diymy Chapter 748 This battle was fought so badly that there wasn't even a chance to finish off the e
Chapter 748 This battle was fought so badly that there wasn't even a chance to finish off the e
He felt his body fly up, and then he knew nothing more.
In the center of the camp, the soldiers were awakened from their sleep.
Some people had barely opened their eyes when the blast wave threw them out of their tents. Others scrambled to their feet and ran outside, only to be instantly killed by a shell. Still others huddled inside their tents, heads in their hands, trembling, praying that a shell wouldn't land on their heads.
But the shells still fell.
One shot, two shots, ten shots, one hundred shots.
It stretches on and on, without ceasing.
Screams, cries, and curses mingled together, but were quickly drowned out by the continuous explosions.
An officer rushed out of the tent, attempting to organize a resistance. He brandished his pistol and yelled at the fleeing soldiers, "Calm down! Calm down! Take cover!"
A shell landed beside him.
He disappeared.
Another officer tried to rally the troops. He blew his whistle and shouted out their unit numbers. A dozen soldiers ran over, and just as they gathered together, a shell fell and they were all wiped out.
No one can organize it.
No one can resist it.
All you can do is run, run, run.
Where did it run off to? I don't know.
But you have to run. If you don't run, you die.
The shelling lasted for thirty minutes.
For thirty minutes, more than a thousand artillery pieces didn't stop for a second. 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.
Thirty minutes later, the shelling stopped.
The world suddenly fell silent.
That silence was more terrifying than the shelling.
The British soldiers crawled out of the shell craters and looked around blankly.
The camp is gone.
Tents were blown to smithereens, ammunition trucks were detonated, and those comrades who had been alive just moments before were now mangled corpses. Some were missing arms, some were missing legs, and some were reduced to half-bodies. Blood stained the sand a dark red, starkly glaring in the dawn light.
A young soldier knelt on the ground, cradling his comrade's head—only the head, the body had been blown to pieces. He cried and shouted, but no one paid him any attention.
Another soldier lay on the ground, covered in blood, murmuring, "Mommy...Mommy..."
Nobody paid him any attention.
Then, someone sensed something.
The sand beneath my feet was trembling slightly.
It wasn't an explosion, it was something else.
An old soldier looked up and gazed into the distance.
In the distance, behind the sand dunes, countless black dots are appearing.
Those black dots grew larger and clearer—they were tanks.
More than five hundred tanks, lined up in skirmish lines, were charging towards them. The dust kicked up by their tracks blotted out the sun, and the roar of their engines could be heard several kilometers away. The muzzles of the tank guns gleamed coldly in the morning light, like countless eyes staring at them.
The veteran froze for three seconds.
Then he threw down the gun, turned and ran.
"Tanks! Tanks from Lanfang!"
Fear spread like a plague.
Everyone started running.
No one resisted, no one organized, no one thought of fighting back—they only thought of running away.
But two legs can't outrun a track.
Tanks stormed into the British camp like a pack of hungry wolves charging into a flock of sheep.
The 37mm cannons aimed at the British trucks, one shot, one kill, the trucks exploding into fireballs. Heavy machine guns swept through the fleeing soldiers, they fell in droves. The tracks crushed those who couldn't get out of the way, making a teeth-grinding crunch—the sound of bones being crushed.
A British soldier lay face down on the ground, his hands covering his head, trembling uncontrollably. A tank drove past him, its tracks just a meter away. He closed his eyes, thinking he was going to die.
But the tank didn't run him over.
He opened his eyes and saw the tank continuing to charge forward, chasing after the fleeing people.
He breathed a sigh of relief, then got up and kept running.
Where to run? I don't know. But I have to run.
A British officer attempted to organize a resistance. He took cover behind a blown-up truck, raising his pistol and firing at the oncoming tanks. The bullets struck the tank's armor, sending up sparks before ricocheting off.
The tank's turret turned and aimed at him.
He was stunned.
The 37mm gun spewed fire.
He disappeared along with the truck.
Lanfang's infantry followed behind the tanks, holding their guns, but they had almost no chance to fire.
Just as a soldier aimed at a British soldier, the British soldier was riddled with bullets by the heavy machine gun on the tank. He shook his head speechlessly and continued running forward.
Another soldier caught up with a British soldier, raised his gun, aimed, and was about to pull the trigger when a tank rushed over and rammed the British soldier, sending him flying. He stood there, stunned, watching the figure that had been thrown into the sand twitch twice, and then lay still.
He put down his gun and sighed.
"The battle was fought so badly that there wasn't even a chance to finish off the enemy."
Jeeps and three-wheeled motorcycles crisscrossed the battlefield like wolf cubs in a pack.
Light machine guns mounted on three-wheeled motorcycles opened fire on the fleeing British soldiers. Heavy machine guns mounted on jeeps were faster and had more firepower, mowing down groups of soldiers as they caught up.
A British soldier was running when he suddenly stopped, raised his hands, and shouted, "I surrender! I surrender!"
A three-wheeled motorcycle stopped in front of him. The machine gunner looked at him and remained silent for three seconds.
"Run east. Run fifty kilometers, there's a prisoner-of-war camp."
The British soldier was stunned.
The machine gunner yelled, "Run! Don't block the way!"
The British soldiers turned and ran, even faster than before.
The three-wheeled motorcycle continued to rush forward.
On the battlefield, figures could be seen running everywhere.
The British soldiers scattered and fled like sheep broken apart by a pack of wolves. The army couldn't find its divisions, the divisions couldn't find their regiments, and the regiments couldn't find their battalions. Everyone ran around like headless flies, not knowing where they were going.
But they were all running in the same direction—east.
To the east lies the direction of the canal, the direction of home.
But they didn't know that there were 18,000 people waiting for them to the east.
The chase lasted for two days and two nights.
On February 16th, Zhao Dengyu's main force pursued the enemy relentlessly from dawn until dusk. When tanks ran out of fuel, they stopped to refuel; when machine guns became red-hot, they switched to another and continued firing; when soldiers were too tired to run, they climbed onto tanks and lay on their sides to continue the chase.
British soldiers ran in despair.
When you can't run anymore, you fall down. Once you fall down, you can never get up again.
Those who could still run continued eastward.
They ran towards the canal, towards Gennaye, towards the place they thought was their hope.
A British soldier was running when he suddenly stopped. He looked back at the steel torrent that was chasing him, and then at his comrades who were still running ahead.
He knelt down and raised his hands.
A tank stopped in front of him. The tank crewman poked his head out of the turret and looked at him.