March 18, 1915. The Plaza de la República radiated heat like a colossal cauldron. A merciless sun scorched the granite stones laid out in the pattern of a giant sun, the symbol of the new republic. But the true heat emanated from the thousands—tens of thousands—of people crammed together, a dense, waiting mass.

  Upon the ornately carved wooden podium adorned with sun motifs, the Guerrero family stood in a carefully choreographed formation.

  President Ricardo stood at the center, erect in his full white uniform bedecked with medals. To his left, Sofia Guerrero wore a simple cream-colored dress, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. To his right, Mateo, in a grey suit that made him look older than his fifteen years. Isabella and Eleanor stood beside them, dressed in matching hues of blue and white.

  This was more than a speech. It was a performance. A national ritual.

  "I'm nervous," Isabella whispered, smiling at the crowd before them.

  "Hmm," Mateo replied, mimicking her smile.

  "Eleanor is about to cry."

  "Let her."

  Their conversation was cut short as Ricardo stepped forward to the microphone. Electric amplification was still rare in Venez, but a generator-powered speaker system had been installed for the occasion. When he cleared his throat softly, the sound echoed like thunder across the plaza.

  "Citizens of the Republic of Venez!"

  The voice sliced through the crowd, plunging it into silence. Thousands of faces looked up. Street vendors with their carts, mothers with babies strapped to their backs, veterans in old uniforms, children perched on their fathers' shoulders. And in the front rows, a hundred selected young soldiers, wearing crisp new olive-green uniforms, formed the perfect visual focus.

  "Today," Ricardo continued, his voice thick with emotion that felt either utterly genuine or impeccably rehearsed, "I stand before you not as your President. I stand as a father of Our Nation."

  Mateo watched the crowd's reaction. Some nodded. Some looked down. An elderly woman dabbed the corner of her eye with the edge of her shawl.

  "As a father of three children, I know what it means to watch your children leave. Every morning when they walk out the door, there is a small prayer in your heart: come home safely. Come home smiling." Ricardo paused, swallowing hard. His voice cracked slightly. It was effective. "But as the President of millions of the nation's children, I also know that sometimes… sometimes some of our children must go much farther. Not to play in the neighbor's alley, but to guard the very large front door of our home—this Republic."

  He turned toward the young soldiers at the front. "Look at them. They are the same age as your children. Some may be younger than yours. They have dreams. Sweethearts. Parents who wait for them. And today, they will board ships that will carry them not to the next coastline, but to a continent across the ocean."

  The atmosphere grew even more still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Mateo saw Isabella grip Eleanor's hand tighter. Eleanor's hand trembled.

  "On that continent," Ricardo continued, his voice now louder, more that of a leader, "the fires of war are raging. It is not our war. Not our conflict. But fire, my brothers and sisters, creates its own wind. And that wind can carry its embers here. We have endured too many conflagrations on our own soil. We have lost too much in our own backyards!"

  A rumble of agreement greeted this declaration. The wounds of the civil war were still fresh. Mateo saw some veterans raising the hands they still possessed, their eyes glistening.

  "Therefore, we do not choose to close our eyes. We do not choose to hide. We choose to send our finest young men—not to wage war, but to LEARN! To stand beside our ally, Prussi, and witness: how the world is changing. How modern war is waged. So that when the wind of fire truly blows our way, we will be prepared. We will no longer be like frightened children in the dark. We will be vigilant sentinels with torches in hand!"

  Ricardo was now fully in his element. His fist punched the air. "They go not as mercenaries. They go as students. Students who will bring home knowledge more precious than gold: the knowledge to protect their mothers, their little sisters, their homeland!"

  He turned once more to the soldiers, then suddenly descended from the podium. His steps were firm as he approached the front rows. The officers were startled, but Ricardo raised a hand, signaling for calm. He stopped before a very young soldier, perhaps only eighteen, with an eager face and wide eyes.

  "Your name, son?"

  "J-Juan, Mr. President! Juan Martínez!"

  Ricardo placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Juan. Where is your mother?"

  Trembling, the youth pointed into the crowd. A middle-aged woman, her face torn between pride and terror, was ushered forward by guards.

  "Smile, Mother," Ricardo said, guiding the woman to stand beside her son. He took both their hands and raised them high. "This is what we protect! Not territory on a map. Not resources in the mountains. But this! Family! The warmth of a mother's embrace!"

  The plaza erupted. Sobs, cheers, shouts. Journalistic cameras (still a rarity in the country) flashed.

  Mateo, from the podium, watched with a mixture of awe and disgust. His father was a master showman. He had transformed the deployment of troops to a foreign warzone into a sentimental family drama.

  Ricardo returned to the podium, his face glistening with sweat and possibly tears. "They will return! In three months, with their heads held higher, with deeper knowledge, with hearts prouder to be young men of Venez! And I promise—as your President and as the father of this nation—that every ship that carries them away, I will ensure returns to bring them home!"

