.

The transatlantic voyage took a full seven days.

Asquith spent most of his time in his cabin, staring blankly at the thin draft agreement. He had written that draft thirteen times, crossing out and rewriting it each time, and each time he felt it wasn't good enough.

The first version reads: "Britain requests that Merika send troops to support the European theater, and Merika will receive priority in the postwar reconstruction of Europe."

Too soft. Wilson would only scoff at it.

The second version reads: "Britain is willing to share international financial dominance with Merica after the war and jointly manage the international monetary system."

Taixu. Sharing control—how to share? Who takes the lead? It's not clear.

The third edition states: "After the war, Britain will support the dollar as the international settlement currency, on par with the pound sterling."

"On par with"—even Asquith himself found the phrase laughable. Merica's economy is already the world's largest; why should it be on par with Britain?

He threw down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

I was not satisfied with the seventh, eighth, and ninth editions.

It wasn't until the eleventh edition that he finally found the word.

"Major international settlement currencies".

It wasn't about "running on par with the pound," but rather "becoming one of the major international settlement currencies." This saved face for Britain and also gave America a concession. Wilson could use this to explain to Parliament, and Britain could preserve the last shred of dignity for the pound.

He picked up his pen and added a sentence: "Britain will fully support Merika's leading role in the International Monetary Fund."