World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Another soldier started smoking. The moment the match was struck, Yamada Ichiro saw his hand tremble.

No one laughed at him. Because everyone was trembling.

The third batch of soldiers also landed. The beach was crowded with people, at least three thousand people crammed into that stretch of sand that was less than two square kilometers.

Yamada Ichiro glanced at his watch, then at the British positions ahead.

6:50.

They had been ashore for twenty minutes.

What are the British waiting for?

On the British lines, Brigadier General Henry Gurney lay prone at the edge of the trench, clutching a pocket watch in his hand.

The second hand ticked away—thirty seconds, forty seconds, fifty seconds…

His adjutant, lying beside him, whispered, "General, aren't you going to fire? They're almost at the barbed wire."

Brigadier General Gurney did not answer.

He stared at the Japanese soldiers cutting the barbed wire, at the crowd crammed onto the beach, and at the ever-growing, denser mass of gray uniforms.

"Wait a little longer," he said, his voice as calm as if discussing the weather. "Wait until they're all in open ground, until they're all huddled together, until they think we've already run away."

The adjutant swallowed hard and said nothing more.

In the trenches, three hundred British soldiers and twelve hundred Indian soldiers lay prone, their fingers on the triggers. No one moved, no one spoke, only the occasional cough was covered by someone nearby.

Gurney continued to check his watch.

6:52.

A large opening was cut in the barbed wire. The first group of Japanese soldiers began to pass through that opening and enter the open ground. They advanced step by step, guns raised and crouching low.

6:53.

The second batch has also begun to be approved.

6:54 AM.

The third group followed. The open space was packed with people, densely packed, like a swarm of ants.

Brigadier General Gurney finally closed his pocket watch and put it in his pocket.

Then he took a deep breath and said to his adjutant:

"Order all units: Hear my command, prepare to fire."

The adjutant whispered the order. The command was relayed down the trenches one after another—prepare to fire, prepare to fire, prepare to fire.

Brigadier General Gurney raised his right hand.

Three hundred Lee-Enfield rifles were aimed forward.

The muzzles of thirty-six Vickers machine guns were also aimed forward.

The muzzles of the twelve 18-pound field guns were also adjusted to the correct angles.

Everyone's fingers were on the trigger.

Brigadier General Gurney's right hand remained suspended in the air for a full three seconds.

Then, it fell suddenly.

"Fire!"

The moment the gunshot rang out, Yamada Ichiro's first reaction was not fear, but an eerie calm.

finally come.

He collapsed to the ground, the sound of bullets whizzing all around him. The sound was dense, like ten thousand bees buzzing overhead. Before his adjutant could react, a bullet struck him in the head, and his body went limp beside him, blood splattering all over his face.

"Scatter! Lie down!" he roared hoarsely.

But it was too late.

The first wave of soldiers who rushed into the open area were almost entirely exposed to British fire. Machine guns swept through like mowing grass, bullets piercing bodies and splattering blood. Soldiers fell in droves; some were hit in the head, some were shot through the chest, and some were blown to pieces by artillery shells.

Blood stained the beach, the sea, and the rifles that hadn't yet been thrown away.

Yamada Ichiro lay prone on the ground, his face buried in the sand. He could feel bullets whizzing past his head, people falling around him, and blood—hot, thick blood—flowing down the sand beneath him.

A young soldier lay prone to his left, still firing. The soldier was a good shot, changing position after each shot. But the British machine gun was too powerful; he had only changed positions three times when he was hit by a burst of bullets. When he fell, his eyes were still open, looking at Yamada Ichiro.

Yamada Ichiro saw his lips move, as if he wanted to say something. But blood gushed out, choking him.

he died.

Yamada Ichiro closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he opened his eyes, rolled over, and went to the radio operator's side.

The radio operator was still alive, huddled in a sandpit, trembling as he clung to his transmitter.

Yamada Ichiro grabbed him by the collar, lifted him up, and roared at him in the face:

"Quickly! Send a telegram to the Lanfang Navy! Send the coordinates! Call for naval gun support!"

The radio operator paused for half a second, then nodded frantically. His hands were trembling, but he still pressed the key, sending out the coordinates over and over again—

"Beachhead position coordinates: XX degrees XX minutes North latitude, XX degrees XX minutes East longitude. Requesting naval gun support! (Repeated request: Requesting naval gun support!)"

Around them, a dozen soldiers formed a circle, shielding them from the incoming bullets. One soldier fell after another, another rose to take their place. No one spoke, no one cried out; only the thud of bullets hitting the sand and the roar of exploding shells filled the air.

Yamada Ichiro gritted his teeth, staring at the two Lanfang battleships in the distance—

Did you see it?

Hurry up!

On the bridge of the Zhenyuan, the communications officer's voice changed: "Commander! Urgent telegram from Japan! Beachhead coordinates! Requesting naval gun support!"

Zhou Zhenguo strode to the telegram, glanced at it, and tossed it to the gunner.

"Coordinates confirmed. Full main gun rapid fire. High-explosive shells."

The gunner took the telegram and shouted into the megaphone, "Attention all turrets! Target coordinates—XX degrees XX minutes North latitude, XX degrees XX minutes East longitude! High-explosive shells loaded! Rapid fire!"

The eight 380mm main guns on the four turrets on each of the two warships slowly rotated.

That sound—that heavy, mechanical, spine-chilling turning—spread throughout the ship through the megaphone. Gears meshed, gun barrels rose, aiming at the coordinates that were being soaked in blood.

"Turret number one is ready."

"Turret number two is ready."

"Turret number three is ready."

"Turret number four is ready."

Gunner looked at Zhou Zhenguo.

Zhou Zhenguo nodded.

"put!"

All sixteen main cannons simultaneously spewed fire.

In that instant, the entire Zhenyuan trembled. The muzzle flashes illuminated the morning sea, making the glass in the bridge rattle. Sixteen high-explosive shells whistled through the sky, leaving trails of death as they flew toward the British positions where the Japanese soldiers were being slaughtered.

Thirty seconds.

To the soldiers of Japan, those thirty seconds felt longer than a lifetime.

Yamada Ichiro lay prone in the sandpit, counting the seconds. One, two, three… ten, eleven, twelve… twenty, twenty-one…

finally--

The shells fell.

Yamada Ichiro would never forget that sound.

Not one, but sixteen in a row, shaking the very earth. Each shell that landed exploded into a massive fireball, sending up clouds of dirt and mangled flesh. British trenches were flattened, machine gun emplacements were blown away, and soldiers who had been firing wildly just moments before were instantly reduced to piles of rubble.

The explosion lasted for a full ten seconds.

Ten seconds later, the British position fell silent.