  Finally, he turned to his family. "And my family… will pray for every family seeing their child off today. Our prayers go with them."

  He raised his hands, drawing Sofia, Mateo, Isabella, and Eleanor close. The Guerrero family stood in a line, holding hands. The perfect picture: unity, sacrifice, humane leadership.

  Sofia shed tears—real ones, this time. Eleanor wept with quiet sobs. Isabella wore a brittle smile, her eyes dry but full of understanding. And Mateo? He simply gazed at the crowd, analyzing reactions, calculating the percentage moved versus the percentage skeptical.

  The national anthem played. Thousands of voices sang loudly, punctuated by weeping. The soldiers, including the still-shellshocked Juan, saluted.

  The performance was over. But the consequences were just beginning.

  ***

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  March 21, 1915. La Voz del Pueblo Newspaper

  OPINION: Tears and Reality

  By Do?a Esperanza.

  Our President cried yesterday. Before thousands, he wept as a father seeing off "his children." A moving image. But let us wipe away those tears for a moment and examine the facts behind the silk veil of sentimentality.

  150,000 of our young men are being sent to another continent. They are called "students." But do students need to carry rifles? They are called "guarding the front door." But whose door are they truly guarding? Our door here in Caraccass, or the geopolitical interests of Prussi in Europania?

  We are given a promise: three months. History teaches us that war devours promises for breakfast. Does the President possess the power to recall them if Prussi says "no"? Will the Kaiser in Berlim care about the tears of a father across the sea?

  And the cost. Every ship departing laden with our youth also empties our granaries. Who will work the fields? Who will toil in the factories? And if—heaven forbid—they do not return, who will be husbands for our young women, fathers for children yet unborn?

  We are told to believe in the "knowledge they will bring home." Knowledge of what? How to kill more efficiently? How to survive in waterlogged trenches filled with corpses? Is that the progress of civilization we desire?

  The Guerrero family stood together on the podium, a symbol of unity. But ask the Martínez family, whose son now stares at the sea in fear: does this unity feel just when the sacrifice is not shared equally?

  We are not anti-patriot. We love the Republic of Venez. But true love sometimes requires hard questions, not just applause. Let us watch this promise. Let us count the days. And if that day arrives without homebound ships in the harbor, remember that the President's tears will not be enough to dry the tears of the mothers on the docks.

  ***

  El Sol Nacional Newspaper (Government-Supported)

  National Pride: Our Finest Sons Depart Carrying Hope

  Editorial.

  A historic day! With chests full of courage and eyes fixed on the future, 150,000 of our young heroes depart for the continent of Europania. Not as combatants, but as ambassadors of knowledge. Not as hired soldiers, but as students of the greatest history lesson of this century.

  President Ricardo Guerrero, with the wisdom of a Father of the Nation, has shown the correct path: not cowardly isolation, but intelligent engagement. We do not hide from the world's storm; we learn to ride it!

  Look upon their faces on our front page—full of spirit, determination, and the light of hope. They are the reflection of the new Venez youth soul: brave, curious, progressive. The knowledge they bring home will be the foundation of our security for a hundred years to come.

  To the strong mothers: your prayers are their finest armor. To the steadfast fathers: your example lives within them. And to our young heroes: the entire nation stands behind you. Return with tales of victory—not victory over an enemy, but victory over ignorance!

  Venez Forward! Long Live the President! Long Live the Soldier-Students!

  ***

  El Independiente Newspaper (Neutral/Leaning Critical)

  ANALYSIS: Logistics and Reality of the Largest Troop Deployment in the History of the Republic of Venez

  Special Report.

  Setting aside the sentimental rhetoric of the plaza, deploying 150,000 military personnel to another continent is a logistical behemoth this Republic has never before attempted. Here are the facts:

  -47 transport ships chartered from Swess and Khuba companies.

  -12 warship escorts (8 Venez, 4 "chartered" from Prussi).

  -Provisions for 30 days at sea: 900 tons of food, 400,000 liters of fresh water.

  -Estimated daily cost: 2 million Bolívar. Total for 3 months: 180 million Bolívar (equivalent to 40% of this year's education budget).

  Unanswered questions:

  1. Who is footing the bill? The government says "cooperation" with Prussi, but details are absent.

  2. What is the protocol if ships are attacked by the Brittonian Royal Navy? (Brittonia has declared a blockade of Prussi ports)

  3. How is coordination with the Prussi command structured? Who holds ultimate authority over the lives of Venez youths on foreign soil?

  When questioned, the Deputy Minister of Logistics and Infrastructure could only say: "Everything is arranged." However, "arranged" is not synonymous with "transparent."

  The people have a right to know more than just moving images from the plaza. They have a right to know the mechanisms that will bring their children home.

