Chapter 732: Meilika's

Lansing thought for a moment.

"We should be preparing to target India. They're definitely going to take Yingguo and then the Far East's two most important footholds, India and Australia!"

Wilson nodded.

"Right. Target India. Attack Australia! And then?"

Lansing was stunned.

"And then?"

Wilson stood up and walked to the huge world map on the wall. He pointed at India.

"Look, India is the jewel on Yingguo's crown. Lose India, and Yingguo is finished. After the war, what will India become?"

Lansing thought again.

"Independence? Or under Lanfang's control?"

Wilson sneered.

"Independence? The Indians have fought for centuries without gaining it; now Lanfang helps them fight Yingguo. They'll become independent? Do you believe that?"

Lansing fell silent.

Wilson continued, "India will become part of Lanfang's sphere of influence—just like Burma, just like Malaya, just like Yilang. Lanfang will control the resources there, the markets there, the politics there."

He turned and looked at Lansing.

"And then? Then they will move westward, into the Middle East, into Africa, into Europe. They will become a truly global power."

Lansing's complexion changed.

"President, what shall we do?"

Wilson walked back to his seat and sat down.

"Wait."

"Wait?"

"Right. Wait. Wait for Yingguo and Lanfang to be mutually exhausted, wait until they tire themselves out, wait until they are spent, then we will emerge to clean up the aftermath."

He paused.

"This is Meilika's strategy. Not to participate directly in the Yazhou war, but to use the European war to make the dollar the international currency, and to make Meilika the world leader."

Lansing remained silent for a long time.

Then he asked, "President, do you think this strategy can succeed?"

Wilson looked at him.

"I don't know. But we have to try."

February 1, 1918, northern Faguo.

The winter sun was as pale as a sheet of paper, hanging in the gray sky, weakly illuminating the land that had been turned over countless times by Shells. From Verdun to the Somme, from Arras to Cambrai, the trenches stretched like ugly scars across the French countryside. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, blood, and an indefinable aura of death.

Panxing stood on a rise, wrapped in a thick military coat, holding a telescope as he surveyed the dense cluster of camps in the distance. A thin layer of frost covered the lens; he brushed it away with his sleeve and kept looking.

Inside those camps, young men in brand‑new khaki uniforms bustled everywhere. They ran through the trenches—some digging earth, some moving sandbags, some clumsily learning how to set up machine guns. A soldier tried to pull the bolt, got it stuck, scratched his head, and his comrade burst into laughter.

Meilika soldier.

The corner of Panxing's mouth twitched, unsure whether it was a laugh or a sigh.

Chief of Staff General Hubbard walked over, handing him an enamel mug, "General, have some hot tea. You've been standing for almost an hour."

Panxing took the mug but didn't drink, simply holding it to warm his palm.

"Hubbard, look at them," he said, pointing at the young soldiers. "Do you think they know what they're doing?"

Hubbard followed his gaze and was silent for a few seconds.

"Know? General, they think they're here to save the world. The newspapers say the free world needs them, Faguo needs them, Yingguo needs them. They believe they're the heroes who will end the war."

Panxing sneered.

"Heroes. Hubbard, have you fought in a war?"

Hubbard nodded, "I have. The Philippines."

"Then do you know what a real battlefield veteran looks like?"

Hubbard said nothing.

Panxing pointed at the distant Meilika soldiers: "Look at them, their faces clean, their eyes still bright. They have no idea what awaits them. They don't know how many rats are in those trenches, they don't know how many pieces a person will be blown into when a Shell hits, they don't know what a person will scream like when a bayonet pierces their belly."

He took a sip of tea; it was already cold, but he didn't mind.

"After they fight a battle, lose thousands, have thousands maimed, they'll finally understand what war is."

In the distance, a train whistle blew.

Panxing turned and saw a long military train slowly pulling away from the nearby station. The cars were packed with soldiers in khaki uniforms, a shade darker, their faces bearing a look Panxing knew all too well—that look of men who have been in combat.

Yingguo soldier.

The train headed west, toward the English Channel.

Hubbard also saw the train, furrowing his brow, "General, which batch is that?"

Panxing thought for a moment, "It's the third batch today. We've had one every day these past few days."

"Yingguo are withdrawing so fast," Hubbard muttered, "Meilika troops just arrived, and they're already hurrying out."

Panxing said nothing. He simply watched the train recede, watched the heads poking out of the cars, watched the numb, exhausted faces that seemed to think of nothing.

A young Meilika Lieutenant scrambled up from the trenches, ran to Panxing, and saluted, "General! The third battalion's positions have been rebuilt according to the British Army's plans! May I ask, when will the Yingguo come to relieve us?"

Panxing looked at him.

He was very young, about twenty‑five or twenty‑six, his face still bearing the naiveté of someone who hasn't seen combat. His eyes were bright and full of expectation, like a puppy waiting to be fed.

"Relieve you?" Panxing asked.

"Yes, didn't the Yingguo say they'd withdraw to rest and then return to take over?" the Lieutenant scratched his head. "Our battalion commander asked me to confirm so we can plan the next training phase."

Panxing was silent for three seconds.

Then he patted the Lieutenant's shoulder: "Go back and tell your battalion commander to keep training. I don't know when the Yingguo people will return."

The Lieutenant was startled for a moment, saluted, then turned and ran.

Ha Bo De came over, lowered his voice and said, "General, do you think the Yingguo people will still come back?"

Panxing gave no answer.

He turned and kept watching the column gradually vanish from sight.

In the distance, the sound of artillery drifted faintly. It came from the direction of the Degjun positions, a daily routine bombardment that killed a few people each day.

Those who had died no longer needed to worry whether the Yingguo people would return.

English Channel.

The sea wind at Dover Port was strong, carrying a salty, fishy scent, rattling the harbor flags. The sky was lead‑gray, with heavy clouds pressed low, making it hard to breathe.

A military column was slowly moving into the harbor, spewing white steam. The carriage doors opened, and the soldiers jumped out, lining up on the platform.

They wore British Army uniforms, each face bearing an indefinable expression—tired, numb, hollow. Some had scars, some were missing fingers, some limped as they walked. No one spoke; they simply stood in silence, waiting for the next order.

A Major officer stood nearby, holding a list, shouting loudly, "3rd Battalion, this side! 5th Battalion, that side! Move faster! The ship won't wait for anyone!"