Chapter 749: Dumpling Wrapper vs. Dumpling Filling

Noon on February 15, deep in the Sinai Peninsula, the British Army temporary command post.

Ai Lun Bi was studying the map, contemplating the next move. It had been three days, a three‑hundred‑kilometre chase, and they still hadn't caught up with the Lanfang people. The supply line had stretched too far, the formation had scattered, and the soldiers were so exhausted they staggered as they walked.

Chief of Staff Lai Dun pushed the door open, his face ashen.

"General, something's happened."

Ai Lun Bi lifted his head.

"What is it?"

Lai Dun's voice trembled.

"Recon aircraft report: Gena Ye has Lanfang troops. At least ten thousand."

Ai Lun Bi's face went white in an instant.

"Gena Ye?"

He lunged to the map and located Gena Ye's position.

Gena Ye—on the east bank of the Suez Canal, about one hundred fifty kilometres behind him.

If the Lanfang people seized Gena Ye—

his rear route would be cut off.

"How could that be? How did they get there?"

Lai Dun shook his head.

"I don't know. Perhaps they went around from the north, via Ali Shi. They moved faster than us."

Ai Lun Bi stood there, motionless.

He recalled three days earlier, when he ordered the pursuit, the resolve to win at all costs. He remembered his own words—"Four hundred thousand will crush them; the Lanfang people can't stop us."

Now?

Four hundred thousand, surrounded by one hundred twenty thousand, wrapped like dumplings.

He suddenly laughed.

That laugh sent a chill down Lai Dun's spine.

"General?"

Ai Lun Bi waved his hand.

"Go out. Leave me alone for a while."

Lai Dun hesitated briefly, then turned and left.

After the door closed, Ai Lun Bi stood alone inside the tent.

He stared at the map, at the dense red arrows, at the tiny dot labeled "Gena Ye".

Four hundred thousand, encircled like dumplings.

From the Somme River to Verdun, from Passchendaele to the present, he had fought for four years and never lost.

Today, he was about to lose.

He walked to the tent entrance, pulled back the curtain, and looked at the soldiers resting outside.

They still didn't know what had happened. They were still smoking, still chatting, still waiting for the next order.

They didn't know that their rear route had already been cut.

They didn't know they were already surrounded.

Ai Lun Bi closed his eyes.

He suddenly thought of a question.

If he ordered a retreat now, would it be in time?

It would be in time. But on the retreat, the Lanfang would chase and fire on them. Of the four hundred thousand, how many could make it back to the canal alive?

What if he ordered an attack?

An attack, a charge outward, might tear a gap.

But an attack needs morale. Where does morale come from?

He didn't know.

He only knew that from now on, this battle would be hard to win.

From afar came a faint rumbling.

Was it artillery fire? Or the sound of tank engines?

He didn't know.

But he knew the Lanfang were coming.

February 15, 1918, Sinai Peninsula.

The 7th Division, eighteen thousand strong, occupied Gena Ye, cutting off the British Army's rear route.

Zhao Dengyu ordered the entire army to turn around, preparing a counter‑attack.

Four hundred thousand British troops, encircled by twelve thousand Lanfang forces, wrapped like dumplings.

The dumpling wrapper is the 7th Division.

The dumpling filling is Ai Lun Bi's four hundred thousand.

February 16, 1918, 4 a. m., deep in the Sinai Peninsula.

The horizon showed no sign of dawn; the moon had already set. The desert was so black one could not see a hand in front of them, only the whine of wind over the dunes and occasional insect chirps.

Four hundred thousand British troops were sleeping.

The tents stretched endlessly, from one dune to another, like a white sea. The campfire had gone out, leaving only a few wisps of blue smoke curling in the darkness. Sentries stood at the camp's edge, cradling their rifles, yawning, watching the pitch‑black night ahead.

They had been pursuing for five days.

It's been five days, chasing from the canal to here, over three hundred kilometers. The Lanfang people kept running, and they kept pursuing. They chased until they were out of breath, their soles blistered, and their hearts grew increasingly hopeless.

But last night, the reconnaissance aircraft reported that the Lanfang people finally stopped.

Just twenty kilometers ahead.

Everyone let out a sigh of relief. After five days of pursuit, they finally caught up. When dawn comes, they can start the battle, win, and go home.

The sentries thought this as they kept yawning.

They didn't notice that behind the distant dunes, more than five hundred tanks were already lined up.

They didn't notice that over a thousand artillery pieces had already adjusted their angles, their barrels aimed at this sleeping camp.

They didn't notice that the Lanfang force that had "run away" for five days was now quietly awaiting orders.

Zhao Dengyu stood on a Type‑2 tank, holding a night‑vision binocular and watching the dense British Army camp in the distance.

In the night‑vision scope, everything glowed with an eerie green. Tents, dunes, sentries were all clearly visible. He could see the sentries yawning, could see someone smoking, the ember of the cigarette flickering.

Chief of Staff Li Tiejun stood beside him, also holding a night‑vision binocular. His hand trembled slightly—not from fear, but from excitement.

"Commander, the Yingguo people are completely unguarded. Their camp is a mess, even the watch posts are dozing."

Zhao Dengyu lowered the binoculars and nodded.

He glanced at his watch.

It was 4:30 a. m.

Distance to sunrise: two hours.

Two hours—enough?

Enough.

He raised his right hand.

"Fire the guns."

In that instant, Zhao Dengyu felt the sky collapse.

It wasn't a single thunderclap, but the roar of over a thousand artillery pieces firing together. The flames from the barrels merged into a sheet, lighting the whole night sky, brighter than the brightest lightning. The shockwave could be felt several kilometers away, making the sand beneath their feet tremble faintly.

Shells whistled overhead, not one or two, but an unending roar, like a thousand trains streaking across the sky, dragging death's whistle toward the British Army camp.

Zhao Dengyu stood on the tank, holding the binoculars, watching the direction illuminated by the firelight.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

The first wave of shells fell.

Far away, the British Army camp was instantly bathed in fire. Flames rose in clusters, one after another, endless, as if the gates of hell had been kicked open. The tents were blown skyward by the explosions, the sandbag fortifications shattered, and the soldiers still sleeping were torn into fragments.

The explosions reached them from several kilometers away, turning into a muffled thunderclap. Yet that muffled thunder was not a single or double boom, but a continuous roar, making the sand beneath their feet tremble faintly.

"Good!" Li Tiejun punched the tank, "Damn it!"

Zhao Dengyu said nothing.

He held the binoculars, watching the camp shrouded in fire, murmuring:

"Strike, strike, strike—send these four hundred thousand back home."

The British Army camp, hell has descended.

The sentries were the first to react.

A sentry yawning suddenly saw a flash of fire in the distance. He froze, and before he could think what it was, the first wave of shells fell.

A shell landed ten meters from him. The blast wave knocked him to the ground, his ears ringing, hearing nothing. He struggled to rise and saw the comrade who had just been smoking was gone.

Only a hand remained, still clutching the unfinished cigarette.

He opened his mouth to shout, but no sound came.

Another shell fell.

This time even closer.