diymy Chapter 732 Paris's "Wrath"
Chapter 732 Paris's "Wrath"
"Gentlemen," he said, his back to everyone, "what we need to do now is withdraw our troops to Egypt as quickly as possible. The sooner the better. The sooner, the less likely the French will react. The sooner, the faster Allenby can launch his attack."
He turned and looked at the silent faces.
"Once we win in Egypt, drive the Lanfang people out of the Sinai Peninsula, and even as far as Dubai—then the Germans will be utterly desperate. The French won't dare say anything either. The Merika people will only become more dependent on us."
He walked back to his seat and sat down.
"Send orders to the front lines to speed things up. Starting tomorrow, don't withdraw company by company, withdraw regiment by regiment. Tell them to withdraw five more divisions within two days."
Kitchener hesitated for a moment: "Prime Minister, isn't this too fast? What if the French—"
"The French?" Asquith interrupted him. "The French are too busy taking care of themselves to bother with us. That old man Clemenceau is always watching the Germans; he doesn't have time to watch us."
He waved.
"Execute the command."
Kitchener paused for three seconds, then nodded: "Yes."
February 7, Paris.
In the corridors of the French Army Ministry, staff officers hurried back and forth. Telegraph machines ticked incessantly, telephones rang incessantly, and a tense atmosphere permeated the air.
The door to the Prime Minister's office was tightly closed.
Clemenceau sat behind his desk, a thick stack of reports in front of him. He had been reading for two hours, and his expression grew increasingly grim.
First report: In the Verdun theater, half of the British positions are empty. The defenders are all Marilyn Mongols.
Second report: Somme sector, the British withdrew three divisions, leaving the positions to be taken over by the 2nd Merika Division.
Third report: Alaska theater, British troops are undergoing a large-scale evacuation, and Merika soldiers are filling in.
The fourth, the fifth, the sixth—each one said the same thing: the British had run away.
Clemenceau slammed the report on the table and punched it.
"asshole!"
The teacups on the table were jolted and bounced, splashing tea everywhere.
Foreign Minister Pi Xiong, standing nearby, was startled: "Prime Minister?"
Clemenceau stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the streets of Paris were sparsely populated, and the sky was overcast, much like his mood at that moment.
"Pygham, do you know how many people the British evacuated?"
Pi Xiong shook his head.
Clemenceau turned and pointed to the pile of reports: "Eight divisions! 120,000 men! All evacuated!"
Pi Xiong gasped, "120,000? They—how could they—"
"How could they?" Clemenceau sneered. "Of course they could. When the Merikas arrived, they didn't want to fight anymore. They abandoned their positions to the Merikas and went to save India."
He walked back to his desk and picked up the phone.
"Get me to the front-line command post."
A few minutes later, the call was connected. The voice of General Joffre, the frontline commander, came through the receiver, sounding extremely weary.
"Prime Minister, you know?"
Clemenceau took a deep breath: "Tell me the truth, how many British troops withdrew?"
Xiafei remained silent for three seconds.
"Prime Minister, it's not just eight divisions. They started withdrawing on January 31st. To date, at least ten divisions, 150,000 men, have been withdrawn."
Clemenceau gripped the receiver tightly.
"Ten divisions? 150,000 men? Why didn't you report that before?"
Xiafei's voice carried a hint of helplessness: "Prime Minister, they said it was a rotation and rest period. The Meilika people did come to fill in the gaps, and the total number hasn't decreased. I thought—I thought they were just temporarily withdrawing—"
"Temporarily?" Clemenceau interrupted him. "Joffre, you've fought for three years. Do you believe this is only temporary?"
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
Clemenceau closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"How is the situation now?"
Joffre's voice was low: "In the Verdun direction, the British 3rd, 5th, and 7th Divisions have all withdrawn. In the Somme direction, the 2nd and 4th Divisions have also withdrawn. In the Arras direction, the 6th, 8th, and 9th Divisions are currently withdrawing. The defenders are all from the Merlekas."
"Can the people of Meilika withstand this?"
Joffre gave a wry smile: "Prime Minister, the people of Mikhail don't even know how to dig trenches. More than half of their officers have never been on the battlefield. If the Germans attack now, they won't last a day."
Clemenceau remained silent for a long time.
Then he said, "I understand."
He put down the phone and plopped down in a chair.
Pi Xiong walked over and said softly, "Prime Minister, should we summon the British ambassador?"
Clemenceau looked up at him.
In those eyes, there was something Pi Xiong had never seen before—not anger, not despair, but something deeper than anger and colder than despair.
"Summon me. Now."
When Sir Edward Grey, the British ambassador to France, entered the Prime Minister's office, he wore the professional smile typical of diplomats.
The smile froze the moment she saw Clemenceau's expression.
Clemenceau sat behind his desk, neither standing up nor inviting him to sit down, but staring at him like an eagle eyeing its prey.
Gray stood at the doorway, caught in a dilemma.
"Sir Grey," Clemenceau finally spoke, his voice eerily calm, "please sit."
Gray walked to the sofa and sat down. He cleared his throat, preparing to speak.
But Clemenceau did not give him the chance.
"Sir Grey," Clemenceau looked him straight in the eye, "I need an explanation."
Gray maintained his smile: "Mr. Prime Minister, you mean—"
"I'm saying the British army is withdrawing on a massive scale from the French front," Clemenceau interrupted him. "Ten divisions, 150,000 men, all gone. I need an explanation."
Gray's smile faded somewhat.
"Mr. Prime Minister, this is not a withdrawal, but a rotation. The troops from Merika have arrived, and our soldiers need to rest."
"Resting?" Clemenceau sneered. "Resting requires withdrawing all ten divisions? Resting requires handing over the defenses of Verdun and the Somme to the inexperienced American troops?"
Gray was silent for three seconds.
"Mr. Prime Minister, this is a decision made by London with a holistic view. Britain needs these soldiers to carry out more important missions."
"A holistic view? A more important task?" Clemenceau stood up, walked to Gray, and said, "Is it to go to Egypt to fight the Lanfang people? You're going to leave the European battlefield to us and go save India yourselves?"
Gray also stood up.
The two stood facing each other, less than a meter apart.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Gray’s voice hardened, “Britain has the right to decide how it uses its troops. We fought in France for three years and hundreds of thousands died. Now the Merlekas are here, and our soldiers need rest. What’s wrong with that?”