World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Chapter 322 Anglo-German Naval Battle

He didn't finish speaking, but his meaning was clear.

"So the British have to do something," Chen Feng continued. "Launch a large-scale offensive on the Western Front? Too risky. Support Russia? Too late. The only way..."

He looked at the North Sea on the map.

"The only way to break through is at sea." Wang Wenwu understood. "But the German High Seas Fleet has been holed up in Wilhelmshaven, and the British can't find an opportunity to attack."

"Then force them out," Chen Feng said. "Or, the British can go out and find them themselves."

The room fell silent for a few seconds. The distant, drawn-out sound of ship horns drifted from the harbor outside the window.

"Commander-in-Chief," Wang Wenwu hesitated for a moment, "if Yingde really does fight a decisive battle in Beihai, who will win?"

Chen Feng didn't answer immediately. He walked to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses of whiskey, and handed one to Wang Wenwu.

"On paper, the British have a better chance of winning." He took a sip of his drink. "They have numerical superiority, experience, and geographical advantage. But naval battles are unpredictable. A thick fog, a command error, or even a chance hit by a shell could change the course of the war."

"So, which outcome is more beneficial for us?"

"In the short term, a German victory would be more advantageous," Chen Feng said. "If the British navy suffers a major blow, their power in Asia will be reduced, and the pressure on us will be much less. But in the long term..."

He paused for a moment: "In the long run, a lose-lose situation is most advantageous. Britain will lose absolute naval supremacy, and Germany will be powerless to challenge it, creating a power vacuum at sea. That will be the time for us to truly set sail."

Wang Wenwu said thoughtfully, "So what we need to do now is to wait and see?"

"Observe and prepare." Chen Feng put down his wine glass. "Send a telegram to Zhang Zhen, ordering the navy to enter Level 2 combat readiness. Send a telegram to Liu Qinian, instructing the second phase of the 'Harvest Plan' to be launched ahead of schedule, especially the research on shipboard diesel engines and fire control systems, which should be accelerated."

"Yes." Wang Wenwu noted it down.

"And one more thing," Chen Feng added, "Send a private telegram to Saionji Kinmochi. The content should read: Congratulations on the victory on the Eastern Front. The next dispatched army can begin mobilization. The price... is eight percent higher than the second batch."

Wang Wenwu looked up: "Are you still provoking the British at a time like this?"

"We want to create a stir," Chen Feng smiled. "Let them know that wars in Europe can't change the rules of the game in Asia. We'll continue doing business as usual."

Wang Wenwu smiled wryly: "Sometimes I really wonder if you're deliberately trying to offend everyone."

"It's not about offending them, it's about getting them used to it." Chen Feng walked to the window, looking at the bustling port outside, "Get used to Lanfang's existence, get used to Lanfang's rules, get used to having to include Lanfang in the calculation of profits."

He turned around: "Once they get used to it, we'll be safe."

After Wang Wenwu left, Chen Feng stood alone in front of the map. His finger traced from London to Berlin, from Berlin to Petrograd, and finally stopped in Dubai.

A newly emerging nation, growing up in the cracks between powerful nations.

Like a tree that sprouts from a crack in the rock, its roots struggle to penetrate the barren soil, and its branches and leaves desperately reach for the sky.

Fragile, yet resilient.

He recalled the scene of the founding of the nation more than a decade ago. Dozens of people, a few wrecked boats, on a desolate coastline, proclaimed the birth of a country. At that time, everyone thought they were crazy.

Now they have a fleet, industry, and the right to speak at the negotiating table.

But not enough.

Far from enough.

Chen Feng picked up his pen and circled a date on the calendar: June 1916.

Then, a line of small print was written next to it:

"A storm is coming."

London, 10 Downing Street, the wartime cabinet meeting room.

The heavy oak door was tightly shut, but the sounds of arguing coming from inside could still be faintly heard. The secretaries in the corridor walked quickly with their heads down, none daring to approach that door at this moment.

The meeting room was filled with smoke.

Six men sat around a long table—Prime Minister Herbert Henry Asquith, Foreign Secretary Edward Gray, Secretary of War Lord Kitchener, First Lord of the Navy Admiral John Jellicoe, Chancellor of the Expeditionary Force Lloyd George, and Sir Douglas Haig, Commander-in-Chief of the Expeditionary Force who had just returned from France.

The ashtray on the table was overflowing with cigarette butts. Everyone's face looked extremely grim.

"I'll repeat myself," Kitchener's voice was like sandpaper scraping, "The Eastern Front has collapsed. The Germans can transfer at least thirty, even forty divisions, to the Western Front. If we do nothing, Verdun will fall, the Somme Offensive will become a joke, and the entire Western Front will collapse!"

The 66-year-old field marshal, his eyes bloodshot, pounded his thick fingers on the table: "We must launch a massive counter-offensive! Disrupt their deployment before they can complete their troop movements!"

"With what?" Sir Hague said coldly, "With the corpses of soldiers?"

He was the de facto commander of the British forces on the Western Front and knew the situation at the front better than anyone else: "My troops lost 150,000 men at Ypres and 80,000 at Los. Now twenty divisions are assembled in the Somme region, but the artillery is inadequate and the ammunition reserves are only enough for three days. A forced attack will only result in death."

"Then speed up preparations!" Kitchener roared. "Move up the last of the country's reserves! Transport all the stockpiled ammunition! We must attack!"

"And then?" Lloyd George began. The fifty-three-year-old Welshman, always known for his pragmatism, spoke calmly, yet with an undeniable sharpness: "Send up all the reserves, use up all the ammunition. If the attack fails—and, according to Sir Haig, the chances of failure are high—what do we do? Resist the German counterattack with sticks and stones?"

"That's cowardly!" Kitchener turned to him.

"This is reality!" Lloyd George retorted without backing down. "Kitchina, do you know what the situation is like in the country right now? Factories are operating at overcapacity, women and children are doing men's work, and food rationing is already leaving the lower classes hungry. If we suffer another massive defeat, the people's patience will reach its limit!"

"So we're just going to sit here and wait to die?" Kitchener stood up, his tall frame casting a huge shadow in the lamplight. "Wait for the Germans to move troops from the Eastern Front and drive us into the sea?"

"We didn't sit idly by," Foreign Secretary Gray, who had been silent until now, spoke. He looked more tired than anyone else, with heavy bags under his eyes, and his voice was hoarse: "We made diplomatic efforts. We urged France to intensify its offensive, we tried to win over Greece, we even..."

He paused, then added, "We even secretly contacted the Ottoman Empire, trying to get them to withdraw from the war."