diymy Chapter 730 The "Filling in the Gaps" of the Beautiful Card
Chapter 730 The "Filling in the Gaps" of the Beautiful Card
Lansing thought for a moment.
"They're probably preparing to attack India. They definitely want to take over Britain's two most important footholds in the Far East: India and Australia!"
Wilson nodded.
"Yes. Fight India. Fight Australia! And then what?"
Lansing was stunned.
"Then?"
Wilson stood up and walked to the huge world map on the wall. He pointed to India.
"Look, India is the jewel in Britain's crown. Lose India, and Britain is finished. What will India become after the war?"
Lansing thought for a moment.
"Independence? Or being controlled by Lanfang?"
Wilson gave a cold laugh.
"Independence? Indians have fought for centuries and still haven't achieved independence. Now Lanfang is helping them fight the British, do you really think they'll become independent?"
Lansing fell silent.
Wilson continued, "India will become Lanfang's sphere of influence. Just like Myanmar, just like Malaya, just like Iran. Lanfang will control the resources there, control the markets there, control the politics there."
He turned to look at Lansing.
"And then what? Then they'll go west, into the Middle East, into Africa, into Europe. They'll become a true global power."
Lansing's expression changed.
"Your Excellency, what should we do?"
Wilson walked back to his seat and sat down.
"wait."
"wait?"
"Yes. Wait. Wait until Britain and Lanfang are both exhausted, until they are tired and worn out, then we'll come out and clean up the mess."
He paused.
"This is Merica's strategy. Not to directly participate in the wars in Asia, but to use the wars in Europe to make the US dollar the international currency and to make Merica the world leader."
Lansing remained silent for a long time.
Then he asked, "Your Excellency, do you think this strategy can succeed?"
Wilson looked at him.
"I don't know. But I'll give it a try."
February 1, 1918, northern France.
The winter sun, pale as a sheet of paper, hung listlessly in the gray sky, weakly shining on this land ravaged by countless shells. From Verdun to the Somme, from Arras to Cambrai, trenches stretched like ugly scars across the French landscape. The air was thick with the smells of gunpowder, blood, and that indescribable aura of death.
Pershing stood on a high point, wrapped in a thick military overcoat, holding binoculars and looking at the densely packed military camp in the distance. A thin layer of frost covered the lens of the binoculars; he wiped it with his sleeve and continued looking.
The military camps were filled with young men in brand-new khaki uniforms. They ran around in the trenches, some digging, some carrying sandbags, and some clumsily trying to set up machine guns. One soldier tried to pull the bolt, but it jammed. He scratched his head, and his comrades next to him burst into laughter.
Beautiful Card Soldier.
Pan Xing's lips twitched slightly, it was hard to tell whether he wanted to laugh or sigh.
Chief of Staff Major General Hubbard walked up to him and handed him an enamel mug: "General, have some hot tea. You've been standing for almost an hour."
Pan Xing took the jar, but didn't drink from it; he just held it in his hand to warm his palm.
"Hubbard, look at them," he said, pointing to the young soldiers. "Do you think they know what they're doing?"
Hubbard followed his gaze and remained silent for a few seconds.
"You know? General, they think they're here to save the world. The newspapers say the free world needs them, France needs them, Britain needs them. They're the heroes who've come to end the war."
Pershing gave a cold laugh.
"Hero, Hubbard, have you ever fought in a war?"
Hubbard nodded: "We fought them. The Philippines."
"Do you know what people who have actually been on the battlefield are like?"
Hubbard did not speak.
Pershing pointed to the Mikhail soldiers in the distance: "Look at them, their faces are clean, and their eyes are shining. They don't know what awaits them. They don't know how many rats are in those trenches, they don't know how many pieces a man will be blown to pieces when a shell falls, they don't know how a man will scream when a bayonet is plunged into his stomach."
He took a sip of tea; it was already cold, but he didn't mind.
"Once they fight a battle, and thousands die and thousands are crippled, they will know what war is."
A train whistle sounded in the distance.
Pershing turned around and saw a long military train slowly pulling away from the nearby train station. The carriages were packed with soldiers wearing khaki uniforms, but in a darker shade, and their faces bore an expression that Pershing knew all too well—the expression of someone who had been through war.
British soldiers.
The military train headed west, towards the English Channel.
Hubbard also spotted the train and frowned. "General, which batch is that?"
Pan Xing thought for a moment: "This is the third batch today. There have been batches every day for the past few days."
"The British really got out of there quickly," Hubbard muttered. "Melica just arrived and they're already in a hurry to leave."
Pan Xing didn't speak. He just watched the train gradually disappear into the distance, watched the heads peeking out of the carriages, watched those numb, tired faces, lost in thought.
A young, beautiful Lieutenant Cartier climbed out of the trench, ran to Pershing, and saluted: "General! The Third Battalion's position has been completed according to the blueprints left by the British! When will the British come to relieve us?"
Pershing looked at him.
The lieutenant was young, around twenty-five or twenty-six years old, with a youthful innocence that came with never having been on the battlefield. His eyes were bright and full of expectation, like a puppy waiting to be fed.
"To take your place?" Pershing asked.
"Yes, didn't the British say they were withdrawing to rest and regroup, and would come back to relieve us once they were ready?" The lieutenant scratched his head. "Our battalion commander told me to find out the details so we can plan the next phase of training."
Pershing was silent for three seconds.
Then he patted the lieutenant on the shoulder: "Go back and tell your battalion commander to continue training. I don't know when the British will be back."
The lieutenant paused for a moment, saluted, and ran away.
Hubbard leaned closer and whispered, "General, do you think the British will come back?"
Pershing did not answer.
He turned around and continued watching the military train gradually disappear from sight.
In the distance, the faint sound of artillery fire could be heard. It was from the direction of the German positions, the daily routine of shelling, which killed several people every day.
Those who died no longer needed to worry about whether the British would return.
The English Channel.
The sea breeze in Dover Harbour was strong, carrying a salty, fishy smell, and made the harbor flags flutter wildly. The sky was leaden gray, and the thick clouds hung low, making it hard to breathe.
A military train was slowly pulling into the port, puffing out white steam. The carriage doors opened, and soldiers jumped down and lined up on the platform.
They wore British uniforms, and each of their faces bore an indescribable expression—weary, numb, empty. Some had scars on their faces, some were missing fingers, and some walked with a limp. No one spoke; they just stood there silently, waiting for the next order.
A major stood nearby, holding a list, and shouted, "Third Battalion, this way! Fifth Battalion, that way! Hurry up! The ship won't wait!"