Chapter 750: The battle was fought with no chance even for a finishing blow

He felt his body fly up, and then he knew nothing.

In the center of the camp, the soldiers were startled awake from their sleep.

Someone who had just opened his eyes was blown out of his tent by the blast wave. Another scrambled up and ran outward; when a Shell fell, a dozen people vanished instantly. A third hid inside a tent, clutching his head, trembling all over, praying the Shell wouldn't land on him.

But a Shell still fell.

One Shell, two Shells, ten Shells, a hundred Shells.

They came in an unending stream, without pause.

Screams, cries, and curses blended together, but were quickly drowned out by the relentless explosions.

An officer burst out of a tent, trying to organize resistance. He raised his pistol and shouted at the scrambling soldiers, "Stay calm! Stay calm! Find cover!"

A Shell landed beside him.

He vanished.

Another officer tried to rally the troops. He blew his whistle and shouted the unit numbers. Dozens of soldiers ran over; just as they gathered, a Shell fell and they were all gone.

No one could organize.

No one could resist.

Only run, run, run.

Run where? No idea.

But they had to run. Not running meant death.

The shelling lasted thirty minutes.

In those thirty minutes, over a thousand guns fired without a single pause. The artillerymen were shirtless, drenched in sweat, mechanically repeating the loading, aiming, and firing motions. Shell casings clanged at their feet, piling up into little hills. The smell of gunpowder was so acrid it stung the throat, yet no one wore masks—there was no time.

A young artilleryman, after loading a Shell, leaned on the gun carriage and gulped air. His ears rang, hearing nothing, while he saw the sergeant's mouth opening and closing as he shouted something. He frantically shook his head, pointed to his ears, indicating he couldn't hear.

The sergeant leaned close to his ear and bellowed at full volume, "Keep firing! Finish first, then talk!"

The artilleryman nodded, gritted his teeth, grabbed another Shell, and shoved it into the barrel.

After thirty minutes, the shelling stopped.

The world fell silent all of a sudden.

That silence was more terrifying than the shelling.

British soldiers crawled out of the craters, staring around in bewilderment.

The camp was gone.

Tents were blown apart, ammunition trucks detonated, and the comrades who had just been alive were now mangled corpses. Some were missing arms, some had lost legs, some were reduced to half a body. Blood stained the sand a dark red, glaring in the dawn.

A young soldier knelt on the ground, cradling his comrade's head—just the head, the body nowhere to be seen. He cried and shouted, but no one paid him any heed.

Another soldier lay prone, drenched in blood, murmuring, "Mother… Mother…"

No one paid him any attention.

Then, someone sensed something.

The sand beneath their feet trembled slightly.

It wasn't an explosion, but something else.

An old veteran lifted his head and looked into the distance.

In the distance, behind the dunes, countless black specks were appearing.

The specks grew larger and clearer—it was tanks.

More than five hundred tanks, arrayed in a scattered line, surged toward them. The tracks kicked up clouds of sand that blotted out the sky, and the engines' roar could be heard for kilometers. The guns' muzzles on the tanks glinted coldly in the dawn, like countless eyes staring at them.

The veteran froze for three seconds.

Then he tossed his rifle aside and turned to run.

"Tanks! Lanfang's tanks!"

Fear spread like a plague.

Everyone started to run.

No one resisted, no one organized, no one thought of a counterattack—they only thought of running.

But two legs can't outrun tracks.

Tanks barreled into the British camp like a pack of hungry wolves into a flock of sheep.

The 37mm gun aimed at the British trucks, each shot turning a truck into a fireball. Machine guns swept the fleeing soldiers, causing them to fall in waves. The tracks rolled over those who couldn't dodge, emitting a sickening screech—the sound of bones being crushed.

A British soldier lay prone, hands covering his head, trembling all over. A tank rolled past him, its tracks a meter away. He closed his eyes, thinking he was about to die.

But the tank didn't run him over.

He opened his eyes and saw the tank keep charging forward, pursuing the fleeing men.

He exhaled, then got up and kept running.

Run where? No idea. But they had to run.

A British officer tried to organize resistance. He hid behind a blown‑up truck, raised his pistol, and fired at the charging tank. The bullets struck the tank's armor, sparking a few flares before ricocheting.

The tank's turret swung around, pointing at him.

He froze.

The 37mm gun erupted in fire.

He and the truck vanished together.

Lanfang's infantry followed the tanks, rifles raised, but they barely had any chance to fire.

A soldier had just aimed at a British soldier when that British soldier was shredded by the tank's machine gun. He shook his head wordlessly and kept running forward.

Another soldier chased a British soldier, raised his gun and was about to pull the trigger when a tank barreled past, slamming the British soldier into the air. He froze, watching the airborne figure land on the sand, twitch twice, then go still.

He lowered his gun and sighed.

"This battle was fought, with not even a chance to land a finishing blow."

Jeep and three-wheeled motorcycles darted across the battlefield like wolf pups in a pack.

A light machine gun was mounted on the three-wheeler, sweeping fire at the fleeing British Army soldiers. The Jeep carried a heavy machine gun, faster and more powerful; once it caught a group, it mowed them down.

A British Army soldier ran, then suddenly stopped, raised his hands and shouted, "I surrender! I surrender!"

A three-wheeler stopped in front of him. The gunner stared at him, silent for three seconds.

"Run east. Run fifty kilometers; there's a POW camp."

The British Army soldier was stunned.

The gunner roared, "Run! Don't block the way!"

The British Army soldier turned and ran, faster than before.

The three-wheeler kept charging forward.

On the battlefield, running figures were everywhere.

The British Army soldiers scattered in flight, like a flock of sheep driven apart by a wolf pack. The army couldn't find a division, the division couldn't find a regiment, the regiment couldn't find a battalion. Everyone ran chaotically like headless flies, not knowing where they were heading.

But they all ran toward the same direction—east.

East is the direction of the canal, the direction of home.

But they didn't know that east, there were eighteen thousand people waiting for them.

The pursuit continued for two days and two nights.

On the daytime of February 16, Zhao Dengyu's main force pursued nonstop, from dawn to dusk. When a tank ran out of fuel, it stopped to refuel; when a machine gun overheated, they swapped it for another; when soldiers could no longer run, they climbed onto the tank and crawled on its hull to keep the chase.

The British Army soldiers ran in desperation.

When they could no longer run, they fell. Once fallen, they could not rise again.

Those who could still run kept heading east.

They ran toward the canal, toward Ge Na Ye, toward the place they thought was hope.

A British Army soldier kept running, then suddenly stopped. He glanced back at the steel torrent chasing behind him, then looked ahead at the comrades still running.

He knelt down, raised his hands.

A tank stopped in front of him. The tank driver stuck his head out of the turret and looked at him.