World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Chapter 712 The Berlin Gamble

Chen Feng nodded.

"Boselli wanted to take a gamble. If he won, he would be a hero; if he lost, the Germans would cover for him anyway."

Wang Wenwu frowned.

"President, what should we do?"

Chen Feng stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the Persian Gulf shimmered in the setting sun, and several merchant ships were slowly entering the port. On the distant dock, workers were loading and unloading cargo, a bustling scene.

"Tell Kazuo Yamamoto and Den Ohara to speed things up." He didn't turn around. "Once the Italians lose Caporetto, the Germans will have an easier time on the Eastern Front. Then they can transfer more troops to the Western Front."

Wang Wenwu was stunned for a moment.

"President, do you think the Italians will lose?"

Chen Feng turned around and looked at him.

"Minister Wang, have you ever fought in a war?"

Wang Wenwu shook his head.

Chen Feng said, "I know how war works. The Italians have thirty-six divisions, and they think they can take Caporetto in two days? Dream on."

He walked back to his desk and sat down. Chen Feng naturally knew that the Battle of Caporeto directly led to the downfall of the Boselli government.

"And even if they succeed, so what? Austria-Hungary has the Germans behind it. Will the Germans just stand by and watch their ally be defeated?"

Wang Wenwu thought for a moment.

"You mean the Germans will send reinforcements?"

"Definitely." Chen Feng nodded. "Ludendorff isn't stupid. He knows that if the Italians succeed, the Eastern Front will be in danger. He will transfer troops from the Western Front to help Austria-Hungary."

He picked up the intelligence report and glanced at it again.

"Boselli's gamble is doomed to fail. And he's going to lose badly."

Wang Wenwu remained silent for a few seconds.

"President, should we remind the people of Japan so they can prepare in advance?"

Chen Feng shook his head.

"No need. Let them proceed according to the original plan. After Burma is defeated, it'll be India's turn. After India is defeated, the war will be more or less over."

He stood up and walked to the window.

"Tell Kazuo Yamamoto that within two months, I want to see Japanese soldiers standing on the Indian border."

Wang Wenwu stood at attention: "Yes, sir!"

He turned to leave, but Chen Feng called him back.

"Also, send a telegram back to Washington. Say that Lanfang has received President Wilson's goodwill and that both sides should keep to themselves. Lanfang will handle the Asian affairs on its own."

Wang Wenwu nodded and went out the door.

Chen Feng stood alone by the window, looking at the sunset outside.

In the distance, the surface of the Persian Gulf was dyed golden-red, like endless blood. The merchant ships, the docks, and the busy workers all appeared exceptionally quiet in that golden-red light.

He suddenly remembered a question: How long will this war last?

he does not know.

But he knew it was coming soon.

Night falls on the Caporetto front.

Rizzo leaned against a tree trunk snapped in two by artillery fire, panting heavily. The first day of the attack was over; they had taken the first line of defense, but many had died. The second line of defense lay ahead, waiting for them to charge it again tomorrow.

Mario sat beside him, covered in blood—his own and others'. His eyes were vacant, staring motionlessly into the darkness ahead.

"Corporal," he suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse, "how many of us died today?"

Rizzo was silent for a few seconds.

"I don't know. There are many."

Mario nodded and didn't ask any more questions.

The groans of the wounded drifted from afar, one after another, carried on the night wind. The sounds were faint and weak, like the last breath of someone about to die.

As Rizzo listened to those sounds, he suddenly felt very tired.

Three years of fighting, millions dead, and now the death toll continues in Caporetto. The dead are dead, and the living must continue fighting and dying.

When will this end?

he does not know.

In the distance, towards the second line of defense, the campfires of the Austro-Hungarian army flickered in the darkness. Behind those campfires lay the enemy they would face again tomorrow, the blood that would continue to flow, and the lives that would continue to be lost.

Rizzo closed his eyes and leaned against the tree trunk.

"Go to sleep," he said. "We have to play again tomorrow."

Mario did not speak.

He lay awake, staring at the dark night sky, unable to sleep all night.

Meanwhile, in Rome.

Boseli stood by the office window, also having spent the entire night without sleep.

He looked out the window at the pitch-black night, at the faint lights in the distance, and at this ancient and weary city.

The news from the front was mixed. Some said the attack was going well and they had taken the first line of defense; others said casualties were heavy and the second line of defense remained untouched. He didn't know who to believe, or what to believe.

But he knew that this gamble had only just begun.

If he wins, he's a hero. If he loses...

He dared not think about what would happen if he lost.

In the distance, the bells rang. One, two, three—three in the morning.

A new day begins.

More people will die each day.

On the morning of November 15, 1917, the sun shone in Berlin, a rare occurrence.

Golden sunlight streamed through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows into the palace conference room, casting a warm glow on the floor. A dark green velvet cloth covered the long table, on which lay a huge map of Europe—from the North Sea to the Mediterranean, from the Rhine to the Vistula, every strategic point clearly marked in red and blue pencil.

Wilhelm II stood by the window, his back to the door, for a full ten minutes.

He wore a grey marshal's uniform, its gold trim gleaming in the sunlight, his chest adorned with medals. These medals were the culmination of his twenty-nine years on the throne—gifts from his grandfather, William I; from Queen Victoria of England; from Tsar Nicholas II of Russia; and from Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria-Hungary. At that time, he was the youngest emperor in Europe, Victoria's most beloved grandson, and a figure sought after by royal families worldwide.

Back then, no one imagined things would turn out this way.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in."

Reich Chancellor Bertmann-Hollvig entered, followed by Chief of the General Staff Hindenburg, Deputy Chief of the General Staff Ludendorff, and Field Marshal Tirpitz, who had just returned from Dubai. The four men entered the conference room and took their places at the long table.

Wilhelm II turned around and his gaze swept across the faces of the four men.

Bateman's face showed exhaustion—three years of war had worn him out more than anyone else. Hindenburg's face was expressionless; the seventy-year-old's wrinkles were deep and etched, his eyes cloudy yet sharp, like those of an aged eagle. Ludendorff stood beside Hindenburg, in his early fifties, in the prime of his life, but his eyes were sunken and his stubble was unkempt—he hadn't been home for three days. Tirpitz stood at the very back, his hair completely white, dressed in faded civilian clothes he hadn't had time to change from since returning from Dubai.

"Please sit down," said Wilhelm II.