novelAbuy Chapter 702 London's Fury
Chapter 702 London's Fury
The London morning was so overcast you could wring water out of it.
Thick clouds hung over the Thames, a hazy gray like a giant lead plate. There was no wind, no rain, only a suffocating stuffiness. Big Ben, the clock tower of Parliament, had just struck eight, its chimes echoing far and wide in the damp air.
Dozens of reporters had already gathered in front of 10 Downing Street. Holding black umbrellas, they squeezed outside the iron fence, craning their necks to peer inside. Some held notebooks, some held cameras, some smoked cigarettes, and some were talking in hushed tones. But all their eyes were fixed on the tightly closed black door.
A young reporter stood on tiptoe, trying to get a better look at what was happening in the courtyard. The older reporter next to him tugged at his sleeve.
"Don't look, you can't see it."
The young reporter reluctantly shrank back and asked in a low voice, "Sir, what kind of news do you think there will be today?"
The old reporter glanced at him, took out a pipe from his pocket, slowly stuffed it with tobacco, struck a match, and lit it. He took a deep drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"What news? Bad news. Only bad news."
The young reporter was taken aback: "How did you know?"
The old reporter pointed to the door.
"Did you see that? How many people have gone in since six in the morning? The Secretary of the Navy, the Secretary of the Army, the Secretary of Foreign Affairs, the Secretary of State for Colonial Affairs, the Secretary of State for India—they've all gone in. What good news could come from such a display?"
The young reporter followed his finger and, sure enough, the door opened every now and then, letting in a high-ranking official in a car. Each time someone went in, there was a commotion among the reporters, and flashes went off everywhere, but were quickly swallowed up by the rain.
"Sir," the young reporter asked again, "are you saying that Singapore has really been lost?"
The veteran reporter remained silent for three seconds.
"We'll find out soon enough whether it's lost or not." He exhaled a puff of smoke. "But look at the faces of those people when they went in—not one of them looked happy."
The meeting room was filled with thick, choking smoke.
The long table was filled with people—Secretary of State for War Herbert Kitchener, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs Edward Gray, Secretary of State for Colonial Affairs Walter Long, Secretary of State for India Austin Chamberlain, and a large group of generals, staff officers, and secretaries whose names I did not know. Each person had a thick stack of telegrams in front of them, and everyone looked as if they had lost a loved one.
Prime Minister Herbert Henry Asquith sat in the main seat, holding the telegram about Singapore, which he had already read three times.
"Singapore," he began, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping against steel. "Singapore, which we've built up over a hundred years, was lost in just four days."
No one speaks.
He put down the telegram and picked up another one.
"Myanmar. Lost."
Pick up another one.
"Iran. Lost it too."
He slammed the stack of telegrams on the table, looked up, and stared at the silent faces.
"Four days. In just four days, the British Empire lost half of Asia. Can any of you tell me what will be lost next?"
The conference room was deathly silent.
First Lord of the Navy John Jellicoe—not the Admiral Jellicoe trapped in Mumbai, but his cousin, also named John Jellicoe, though this one was a civilian—finally spoke. His voice was soft, almost as if he were talking to himself.
"Prime Minister, our troops in Malaya... have suffered heavy losses. More than 40,000 Japanese have died, but our people..."
"But what happened to our people?" Asquith stared at him.
Jericho lowered his head.
"Our men have surrendered. More than 30,000 men, including 17 high-ranking officers, have all been taken prisoner."
Asquith closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
More than 30,000 men surrendered. Seventeen high-ranking officers were captured. This was an unprecedented humiliation in the history of the British Empire's army.
Army Secretary Kitchener spoke. His voice was hoarse, but still steady.
"Prime Minister, the most important thing now is to preserve Egypt. Once the Suez Canal is cut off, our connection with India will be completely severed. And if India is lost as well..."
He didn't finish speaking, but everyone knew what it meant.
India is the jewel in the crown of the British Empire. Losing India would mean the end of the empire.
Asquith opened his eyes and looked at him.
"What can we use to protect them? The Sinai Peninsula has fallen, and 120,000 men from Lanfang have already reached the canal. How many days can Egypt's small garrison hold them off?"
Kitchener remained silent for a few seconds.
"We can transfer troops from the Mediterranean. Egypt is much closer to Europe than to Asia. As long as we hold the Suez Canal, we can..."
"Just what?" Asquith interrupted him. "Just wait for the Lanfang people to launch another attack from the Sinai Peninsula? Or wait for the Japanese to invade India from Burma?"
He stood up and walked to the huge world map on the wall. On the map, British colonies were once painted in vast expanses of red, stretching from Canada to Australia, from Africa to Asia, across the globe. But now, that red was fading—Singapore was gone, Myanmar was gone, Iran was gone. India's red remained, but it was now surrounded by black arrows.
"Gentlemen," he said, pointing to the map, "look at this. It took us a hundred years, a hundred years, to paint so much land red. And now? Four days, just four days, and we've lost half of it."
He turned and looked at the silent ministers.
"Can any of you tell me how much red will be left on this map after the war ends?"
The door was pushed open, and an attendant walked in and whispered a few words in Asquith's ear.
Asquith's expression changed slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. He waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I have just received news that Admiral Jellicoe's fleet is still in Mumbai harbor."
A commotion broke out in the conference room.
"Still in port?" Kitchener jumped to his feet. "A week! He's been in port for a week! The Germans' Bismarck and Tirpitz are right outside, why doesn't he go out and fight?"
First Lord of the Navy Jellicoe kept his head down and spoke so softly that he was almost inaudible.
"We can't win. The Germans have two Bismarck-class destroyers, plus two from the Lanfang, a total of four. We only have eight damaged warships, plus five reinforcements brought in from the Mediterranean. But..."
"But what?"
"But our soldiers' morale is low. After the Arab naval battle, many... are afraid to fight anymore."
Kitchener slammed his fist on the table.
"Afraid to fight? They are the Royal Navy! The pride of the British Empire! What do you mean, 'afraid to fight'?"
Asquith waved his hand, gesturing for him to sit down.
"There's no use talking about this now." He walked back to his seat and sat down. "Why Jericho didn't dare to fight can be investigated after the war. The problem now is, what do we have to deal with the Lanfang people?"