World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Zhao Dengyu stood in the command post, his ears still ringing. He shook his head vigorously and shouted into the megaphone, "All units, report!"

Reports came one after another from the megaphone:

"Report from the 1st Mechanized Infantry Division! Tank units are ready and can depart at any time!"

"Second Infantry Division reporting! Infantry have boarded the vehicles and are ready to depart!"

"Report from the 3rd Infantry Division! Same as above!"

"Report from the 7th Division!"

"Report from the Eighth Division!"

"Report from the Ninth Division!"

Zhao Dengyu nodded and turned to look at Wang Tieshan.

"Old Wang, it's your turn."

Wang Tieshan stood at attention, saluted, and strode out of the command post.

Five minutes later, the engines of more than five hundred tanks roared simultaneously. The sound was deep and powerful, like the low growls of five hundred beasts. Black smoke from burning diesel fuel billowed from the exhaust pipes, conspicuously visible in the morning light. Tank crews leaned halfway out of their turrets, waving and shouting to the infantry behind them. The infantry, crammed onto the trucks, raised their rifles, waved their hats, and roared in response.

Wang Tieshan stood atop a Panzer II tank, holding a command flag. Looking at the densely packed tanks and trucks, and at the roaring soldiers, he suddenly felt an urge to cry.

Twenty years have passed. From the days of bicycles to today's five hundred tanks and 120,000 troops—Lanfang has truly stood up.

He took a deep breath, raised the command flag, and waved it sharply forward.

"Set off!"

The tanks began to move. More than five hundred tanks, lined up in more than a dozen columns, surged towards the Sinai Peninsula like a steel torrent. The dust kicked up by their tracks blotted out the sun, like a giant yellow dragon crawling across the ground. Behind them followed thousands of trucks, crammed with soldiers, a vast and endless line.

Zhao Dengyu stood outside the command post, watching the massive army pass by.

A young soldier walked past him and couldn't help but glance at him again—the legendary Zhao Yanwang, who had spent three months in Hordasa training 120,000 men into an iron army. Zhao Dengyu also looked at him—the boy looked to be under twenty, with a hint of childishness on his face, but his eyes were frighteningly bright.

"Kid, are you scared?" Zhao Dengyu suddenly asked.

The soldier hesitated for a moment, then straightened his chest: "I'm not afraid!"

Zhao Dengyu laughed, a laugh that stretched the wrinkles on his face, making him look somewhat ferocious.

"That's the right thing to do. Those who are afraid are all dead."

He patted the soldier on the shoulder, then turned and walked back to the command post.

Behind them, the steel torrent continued to advance.

The vanguard of the 1st Mechanized Infantry Division arrived at the first line of British defense at 6:40 a.m.

Wang Tieshan sat inside the No. 2 tank, peering ahead through the periscope. According to intelligence, there should be a British brigade of over three thousand men here, having spent three months constructing fortifications. But now, that so-called "defense line" was eerily quiet, without a single soul in sight.

"Stop the car," he ordered.

The tank stopped. Wang Tieshan climbed out of the turret and raised his binoculars.

The first trench was just two hundred meters ahead. It was deep and wide, in accordance with British standards. Three layers of barbed wire stretched along the front of the trench, with tattered strips of cloth hanging from them, fluttering in the wind. But inside the trench—it was empty.

"Send a platoon over there to take a look," he said to the communications soldier beside him.

A platoon of soldiers crouched low as they advanced. They cautiously approached the barbed wire, checked the ground with mine detectors to make sure there were no mines, and then cut an opening and crawled inside. Then they lay prone at the edge of the trench, holding their guns and peering inside.

A few seconds later, a soldier stood up and waved in their direction.

Wang Tieshan's heart sank.

He jumped off the tank and strode towards the trench. His adjutant and bodyguard quickly followed, shouting as they ran, "Commander, watch out!"

Wang Tieshan ignored them. He rushed into the trench, stood at the bottom, and looked around.

empty.

The trenches were well-constructed and sturdy. Firing platforms, bunkers, and ammunition depots were all present. The ammunition depot was still piled high with boxes of bullets and grenades, which hadn't been taken with them. The bunkers were lined with hay, and there were several half-empty tea mugs containing lukewarm water.

Wang Tieshan squatted down and touched the dry grass. There were still marks on the grass, indicating someone had slept there. He then touched the teacup—it was warm, meaning someone had just left. (Or perhaps it was reheated by the heat of an artillery shell, hahaha.)

"Order all units," he stood up, his face ashen, "to continue advancing. Inspect the second line of defense, the third line of defense, thoroughly."

Twenty minutes later, reports from various units began to arrive.

The second line of defense—was empty.

The third line of defense—is empty.

All the fortifications on the British positions were empty.

Standing in the trenches of the third line of defense, Wang Tieshan looked at the fortifications that had been blasted to pieces by artillery fire and suddenly felt as if he had punched cotton.

More than a thousand cannons, fifty thousand shells, an hour of relentless bombardment—and all that was left was a pile of dirt.

A soldier walked by and muttered, "Damn, the British run fast."

Another soldier chimed in, "That's right, they didn't even have time to wash the teacups."

"Shut up!" the squad leader roared, and the two soldiers quickly shrank back, not daring to say another word.

Wang Tieshan stepped out of the trench, stood on a high slope, and raised his binoculars to look westward. In the distance, he could vaguely see a plume of dust—it was the retreating British troops, rushing towards the Suez Canal.

"What about the reconnaissance plane?" he asked.

The adjutant replied, "It just took off ten minutes ago and we're tracking it."

"Have them keep a close eye on them. Tell Commander Zhao that the British have escaped."

When Zhao Dengyu received the message, he was having breakfast in the command post. A bowl of millet porridge, two steamed buns, and a dish of pickled vegetables. He had just taken a bite of a bun when the communications soldier rushed in and slammed Wang Tieshan's telegram on the table.

"Commander, an urgent telegram from Commander Wang!"

Zhao Dengyu picked up the telegram, glanced at it, and paused for three seconds.

Then he slammed the steamed bun on the table and started cursing:

"Damn it! I fired 50,000 shells and all I got was a pile of dirt?! The British ran faster than rabbits!"

Li Tiejun suppressed a laugh and handed over the telegram that the reconnaissance plane had just sent back: "Commander, the reconnaissance plane has discovered that the main British force is retreating towards the Suez Canal, about...40 kilometers away from us."

"Forty kilometers?" Zhao Dengyu's eyes lit up. "Can you catch up?"

"The tank units are pursuing at full speed; they should be able to intercept some of them before reaching the canal."

Zhao Dengyu waved his hand and shouted, "Chase! Tell Wang Tieshan to forget about formations and run as fast as he can! Infantry, get on the trucks and follow! Catching the British is victory!"

He stood up, grabbed his military cap, put it on, and strode outside.

Li Tiejun was taken aback: "Commander, where are you going?"

"The front lines!" Zhao Dengyu shouted without turning his head. "I want to see with my own eyes how those British bastards escaped!"