Cairo

Three weeks after the fall of Dakar, Lorraine stood in front of the governor's mansion in Brazzaville.

The Congo River flowed behind him, wide as the sea, its waters a deep brown, carrying silt washed down from the heart of Africa. Across the river lay Belgian Congo, and further east, Rwanda-Urundi, a former German colony now under Belgian administration. But in the autumn of 1940, those borders were merely dotted lines on a map. What truly mattered was that whoever controlled this land controlled the heart of Africa.

Félix Eboué stood at the door waiting for him. The black governor wore the white uniform of a colonial official, a row of medals hanging on his chest, and had the reserved smile typical of old-school colonial administrators. But there was a light in his eyes, a light that Lorraine had seen in De Gaulle's eyes, in Leclerc's eyes, in the eyes of everyone who decided to gamble everything.

"Major Lorraine," Eboue extended his hand, "Welcome to Brazzaville."

Lorraine grasped that hand.

"Thank you, Governor."

Eboue smiled.

"Just call me Eboue. We don't need so much formality here."

He turned and led Lorraine into the governor's mansion. They walked through corridors, through gardens, and finally stopped in a room with a huge map hanging on the wall.

"Take a look at this," Eboue said, pointing to the map.

Loren stared at the map. It depicted the entirety of French Equatorial Africa, stretching from Chad in the north to the Congo in the south, from the Atlantic Ocean in the west to the Sudanese border in the east. City names were labeled: Fort La Myre, Pointe-Noire, Bangui, Douala, Garoua…

But what caught Loren's attention most were the red markings. Those were Eboue's marks, marking the colonies that had sided with Free France—Chad, Cameroon, Congo, Ubangi-Salih, and the vast lands west of Dakar.

"What we control now," Eboue said, "is Chad, Cameroon, Congo, and Ubangi-Salih. These four colonies combined are larger than mainland France. Add to that French West Africa in Dakar, and we have a solid foothold in Africa."

He paused.

"But the problem is, it's too big. There are too few people, too few roads, and too few soldiers who can fight. If the Italians attack from the north, we can't hold it."

Loran looked at the border that stretched southward from Libya.

"The Italians are afraid to go south now," he said. "We've scared them."

Eboue shook his head.

"It's only temporary. Mussolini isn't one to back down. He has 250,000 men in Libya, currently holed up on the coast, afraid to move, because your supply lines have been cut off. But once he reorganizes, once the Germans give him aid, those 250,000 men will flood in like a tide."

He looked at Loran.

"We need more people. More soldiers. To consolidate our existing territory and prepare for battle."

Loran nodded.

"I know."

For the next three months, Lorraine did not continue expansion. He and Eboue focused their efforts on consolidating the colonies they had already acquired.

Our first stop was Pointe-Noire. It was a port city on the Atlantic coast, the gateway to Congo. Several French merchant ships, rusted and moored, were docked at the pier, their crews squatting on the decks smoking. The port's garrison was a mixed battalion of over three hundred men, half white and half black, commanded by a lieutenant colonel named Marcel.

Marcel was an old-fashioned colonial officer in his fifties with a deep sun-tanned crease on his face. He offered Lorraine a drink, a local palm wine that was both sweet and strong, and one glass was enough to set your stomach on fire.

"Major," Marcel said, "I won't beat around the bush. Pointe-Noire has sided with Free France, you can rest assured. But my men, their families are here. If the Italians attack, if the Germans bomb this city, tell me, how am I supposed to explain this to my men?"

Lorraine put down her wine glass.

"Lieutenant Colonel," he said, "I'll fight the Italians before they attack."

He took a gold bar out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

The gold bar was small, only as long as a finger, but under the dim light of the palm wine, it shone with a light that was impossible to look away from.

"This is resettlement allowance for the soldiers," Lorraine said. "Each soldier will be given one of these gold bars. It's not a loan, it's a gift. They can keep it themselves, send it to their families if they want, or keep it if they want. Tell them that Free France will not let their families go hungry."

Marcel stared at the gold bar, his throat bobbing.

"How much... how much would that cost..."

"Twenty-three tons," Loran said. "The gold from Dakar is enough to feed the entire army of the African colonies, with some left over."

