The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 939 The People's Blitzkrieg
Smoke slowly settled in the sea breeze, and twisted steel hulls and charred planks floated off the coast of Kota Bharu. The silhouettes of the British Typhoon-class armored cruisers had shrunk to a few intermittent wisps of black smoke on the horizon, their speed of 25.5 knots leaving the remnants of the Taiping Navy's Third Landing Squadron far behind.

Chen Kunshu leaned against the battered conning tower of the armored cruiser "Zhenyuan," his gaze sweeping across the sea—three sunken "Zhenyuan"-class ships had only their mast tops stubbornly piercing the surface, while six other ships of the same type struggled and tilted in the surging waves, trailing thick smoke, the muffled sounds of boiler explosions still occasionally echoing. His gaze fell on the sinking "Dingyuan" not far away, the bow of that old ship torn open by a 203mm shell from a "Typhoon"-class destroyer, seawater rushing in frantically.

"Send a telegram to the Nanyang Army Headquarters: The waters off Kota Bharu are under control, continue the landing!" Chen Kunshu's voice was hoarse. The signalman's fingers tapped rapidly on the telegraph key, piercing the still-smoky air with the order.

He slowly closed his eyes, the fierce battle he had just witnessed still vivid in his mind—

Three hours ago.

"Enemy ships approaching! Heading southeast, speed exceeding 25 knots!" The lookout's shout pierced the siren of the alarm.

Chen Kunshu abruptly raised his binoculars. On the horizon, four slender gray warships were cutting through the waves, their black smoke billowing from their funnels, leaving long trails of black smoke on the azure sea. Those were the British's newest armored cruisers—the Typhoon-class.

"All ships, prepare for battle! Main guns aimed at the enemy's lead ship!" Chen Kunshu shouted the order.

The Zhenyuan's 200mm main guns slowly rotated, their muzzles pointing at the enemy ships in the distance. However, before the gunnery officer could complete the ranging, four Typhoon-class ships, which were 11.5 knots faster than the Zhenyuan, began to make a turn in front of the enemy to seize T-formation positions.

Just as Chen Kunshu ordered the navigation staff to formulate a course to prevent the enemy from seizing the T-shaped position, a single column of six "Biaofeng" and "Zhenfeng" cruisers appeared on the sea. Although the speed of these six cruisers could not reach 25 knots, it was still much faster than the 14 knots of the "Zhenyuan" class!
Two British rapid armored patrol squads launched a coordinated attack, immediately putting the armored patrol unit personally commanded by Chen Kunshu into a desperate situation!

Just over ten minutes later, British shells rained down around the Zhenyuan, sending up towering columns of water. One shell struck the armored belt below the bridge directly, the ear-piercing sound of steel tearing almost causing Chen Kunshu to fall.

“Report damage!” he roared through gritted teeth.

"The starboard armor belt has been penetrated, and the No. 2 boiler room is flooded!"

Chen Kunshu clenched his fist. These British Wind-class ships were too fast—their speed of 22.5 to 25.5 knots made it impossible for the aging Zhenyuan-class ships to gain a favorable position. Fortunately, however, the firepower of these British Wind-class ships was somewhat lacking.

“If it were a ‘Monarch’-class battleship, this shot would have killed us…” he murmured to himself.

But soon after, a 9.2-inch shell from a "Surf" class destroyer taught Chen Kunshu a lesson in power! The shell landed on the deck of the "Dingyuan." The flames of the high-explosive shell instantly engulfed the aft main gun turret, and the exploding ammunition blasted half of the stern into the air. Chen Kunshu watched helplessly as his old ship, which had fought alongside him for many years, slowly listed, and sailors jumped into the sea from the burning deck like ants.

"Disband the formation! All ships, immediately move towards the beach, back to the beach, bows facing the enemy!" he roared.

The steam turbines of the Zhenyuan roared under the strain, and the old hull trembled violently at high speed. All nine Zhenyuans on the sea rushed towards the shallows at full speed, then assumed a "fight to the death" stance. They relied on their relatively sturdy hulls and the four 200mm guns on the bow to hold out.

"Fire!"

The Zhenyuan's main guns roared deafeningly, shells slicing through the sky and heading straight for a Typhoon-class ship. However, the enemy ship's maneuverability far exceeded expectations; it moved like ghosts through the hail of bullets, with only a few spits of water from near misses posing any real threat.

