Erwin Rommel

Port of Tripoli, February 14, 1941.

The setting sun painted the Mediterranean Sea a deep red. Three transport ships were slowly approaching the shore; the hatches opened, and the first batch of tanks rumbled down the ramps. Gray paint, square turrets, dust kicked up by their tracks swirling in the twilight. Panzer IV tanks, at least thirty of them.

A group of Italian officers stood on the dock, led by General Italo Garibaldi, Commander-in-Chief of the Italian forces in North Africa. He wore a crisp uniform and snow-white gloves, but his face was grim. In the past three months, his supply lines had been bombed seventeen times, and the soldiers had begun to privately call him "the starving ghost." Now that the Germans had arrived, he didn't know whether to be happy or nervous.

A thin figure stepped out of the queue and stood in front of him.

Erwin Rommel. Forty-nine years old, not tall, with broad shoulders, and a face tanned dark like that of someone who had spent a long time in the wild. He wore his famous goggles, hanging around his neck, the lenses still dusty with desert grime. His eyes were grey-blue, and he would squint slightly when looking at people, as if calculating something.

"General Garibaldi," Rommel extended his hand, German transmitted through the interpreter, "His Führer has sent me to assist you."

Garibaldi grasped that hand. It was hard and strong. He suddenly had a strange premonition: from this day forward, the war would be different.

"Welcome, General Rommel," Garibaldi forced a smile. "I've prepared a welcome dinner for you..."

“No need,” Rommel interrupted him, his gaze sweeping over the tanks unloading cargo. “I need the latest enemy situation reports. The British deployment in Brega, their supply lines, their patrol patterns. And,” he paused, “all intelligence on that partisan group.”

Garibaldi was stunned.

"Guerrilla forces?"

Rommel looked at him, his gray-blue eyes expressionless.

"Three hundred men. They cut off your supply lines for three months. They bombed you seventeen times. They forced your 250,000 men to cower on the coast, too afraid to move." He said, enunciating each word clearly. "You're not telling me you don't even know the name of their commander?"

Garibaldi blushed.

Rommel didn't wait for his reply. He turned and walked towards his command vehicle, leaving behind a single sentence:

"I need all the data by four o'clock tomorrow morning. Now, I'm going to inspect the front lines."

The command vehicle disappeared into the twilight. On the dock, the Italian officers looked at each other in bewilderment.

Garibaldi's adjutant leaned closer and whispered, "General, this man..."

Garibaldi didn't speak. He just stared in the direction the command vehicle had disappeared, his lips pressed into a thin line.

At the same time, in Cairo, at the British Middle East Command.

General Wavell stood before a huge map, while his chief of staff briefed him on the situation across the entire theater of operations. The map on the wall was covered with dense symbols, stretching from the Libyan desert to the Greek mountains, from the East African plateau to the Iraqi oil fields.

"First, the good news, General." The chief of staff pointed towards East Africa. "The fighting in Ethiopia is basically over. Duke Aosta's troops have run out of supplies, and Emperor Haile Selassie will be able to return to Addis Ababa and reclaim his throne next month."

Wavell nodded. The victory in the East African campaign came at just the right time; the 4th and 5th Indian Divisions could now be redeployed.

"And the bad news?"

The chief of staff moved his finger to the top left corner of the map, to Greece.

"It's bad. The Germans have just committed the 12th Army. Our Australian and New Zealand divisions can't hold them off. We received the order to retreat yesterday, and they're going to do another Dunkirk, retreating from the Peloponnese."

Wavell closed his eyes. Greece had suffered another defeat. Of the 30,000 British expeditionary troops, how many could be evacuated?

"There's worse," the chief of staff hesitated, then pointed in the direction of Iraq. "A ​​coup has occurred in Baghdad. The pro-German Rashid Ali al-Qailani has come to power. He's in contact with the Germans, trying to invite German troops into Iraq."

Wavell suddenly opened his eyes.

Iraq. Oil. If the Germans get their hands on Iraq's oil fields, the British Mediterranean Fleet will be finished, and the entire Middle East will be finished.

What was Churchill's attitude?

"The Prime Minister said that this is our lifeline and we must protect it at all costs. He ordered us to immediately send troops to Basra in a 'police operation', not into Baghdad, but only to protect the oil fields."

Wavell remained silent for a few seconds.

"Send troops?" He gave a wry smile. "What am I supposed to send? Rommel wants to fight in North Africa, Greece is in disarray, and Iraq is about to send troops. Thirty thousand troops divided into three battlefields—this is going to drain my resources dry."

He walked to the window and looked at the still bustling streets of Cairo. The sun was shining brightly, and the café was full of people, as if the war was just news in the newspapers.

