Chapter 672: Call for Lanfang Ship Gun Support

Another soldier started smoking. The moment the match struck, Shan Tian Yilang saw his hand trembling.

No one laughed at him, because everyone was trembling.

The third wave of soldiers also landed. The beach was packed, at least three thousand people crowded onto that stretch of sand less than two square kilometers.

Shan Tian Yilang glanced at his watch, then looked at the British Army position ahead.

Six fifty.

They had been ashore for twenty minutes.

Yingguo people, what are they waiting for after all?

On the British Army position, Commodore Heng Li·Ge Ni lay on the trench edge, a pocket watch in his hand.

The second hand ticked tick by tick—thirty seconds, forty seconds, fifty seconds…

His adjutant lay beside him, lowering his voice: "General, aren't we firing yet? They're almost at the barbed wire."

Commodore Ge Ni gave no answer.

He stared at the Sakura Nation soldiers cutting the barbed wire, at the crowds packed on the beach, and at the increasingly numerous, increasingly dense grey uniforms.

"Wait longer," he said, his voice as calm as if discussing the weather, "wait until they all enter the open ground, wait until they crowd together, wait until they think we have already fled."

The adjutant swallowed a mouthful of saliva and said nothing more.

In the trench, three hundred Yingguo soldiers and twelve hundred Indian soldiers lay still, fingers on the triggers. No one moved, no one spoke, only occasional coughs muffled by a hand.

Commodore Ge Ni continued to look at his watch.

Six fifty‑two.

The barbed wire was cut open with a big gap. The first wave of Sakura Nation soldiers began to pass through, entering the open ground. They raised their guns, crouched, and advanced step by step.

Six fifty‑three.

The second wave also began to pass.

Six fifty‑four.

The third wave followed. The open ground was packed, dense as a swarm of ants.

Commodore Ge Ni finally closed his pocket watch and slipped it into his pocket.

Then he inhaled deeply and said to the adjutant beside him:

"Relay to all units: Hear my command, prepare to fire."

The adjutant whispered the order. The command traveled down the trench one after another—prepare to fire, prepare to fire, prepare to fire.

Commodore Ge Ni raised his right hand.

The muzzles of three hundred Lee–Enfield rifles were aimed forward.

The muzzles of thirty‑six Vickers Machine Guns also pointed forward.

The muzzles of twelve eighteen‑pound field guns were also set to the proper angle.

Everyone's fingers rested on the triggers.

Commodore Ge Ni's right hand hovered in the air for a full three seconds.

Then, it dropped sharply.

"Fire!"

The moment the gunfire roared, Shan Tian Yilang's first reaction was not fear but a strange calm.

It finally arrived.

He collapsed onto the ground, the whistling of bullets ringing in his ears. The sounds were dense, like ten thousand bees buzzing overhead. His adjutant, still unreacted, was struck in the head by a bullet, his body limp as it fell beside him, blood splattering his face.

"Scatter! Lie down!" he shouted hoarsely.

But it was already too late.

The first wave of soldiers who surged into the open ground were almost entirely exposed to British Army fire. The machine guns swept like grass‑cutters, bullets piercing bodies and spraying blossoms of blood. Soldiers fell in waves—some hit in the head, some shot through the chest, some blown to fragments by shells.

The fresh blood dyed the beach red, the sea red, and the rifles that hadn't yet been discarded.

Shan Tian Yilang lay on the ground, his face buried in sand. He could feel bullets whistling overhead, feel people around him constantly falling, feel blood—hot, viscous blood—flowing down the sand beneath him.

A young soldier lay on his left, still firing. The soldier's aim was good; after each shot he changed position. But the British Army's machine guns were too fierce; after three position changes he was hit by a burst of bullets. When he fell, his eyes stayed open, staring at Shan Tian Yilang.

Shan Tian Yilang saw his lips move, trying to say something. But blood surged out, blocking his throat.

He died.

Shan Tian Yilang closed his eyes, inhaled deeply. Then he opened his eyes and rolled over to the radio operator.

The radio operator was still alive, curled in a sand pit, clutching the transmitter and trembling all over.

Shan Tian Yilang seized his collar, hauled him up, and roared at his face:

"Quick! Send the coordinates to the Lanfang Navy! Call for ship gun support!"

The radio operator was stunned for half a second, then nodded frantically. His hand trembled, but he still pressed the key, sending the coordinates over and over—

"Beachhead position coordinates: latitude XX°XX′, longitude XX°XX′. Request ship gun support! Repeat, request ship gun support!"

All around, a dozen soldiers formed a circle with their bodies, shielding incoming bullets. People kept falling, others kept taking their places. No one spoke, no one cried, only the "pup" sound of bullets hitting sand and the booming of shells exploding.

Shan Tian Yilang gritted his teeth, staring at the two Lanfang battleships in the distance—

"Did you see them?"

"Hurry!"

On the bridge of the Zhenyuan, the communications officer's voice changed tone: "Commander! Sakura Nation urgent telegram! Beachhead coordinates! Request ship gun support!"

Zhou Zhen guo stepped up to the telegraph, glanced once, and tossed the message to the gunner.

"Coordinates confirmed. All Main Guns rapid fire. High‑explosive shells."

The gunner took the telegraph and roared into the speaking tube: "All turrets, attention! Target coordinates—latitude XX°XX′, longitude XX°XX′! Load high‑explosive shells! Rapid fire!"

On each of the two battleships, the eight 380‑mm Main Guns on the four turrets slowly turned.

That sound— that heavy, mechanical, hair‑raising turning sound— was carried through the speaking tube to the whole ship. Gears meshed, the gun barrel lifted, aiming at the coordinate soaked in blood.

"Turret One ready."

"Turret Two ready."

"Turret Three ready."

"Turret Four ready."

The gun captain looked at Zhou Zhen guo.

Zhou Zhen guo nodded.

"Fire!"

Sixteen Main Guns simultaneously spewed flames.

In that instant, the entire Zhenyuan shuddered. The muzzle flame illuminated the dawn sea, rattling the glass on the bridge. Sixteen high‑explosive shells whistled across the sky, trailing a path of death, flying toward the British Army positions that were slaughtering the soldiers of the Sakura Nation.

Thirty seconds.

To the soldiers of the Sakura Nation, those thirty seconds felt longer than a lifetime.

Shan Tian Yilang lay in the sand pit, counting the seconds. One, two, three… ten, eleven, twelve… twenty, twenty‑one…

Finally—

Shells fell.

That sound, Shan Tian Yilang would never forget in his whole life.

It wasn't a single blast, but sixteen consecutive ones, shaking the earth itself. Each Shell that hit the ground exploded into a massive fireball, raising clouds of dust and shredded flesh. The British Army's trenches were flattened, the machine‑gun emplacements blown away, and the soldiers who had just been firing wildly were instantly reduced to piles of fragments.

The explosions lasted a full ten seconds.

Ten seconds later, the British Army positions fell silent.