diymy Chapter 750 Total Annihilation
Chapter 750 Total Annihilation
Li Tiejun stood beside him, also holding up binoculars.
"Commander, there are 50,000 men, including many officers. Should we try to persuade them to surrender?"
Zhao Dengyu nodded.
"I advise you. It would be best to subdue the enemy without fighting."
Li Tiejun was about to issue the order when he suddenly froze.
"Commander, look—"
Zhao Dengyu followed his gaze.
A few people stepped out from the British camp.
They walked slowly and laboriously, stepping over the corpses lying on the ground and the wounded who were still groaning, making their way towards this place step by step.
The person walking at the very front was holding something in his hand.
It's white, and it stands out brightly in the sunlight.
Zhao Dengyu was stunned.
Li Tiejun was stunned.
Everyone was stunned.
That's a white flag.
The group of people drew closer and closer.
Leading the group was a British general, his face covered in blood and his uniform tattered, but he still managed to stand upright. He walked up to Zhao Dengyu and stopped.
The white flag in his hand was still trembling slightly.
He looked up at Zhao Dengyu.
In those eyes, there was weariness, despair, and something indescribable—perhaps relief.
He spoke, his voice hoarse as if sandpaper had been rubbing against a steel plate.
"On behalf of the British Egyptian Corps, I request to surrender."
The battlefield fell silent.
Everyone was watching this scene.
The British soldiers watched as their general raised a white flag and marched toward the enemy.
Those Lanfang soldiers, looking at the once arrogant British, finally lowered their heads.
Zhao Dengyu remained silent for three seconds.
Then he jumped off the tank and walked up to the British general.
"What's your name?"
"Alanby. Edmund Allenby, Commander of the British Army Corps in Egypt."
Zhao Dengyu nodded.
"General Allenby, how many soldiers do you have left?"
Allenby was silent for three seconds.
"Fifty thousand. Maybe less."
Zhao Dengyu looked at him, his eyes showing no smugness, no mockery, only an indescribable calmness.
"Of the 400,000 people, only 50,000 remain."
Allenby lowered his head.
"Yes."
Zhao Dengyu turned to look at the British soldiers. They huddled together, trembling, their eyes filled with terror. Some knelt on the ground, hands clasped together, seemingly praying. Some held the bodies of their fallen comrades, weeping silently. Others stood blankly, their eyes vacant, like clay statues.
He suddenly remembered a question.
These people are human too. They also have families, parents, wives, and children.
They simply followed the wrong people and fought the wrong battle.
He turned around and looked at Allenby.
"General Allenby, I accept your surrender."
Allenby looked up, a complex light flashing in his eyes.
"Thanks."
Zhao Dengyu shook his head.
"You're welcome. The war is over, and you can go home."
He paused.
"Although, it's not your own home."
Allen gave a wry smile.
"Being alive is enough."
In the distance, the British soldiers began to lay down their weapons.
Rifles, machine guns, pistols, bayonets—one by one, they lay on the ground, piling up into a small mountain. Some people threw down their weapons and stood there in a daze. Some squatted down, buried their heads in their hands, and wept silently. Some knelt on the ground, kissing the sand beneath their feet, thanking God for letting them live.
Lanfang soldiers began to gather the prisoners.
A young Lanfang soldier walked up to a British soldier and said in broken English, "Put down your weapon. Go that way."
The British soldier stared at him, paused for three seconds, and then slowly lowered his gun.
He asked, "Will you...kill us?"
The Lanfang soldier shook his head.
"No. Go that way. There's food and water there."
The British soldiers were stunned.
"It's...it's that simple?"
The Lanfang soldier nodded.
"It's that simple."
The British soldier stood up and walked in the designated direction. After a few steps, he suddenly turned back and looked at the Lanfang soldier.
"Thanks."
The Lanfang soldiers remained silent.
He simply nodded.
Zhao Dengyu stood on the tank, watching the prisoners being gathered.
Fifty thousand people marched in a long line toward the city of Gennaye. They stood with their heads down, silent, like sheep awaiting slaughter, or like people finally able to rest.
Li Tiejun walked to his side and whispered, "Commander, we won."
Zhao Dengyu nodded.
"We won."
He looked at the darkening sky in the distance, at the prisoners who were leaving, and at the soldiers who were cleaning up the battlefield.
He suddenly remembered a question.
How many people died in this battle?
Of the 400,000 British troops, only 50,000 remained.
He shook his head, dismissing the thought.
Now is not the time to think about this.
He jumped off the tank and walked towards the command post.
"Telegram to the President: The Battle of Sinai is over. 400,000 British troops have been wiped out, and Allenby has surrendered."
He paused.
"Egypt is ours."
February 17, 1918, dusk.
Dubai, the presidential residence.
Chen Feng stood by the window, gazing at the Persian Gulf bathed in the red glow of the setting sun. On the sea, several merchant ships were slowly entering the harbor, their flags fluttering in the wind.
Wang Wenwu pushed open the door and came in, holding a telegram in his hand.
"Commander-in-Chief, Zhao Dengyu's telegram."
Chen Feng took the telegram and read it.
Then he nodded and placed the telegram on the table.
"Tell Zhao Dengyu, well done. Let the troops rest for three days, then continue westward. Egypt should be ours."
Wang Wenwu nodded and turned to leave.
"Wait a minute," Chen Feng called out to him.
Wang Wenwu stopped.
Chen Feng remained silent for a few seconds.
"Send a telegram to Yamamoto Kazuo, asking about the situation in Dhaka. Tell him there's no rush with India; take your time. But Egypt has already been taken by Zhao Dengyu!"
Wang Wenwu nodded.
London was so gloomy it looked like it could be wrung out of the ground.
Thick clouds hung over Downing Street, a hazy gray, like a giant sheet of lead. There was no wind, no rain, only a suffocating stuffiness. Big Ben, the clock tower of the Parliament House, had just struck eight, its chimes echoing far and wide in the damp air.
Dozens of reporters had already gathered in front of 10 Downing Street. Holding black umbrellas, they squeezed outside the iron fence, craning their necks to peer inside. Some held notebooks, some held cameras, some smoked cigarettes, and some were talking in hushed tones. But all their eyes were fixed on the tightly closed black door.
A young reporter stood on tiptoe, trying to get a better look at what was happening in the courtyard. The older reporter next to him tugged at his sleeve.
"Don't look, you can't see it."
The young reporter reluctantly shrank back and asked in a low voice, "Sir, what kind of news do you think there will be today?"
The old reporter glanced at him, took out a pipe from his pocket, slowly stuffed it with tobacco, struck a match, and lit it. He took a deep drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"What news? Bad news. Only bad news."
The young reporter was taken aback: "How did you know?"
The old reporter pointed to the door.
"Did you see that? How many people have gone in since six in the morning? The Secretary of the Navy, the Secretary of the Army, the Secretary of Foreign Affairs, the Secretary of State for Colonial Affairs, the Secretary of State for India—they're all in. What good news could come from a lineup like that?"
The young reporter followed his finger and, sure enough, the door opened every now and then, letting in a high-ranking official in a car. Each time someone went in, there was a commotion among the reporters, and flashes went off everywhere, but were quickly swallowed up by the rain.
"Sir," the young reporter asked again, "are you saying that India really can't be saved?"
The veteran reporter remained silent for three seconds.
"We'll find out soon enough whether it's safe or not." He exhaled a puff of smoke. "But look at the faces of those people when they went in—not one of them looked good."