Chapter 319: Overseas Chinese Evacuation Operation

"Tell them," Li Te said to the Marine Corps commander, "no more than a month, the next batch of ships will arrive. Let them hold on. Lanfang will not abandon any compatriot."

After the news spread, applause and cheers rang out on the dock.

At seven p. m., the order to set sail was issued.

"Cast off! Prepare to depart!"

The cables were released, the engines roared. Two massive ships slowly left the pier, heading into the channel. On the dock, tens of thousands of laborers and hundreds of Lanfang marines waved farewell.

The "Huai River" and the "Pearl River" sailed out of the port into the English Channel. Behind them, the lights of Calais Harbor faded away.

On the bridge, Li Te looked at his pocket watch. It read seven thirty p. m. The line inside the cover was clearly visible in the afterglow of the setting sun:

Time will reveal where justice lies.

Today, time proved one thing: when a nation is willing to stand up for its compatriots, even the British Empire and the French Republic must yield.

But this is only the beginning.

There are two thousand people on the ship, but tens of thousands more are awaiting rescue in Europe.

And the 12,000‑mile return journey has only just begun.

Li Te looked eastward, toward Dubai.

"President," he whispered, "the first batch, we have brought back. But the war may have only just begun."

Night deepened as the warship cut through the darkness, heading home.

Behind them, the European continent continued to burn.

Yet within those flames, a faint glimmer—light of hope, light of home.

For the two thousand Chinese laborers, the nightmare was over.

July 18, 6 a. m., Dubai Port.

All berths in the harbor area had been cleared, the dock temporarily divided into six zones, each matching an incoming cargo ship. Thousands of staff stood ready: medical teams, registrars, translators, logistics personnel, plus police and soldiers to keep order.

At the port entrance, a massive banner had been hoisted, red background white letters, written in Chinese, Arabic and English:

"Welcome compatriots home"

Chen Feng stood atop the port's command tower, binoculars in hand, scanning the sea. Beside him stood Wang Wenwu, Zhou Tieshan, and Huang Mingda, director of the newly formed Overseas Chinese Resettlement Committee.

"They're here!" the lookout shouted.

On the horizon, first appeared the towering bridge and Main Gun turret of the Huai River. Then the Pearl River, followed by the massive hulls of six cargo ships. Eight vessels formed an orderly Column, slowly entering the main channel.

The port boiled over. Those waiting on the dock began to cheer, the military band played the Lanfang Republic anthem. Many journalists who arrived early raised their cameras, the flashlights flashing nonstop.

"Truly spectacular," Huang Mingda exclaimed, "Eight ships, twenty thousand people… this is probably the largest Scale sea evacuation in history."

"But this is only the first batch," Chen Feng put down the binoculars, "another 130,000 are waiting in Europe."

Wang Wenwu replied, "The Faguo government has formally notified us, agreeing that laborers may voluntarily leave, but demanding we pay a 'resettlement compensation fee'. One hundred francs per person, fifteen hundred thousand people equals fifteen million francs."

"Give them," Chen Feng said without hesitation, "Money can be earned again, but a dead person is gone. Moreover, we can recoup the funds elsewhere—say, selling rubber and oil that the French urgently need, with prices appropriately marked up."

Typical Chen Feng thinking—using commercial means to solve Political Issue while still making profit.

Zhou Tieshan asked, "What about Yingguo? What is their attitude?"

"Very subtle," Wang Wenwu said, "In public they claim 'respect for humanitarian principles'. Privately, through diplomatic channels, they expressed 'serious concern', saying we have undermined the seriousness of international labor contracts. But that's it, no further action."

"Because they dare not," Chen Feng said, "The Somme battle on the Western Front is at its most brutal stage, Yingguo suffers tens of thousands casualties a day. At a time like this, clashing with us in the Far East, they cannot bear it."

The fleet began to berth. The first to dock was the Mount Tai. When the gangway was lowered and the first laborer stepped ashore, thunderous applause rang across the dock.

He was a man in his sixties, leaning on a cane, his leg wounded. He saw the welcoming crowd, the banner, and suddenly knelt, sobbing loudly at the dock.

Two staff members hurried forward to help him up: "Sir, don't do that, you're home now, safe now."

"Home… home at last…" the old man murmured repeatedly, tears streaming.

More people began to disembark. Some kissed the ground the moment they stepped off, some clutched their heads and wept, some looked around bewildered, and others shouted excitedly, "We're back! We're back alive!"

The medical team acted swiftly. They set up a temporary triage area on the dock; severely injured were lifted onto ambulances for hospitals, minor injuries treated on site. Registrars began logging each person's basic data: name, age, hometown, special skill, preferences…

The entire dock functioned like a precise machine, operating in orderly fashion.

Chen Feng descended from the command tower onto the dock. He wasn't wearing formal attire, just a white shirt and dark trousers, looking like an ordinary worker.

"President, you should return to the command tower," the chief guard said worriedly, "There are too many people here, it's unsafe."

"My compatriots are home, how can I stay up here watching?" Chen Feng waved his hand and kept moving forward.

He walked to the registration area and saw a young man filling out a form. The registrar asked, "What special skill do you have?"

"I… I moved Shells in Faguo, is that a skill?" the young man said shyly.

"It counts," the registrar smiled, "Strength is a skill. Where do you want to go? What work do you want?"

The young man hesitated, "I… I want to farm. My family in Shandong are farmers, but my hometown suffered disaster, we couldn't survive so I went to Faguo. I heard Borneo has plenty of land to farm, is that true?"

"Indeed," the registrar pulled out a pamphlet, "Here is an introduction to the Borneo colonization plan. Each adult male can receive twenty mu of land, the government provides seeds, tools, a three‑year interest‑free loan, and tax exemption for the first three years. If you're willing, you can sign up now."

The young man's eyes lit up, "I'll sign up! I'll sign up!"

Chen Feng watched from the side, a complex feeling welling up inside. These people, the most ordinary Chinese peasants, only ask for a plot of arable land, a home to settle. Denied that at home, they must cross oceans, risking their lives under European fire to exchange for it.

And now, Lanfang has given them this choice.

"President," Huang Mingda came over, "Based on current registrations, about 60% want to farm in Borneo, 30% seek work in Dubai or Singapore, and 10% wish to save money to return to their hometowns in China."

"All will be accommodated," Chen Feng said, "Those heading to Borneo will get ships and guides, departing in batches. Those staying locally will be linked to factories and sites, ensuring each has work. Those returning home will receive travel funds, but we don't recommend going now—China is too chaotic at present."