"Damn it!" Chen Kunshu slammed his fist on the porthole. "These British ships... they're as fast as the wind!"

Memories were pulled back to reality.

In the distance, the grey silhouettes of four Jingyuan-class armored cruisers were cutting through the murky waves as they approached, their 210mm main gun turrets silently pointing in the direction the British ships were retreating. They dared not pursue, even though the British formation included three vulnerable Rafale cruisers—the Jingyuans couldn't keep up with the Typhoons. The speed difference between the two classes was nominally 1.5 knots, but in reality, steam turbines performed far better at maximum speed than triple-expansion engines. The noise from triple-expansion engines with their high-pressure ventilation was too great; the entire ship would "shudder," significantly reducing the accuracy of their gunnery and shortening the time they could maintain maximum speed. In a high-speed gun battle, the Jingyuans had little chance of winning. Moreover, what if the Typhoons managed to outrun the Jingyuans and rush back to Kota Bharu beach?
Chen Kunshu watched the smoke trail of the "typhoon" recede into the distance and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"If their main guns were three points stronger, we might have been..." he said in a low voice, his voice a mixture of resentment and relief.

The firepower of those new British ships wasn't enough to deliver a fatal blow, but their speed... was simply too fast. Once the British equipped their fast ships with more powerful cannons, the Pacific Navy would be in serious trouble!

"Order all ships... to treat the wounded and assess the losses." His voice was tired but firm. "We... still have a landing operation to fight."

In 1883, the rainy season had just ended in Malaya. Wang Mingyuan stood on a sloping hillside at the edge of his rubber plantation, the morning dew dampening the hem of his long robe. In the distance, a dark red steel behemoth moved slowly through the muddy fields, the white steam billowing from its steam engine particularly striking in the morning light.

"Mingyuan! Come and lend a hand!" The voice of Wang Shichang, the father, came from deep within the rubber plantation. This largest Chinese plantation owner in the Kota Bharu area was directing a dozen workers to rivet the last piece of carburized steel plate onto the cab of a "Red Star" steam tractor.

Wang Mingyuan closed the book "Armored Vehicles Forward," carefully tucking the well-worn copy into his waistband. A year ago, when this machine arrived from Guangzhou, the entire plantation was abuzz with excitement. He vividly remembered the scene: twelve oxcarts, carrying disassembled parts, slowly drove into the plantation, escorted by True Covenant missionaries. Accompanying them was an engineer wearing round-framed glasses, speaking with a heavy Anhui accent, who said, "This 'Iron Ox' is worth fifty water buffaloes for plowing fields!" "Not only can it plow fields," the engineer added mysteriously, patting the wooden crates that had been brought with him, "it can be converted into an armored vehicle in four hours during wartime." The crates were neatly stacked with steel plates and gun mounts for mounting machine guns!
Wang Mingyuan approached his busy father and found him tightening nuts with a wrench. "Dad, where should this armor plate be installed?"

"The right side of the cockpit." Wang Shichang didn't look up, his hands moving without pause. "According to the manual, there needs to be a three-inch observation gap here. Mingyuan, go and get the blueprints."

Every Sunday, Wang Mingyuan would ride his bicycle to the True Covenant Church, which was twenty miles away. In the backyard of this seemingly ordinary church, there was a special training ground—the "Red Star Tractor Club".

The club's members are all wealthy Chinese farmers or their children from the Kota Bharu area, totaling over a hundred people. Each household owns a "Red Star brand steam tractor"—a tracked steam tractor specially developed by the Guangzhou-based Red Star Company for muddy terrain. It has 40 horsepower and can tow 3.5 tons of cargo. Its boiler can run on coal, firewood, and even coconut shells, making it very suitable for Malayan farmers.

However, after nearly a year of training at the Kota Bharu Red Star Club, Wang Mingyuan realized that the real purpose of his family's steam tractor was actually for liberation!

In the early morning of October 12, 1883, the sound of artillery fire from the Taiping Army's landing woke up the entire Kota Bharu. Wang Mingyuan was doing math problems in his study.

"Mingyuan! Hurry!" Father Wang Shichang burst through the door, still wearing his bathrobe. "The Zhenyue has sent an alarm, ordering us to arm our tractors immediately!"

