Chapter 452: Desert Solitude

On the third day of the deployment, the vanguard camp of the First Mechanized Infantry Division arrived at Luweis.

It was a tiny fishing village on the southern shore of the Persian Gulf, with only a few dozen households, its houses built of coral stone and mud. When the convoy entered, ragged Arab fishermen fled in terror into their homes, peeking at the unfamiliar troops through the door cracks.

Regimental Commander Wang Dashan ordered a two‑hour rest. The soldiers leapt from the trucks to loosen their stiff limbs. A few Arabic‑speaking scouts tried to speak with the locals, but the villagers either shook their heads or muttered while pointing toward the northwest.

"What are they saying?" Wang Dashan asked the interpreter.

The interpreter's face grew grim: "They say that heading north is the 'Devil's Land'—no water, no grass, only man‑eating quicksand and sun that burns to death. A month ago an Ottoman patrol unit went in; of ten men only three returned, all of them mad."

Wang Dashan looked ahead. On the horizon, the boundary between desert and sky was indistinct, the heat haze warping the scenery.

"Map," he reached out.

The map was spread across the jeep's hood. From Luweis to Hordesa lay another eight hundred kilometres, crossing two great deserts and three dry riverbeds marked "seasonal river, dry in the arid season."

"How much fresh water remains?"

The logistics officer reported: "The vehicle's water tank is down to one‑third. At the current consumption rate it will last four days, but temperatures will rise in the coming days, so usage may increase."

Wang Dashan calculated: four days at two hundred kilometres per day would just reach the Hordesa coast—provided they didn't get lost, encounter a sandstorm, or suffer vehicle failures.

"Notify the entire camp," he ordered, "effective immediately, ration drinking water. Two litres per person per day, including cooking. Collect all urine and, after filtration, use it to cool the engines."

The order was passed down, and the soldiers complied silently. No one complained; it was the rule of desert marching.

After the rest, the convoy set out again. Less than twenty kilometres beyond Luweis, the paved road ended, giving way to a sand track. The wheels churned up a cloud of yellow dust.

The temperature rose rapidly. At noon the jeep's gauge read an outside temperature of forty‑eight degrees Celsius. The cabin felt like an oven, the seats too hot to sit on. Soldiers wrapped wet towels around their heads, but the towels quickly baked dry.

At three p. m., the first truck broke down—engine overheating, the water tank boiled over. The second and third followed. Mechanics crawled under the vehicles for repairs; the scorching sand blistered their arms.

"Regimental Commander, this won't do," a platoon leader ran up to report, "At this failure rate we'll have to discard at least a third of the trucks."

Wang Dashan stared at the crippled trucks by the roadside, then at the map. Abandoning the vehicles would mean discarding some heavy equipment and supplies.

"Redistribute the supplies from the broken vehicles onto the others, tighten the personnel load," he decided, "Anything truly impossible to carry… bury it on site, mark it well, and wait for follow‑up units to retrieve it."

The soldiers began offloading. Shell crates, food sacks, and engineer shovels were taken off the trucks and buried in pits on the sand. Some tried to stash personal items in their packs, but were promptly told that non‑essential items must be left behind.

An eighteen‑year‑old recruit clutched a small metal box and refused to let go. Squad Leader went over, saw that it contained photos and a letter from home.

"Squad Leader, it's not heavy, I'll carry it…"

"Put it down," the squad leader said firmly. "It's an order. When we reach the destination, the division headquarters will arrange a supply ship and give you a new one then."

As the metal box was buried in the sand pit, the recruit's tears fell and instantly evaporated on the scorching sand.

The convoy pressed on, but much more slowly. After discarding twelve trucks, the remaining vehicles were heavily overloaded, laboring painfully through the soft sand.

On the fourth evening, the vanguard camp reached the first scheduled camp—a dried salt‑alkali lake. The cracked mud at the lakebed resembled a massive scar, glowing a bleak white in the sunset.

Wang Dashan leapt from the jeep, scooped up a handful of earth. The soil crumbled into powder between his fingers, not a trace of moisture.

"Dig a well!" he ordered.

The engineers activated the drilling rig. The drill bit sank ten, twenty, thirty metres… only dry sand emerged. At fifty metres they finally saw a faint damp streak, but the water was pitifully scant—just half a bucket of murky mud water seeped out after an hour.

"After purification it barely suffices for drinking, but not enough for vehicle cooling," the engineer squad leader reported.

Wang Dashan watched the sun set in the west, then turned east— the division's main force was still two days away. The navy cargo ship would not arrive for five days.

He walked to the radio vehicle and said, "Send a message to the division commander: Vanguard camp has reached the first objective, water is scarce, vehicle failure rate thirty percent. Requesting orders."

Two hours later, the reply arrived, containing only four characters:

"Continue forward."

Wang Dashan tore off the telegram paper and ordered the whole camp, "Rest six hours tonight, depart at three a. m. Fill every container that can hold water. Tomorrow… we will cross the death zone in one go."

That night, the soldiers gathered around a fire—if a few dry branches count as a fire—and silently gnawed their rations. No one spoke, only the wind and distant wolves howling.

A recruit whispered to an old soldier, "Squad Leader, where exactly are we going? This cursed place, even the Ottomans won't dare come."

The veteran stared at the Big Dipper, "To a place that needs us."

"Is it worth it?"

The veteran was silent for a long while, then said, "When you raise the flag there and watch it flutter across the desert, you'll understand."

At three a. m., the convoy set out again. The headlights cut two faint shafts of light through the endless darkness, like ships sailing on a black sea.

Wang Dashan sat in the lead vehicle, a map and compass spread on his lap. He had to guarantee the direction was absolutely correct— in this featureless desert, a ten‑kilometre deviation could mean never getting out.

The navigator measured the stars with a sextant every half hour, cross‑checking the coordinates. The radio stayed silent, save for the occasional timed signal from the Dubai base in the headset: drip, drip, drip—proof they had not been forgotten by the world.

At noon on the fifth day, the worst‑feared event occurred.

A sandstorm arrived.

At first it was a thin yellow line on the horizon, like a raised ridge. Yet after only twenty minutes that line swelled into a towering wall that blotted out the sky, barreling forward at astonishing speed. The sun vanished instantly, day turned to dusk, and the gale‑driven sand hurled at the windows like bullets.

"Stop! Form a circle with all vehicles! Fronts facing outward!" Wang Dashan shouted into the radio.

The convoy painstakingly formed a circular defensive formation. Soldiers covered the engines with canvas and sealed door gaps with blankets, yet sand seeped in everywhere. Visibility dropped below five metres, the world turning a chaotic yellow.

The sandstorm lasted three hours. When the wind finally ceased and the sun reappeared, the convoy was nearly half‑buried in sand.

Losses tallied: two trucks totaled—sand entered the engine cylinders. Three soldiers missing—lost in the storm. When found, one had suffocated, the other two were severely dehydrated.

Wang Dashan watched the soldiers dig out the buried vehicles with engineer shovels, saw medics administer IVs to the wounded, and saw the navigator anxiously recalibrate the bearings.

He walked to the corpse of the suffocated soldier, crouched, and closed the man's eyes. The soldier was very young, perhaps under twenty, and a half‑photo peeked from his chest pocket—a woman cradling a baby.