"Return the call to London," he said. "Iraq can send troops; the 2nd Brigade of the 10th Indian Division will be on board tonight. But tell the Prime Minister that I need time in North Africa. Rommel is not Italian; he is the real adversary."

Three days later, Sirte, 300 kilometers east of Tripoli.

Loran lay prone behind a rock, binoculars pressed against his eyes. Five kilometers away, a German convoy was advancing. It wasn't the lax, stop-and-go Italian transport convoy. This was a precise, disciplined formation, with each vehicle maintaining a fixed distance. Armored reconnaissance vehicles led the way, motorcycles escorted them on either side, and two Panzer IV tanks brought up the rear.

He stared at it for a long time.

Bernard was lying next to him, watching as well.

"Things are different now," Bernard said softly.

Loran nodded.

It's different now. When Italian convoys are attacked, they panic, scatter, and abandon supplies to flee. But this convoy, even 200 kilometers behind the front lines, maintained its combat formation. The motorcyclists kept observing the sand dunes on both sides, and the tank turrets kept turning.

"Withdraw," Loran said.

They slid down the rocks like shadows and disappeared behind the dunes.

That night, Loran summoned all the group leaders at the camp.

A kerosene lamp burned in the tent, its dim light illuminating eighteen faces. Bernard, and seventeen others from the Cairo training camp. Each was tanned dark, and each had the kind of light in their eyes that only those who had survived the desert could possess.

"Things have changed," Loran said flatly. "The Germans are here."

No one speaks.

Loran pulled a piece of paper from his pocket; it was a transcript of the radio signals intercepted that day. It contained only one line:

"Commander of the Africa Corps: Rommel".

He stared at the paper and remained silent for a few seconds.

"This man," he said, "is different from the Italians. He fought in Poland, he fought in France, and he was one of Hitler's favorite generals. His troops were the real German army, not some Mussolini-style showman."

He placed the paper on the table.

"From now on, all operational rules are changed. First, no more attacks on convoys escorted by tanks. Second, reconnaissance must be conducted for at least 24 hours before each attack. Third, if discovered, do not linger; retreat immediately. Fourth," he paused, looking at everyone, "if captured, do not reveal any information. You know the location of the camp, the code words for rendezvous, and each other's names. Not a single word can be uttered."

The tent was quiet for a few seconds.

An Australian named Jackson spoke up. He was a volunteer with the British Special Air Service, blond, blue-eyed, and had a childlike laugh, but he had already killed seventeen Italian soldiers in the desert.

"Major," he said, "is this Rommel really that formidable?"

Lorraine looked at him.

"I held out in Stoney for three days," Lorraine said. "In those three days, I learned one thing: never underestimate your opponent. The Germans are not Italians. They won't back down just because they've been ambushed. They will chase, they will investigate, they will find us one by one and kill us."

He stood up.

"So from now on, everyone must remember: we are not fighting the Italians anymore. We are fighting the Germans. The German army is the most powerful army in the world. If any of you are afraid, you can leave now. Go to Cairo, go to the rear, no one will blame you."

No one moved.

Loran looked at those faces and nodded.

"Okay. Let's get ready to work."

February 24, 1941, forty kilometers south of Porto Brega.

Loran led two groups of twenty men, lying in ambush along a supply line. Intelligence indicated that a German convoy carrying fuel and ammunition would be passing through that day. There were no tanks escorting them, only a few armored vehicles.

They started waiting at four in the morning.

The sun rose, then rose directly overhead, then began to set in the west. The desert was as hot as an oven; everyone lay motionless behind rocks, their lips cracked, and they dared not wipe the sweat from their eyes.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, a wisp of smoke appeared on the horizon.

Lorraine raised his binoculars. A convoy was approaching. Eight trucks and two armored reconnaissance vehicles. The formation was neat, and the speed was even, unlike the Italian army's inconsistent pace.

He waited for them to enter the ambush zone.

800 meters. 500 meters. 300 meters.

"Hit," Loran said.

Bernard fired the first shot. The bullet hit the tire of the first truck. The tire exploded, the truck went out of control, and overturned on the side of the road.

Immediately afterwards, twenty guns opened fire simultaneously. Bullets rained down on the convoy.

But what happened next stunned Loran.

Unlike the Italians, the German soldiers didn't panic. The soldiers in the trucks jumped out, lay prone behind them, and began returning fire. The two armored reconnaissance vehicles didn't turn tail and flee; instead, they accelerated forward, firing machine guns as they went. Their shooting was terrifyingly accurate; bullets grazed Loran's ears, struck the rocks behind him, and scattered gravel across his face.

"Retreat!" Loran shouted.

Twenty men began to run backward. But German machine guns pursued them, pinning them down. One man fell—it was Jackson. He lay on the ground, blood gushing from his legs, staining the sand red.

