World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

On the third day after their departure, the vanguard battalion of the 1st Mechanized Infantry Division arrived in Ruvez.

This is a small fishing village on the southern shore of the Persian Gulf, with only a few dozen households. The houses are built of coral stones and mud. As the convoy drove in, the ragged Arab fishermen hid in their houses in fear, peeking at the unfamiliar army through the cracks in the doors.

Battalion Commander Wang Dashan ordered a two-hour rest. The soldiers jumped off the trucks and stretched their stiff legs. Several scouts who could speak Arabic tried to communicate with the locals, but the villagers either shook their heads or pointed northwest and mumbled something.

"What are they saying?" Wang Dashan asked the translator.

The translator's face was grave: "They say that going north is 'the devil's land.' There's no water, no grass, only man-eating quicksand and a scorching sun. Last month, an Ottoman patrol went in, and only three out of ten men came back; they all went mad."

Wang Dashan looked up ahead. On the horizon, the boundary between the desert and the sky was blurred, and the heat wave distorted the scenery.

"The map." He reached out his hand.

The map lay open on the hood of the jeep. Eight hundred kilometers from Ruvez to Koldesa. The route crossed two vast deserts and three dried-up riverbeds, marked "Seasonal Rivers, dry in the dry season."

How much fresh water is left?

The logistics officer reported: "The vehicle's water tank has one-third remaining. At the current rate of consumption, it can last for another four days. However, temperatures will be higher in the next few days, and consumption may increase."

Wang Dashan calculated: Four days, at 200 kilometers per day, would be just enough to reach the coast of Hurdsa—provided he didn't get lost, didn't encounter sandstorms, and the vehicle didn't break down.

"Notify the entire battalion," he ordered, "that from now on, drinking water will be rationed. Two liters per person per day, including for cooking. Collect all urine, treat it with a filter, and use it to cool the engines."

The order was given, and the soldiers carried it out silently. No one complained; this was the rule for marching in the desert.

After a rest period, the convoy set off again. Less than twenty kilometers outside Ruvez, the paved road ended, replaced by a dirt road. The wheels kicked up clouds of yellow dust.

The temperature rose rapidly. At noon, the jeep's dashboard showed an outside temperature of 48 degrees Celsius. The driver's cab was like an oven, and the seats were too hot to sit on. The soldiers wrapped their heads in wet towels, but the towels dried quickly.

At 3 p.m., the first truck broke down—the engine overheated and the radiator boiled over. Then came the second, and the third. The mechanics crawled under the trucks to inspect them, their arms quickly blistered from the scalding sand.

"Commander, this won't do," a company commander ran over to report. "At this failure rate, we'll have to throw away at least a third of our vehicles."

Wang Dashan looked at the truck lying on the side of the road, then at the map. Abandoning the truck meant abandoning some heavy equipment and supplies.

"Distribute the supplies from the broken-down vehicle to other vehicles, and squeeze the personnel together," he decided. "What we really can't take... bury on the spot, mark it, and wait for the follow-up troops to retrieve it."

The soldiers began unloading. Ammunition boxes, food sacks, and entrenching tools were unloaded from the trucks and buried in the sand. Some were reluctant to leave and stuffed their personal belongings into their backpacks, but were quickly told that all non-essential items should be left behind.

An eighteen-year-old recruit was clutching a small metal box and wouldn't let go. The squad leader went over to take a look and found that it contained photos and letters brought from home.

"Class monitor, this isn't heavy, I'll carry it..."

"Put it down." The squad leader hardened his heart. "This is an order. Once we get there, the division headquarters will arrange for a supply ship, and they'll bring you new ones."

As the iron box was buried in the sandpit, the recruits' tears fell, instantly evaporating on the scorching sand.

The convoy continued, but at a much slower pace. After abandoning twelve trucks, the remaining vehicles were severely overloaded and struggled on the soft sand.

On the evening of the fourth day, the vanguard camp arrived at their first designated campsite—a dried-up salt lake. The cracked soil at the bottom of the lake resembled huge scars, gleaming pale in the setting sun.

Wang Dashan jumped out of the jeep and grabbed a handful of soil. The soil crumbled into powder between his fingers, completely dry.

"Dig a well!" he ordered.

The engineers started the drilling equipment. The drill bit went down ten meters, twenty meters, thirty meters... and all that came out was dry sand. When they dug to fifty meters, they finally saw a little bit of moisture, but the amount of water was pitifully small; only half a bucket of murky muddy water seeped out after an hour.

"After purification, it's barely enough for drinking, but not enough to cool vehicles," the engineer platoon leader reported.

Wang Dashan looked at the setting sun, then glanced eastward—the main force of the division was still two days' journey away. The naval cargo ship wouldn't arrive for another five days.

He walked to the radio truck: "Send a message to the division commander: The vanguard battalion has reached the first target point, but water is scarce and 30% of the vehicles are broken down. Requesting instructions."

Two hours later, the call came back with only four words:

"keep going."

Wang Dashan tore up the telegram and ordered the entire battalion: "Six hours of rest tonight, depart at three in the morning. Fill all containers that can hold water. Tomorrow... we will cross the Death Zone in one go."

That night, the soldiers huddled around the campfire—if a few dry branches could be called a campfire—silently munching on their dry rations. No one spoke; only the sound of the wind and the howls of wolves in the distance could be heard.

A new recruit whispered to a veteran, "Squad leader, where are we going? This godforsaken place, even the Ottomans wouldn't dare come here."

The veteran gazed at the North Star: "Let's go somewhere that needs us."

Is it worth it?

The veteran remained silent for a long time before finally saying, "You'll understand when you raise the national flag there and watch it flutter in the desert."

At three in the morning, the convoy set off again. The headlights cut two faint beams of light in the boundless darkness, like ships sailing on a black sea.

Wang Dashan sat in the lead vehicle, a map and compass spread out on his lap. He had to make sure the direction was absolutely correct—in this desert without any landmarks, deviating from the course by ten kilometers could mean never finding his way out again.

Every half hour, the navigator used a sextant to measure the star positions and check the coordinates. The radio remained silent, with only the occasional timed signal from the Dubai base coming through the earpiece: beep, beep, beep—proof that they had not been forgotten by the world.

On the fifth day at noon, the thing I was most worried about happened.

A sandstorm is coming.

At first, it was just a sliver of yellow cloud on the horizon, like a ridge rising from the horizon. But just twenty minutes later, that sliver of yellow cloud expanded into a colossal wall that blotted out the sun, pressing down at an alarming speed. The sun disappeared instantly, daytime turned into dusk, and sand grains whipped up by the gale pounded against the car windows like bullets.

"Stop the car! All vehicles, form a circle! Face outwards!" Wang Dashan shouted into the radio.

The convoy struggled to form a circular defensive formation. Soldiers covered the engines with canvas and stuffed blankets into the gaps in the doors, but sand still managed to seep in through every crevice. Visibility dropped to less than five meters, and the world turned a chaotic yellow.

The sandstorm lasted for three hours. When the wind finally died down and the sun reappeared, the convoy was almost half buried in sand.

Losses assessed: Two trucks were totaled – sand had entered the engine cylinders. Three people were missing – separated during the sandstorm. When found, one had suffocated, and two were severely dehydrated.

Wang Dashan watched as the soldiers dug out the buried vehicles with entrenching tools, watched the medics administer IV fluids to the wounded, and watched the navigator anxiously readjust the bearings.

He walked to the suffocating soldier's body, knelt down, and closed the soldier's eyes. The soldier was young, probably not even twenty, and a half-photograph peeked out of his breast pocket—a woman holding a baby.