World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

From the air, the Sinai Peninsula appears as a battlefield of pursuit.

Lanfang's tank force, like a pack of crazed steel monsters, rampaged across the desert. More than five hundred tanks, lined up in skirmish lines, sped westward at top speed, their tracks kicking up dust that stretched for hundreds of meters, like giant yellow dragons. Behind them followed thousands of trucks, crammed with soldiers, jostled about, but no one complained—they knew they were racing against time.

Wang Tieshan stood in the turret of the No. 2 tank, one hand holding the hatch and the other holding up binoculars, staring intently at the approaching plume of smoke and dust ahead.

"How much further?" he yelled at the communications soldier beside him.

The communications soldier, referring to the map and the reconnaissance plane's report, shouted back, "About twenty-five kilometers! The British retreat is slow; they're carrying supplies!"

"Good!" Wang Tieshan's eyes lit up. "Order all units to pursue at full speed! Tell the trucks behind to keep up!"

The tank's engine roared low, and the speedometer needle had already reached thirty-five kilometers per hour—the tank's maximum speed. The tracks spun rapidly across the sand, kicking up clouds of dust that lashed at the vehicles behind, forcing the drivers to proceed by feel.

British soldiers who had fallen behind began to appear along the way.

The first thing discovered was a broken-down truck. It was slumped over by the roadside, both tires flat, and the bed piled high with ammunition boxes. Several British soldiers were circling the truck, trying to repair it. When they saw the Lanfang tank emerging from the dust, they paused for three seconds, then dropped their tools and raised their hands.

The company commander, who was leading the group, leaned out of the tank and yelled at them, "Drop your weapons! Head east! Go to the POW camp yourselves!"

The British soldiers looked at each other, clearly not understanding. The company commander shouted it again in English, and this time they understood. They immediately threw their rifles on the ground, lined up, and started marching east.

A young Lanfang soldier, leaning on the truck, watched the dejected prisoners walking eastward and couldn't help but laugh: "Squad leader, they really went?"

The squad leader was a veteran in his early thirties, his face bearing the calm composure of someone accustomed to such things. He glanced at the prisoners and lit a cigarette.

"What if you don't go? Wait for us to deliver it? We don't have time for that."

After walking for a while, more stragglers began to appear by the roadside. Some sat on the sand panting, and when they saw the pursuers coming, they raised their hands to surrender; some hid behind rocks and were dragged out by scouts; some simply lay on the ground pretending to be dead, and only got up after being kicked a couple of times, then reluctantly threw away their weapons and headed east.

A Lanfang officer stood on a jeep, holding a megaphone, repeatedly shouting in English: "We don't have time to capture you! Drop your weapons and head east! Keep heading east! Go fifty kilometers, there's a POW camp there! Walk in yourselves! Don't make us send anyone to escort you!"

The British soldiers listened with mixed expressions. Some were dejected, some were relieved, and some looked bewildered. But they all did as instructed—throwing down their guns, forming ranks, and marching eastward step by step.

The scene was both absurd and real. There was no escort, no binding, no scolding. There was only a group of dejected prisoners walking towards the prisoner-of-war camp on their own.

A young British soldier took a few steps, then suddenly turned back to look at the Lanfang army still rushing westward. There was something indescribable in his eyes—was it envy? Resentment? Or something else entirely?

The old soldier next to him gave him a push: "Come on, stop looking. You're lucky to be alive."

He lowered his head and continued walking.

Around noon, the vanguard caught up with the British rearguard.

It was a battalion of Indian soldiers, about five hundred men, holding a high sand dune. They had dug simple trenches and set up machine guns, trying to buy time for the main force to retreat.

Wang Tieshan raised his binoculars, looked at it, and sneered.

"A battalion of five hundred men, you think you can stop me?"

He lowered his binoculars and said to the artillery commander beside him, "Bring over an artillery battery and fire for ten minutes. Then the tanks will move in."

Ten minutes later, twelve 105mm howitzers began their bombardment. Shells landed on the sand dunes, exploding into clouds of dust and mangled flesh. The Indian soldiers had no proper fortifications and could only lie prone on the sand, enduring the bombardment. Each shell that landed killed several men. Screams, cries, and curses mingled together, but were quickly drowned out by the explosions.

Ten minutes later, the tanks charged forward.

The Indian soldiers were utterly helpless. Some hadn't even crawled out of the shell craters before being crushed into mincemeat by the tanks. Some raised their guns, trying to surrender, but the tank crew didn't see them; a single shot rang out, and they were gone. Many more threw down their weapons and turned to run, but their legs couldn't outrun the tank tracks; they were caught, knocked down, and run over.

The battle lasted less than twenty minutes. Of the five hundred Indian soldiers, more than three hundred died, and the rest were taken prisoner.

Wang Tieshan stood atop a tank, looking at the prisoners. They were crouching on the ground, their hands covering their heads, trembling all over. Some were still bleeding, some were crying, and some were muttering something—perhaps their god, perhaps their mother.

"Tell them," Wang Tieshan said to the translator, "drop your weapons and head east. There's a prisoner-of-war camp fifty kilometers away. Don't let us see them again."

The translator shouted it out in Hindi. The Indian soldiers, as if granted a pardon, quickly threw down their guns and stumbled eastward.

A young Lanfang soldier watched the prisoners run away and whispered, "Squad leader, are we just going to release them like this? What if they turn around and attack us again?"

The squad leader smoked a cigarette, squinting as he watched the figures grow smaller and smaller.

"Turn back? Turn back what? Do they even have the guts?"

He exhaled a puff of smoke.

"Let's go, we still have to chase after them."

At 3 p.m., the pursuing forces had advanced to within 30 kilometers of the Suez Canal.

Zhao Dengyu arrived at the front lines in a jeep. Standing on the seat, he peered through binoculars. In the distance, a thin line of water shimmered in the setting sun—that was the Suez Canal, the dividing line between Asia and Africa, the lifeline of the British. On the west bank of the canal, some buildings could be vaguely seen; that was Egyptian land.

"How much further?" he asked.

Wang Tieshan stood beside him, pointing to the map: "The straight-line distance is twenty-eight kilometers. But the main British force has already crossed the canal, so the chances of us catching up are slim."

Zhao Dengyu cursed and put down his binoculars.

"Damn it, they got away."

The sights along the way filled him with mixed emotions. Every few hundred meters, he could see groups of British soldiers marching eastward. Some were dressed in neat uniforms, some in only their underwear, and some were barefoot. They had discarded their weapons, their equipment, and even their boots, all in an effort to move faster.

A Lanfang military officer stood on a jeep, holding a megaphone, repeatedly shouting, "Head east! Fifty kilometers! Prisoner of war camp! Walk in yourself!"