World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The nights in Hordasa are so cold they can freeze you to death.

Zhao Dengyu stood on the sand dunes outside the temporary command post, wrapped in his faded military overcoat, looking at the densely packed artillery positions before him. The moonlight shone on the desert, casting a pale glow, and more than a thousand artillery pieces of various calibers looked like a group of sleeping behemoths under the moonlight—75mm mountain guns, 105mm howitzers, and 150mm heavy howitzers, row upon row, column upon column, their muzzles raised high, pointing towards the Sinai Peninsula.

Chief of Staff Li Tiejun emerged from the command post, holding an enamel mug in his hand, the steam rising into white mist in the cold air.

"Commander, have some hot tea. You've been standing here for an hour."

Zhao Dengyu took the jar, but didn't drink from it; he just held it in his hand to warm his palm.

"What time is it?"

"3:40. Fifty minutes to go."

Zhao Dengyu nodded without saying anything.

In the distance, figures moved about on the artillery positions. The gunners were doing their final checks—wiping the gun barrels, adjusting the firing angles, and moving shells. The shells, brought in from the rear, were piled up like small mountains, gleaming with a cold metallic sheen in the moonlight. The soldiers responsible for moving them were shirtless, drenched in sweat, their breath mingling with the white vapors of their mouths, like a pot of boiling water.

A young artillery lieutenant ran up to a 150mm heavy gun, patted the barrel, and said to his squad leader, "Sergeant, how big of a crater can this be blasted with one shot?"

The squad leader was a veteran in his early thirties, with a worldly-wise composure on his face. He glanced at the second lieutenant, took out a half-smoked cigarette from his pocket, struck a match, lit it, and took a deep drag.

"How big? If you stand there, one shot and you won't even find a hair on your head."

The lieutenant swallowed hard, his eyes gleaming with an alarming intensity: "Wouldn't the British be blown to bits?"

"Bombed to pieces?" The squad leader exhaled a puff of smoke. "You'll find out soon enough. An hour of shelling, 50,000 shells, and the British trenches will look like the surface of the moon."

Inside the command post, the telegraph machine beeped incessantly. Signalmen ran back and forth between the tents, delivering the latest weather data, target coordinates, and firing data to every artillery position. Staff officers gathered around the chart table, marking every firing point, every bunker, and every trench in the British positions with red and blue pencils.

Li Tiejun walked over and handed over a weather report he had just received.

"Commander, the reconnaissance plane just reported back. Over the Sinai Peninsula, the wind is from the southeast, the wind speed is level 3, and the visibility is good. The conditions for artillery fire are perfect."

Zhao Dengyu glanced at it and returned the report to Li Tiejun.

"Tell all artillery groups to proceed as planned. Once the bombardment begins, adjust the firing angle every ten minutes and extend the firing range by one hundred meters. Let the British experience what a steel storm is all about."

Li Tiejun nodded and turned to relay the order.

Zhao Dengyu continued to stand on the sand dune, looking at the increasingly bright eastern horizon.

almost.

It's four o'clock.

"Commander," a voice came from behind. It was Wang Tieshan, the deputy commander of the 1st Mechanized Infantry Division, a veteran in his early forties with a scar running from his eyebrow to his chin, a mark left from a domestic war twenty years ago. He was dressed in a crisp general's uniform and strode over to Zhao Dengyu's side.

"Old Zhao, our tank unit is ready. Five hundred and twenty-three tanks, all fully fueled and loaded with ammunition. The soldiers have had a hot meal and are just waiting for your cannon fire."

Zhao Dengyu looked at him and suddenly asked, "Old Wang, what do you think the British are doing right now?"

Wang Tieshan paused for a moment, then thought for a moment: "He's probably sleeping. This is when people are most sleepy."

"Let them sleep," Zhao Dengyu repeated, then suddenly laughed. "Later, let them sleep forever."

4:20

The final report came from each artillery group:

"First artillery group is ready!"

"The Second Artillery Group is ready!"

"The third artillery group is ready!"

"Heavy artillery group ready!"

One call after another, like the Grim Reaper calling roll.

Zhao Dengyu walked back to the command post, stood by the window, and raised his right hand.

The hand remained suspended in mid-air for a full ten seconds.

The second hand ticked away—4:29:55, 56, 57, 58, 59—

At exactly 4:30.

The hand suddenly fell.

"Fire!"

In that instant, Zhao Dengyu felt as if the sky had fallen.

It wasn't a single loud bang, but the roar of over a thousand cannons firing simultaneously. The muzzle flashes merged into one, illuminating the entire night sky, more dazzling than the brightest lightning. The shockwave could be felt hundreds of meters away, rattling the glass windows in the command post, making water glasses on the table jump and shatter on the floor, and causing everyone's chest to resonate.

Shells whistled overhead, not just once or twice, but a continuous roar, like a thousand trains passing through the sky at the same time, trailing deadly whistles as they flew toward the Sinai Peninsula.

Zhao Dengyu rushed to the window and raised his binoculars.

In the distance, the direction of the British positions was instantly illuminated by fire.

Clusters of flames rose up, one after another, endlessly, like the gates of hell being kicked open. The trenches that had been under construction for three months, the machine gun emplacements built with sandbags, and the permanent fortifications made of reinforced concrete, were like paper before the shells—lifted up, torn apart, thrown into the air, and then fell back down.

The explosion, which came from more than ten kilometers away, had become a muffled thunderous roar. But it wasn't just one or two thunderclaps; it was a continuous rumble that made the sand beneath our feet tremble slightly.

"Good!" Wang Tieshan slammed his fist on the table. "Blow the hell out of here!"

Zhao Dengyu did not cheer. He held up his binoculars, looking at the position shrouded in flames, and muttered, "Fight, fight, fight—drive the British back to their homeland."

The shelling lasted for a full hour.

For an hour, more than a thousand artillery pieces never stopped firing. The gunners, shirtless and drenched in sweat, mechanically repeated the actions of loading, aiming, and firing. Shell casings clattered and fell at their feet, piling up into small mountains. The smell of gunpowder was pungent and acrid, but no one wore masks—they didn't care.

A young gunner, having finished loading a shell, leaned against the gun carriage, panting heavily. His ears were ringing; he couldn't hear anything except his squad leader's mouth opening and closing as he shouted something. He shook his head frantically, pointing to his ears to indicate that he couldn't hear.

The squad leader leaned close to his ear and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Keep fighting! We'll talk after we're done!"

The gunner nodded, gritted his teeth, picked up another shell, and shoved it into the breech.

At 5:30, the shelling ceased.

The world suddenly fell silent.

That silence was more terrifying than any sound.