Marcel remained silent for a long time.

Then he drank the glass of palm wine in one gulp.

I believe you.

The second stop was Douala, the capital of Cameroon and the gateway to West Africa. The governor there was a young man in his early thirties named Pierre, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and speaking with a Parisian accent. He had just been sent there before the war and hadn't yet truly learned how to survive in Africa, but he was one of the first to side with Free France.

Pierre was much more straightforward than Marcel.

"I'm fine on my end," he said. "The Cameroonian troops are ready to be deployed at any time. But we need weapons. The old Lebel rifles can't take down the Italian tanks."

Loran nodded.

"The British agreed. The next batch of ships will have anti-tank guns and machine guns."

Pierre looked at him.

"The British? Can they be trusted?"

Loran thought for a moment.

"I don't trust them. But there's no better option right now."

The third stop was Bangui, the capital of Ubangi-Salih, the heart of the Central African Republic. The governor there was an old man named René, over seventy years old, who had spent fifty years in Africa, witnessing firsthand how this land had transformed from primeval jungle into a colony. He was one of the first to respond to Eboue's call to defect.

René sat in the wicker chair, fanning himself, and listened to Lorraine finish speaking before nodding.

“Young man,” he said, “you asked me before if Free France would return Africa to Africans after it won, and you said you didn’t know.”

Loran did not speak.

René looked at him.

"Now I'll ask you one more time: Will you continue to let Africans be cannon fodder?"

Loran remained silent for a few seconds.

“Governor,” he said, “everything I’m doing now is to end this war as soon as possible. The sooner the war ends, the fewer people will die. Africans, whites, it’s all the same.”

He looked into René's eyes.

"As for what happens after the war, I have no right to promise anything. But I know that if the Germans win, Africa will never belong to Africans. If the Allies win, at least there is still a possibility."

René stared at him for a long time.

Then he laughed.

"What you say is more true than what those politicians say, who are full of empty words."

He stood up, leaned on his cane, and walked to the window.

"I've lived for seventy years and seen too many people make too many promises. You make fewer promises, but at least what you say you can do."

He turned around.

"You can deploy any of Bangji's soldiers you like."

Three months later, French Equatorial Africa was completely secured.

Four colonies, hundreds of thousands of square kilometers of land, millions of people, and tens of thousands of conscripted soldiers. Combined with the gold of Dakar, Free France had a true foothold in Africa.

In December, when Lorraine stood for the last time in front of the Governor's Palace in Brazzaville, Eboué handed him a telegram.

"Take a look at this."

Loran took it.

The telegram was sent from Cairo to the British Middle East Command. It was very short:

"Italian troops in Libya are frequently moving around, and a large-scale offensive against Egypt is expected in the spring. We request Free France to send troops familiar with desert guerrilla warfare to assist in the defense. Churchill has agreed. Please send Major Lorrain to Cairo as soon as possible for consultation."

Loran stared at the telegram and remained silent for a few seconds.

"They're coming," Eboue said.

Loran nodded.

Italians. 250,000 people. Heading south.

He folded the telegram and put it in his pocket.

"Where is Bernard?"

"In the barracks. Sleeping."

"Wake him up," Lorraine said. "We're going to Cairo."

Cairo, January 1941.

When Lorraine first saw this city, he thought he had entered another world.

The Nile River shimmered golden in the sunlight, and three-masted sailboats floated on its surface, their boatmen calling out in Arabic. The banks were lined with densely packed, earthen-yellow houses, seemingly growing out of the desert. In the distance, the outlines of the pyramids were faintly visible, triangular, silent, having stood there for five thousand years.

The streets were packed with people. British, Egyptians, Greeks, Jews, Arabs, dressed in all sorts of colors, speaking languages ​​that were incomprehensible to them. Military trucks drove by one after another, kicking up clouds of dust. Soldiers squatted by the roadside smoking, their eyes fixed on the Egyptian women who walked by.

Bernard, standing beside him, was also stunned.

"Is this Africa?" Bernard asked.

"This is Egypt," Loran said. "Part of Africa."

They crossed the street and entered the building housing the British Middle East Command.

