Chapter 697: We Have No Time to Capture You! Drop Your Weapons and Go East

From the air, the Sinai Peninsula turned into a chase battlefield.

Lanfang's tank units were like a pack of crazed steel monsters, barreling across the desert. Over five hundred tanks formed a scattered line, sprinting west at top speed, their tracks kicking up sand that trailed hundreds of meters like yellow dragons. Behind them followed thousands of trucks packed with soldiers, swaying side to side, yet no one complained—they knew this was buying time.

Wang Tieshan stood in the turret of Tank No. 2, one hand on the hatch, the other holding a binocular, staring fixedly at the growing plume of dust ahead.

"How far is it?" he shouted at the nearby communications soldier.

The communications soldier, looking at the map and reconnaissance reports, answered loudly: "About twenty‑five kilometers! The British Army's retreat is slow; they're hauling supplies!"

"Good!" Wang Tieshan's eyes brightened. "Order all units to give full chase! Tell the trucks behind to stay close!"

The tank's engine roared low, the speedometer needle already at thirty‑five kilometers—its limit for a tank. The tracks spun rapidly over sand, the spray slamming into the vehicles behind; the drivers could only rely on feel to keep moving.

Along the way, straggling British soldiers began to appear.

The first found was a broken‑down truck. It lay askew by the road, both tires flat, its bed piled with ammunition crates. A few British soldiers circled it, trying to repair it. When they saw a Lanfang tank burst from the dust, they froze for three seconds, then tossed their tools and raised their hands.

The company commander, peeking out from the tank, shouted at them: "Drop your weapons! Move east! Get into the POW camp yourself!"

The British soldiers looked at each other, clearly not understanding. The commander shouted the order again in English; this time they grasped it, hurriedly dropping their rifles, forming a line, and actually marching east.

A young Lanfang soldier crouched on the truck, watching the dejected captives heading east, and couldn't help laughing: "Squad Leader, they really went?"

The Squad Leader was a veteran in his early thirties, his face bearing a practiced calm. He glanced at the captives and lit a cigarette.

"What if they don't go? Wait for us to escort them? We don't have that leisure."

After another stretch, more stragglers appeared along the roadside. Some sat on the sand, gasping, raising their hands to surrender when the pursuers approached; some hid behind rocks, only to be flushed out by scouts; others simply lay down pretending to be dead, only to be kicked awake, grudgingly discard their weapons, and head east.

A Lanfang officer stood on a jeep, megaphone in hand, repeatedly shouting in English: "We have no time to capture you! Drop your weapons, go east! Keep going east! Walk fifty kilometers, there's a POW camp! Get in yourself! Don't make us send anyone to escort you!"

The British soldiers listened, their expressions mixed. Some dejected, some relieved, some bewildered. Yet they all obeyed—dropping their rifles, forming a line, and stepping eastward.

The scene was absurd yet real. No escort, no bindings, no scolding. Just a group of dejected captives walking themselves toward the POW camp.

A young British soldier took a few steps, then turned back, watching the Lanfang troops still charging west. In his eyes was an indefinable something—envy? resentment? or something else?

The veteran beside him gave him a shove: "Move, stop looking. Being alive is enough."

He lowered his head and kept walking.

At noon, the vanguard caught up with the British rear guard.

It was a battalion of Indian soldiers, about five hundred, holding a higher sand dune. They had dug simple trenches, set up a machine gun, trying to buy time for the withdrawing main force.

Wang Tieshan lifted his binoculars, sneered.

"A battalion, five hundred, think they can stop me?"

He set down the binoculars and said to the nearby artillery commander: "Call in an artillery company, fire for ten minutes. Then onto the tanks."

Ten minutes later, twelve 105‑mm howitzers opened fire. Shells struck the dune, raising clouds of sand and splintered flesh. The Indian soldiers had no proper fortifications, forced to lie on the sand under the barrage. One shell could blast several men skyward. Cries, wails, curses blended together, quickly drowned by the explosions.

Ten minutes later, the tanks surged forward.

Some who raised their guns to surrender were not seen by the tank crews; a shell passed over and the man vanished. More dropped their rifles and turned to run, but their legs couldn't outrun the tracks; they were caught, knocked down, and run over.

The fight lasted less than twenty minutes. Of the five hundred Indian soldiers, over three hundred died; the rest were taken as prisoners.

Wang Tieshan stood on a tank, watching the captives. They crouched, hands over heads, trembling all over. Some were still bleeding, some weeping, some muttering—perhaps their gods, perhaps their mothers.

"Tell them," Wang Tieshan said to the interpreter, "drop their weapons, go east. Walk fifty kilometers, there's a POW camp. Don't let us see them again."

The interpreter shouted the order in Hindi. The Indian soldiers, as if granted amnesty, hurriedly dropped their guns and staggered eastward.

A young Lanfang soldier watched the fleeing captives and whispered, "Squad Leader, are we really letting them go? What if they turn back and attack us?"

The Squad Leader smoked, squinting at the shrinking silhouettes.

"Turn back? Turn what back? Do they have the nerve?"

He exhaled a plume of smoke.

"Let's go, we still have to chase."

At three p. m., the pursuit force had advanced to within thirty kilometers of the Suez Canal.

Zhao Dengyu arrived at the front in a jeep. He stood on the seat, binoculars raised, scanning ahead. In the distance, the thin water line glittered in the sunset—that was the Suez Canal, the boundary between Yazhou and Africa, the lifeline of the British. On the canal's west bank, faint outlines of buildings could be seen, the land of Egypt.

"How far is it?" he asked.

Wang Tieshan stood beside him, pointing at the map: "Straight‑line distance twenty‑eight kilometers. But the British Army's main force has already crossed the canal; our chance of catching up is slim."

Zhao Dengyu muttered a curse, then set down his binoculars.

"Damn, they got away."

The sights along the way left him conflicted. Every few hundred meters, a few British soldiers could be seen heading east—some in neat uniforms, some in just underwear, some barefoot. They discarded weapons, gear, even boots, just to move faster.

A Lanfang officer stood on a jeep, megaphone in hand, repeatedly shouting: "Go east! Fifty kilometers! POW camp! Get in yourself!"