World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Cruiser No. 2 has been hit! Bridge destroyed!"

"Cruiser No. 3 has been hit three times! It's sinking!"

The observers' voices grew increasingly agitated, but Zhou Zhenguo remained unmoved. He simply held up his binoculars, watching the British warships burning, sinking, and dying.

The second cruiser attempted to weigh anchor and escape, but after moving only a dozen meters, it was struck in the bow by a shell. The shell penetrated the deck and exploded inside the hull, flames shooting out of the portholes like the tongue of a giant beast.

Before the third cruiser could even move, it was hit by three shells simultaneously. Two hit amidships and one hit stern, breaking the ship in half and slowly sinking into the harbor. All that remained on the surface was oil slick and debris, along with a few sailors struggling in the water.

"First volley complete. All targets destroyed or disabled."

Zhou Zhenguo nodded.

"Second round. Target: coastal defense artillery group. High-explosive shells."

The eight main cannons spun again, lowering their muzzles to point at the concrete gun emplacements built on both sides of the harbor.

Thirty seconds later, the second salvo was fired.

Sixteen high-explosive shells landed in the artillery emplacement area.

The first shell landed in front of the fort, burying a cannon in the turf it kicked up. The second shell hit the main body of the fort directly—the concrete fortification, built over three years and touted as "impregnable," proved as fragile as tofu before the 380mm shell. Concrete fragments flew everywhere, steel bars twisted and deformed, and the people inside the fort were instantly reduced to a pile of minced meat.

The third shot hit the ammunition depot.

A massive explosion sent up a mushroom cloud, flames shooting into the sky, visible from over ten nautical miles away. The shells in the ammunition depot were detonated, exploding continuously for a full minute, leveling the entire fortified area.

"The coastal defense artillery is completely paralyzed."

Zhou Zhenguo put down his binoculars.

"Send the signal: Japanese landing ships, you may begin."

On the landing ship, Kazuo Yamamoto saw the two rounds of shelling.

He saw the moment the three cruisers were sunk during the first salvo; he saw the explosion of the ammunition depot during the second salvo; he saw the two Lanfang battleships, like two steel behemoths in the morning light, spewing flames of death from their cannons.

A messenger ran over: "General! Lanfang's signal! We can begin!"

Kazuo Yamamoto nodded.

He turned to face the three thousand soldiers on the deck.

"Did you see that?" He pointed to the distant flames. "The British warships are sunk. The British fortifications are gone."

The soldiers stared at the towering flames, and no one spoke.

"Now, it's our turn."

He drew his sword and pointed it in the direction of Singapore.

"Charge onto the beachhead and take Singapore! From this day forward, the Japanese army will no longer be spectators!"

The landing ship's hatch slowly closed. Seawater rushed in, reaching above the soldiers' ankles and knees.

The first batch of soldiers began their charge.

Holding rifles, they waded through waist-deep water, desperately rushing towards the beach. The water resistance was immense, and every step required immense effort. But no one stopped, no one looked back.

Kazuo Yamamoto stood on the deck, watching the figures rushing into the sea.

Doihara walked up to him: "General, on the beach... there are no gunshots."

Kazuo Yamamoto nodded.

"I heard you."

Why don't the British fight?

Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent for three seconds.

"They're waiting," he said. "Waiting for all our soldiers to get ashore, waiting for them to huddle together, waiting for them to be within the optimal firing range."

Doihara's expression changed.

"That……"

Kazuo Yamamoto did not answer.

He simply watched those receding figures, the silent beach, and the two Lanfang battleships still emitting smoke in the distance.

and so on.

Everyone is waiting.

The Japanese soldiers are waiting for the moment to rush onto the beach.

British soldiers wait for the moment to fire.

The Lanfang battleship is awaiting the next order.

And he, Kazuo Yamamoto, was also waiting.

Wait until those soldiers use their blood to exchange for that beach.

On the bridge of the Zhenyuan, Zhou Zhenguo also held up binoculars, looking at the beach.

The Japanese soldiers had already reached the halfway point, only three or four hundred meters from the beach. The sea was covered with a dense mass of heads, like a flock of migrating birds.

Lin Huaiyuan stood beside him, his voice tense: "Commander, why haven't the British opened fire yet?"

Zhou Zhenguo did not answer.

He stared at the beach, at the silent British positions, at the trenches and machine gun emplacements.

He recalled the military books he had read in his youth, and the records about amphibious landing operations.

The defending side's biggest fear is the enemy landing too early. The earlier they land, the more time they have to organize their formation and the more opportunities they have to establish a beachhead. Therefore, a true commander waits. He waits until the enemy is halfway there, until they are exhausted and breathless, until they are stuck on the beach, unable to advance or retreat—

Then, fire.

"They're waiting," he finally said, his voice very soft.

Lin Huaiyuan was taken aback for a moment: "Waiting for what?"

Zhou Zhenguo put down his binoculars and looked at him.

"Wait until all those Japanese soldiers become targets."

On the beach, the first batch of Japanese soldiers finally rushed ashore.

They lay panting on the beach, rifles raised and aimed at the British positions ahead. The positions were quiet, silent, and deserted, except for the dark machine gun emplacements that stood out starkly in the morning light.

Regimental Commander Colonel Yamada Ichiro followed the second group of soldiers ashore. His left leg was cut by rocks in the seawater, and blood flowed down his trouser leg, but he ignored the pain.

The British position was just 300 meters ahead. The trenches were deep, the machine gun emplacements were sturdy, and three layers of barbed wire were in place. In front of the position was an open area with no cover whatsoever.

"Colonel," his adjutant gasped, "why haven't they opened fire yet?"

Yamada Ichiro did not answer.

He stared at the silent position, a strong sense of unease rising within him.

Thirty years ago, when he first joined the army, his instructor said something to him: "The British are best at waiting when they fight. They wait until you're tired, until you panic, until you feel you can finally relax—and then they open fire."

"Give the order," he said in a low voice, "to slow down and maintain formation. The vanguard advances fifty meters, then stops and waits for the follow-up troops."

The adjutant went to relay the order.

The first group of soldiers got up and crouched low as they advanced. Fifty meters, forty meters, thirty meters—they began cutting the barbed wire. The engineers used large pliers to cut each bar one by one, making a crisp "snap" sound. The infantrymen crouched behind them, their guns pointed forward, fingers on the triggers.

No one fired a shot.

No one fell.

Yamada Ichiro's brows furrowed even more.

A young soldier stopped, took out his canteen, and drank some water. An older soldier next to him shoved him, saying, "What are you drinking for? Wait until the fighting is over!"

The young soldier wiped his mouth, put the canteen back in, and continued forward.