The building was a colonial-era structure, with two British soldiers standing at the entrance, their expressions indifferent. Lorraine showed his identification and was led into a conference room.

The conference room was already full of people.

On either side of the long table sat British officers, their ranks rising higher and higher on their shoulders. At the head of the table sat a man in his fifties, bald, with a hooked nose and an unsettling glint in his eyes. Beside him sat a young man wearing glasses, who was taking notes.

"Major Lorraine." The bald man stood up. "I am General Archibald Wavell, Commander-in-Chief of the British Middle East Command."

Lorraine saluted.

Wavell sized him up.

"General de Gaulle said in his telegram that you were the best guerrilla warfare expert he had ever used. In three months, with three hundred men, you fought your way from Libya to Dakar."

He paused.

"I need you to do the same thing for me."

Lorraine looked at him.

"To fight Italians?"

Wavell nodded.

"Mussolini couldn't wait any longer. He had 250,000 men in Libya, but in the past three months, his supply lines had been cut seven times, four frontline outposts had been withdrawn, and the soldiers were starting to complain among themselves. The newspapers in Rome were criticizing him, and the people in Berlin were laughing at him."

He walked up to the map.

"So he has to fight. He has to win a victory before spring arrives to prove that Italy is not useless."

His finger drew a line between Libya and Egypt.

"Here, Sidi Barani. The Italian vanguard has advanced to this point. Their next targets are Alexandria and the Suez Canal. If they succeed, Britain is finished in the Mediterranean. Our fleet will lose supplies, our colonies will lose contact, and we will lose the war."

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"I have 75,000 men under my command. Australians, New Zealanders, Indians, British, and several Free French battalions. But I'm not familiar with the desert. I don't know how to wage guerrilla warfare here, how to cut off supply lines, or how to make the Italians retreat and dare not move."

He stared into Loran's eyes.

"You come from Stoney. You've been fighting in the desert for three months. You know how to fight this kind of war."

"So I need you to help me train a team. A team that can hide in the desert like you, shoot and run, so the Italians never know where the next shot will come from."

Loran remained silent for a few seconds.

He stared at the map, at the red arrow stretching from Libya to Egypt, at the dense markings. Two hundred and fifty thousand people, seventy-five thousand. One to three.

"General," he said, "do you want to win, or do you want to stall?"

Wavell paused for a moment.

"What do you mean?"

"Winning means eliminating those 250,000 men. Delaying means preventing them from advancing south," Loran said. "Which do you choose?"

Wavell looked at him, and the light in his eyes changed.

"Go on."

Loran pointed to the map.

"250,000 people, it's impossible to wipe them all out. We don't have that many people, that much ammunition, that many planes. But we can make them afraid to move. Just like in Libya, cut off their supply lines, bomb their ammunition depots, kill their patrols. Make them feel that taking one step forward means death."

He drew a circle in the desert with his finger.

"Fifty kilometers east of Sidi Barani, there is a supply line from Tripoli. This is the lifeline of the Italians. Their food, ammunition, and water all come from here. If we can cut off this line, then 250,000 people will become 250,000 corpses waiting to starve to death."

Wavell stared at him.

"You make it sound so simple. How do I cut it?"

Loran raised his head.

"Give me three hundred men," he said. "Three hundred soldiers who can survive in the desert. Three hundred soldiers who are willing to crawl into the enemy camp at night and disappear before dawn. Three hundred soldiers who are not afraid of death, thirst, or never coming back."

He paused.

"Three months. Three months later, I turned the Italians' supply lines into their nightmare."

The meeting room was silent for a few seconds.

The bespectacled young man stopped writing and looked at Lorraine. The other British officers exchanged glances. Wavell stood there, motionless.

Finally, Wavell smiled.

It was a very strange smile, almost like something that shouldn't exist on his hooked-nosed face.

"De Gaulle said you would say that," Wavell said. "He said you would need three hundred men, three months, to cut off the supply lines."

He looked at Loran.

He made me agree to it.

Loran did not speak.

Wavell walked up to him and extended his hand.

"Three hundred men, three months. Whoever you want, I'll give them. Whatever equipment you need, I'll give you. But there's one condition..."