Inside the manor's warehouse, the workers had already pried open the dusty weapons case. Wang Shichang grabbed a wrench and personally began assembling the tank for his son. Wang Mingyuan's cousin, Liu Qinian, ran over carrying an old-fashioned Gatling gun—this machine gun was the Wang family's "treasured possession," which had helped them repel seven or eight attacks by the natives.

"Brother Mingyuan, should we install it here according to the blueprints?" Liu Qinian asked, pointing to the rotating base reserved on the roof of the vehicle.

As the first rays of sunlight pierced through the rubber plantation, twelve armored tractors were already lined up in the manor square. Wang Mingyuan stroked the newly painted rice stalk cross emblem on the vehicle—a True Testament emblem he had meticulously copied with a brush. His father handed him a revolver: "Take these armored vehicles and head straight to the Kota Bharu fortress to meet our troops."

The smoke from the coastal highway made Wang Mingyuan, who was riding in a tank for the first time, tear up. The armored vehicle he was driving towed a 75mm field gun (which had been brought ashore by a landing ship), and the tracks made a teeth-grinding sound as they rolled over the bamboo spikes hastily laid out by the British. In the rearview mirror, his cousin was operating the machine gun on the roof of the vehicle, firing at a group of fleeing British Indian infantrymen in the palm grove—these British Indian soldiers had never seen a tank before, and none of them had imagined that the Taiping Army landing there would have tanks, so they had neither received anti-tank training nor were they equipped with any anti-tank weapons.

In a roadside ditch, several Indian soldiers stared in terror at the steam-breathing monsters, raised their hands high, and shouted in broken Chinese, "Surrender! Surrender!"

Soon, more and more Indian soldiers surrendered, and the road to Kota Bharu was lined with grinning, red-haired Indians with their hands raised, forming a "red tide".

In the trenches outside Kota Bharu, Sikh Battalion Platoon Leader Singh huddled in the mud, his Lee-Enfield rifle trembling uncontrollably. From the distant palm groves came a chilling metallic scraping sound—like countless steel behemoths tearing at the earth.

"What the hell is that?" muttered the Indian soldier beside him, his rifle nearly slipping from his hand.

Suddenly, a line of dark red steel monsters burst out of the woods, their tracks making a sickening cracking sound as they rolled over the bushes. Singh's eyes widened—the monsters were covered in carburized steel plates, and the Gatling guns on the roofs were spinning wildly, their muzzles spitting fire that was particularly dazzling in the morning light.

"My God! It's the devil's chariot!" A Sikh soldier dropped his rifle and ran away.

Before Singh could react, a 75mm shell exploded in front of the trench. The blast wave knocked him to the ground, and dirt and gravel rained down on him. When he struggled to his feet, he saw an even more horrifying sight—behind dozens of armored tractors, an endless line of Taiping infantrymen, their rifles with bayonets fixed, gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

"Retreat! Retreat now!" The British commander's voice was barely audible amidst the explosions. "Retreat back into the city!"

Singh stumbled and staggered after the fleeing soldiers as they fled toward the city gate, the rumble of tracks grinding over trenches and the tearing sound of Gatling guns sweeping through the air behind him.

Inside the British headquarters in Kota Bharu, Colonel Arthur Harding flung open a window and peered through his binoculars out of the city. His hands trembled—hundreds of armored tractors, billowing black smoke, advanced in orderly formation toward the city walls across the roads and fields. Further away, the Taiping army's infantry squares surged like a crimson tide, engulfing every inch of land.

“This is impossible,” Harding muttered to himself. “How could Chinese people possibly have tanks?”

A 150mm howitzer shell suddenly struck the city wall, the shockwave shattering the glass windows of the command post. Harding was thrown to the ground by the blast, his military cap rolling to the side. He struggled to his feet and found the telegraph operator slumped against the wall.

"Send a message to Singapore!" Harding roared hoarsely. "Say...say that the Taiping army's armored forces have broken through the defenses, and Kota Bharu cannot be held! Request an immediate retreat!"

His words had barely faded when another deafening explosion erupted—this time, the shell struck the city gate tower directly. Bricks and wood chips rained down, and Harding saw an armored tractor had crashed through the gate, its Gatling gun firing into the street.

"Surrender! We surrender! Raise the white flag now!" Harding slumped into his chair, the sword in his hand clattering to the ground.

(End of this chapter)