World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Chapter 763 Sherry's White Flag

An old woman stood in the line, holding a child in her arms. The child was very thin, skin and bones, with frighteningly large eyes. He leaned against his mother's chest, his eyes closed, whether asleep or starving, it was unclear.

A middle-aged man standing nearby looked at the child and shook his head.

"What a tragedy. The war has lasted for four years, and it has wiped out all the children."

Another elderly man chimed in.

"It's better that it's gone. It saves me from having to join the army when I grow up."

The group moved forward slowly. Every step seemed to require the utmost effort.

A middle-aged man in a worn-out suit walked out of the bakery, carrying a paper package in his hand. It was the bread he had waited in line for four hours to buy—a small piece, dark and mixed with sawdust. He held the package as if it were the most precious thing in the world, walking away step by step.

A commotion arose in the distance.

A group of workers turned the corner, holding signs and chanting, "Strike! Strike! We want jobs! We want bread!"

More and more people joined in. The line grew longer and the shouts grew louder.

"Stop the war!"

"William resign!"

"We want peace!"

A policeman stood on the street corner, watching the surging workers, at a loss. An older policeman next to him tugged at his sleeve.

"Never mind it. There's nothing we can do about it."

The young policeman stood there, stunned, watching the people walk past him, their shouts deafening.

In the study of the Berlin Royal Palace, the curtains were drawn tightly shut.

Wilhelm II sat behind his desk, a thick stack of reports spread out in front of him. He had been reading for two hours, and each report made his heart sink a little deeper.

First report: Workers in the Ruhr region are on strike; 200,000 coal miners have not gone down into the mines for three days. Factories are shut down, trains are not running, and power plants are ceasing operations.

Second report: Sailors mutinied in Kiel, refusing to obey orders to go to sea. Officers were imprisoned, and the red flag was hoisted on the warships.

The third report: The Bavarian peasants revolted, occupied the government building, and declared the establishment of the Soviet Republic.

The fourth, the fifth, the sixth—each one said the same thing: Germany is doomed.

He put down the report and covered his face with his hands.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in."

Hindenburg pushed open the door, stood at attention, and saluted.

"His Majesty."

Wilhelm II looked up at him.

The seventy-year-old marshal's face now bore an undeniable weariness. His eye sockets were deep-set, and his wrinkles were even more pronounced, but his eyes were still so bright—the kind of eyes that only someone who had witnessed countless life-and-death situations and weathered countless storms could possess.

"Marshal, please have a seat."

Hindenburg sat down opposite him.

Wilhelm II presented those reports to him.

"Take a look. Take a look at everything."

Hindenburg took the reports and read them one by one. He read slowly and carefully. After he finished reading, he looked up at Wilhelm II.

"Your Majesty, the situation is terrible."

Wilhelm II gave a wry smile.

"Bad? It's almost over."

He stood up and walked to the window. He pulled back a corner of the curtain and looked out at the gray sky.

Listen.

Outside the window, the faint sounds of marching slogans could be heard. They grew closer and louder.

"Stop the war!" "William resign!" "We want peace!"

Wilhelm II listened to the shouts and remained silent for a long time.

Then he turned and looked at Hindenburg.

"Marshal, what should I do?"

Hindenburg stood up and walked over to him.

"Your Majesty, we must sue for peace."

Wilhelm II looked at him.

"Sue for peace? How?"

Hindenburg pointed out the window.

"Listen. The people are rioting, the workers are striking, and the soldiers are mutinying. If we don't sue for peace, Germany will collapse from within. At that point, it won't be about seeking peace; it will be about surrendering."

Sydney Harbour, Australia, 1918!

The morning mist had not yet dissipated when Liu Zhenjie stood on a sand dune.

The dunes weren't high, but from the top, one could see the entire outline of Sydney. The first time he stood here, the British troops in Sydney were still fortifying their positions, figures were seen on the city walls, and several warships were patrolling the harbor. At that time, he told his regimental commanders, "It's been three months. Now I'm going to have lunch in the city."

Liu Zhenjie raised his binoculars, the lenses reflecting a faint light in the morning glow. In the distance, Sydney appeared and disappeared in the thin mist—the spires of the churches, the low-rise houses, the neat streets, and the calm surface of the harbor. Everything was the same as he remembered, yet everything was different.

The difference is that there is no one on the city wall anymore.

The difference is that the warships in the port are gone.

The difference is that the British flag no longer flies atop the highest flagpole on the city wall.

It was a white flag.

Liu Zhenjie paused for a moment, put down the binoculars, wiped the lenses, and then raised them again. Yes, they were white. What else could they be but a sign of surrender? He stared at them for a full minute, then put down the binoculars and let out a long sigh.

Chief of Staff Zhang Haiyang ran up from behind, panting. He had also seen the white flag, and stood there stunned, speechless for a long time. Then he turned sharply to Liu Zhenjie, his eyes filled with disbelief: "Commander, the British... surrendered?"

Liu Zhenjie nodded without saying anything.

"But..." Zhang Haiyang pointed to the city in the distance, "We haven't even fought yet! Our cannons aren't even set up! Our tanks haven't even charged in! How could they..."

Liu Zhenjie glanced at him, a slight smile playing on his lips. "What's wrong, not used to it? Do you have to fight a battle to feel comfortable?"

Zhang Haiyang scratched his head and chuckled awkwardly. "That's not what I meant. It's just... it just feels so sudden. Three months. We've come all the way from the Pidamara, a journey of 7,000 kilometers, with over 5,000 brothers killed, all for this battle. And they just say they're not going to fight?"

Liu Zhenjie didn't answer. He raised his binoculars again, looking at the white flag fluttering slightly in the morning breeze. Seven thousand kilometers, more than five thousand lives, four months—these numbers circled in his mind, finally settling on that white flag. Was it worth it? He didn't know. But he knew that the white flag meant that the remaining brothers wouldn't have to die anymore.

enough.

"Order all regiments," he put down his binoculars, "to halt the advance. Send scouts to investigate."

The scouts returned half an hour later. They brought back a major in a British army uniform and a thick letter.

The major was young, looking no more than thirty, with blond hair and blue eyes—a typical Englishman. His uniform was impeccably tailored, and his boots were gleaming, but his face bore an indescribable weariness—the weariness of someone who had suffered a defeat. He walked up to Liu Zhenjie, stood at attention, saluted, and then said in fluent English, "General, I have come to deliver the surrender document on the orders of Major General Smith, the commander of the Sydney garrison."