He stared into Loran's eyes.

"I want to see the results in three months."

Lorraine grasped that hand.

You will see.

The training camp is located deep in the desert, 200 kilometers west of Cairo.

There was nothing there. No houses, no trees, no water. Only endless yellow sand and the occasional exposed rock. It was as hot as an oven during the day and as cold as an icebox at night. When the wind blew, sand seeped into every crevice, into mouths, noses, and eyes—everywhere.

Loran stood on a rock, watching the three hundred men lined up in front of him.

They came from all over the world. Volunteers from the British Special Air Service, survivors of the Australian Desert Reconnaissance Team, veterans of the Free French Foreign Legion, and several Bedouins recruited locally in Egypt. They varied in height, build, skin color, and language, but they all shared the same thing in their eyes—the kind of look that only those who have survived the battlefield possess.

Bernard stood beside him.

"Three hundred," Bernard said. "Is that enough?"

Loran looked at those people.

"It has to be enough, even if it's not enough."

He began to speak. His voice wasn't loud, but in the silence of the desert, everyone could hear him clearly.

"My name is Loran. Some of you have heard of this name, some haven't. It doesn't matter. What matters is that over the next three months, I will train you into a team that can survive in the desert and give Italians nightmares."

He looked into those people's eyes.

"How do you train? It's very simple. Walk during the day, walk at night, keep walking even when you can't walk anymore. Drink your own urine when you're thirsty, eat anything you can find in the desert when you're hungry. Don't look back when you're being chased, and don't stop when you're chasing others. Be accurate when you shoot, run fast, and sleep with one eye open."

He paused.

"Three months from now, you will hate me. But three months from now, you will also know why 250,000 Italians dared not go south."

No one speaks.

Loran nodded.

"start."

In the first week, they walked.

They walked forty kilometers every day. They walked by day and by night. They had no map, only a compass. They had no supplies, only the water and dry rations they carried. Loran walked in front, never stopping. Those behind him followed, step by step, gritting their teeth.

People collapsed. Heatstroke, dehydration, exhaustion. Bernard helped them into the vehicle and took them back to camp. More and more people collapsed, from three hundred to two hundred and eighty, two hundred and fifty, two hundred and twenty.

The second week, they learned to shoot.

They didn't train on a shooting range, they trained in the desert. They trained against the wind and sand, under the scorching sun, and in the pitch-black night. Loran's requirement was simple: within 500 meters, the first shot had to hit. If it didn't, no food.

One man, an Australian veteran who had participated in the Dunkirk evacuation and believed himself to be the best marksman in the world, disagreed. He fired a shot right in front of Lorraine, but missed. Lorraine didn't say anything, but simply had Bernard take away his dinner.

The next day, he won.

In the third week, they learned how to ambush.

Loran divided the men into groups of ten, each responsible for a section of the "supply line." The supply line was fake, made up of several wrecked trucks and scarecrows. Each group had to sneak in at night, blow up the trucks, kill the scarecrows, and then disappear before dawn.

The first attempt failed for Group Eight. They were caught by the "patrolmen" deployed by Loran and locked up overnight.

The second time, five groups failed.

The third time, both groups failed.

The fourth attempt was a complete success.

That night, Loran stood in the camp, looking at the dust-covered men. There was a light in their eyes. The kind of light that only those who know they can do it have.

Bernard walked over to him.

"Will these people be able to fight in three months?"

Loran nodded.

"able."

In the fifth week, they learned patience.

Loran led them deep into the desert, abandoned them there, and left. No water, no food, no compass. Only one sentence: "I will come for you in three days. Those who survive, continue. Those who die, bury them here."

On the first day, some people started complaining.

The next day, some people tried to turn back, but were stopped by the men sent by Loran.

On the third day, everyone lay motionless on the sand, their lips cracked and their eyes half-closed.

On the morning of the fourth day, Loran returned.

He counted. Two hundred and three. Nineteen were dead.

He looked at the people, and they looked at him. No one spoke.

Loran spoke up.

"You're alive," he said. "As long as you're alive, you can keep fighting."

