Chapter 417: William Comforts the Old Admiral

The briefing lasted three hours. Lanfang engineers displayed the radar system, sonar system, damage control system, and even the human‑friendly designs of the kitchen and crew quarters. Every detail left the Deguo officers stunned—this is not merely two warships, it is a complete, era‑leading technological system.

After the meeting ended, Tirpitz invited Li Te for a private talk. The two walked to the foredeck of the Tirpitz, where the view was open and they could see the whole William Port.

"General Li, I must admit," Tirpitz said, looking at the distant shipyard where the Seddrits was still under repair, "these two ships have exceeded all my expectations. Lanfang's shipbuilding technology… is awe‑inspiring."

"The marshal is being overly generous," Li Te kept a courteous distance, "Lanfang is still a young nation; we have simply invested more resources in certain fields."

"It's not just resources," Tirpitz turned to look at him, "it's vision. While everyone chased larger‑caliber guns and thicker armor, you chose integration, systematization, and intelligence. This is not merely a technical edge; it is a conceptual edge."

Li Te did not deny it. This was Chen Feng's special emphasis: to let the Deguo see the gap, not only a technological gap but a mindset gap. Only by seeing the gap would they become more eager to cooperate, to learn, to obtain more.

"Marshal," Li Te said, "President Chen Feng asked me to convey a message: 'Technology should serve peace and development, not destruction and conquest.' He hopes these two ships will help Deguo end the war early, rather than prolong it."

Tirpitz gave a wry smile: "A noble wish. But once war starts, it is hard to develop according to anyone's wishes. Still… please tell the president that the German Navy will use this equipment responsibly. At the very least, I will do my utmost to ensure they are not employed in meaningless adventurism."

The two were silent for a while. The sea wind brushed the deck, bringing the North Sea's characteristic salty, briny scent.

"General," Tirpitz suddenly asked, "if… I mean if, Deguo and Lanfang were ever to stand on opposing sides, would you regret delivering these ships today?"

Li Te looked at the German Navy's old admiral, seeing genuine worry in his eyes. This was not a test; it was an old soldier's fear of the future.

"Marshal," Li Te replied slowly, "I am a soldier; I follow orders. But as an individual, I trust President Chen Feng's judgment: a multipolar world is more stable and peaceful than one dominated by one or two great powers. Lanfang wishes to become one pole in such a multipolar world. For that, we are willing to assume certain risks, including the risk we take today."

Tirpitz nodded thoughtfully. He said nothing more, but understood in his heart: the Eastern general before him, and the president behind him, were moving a very large game. And Deguo, at least for now, was an important piece on that board.

In the afternoon, the technical handover officially began. Two hundred Deguo sailors boarded the two new ships, learning to operate them under Lanfang technicians' guidance. They must master these complex systems within a month, after which the two giant vessels will formally join the high‑seas fleet and sail toward the North Sea.

Meanwhile in Dubai, Chen Feng received Li Te's Encrypted Telegram: "The ships have been delivered, the ceremony completed smoothly. William's naming soothed Tirpitz, the old admiral's fighting spirit rekindled. The technological shock exceeded expectations; the Deguo have realized the all‑round gap. The timing is ripe to advance to the next step."

Chen Feng set the telegram aside and walked to the world map in the strategy room. He planted a small red flag at the Somme River location—according to the latest intelligence, the British Army's artillery is set to begin in two days, and the battle is about to enter its bloodiest phase.

"Very well," he murmured to himself, "let the blood flow a while longer. Then we can bring out the next chip."

Outside the window, the sunset over Dubai Port was blood‑red. But this time, the blood did not flow in Dubai; it flowed in the French fields seven thousand kilometers away.

There, one hundred fifty thousand soldiers of the Sakura Nation in Degjun uniforms were awaiting the arrival of the steel storm.

Somme River area, north of Albe, July 28, 1916, 05:15.

The darkness before dawn was as thick as ink, swallowing even the starlight beneath the low clouds. Yet the ground itself glowed—not with natural light, but with a bizarre halo of countless bonfires, searchlights, and signal flares, casting the entire front line into an orange‑red hellish border.

Five kilometers behind the British Army's lines, at a artillery observation post, Australian Artillery Captain Jack Morrison stamped out his last cigarette on a sandbag. His fingers trembled, not from cold—the July night was warm—but from what was about to happen. Through the gun crew's lenses, he could see the outline of the Degjun first defensive line: barbed wire glinting like poisonous thorns under illumination flares; trench lines scarred the earth like furrows; farther away, the ruins of Albe resembled a pile of toys crushed by giants.

"Five minutes left, sir," the observer whispered, his voice hoarse.

Morrison nodded, lifted the field telephone's handset. The line connected to the entire Fourth Army Group artillery command, and beyond that to the positions of 2,900 guns—from 60 mm mortars to 380 mm railway heavy guns—like a horde of coiled steel beasts awaiting a single order.

He glanced at his pocket watch: 05:18. The second hand ticked forward, each beat feeling like a hammer on his heart.

This was not his first experience of massive bombardment. At Gallipoli, he had commanded six 18‑pounder guns supporting a landing, but that lasted only a few hours at most. This time… seven days. A full seven days of continuous saturation fire, intended to erase the Deguo's defensive line from the map.

"God forgive us," he muttered.

A voice from the command came over the telephone: "All gun positions, prepare! Final confirmation of firing data!"

Morrison repeated the order into the handset, his voice traveling through the communications net to every gun position. He could picture the scenes: gunners shoving heavy shells into the breech, closing the breech block, adjusting elevation. Loaders wiping sweat from their foreheads despite the crisp morning. Officers conducting a final check of the firing tables.

"Australian First Artillery Brigade, ready!"

"New Zealand Field Artillery Regiment, ready!"

"Canadian Heavy Artillery Battery, ready!"

"Indian Mountain Artillery Company, ready!"

The reports from the various units interwove over the telephone, each with a distinct accent—London, Scottish, Australian drawl, Indian‑tinged English, and Canadian English with a French inflection. It was an imperial army, drawn from every corner of the earth, gathered on this French field for a single purpose.

05:19:30.

"All personnel, attention!" the command's voice sharpened, "a historic moment! For the empire! For victory!"

05:20 sharp.

The order was a single word: "Fire."

Morrison closed his eyes. The next second, the world exploded.