Chapter 752: The Whole Army Wiped Out

Li Tiejun stood beside him, also holding a telescope.

"Commander, fifty thousand men, and many officers. Should we urge surrender?"

Zhao Dengyu nodded.

"Urge. To subdue the enemy without fighting is best."

Li Tiejun was about to issue the order when he suddenly froze.

"Commander, look—"

Zhao Dengyu followed his gaze.

From the British Army camp, a few people emerged.

They walked slowly, laboriously, stepping over the corpses on the ground and the wounded still moaning, inch by inch toward this side.

The person at the front held something aloft in his hand.

It was white, strikingly visible in the sunlight.

Zhao Dengyu was stunned.

Li Tiejun was stunned.

Everyone was stunned.

It was a white flag.

Those few people drew ever closer.

Leading them was a Yingguo general, his face smeared with blood, his uniform tattered, yet his back still barely straight. He stopped in front of Zhao Dengyu.

The white flag in his hand still trembled slightly.

He lifted his head and looked at Zhao Dengyu.

In his eyes were fatigue, despair, and something indescribable—perhaps relief.

He spoke, his voice hoarse as sandpaper on steel.

"I represent the Yingguo Egyptian Corps, requesting surrender."

The battlefield fell silent.

Everyone watched this scene.

The British Army soldiers watched their general raise the white flag and walk toward the enemy.

The Lanfang soldiers watched the once haughty Yingguo men finally bow their heads.

Zhao Dengyu was silent for three seconds.

Then he leapt from the tank and approached the Yingguo general.

"What is your name?"

"Allenby. Edmund Allenby, commander of the Yingguo Egyptian Corps."

Zhao Dengyu nodded.

"General Allenby, how many of your soldiers remain?"

Allenby was silent for three seconds.

"Fifty thousand. Perhaps fewer."

Zhao Dengyu looked at him, his gaze lacking triumph or mockery, only an indescribable calm.

"Four hundred thousand, now only fifty thousand remain."

Allenby lowered his head.

"Yes."

Zhao Dengyu turned and looked at the British Army soldiers. They huddled together, trembling all over, their eyes filled with terror. Some knelt on the ground, palms pressed together, unsure what they were praying for. Some clutched the bodies of comrades, weeping silently. Some stood blankly, eyes hollow, like clay statues.

He suddenly thought of a question.

These people are also human. They have families, parents, wives and children.

They merely followed the wrong leaders, fought the wrong war.

He turned and faced Allenby.

"General Allenby, I accept your surrender."

Allenby lifted his head, a complex glint flashing in his eyes.

"Thank you."

Zhao Dengyu shook his head.

"No need to thank. The war is over, you can return home."

He paused.

"Though, not to your own homes."

Allenby gave a wry smile.

"Being alive is enough."

In the distance, the British Army soldiers began to lay down their weapons.

Rifles, machine guns, pistols, bayonets—each tossed onto the ground, piled into a small hill. Some, after dropping their weapons, stood there dazed. Some crouched, clutching their heads, weeping silently. Some knelt, kissing the sand beneath their feet, thanking God for letting them live.

Lanfang soldiers began to gather the captives.

A young Lanfang soldier approached a British Army soldier and said in halting English, "Weapon, put down. Walk over there."

The British Army soldier stared at him, frozen for three seconds, then slowly lowered his gun.

He asked, "Will you... kill us?"

The Lanfang soldier shook his head.

"No. Walk over there. There is food, there is water."

The British Army soldier was stunned.

"So… so it's that simple?"

The Lanfang soldier nodded.

"It's that simple."

The British Army soldier stood up and walked toward the designated direction. After a few steps, he suddenly turned back, looking at the Lanfang soldier.

"Thank you."

The Lanfang soldier said nothing.

He only nodded.

Zhao Dengyu stood on the tank, watching the captives being gathered.

Fifty thousand people, lined up in a long procession, marched toward Genaye City. They kept their heads down, silent, like a flock of lambs awaiting slaughter, yet also like a crowd finally able to rest.

Li Tiejun walked to his side and whispered, "Commander, we won."

Zhao Dengyu nodded.

"We won."

He watched the sky in the distance gradually darken, watched the captives being led away, and watched the soldiers cleaning the battlefield.

He suddenly recalled a question.

How many people actually died in this war?

Of the four hundred thousand British soldiers, only fifty thousand remained.

He shook his head, shaking the thought away.

Now is not the time to think about that.

He jumped down from the tank and headed toward the command post.

"Send a telegram to the President: the Sinai campaign is over. The British Army's four hundred thousand troops were completely annihilated, Ailenbi surrendered."

He paused.

"Egypt is ours now."

February 17, 1918, dusk.

Dubai, Presidential Office.

Chen Feng stood by the window, watching the Persian Gulf in the distance tinged red by the setting sun. On the sea, several merchant ships were slowly sailing into the harbor, their flags fluttering in the wind.

Wang Wenwu pushed the door open and entered, holding a telegram in his hand.

"President, Zhao Dengyu's telegram."

Chen Feng took the telegram and read it once.

Then he nodded and placed the telegram on the table.

"Tell Zhao Dengyu, well fought. Give the troops three days to recuperate, then continue westward. Egypt should be ours now."

Wang Wenwu nodded, turned, and was about to leave.

"Wait." Chen Feng called him back.

Wang Wenwu stopped.

Chen Feng was silent for a few seconds.

"Send a telegram to Shanben Yifu, ask how things are on the Daka side. Tell him India is not urgent, take it slowly. But Egypt has already been taken by Zhao Dengyu!"

Wang Wenwu nodded.

London at that moment was so overcast you could squeeze water out of the sky.

A heavy cloud layer pressed over Downing Street, gray and hazy like a massive lead sheet. There was no wind, no rain, only a stifling heaviness that made breathing difficult. The great clock of the Parliament Building had just struck eight, its chimes echoing through the damp air, carrying far and wide.

In front of the door at 10 Downing Street, dozens of reporters had already gathered. They held black umbrellas, crowded outside the iron fence, craning their necks to look inside. Some held notebooks, some raised cameras, some had cigarettes between their lips, and some whispered. Yet everyone's eyes were fixed on the tightly shut black door.

A young reporter stood on tiptoe, trying to see the courtyard's situation. An older reporter beside him tugged his sleeve.

"Don't look, you can't see it."

The young reporter, unwilling, pulled his neck back and whispered, "Sir, what news do you say will come today?"

The older reporter glanced at him, pulled a pipe from his pocket, leisurely packed tobacco, struck a match, and lit it. He took a deep drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"What news? Bad news. Only bad news."

The young reporter was stunned, "How do you know?"

The older reporter pointed at the door.

"Did you see? From six this morning until now, how many have entered? The Minister of the Navy, the Minister of the Army, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Minister of Colonial Affairs, the Minister of Indian Affairs— all have entered. With such a display, what good news could there be?"

The young reporter followed his finger's direction, and indeed, the door opened at intervals, ushering in a dignitary seated in a car. Each time someone entered, the reporters stirred, flashbulbs flared, but were soon swallowed by the rain.

"Sir," the young reporter asked again, "Do you say India really can't be held?"

The older reporter was silent for three seconds.

"Whether it can be held, we'll know soon," he exhaled a puff of smoke, "But look at the expressions of those entering—none look good."