diymy Chapter 747 Dumpling Skin vs. Dumpling Filling
Chapter 747 Dumpling Skin vs. Dumpling Filling
February 15th, noon, in the heart of the Sinai Peninsula, the British temporary command post.
Allenby was looking at the map, considering their next move. Three days had passed, they'd chased for 300 kilometers, but still hadn't caught up with the Lanfang people. The supply line was stretched too long, their formation had broken, and the soldiers were so exhausted they were staggering.
Chief of Staff Layton pushed open the door and came in, his face ashen.
"General, something has happened."
Allenby looked up.
"What is it?"
Layton's voice trembled.
"Reconnaissance aircraft report that Lanfang troops have appeared in Gennaye. At least ten thousand men."
Allenby's face turned pale instantly.
"Genaye?"
He rushed to the map and found Gnaye's location.
Gnaye—on the east bank of the Suez Canal. 150 kilometers behind him.
If the Lanfang people occupied Genaye—
His escape route was cut off.
"How is that possible? How did they get there?"
Layton shook his head.
"I don't know. They probably went around from the north, from the Arish side. They're faster than us."
Allenby stood there, motionless.
He recalled the feeling of certainty he had when he ordered the pursuit three days earlier. He remembered his own words—"If 400,000 men pressed forward, the people of Lanfang couldn't stop them."
What now?
Four hundred thousand people were made into dumplings by 120,000 people.
He suddenly laughed.
That kind of laughter sent chills down Layton's spine.
"General?"
Allen waved his hand.
"Get out. Leave me alone for a while."
Layton hesitated for a moment, then turned and left.
After the door closed, Allenby stood alone in the tent.
He looked at the map, at the dense red arrows, and at the small dot marked "Genaye".
Four hundred thousand people were wrapped up like dumplings.
From the Somme to Verdun, from Passchendahl to now, he has fought for four years and has never lost.
We're going to lose today.
He walked to the tent entrance, lifted the curtain, and looked at the soldiers resting outside.
They were still unaware of what had happened. They were still smoking, still chatting, still waiting for the next order.
They didn't realize that their escape route had been cut off.
They didn't know they were surrounded.
Allenby closed his eyes.
He suddenly remembered a question.
If we order a retreat now, is it too late?
There's still time. But on the way back, they'll be relentlessly pursued and attacked by the Lanfang people. Of 400,000 people, how many will survive and return to the canal?
What if I order an attack?
Attack, charge out, and maybe you can tear open a gap.
But an offensive requires morale. Where does morale come from?
he does not know.
All he knew was that from now on, this battle would be much harder to fight.
In the distance, a faint rumbling sound could be heard.
Was that the sound of artillery fire? Or the sound of a tank engine?
he does not know.
But he knew that the people from Lanfang were coming.
February 15, 1918, Sinai Peninsula.
The 7th Division, with 18,000 men, occupied Gennaye, cutting off the British army's retreat.
Zhao Dengyu ordered the entire army to turn around and prepare for a counterattack.
Four hundred thousand British troops were surrounded and annihilated by 120,000 Lanfang troops.
The dumpling wrappers are from the Seventh Division.
The dumpling filling is Allenby's 400,000 people.
February 16, 1918, 4:00 AM, in the heart of the Sinai Peninsula.
Before dawn, the moon had already set. The desert was pitch black, with only the whistling of the wind through the dunes and the occasional chirping of insects.
Four hundred thousand British troops are asleep.
The tents stretched endlessly from one sand dune to another, like a white ocean. The campfires had died down, leaving only wisps of smoke rising in the darkness. The sentries stood at the edge of the camp, rifles in hand, yawning, gazing at the pitch-black night ahead.
They have been chasing them for five days.
Five days have passed. They've chased this place from the canal, covering over 300 kilometers. The people of Lanfang have been running, they've been chasing. They've been chasing until they're breathless, until their feet are blistered and bleeding, until their confidence is waning.
But last night, the reconnaissance plane reported that the Lanfang people had finally stopped.
It's just 20 kilometers ahead.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. After a five-day chase, they had finally caught up. At dawn, they could begin the battle, win, and go home.
The sentries continued to yawn as they thought this.
Unbeknownst to them, more than 500 tanks were lined up behind the sand dunes in the distance.
Unbeknownst to them, more than a thousand cannons had already adjusted their firing angles, their muzzles aimed at the sleeping camp.
Unbeknownst to them, the Lanfang army, which had "escaped" for five days, was now quietly awaiting orders.
Zhao Dengyu stood on a Panzer II tank, holding up night vision binoculars and looking at the densely packed British army camp in the distance.
Through his night-vision goggles, everything glowed with an eerie green. Tents, sand dunes, and sentries were all clearly visible. He could see the sentries yawning, and he could see people smoking, the cigarette butts flickering.
Chief of Staff Li Tiejun stood beside him, also holding night-vision binoculars. His hands were trembling slightly—not from fear, but from excitement.
"Commander, the British are completely unprepared. Their camp is in chaos, even the sentries are dozing off."
Zhao Dengyu put down his binoculars and nodded.
He glanced at his watch.
4:30 a.m.
There are still two hours until dawn.
Two hours, is that enough?
enough.
He raised his right hand.
"fire."
In that instant, Zhao Dengyu felt as if the sky had fallen.
It wasn't a single deafening roar, but the simultaneous fury of over a thousand cannons. The muzzle flashes merged into one, illuminating the entire night sky, more dazzling than the brightest lightning. The shockwave could be felt several kilometers away, causing the sand beneath our feet to tremble slightly.
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 British camp.
Zhao Dengyu stood on the tank, holding up binoculars, looking at the area illuminated by the firelight.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
The first wave of shells landed.
In the distance, the British camp was instantly illuminated by flames. One after another, flames erupted, an endless, continuous barrage, like the gates of hell being kicked open. Tents were sent flying into the air by the explosions, sandbag fortifications were blasted to pieces, and sleeping soldiers were torn to shreds in their sleep.
The explosion, carried several kilometers away, had become a muffled thunderclap. But it wasn't just one or two thuds; it was a continuous roar that made the sand beneath our feet tremble slightly.
"Good!" Li Tiejun slammed his fist on the tank. "Blow the hell out of it!"
Zhao Dengyu remained silent.
He held up his binoculars, looking at the camp engulfed in flames, and muttered to himself:
"Fight, fight, fight—drive these 400,000 people back to their hometowns."
The British army camp was a scene of hell.
The sentries were the first to react.
A sentry was yawning when he suddenly saw a flash of light in the distance. He froze, and before he could even think of what it was, the first volley of shells rained down.
A shell landed ten meters away from him. The blast wave knocked him to the ground, making his ears ring and deafening him. He struggled to his feet and saw that his comrade who had been standing there smoking was gone.
Only one hand remained, still clutching the unfinished cigarette.
He opened his mouth, as if to shout something, but nothing came out.
Another shell landed.
This time it's closer.