  ***

  March 23, 1915. Aboard the Transport Ship Libertador, 300 Miles off the Coast of the Republic of Venez

  The deep rumble of the ship's engines was a constant pulse, its vibration traveling through the iron deck into their very bones. The air smelled of diesel, sweat, and hope beginning to turn stale.

  Juan Martínez sat on the deck with his squad, hugging his knees, gazing at the endless blue expanse. In his hands, a small portable radio crackled with a grainy broadcast. A replay of the President's speech.

  "...every ship that carries them away, I will ensure returns to bring them home!"

  The voice of President Ricardo Guerrero, though marred by static, still carried force. Juan closed his eyes, picturing his mother's face in the plaza. Her tears. Her bittersweet, proud smile.

  "You still listening to that, Juan?" said Carlos, his squadmate, biting into an apple. "That's the tenth time."

  "Feels more... reassuring," Juan replied, switching the radio off. "The President said we're students. Not soldiers for war."

  Carlos laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. "My father, a civil war veteran, says: on a battlefield, students and soldiers die the same way. Bullets can't read uniforms."

  "But we won't be on the front lines. The President said we'll be in the rear, learning logistics, communications..."

  "Yeah, yeah." Carlos tossed the apple core into the sea. "And my mother says I'm the smartest in the family. We all believe what we want to hear."

  Their squad—ten men—fell silent. Each lost in his own thoughts. Juan felt in his uniform pocket, pulling out a small photograph: him with his mother and little sister in front of their modest home in the working district. He'd promised to send money once they reached the Prussi Empire. The soldier's pay was meager, but they said Prussi would provide an "ally's allowance."

  "Hey, look!" someone shouted.

  In the distance, a plume of smoke rose. Not from their ship. The silhouette was sleeker, darker. A warship flying a foreign flag—not Venez, not Prussi.

  Sirens wailed. Officers barked commands. Soldiers scrambled, confused. Some searched for their rifles (which were stored and locked in the armory).

  "Brittonia?" Juan whispered, his heart hammering.

  "Or Francos," Carlos said, his face suddenly pale. "They could sink us. They say they're neutral, but..."

  The warship approached at high speed. On the deck of the Libertador, Venez sailors manned weapon stations. The tension was palpable, like a wire stretched to its limit.

  Then, from the opposite direction, two smaller Prussi-flagged warships appeared, cutting between the Libertador and the foreign vessel. Signal lamps flashed—Morse code. After several minutes that felt like hours, the foreign ship turned slowly and sailed away.

  "Crisis averted!" a lieutenant shouted. "Return to your stations! It was just a Francos patrol. They were warned."

  But the psychological damage was done. Juan stared at the Prussi ships now sailing alongside them like personal escorts. Protection. Or surveillance?

  "Students, huh?" Carlos muttered, his voice bitter. "Students need armed escorts?"

  That night, in the cramped cabin shared by twenty men, Juan couldn't sleep. The air was thick with snores, groans, and whispered prayers. He took out a small notebook—a gift from his sister—and began to write by the dim light of an oil lantern.

  Day 3 at sea. Mother, we were almost attacked today. I wasn't scared (a lie). The President said we'd be safe. But it was Prussi warships that saved us, not our own. Does this mean we belong to them now? Carlos says his father was once a prisoner of war. He said the worst part isn't the physical wounds, but when you feel your country has forgotten you.

  I'm sure the President won't forget. He promised. But... this ship keeps sailing farther from home. And the President's voice on the radio grows fainter. I wish I could hear his speech again. It made me feel... significant.

  He stopped writing, hearing muffled sobs from the bunk next to him. One of his squadmates, Miguel—who had lied about his age to enlist—was crying in his sleep. Calling for his mother.

  Juan put his notebook away, closed his eyes, and tried to recall the President's speech. Word for word. The rhythm of his voice. His promise.

  Outside, the dark, heaving sea swallowed their ship as if it were a toy. And somewhere ahead, the continent of Europania waited with its fires of war.

  Juan prayed. Not for glory. Not for knowledge. But simply: for the port of departure to also be the port of return. For a Father of the Nation's promise from a podium to prove stronger than the promises of empires and the ambitions of war.

  Then he slept, and dreamed of a plaza filled with people, and himself standing on the podium, not as a soldier, but as someone coming home, and the crowd was smiling, and his mother was no longer crying.

  The Libertador plowed on through the sea, carrying 150,000 dreams and fears toward a continent that had forgotten the meaning of peace. And back in Caraccass, three different narratives had already begun their battle for the soul of the nation: one of hope, one of questioning, and one of doubt.

  The voyage had only just begun. But the true test was not at sea, nor on some foreign battlefield. The true test lay in a nation's ability to keep its promise—and in the heart of a young soldier who still chose to believe, even as the sea around him grew deeper, and the shoreline ever more distant.

  https://paypal.me/ArdanAuthor)