Week 6, Week 7, Week 8.

The training became increasingly brutal. Night raids, daytime ambushes, long-distance raids, camouflage and infiltration, demolitions, assassinations, retreats, dispersals, and regrouping. Three hundred men became two hundred, two hundred became one hundred and eighty. But those who remained were each like a sharpened knife.

In the ninth week, Loran conducted an assessment.

He divided the remaining 180 men into 18 groups of 10 each. Each group was given a mission: to infiltrate an Italian supply depot 50 kilometers south of Sidi Barane, blow up the ammunition depot there, and then return safely.

The mission wasn't real. The Italians didn't know. But the supply depot was real, the ammunition was real, and the guards were real.

Three days later, all eighteen groups returned.

Seventeen groups succeeded, one group was discovered, and three people were lost, but the mission was completed.

Loran stood in the camp, watching the people who had returned.

Bernard asked him, "And now?"

Loran looked in the west.

"Now," he said, "it's time to get to work."

Fifty kilometers south of Sidi Barani.

Loran lay prone behind a rock, binoculars pressed against his eyes. Two kilometers away, the Italian supply depot was clearly visible in the twilight. Rows of tents, lines of trucks, piles of ammunition boxes. A circle of barbed wire surrounded the depot, and sentries paced lazily back and forth at the entrance.

Bernard lay down beside him.

How many people?

Loran counted them.

"One battalion. About five hundred men. Thirty trucks, enough to carry a week's worth of supplies."

Bernard licked his chapped lips.

How many of us are there?

Lorraine put down his binoculars.

Ten.

Bernard grinned. His teeth, which were gleaming white against his tanned face, looked exceptionally white.

"That's enough."

It got dark.

Night falls quickly in the desert. Ten minutes ago it was a sea of ​​orange-red, ten minutes later it was pitch black. There was no moon, no stars. Only the wind, blowing the sand, making a mournful sound.

The ten people began to move.

They slipped into the darkness like shadows, silently. They bypassed the sentries, climbed over the barbed wire, and slipped into the camp. Every step was made of sand, without a sound. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the target ahead, without any unnecessary movement.

Loran led three men toward the ammunition depot. Bernard and six others guarded the truck.

The ammunition depot was a tent filled with wooden crates. Two sentries stood at the entrance, smoking. The flickering firelight illuminated their weary faces.

Loran waited for a while.

After finishing his cigarette, the sentry threw the butt on the ground and stomped it out. One of them yawned and turned to walk towards the back of the tent.

The other one stayed behind, leaned against the tent, and lit another cigarette.

Loran moved.

He burst from the darkness, three meters away, in a second. His left hand covered the sentry's mouth, while his right hand slashed the dagger across his throat. Warm blood spurted out, splashing onto Loran's face. The sentry's body went limp, and he gently laid him to the ground.

Footsteps came from behind the tent. Another sentry had returned.

Loran leaned against the tent, waiting for him to come over.

The footsteps grew closer. One step, two steps, three steps.

The person turned the corner of the tent.

Loran's dagger pierced his heart.

Two corpses, thirty seconds.

Loran lifted the tent flap and crawled inside. The wooden crates were piled high; he pried one open—it contained artillery shells. He pried open another—it contained bullets. He pried open a third—it contained high explosives.

He placed the time bomb in the bottom layer, set the timer, and then crawled out of the tent.

In the distance, Bernard's men were stuffing the same thing under the truck.

The ten men began to retreat.

Five minutes later, they disappeared into the desert.

Twenty minutes later, the explosion occurred.

Flames shot skyward, illuminating half the heavens. The sounds of exploding ammunition were like thunder, one after another, lasting a full five minutes. Thirty trucks were all reduced to scrap metal. The camp of five hundred men was in complete chaos.

Ten people lay prone behind a sand dune five kilometers away, watching the ball of fire.

Bernard grinned.

"It's done."

Loran did not speak.

Italian soldiers are not like German soldiers; success is inevitable, but what should they do next?

London was riddled with craters from the Battle of Britain, and the Germans had not yet shifted their attention to North Africa.

Once Rommel personally took command of the North African campaign, it was another bloody and brutal affair.