Loran rushed back and dragged him away.

Bullets chased after them, hitting the sand at their heels. Lorraine ran in a zigzag pattern, running desperately.

After running 300 meters, they rolled over a sand ridge and took cover behind it. The German machine guns were still firing, but they couldn't hit them anymore.

Lorraine looked down at Jackson. The blond, blue-eyed Australian was as pale as a sheet. There was a bullet hole in his leg, and blood was still flowing.

"I'm fine," Jackson grinned, his teeth covered in blood. "I won't die."

Lorraine tore open the first-aid kit and pressed it against the wound. His hands were trembling.

In the first encounter, twenty men faced thirty, the Germans suffered zero casualties, while the Free French suffered one serious injury.

That night, Loran sat in the camp and stared at the map for a long time.

Bernard came over and sat down next to him.

"What do you think?" Bernard asked.

Loran didn't speak. He pointed to the supply line on the map.

"They knew we were coming," he said. "Those two armored vehicles weren't there to escort us; they were there to lure us into a fight. They knew we'd be lying in ambush here, so they deliberately used the truck as bait and then sent the armored vehicles to attack us."

Bernard was stunned.

"You mean...?"

"They're learning from us," Lorraine said. "No, not learning. They're using our style of play to fight us back."

He looked at the map and tapped his finger on the location of Port Brega.

"Rommel has arrived."

Cairo, early March.

Wavell stood in front of the map, listening to the intelligence officer's report on the North African front.

"Rommel did not wait for the 15th Panzer Division to be fully in place. He launched a probing attack with only the 5th Light Panzer Division he had on hand, plus a few Italian divisions. On March 24, he captured the port of Brega. On March 31, Agailah fell. On April 2, Benghazi was under siege."

Wavell remained silent.

The intelligence officer continued reading: "The British 2nd Armoured Division is still undergoing reorganization in the rear, and the 9th Australian Division has just withdrawn from Greece and is not fully formed. Our troops on the front are only some covering forces and an Indian brigade."

Where is the Indian tour group now?

"South of Benghazi. Evacuation orders have been received."

Wavell closed his eyes. Retreat. Another retreat. From Port-e-Brega to Benghazi, and from Benghazi to where? Tobruk? Or the Egyptian border?

"Send a telegram to London," he said, "tell Churchill that Rommel is about to launch a massive offensive. I need reinforcements. At least a full armored division."

The intelligence officer nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait a minute," Wavell called out to him, "Any news from Lorraine?"

"A report came in yesterday. His men attacked a German convoy, and the results were: one truck destroyed, zero German casualties, and one Free Frenchman seriously wounded. Lorrain said that Rommel's troops are completely different from the Italians and advised us to be cautious."

Wavell nodded.

Zero casualties. The man who crippled 250,000 Italian troops in Libya met his match for the Germans on his first encounter.

"Tell him," Wavell said, "let him continue, but don't fight him. I need his eyes, not his body."

Benghazi, April 4.

When Rommel's armored forces entered the port city, the last British rearguard had just withdrawn. The streets were deserted, shops were closed, and only a few locals occasionally peeked out from behind windows.

Rommel stood in his command vehicle, looking down at the city he had captured. Less than two months had passed since he arrived in Tripoli. His troops had advanced eight hundred kilometers.

A staff officer ran over and handed over a telegram.

"General, a congratulatory telegram from the Führer. He says you have created a miracle."

Rommel glanced at it and handed the telegram back to his staff.

"Tell the Führer, this is just the beginning," he said. "Next target: Tobruk."

The staff officer put away the telegram but did not leave.

"Is there anything else?"

The staff officer hesitated for a moment: "General, intelligence has confirmed the commander of that guerrilla group. His name is Marc Lorrain, a former lieutenant in the French 55th Division, a survivor of the Battle of Stoney, who later joined Free France. During his operations in Libya, he organized seventeen attacks, destroying forty-seven Italian trucks and three ammunition depots, killing and wounding more than one hundred and twenty Italian soldiers."

Rommel's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Stony?" he repeated the name. "The place that brought the 10th Armored Division to a standstill for three days?"

"Yes, General. He held out with two hundred men for three days."

Rommel was silent for a few seconds. Then he nodded.

"Interesting," he said. "Have the reconnaissance units keep a close eye on him. This guy is quite troublesome."

April 10, outside Tobruk.

When Rommel's troops arrived at the port city, they did not immediately attack. He stood on a sand dune and looked through binoculars at the fortress, which had been built exceptionally well by the Italians.

Major General von Waldenfels stood beside him.

"General, why not just attack directly?"

Rommel put down his telescope.

"Because we can't take it even if we try," he said calmly. "Tobruk's fortifications took the Italians ten years to build, with three meters of concrete and crossfire from the gun emplacements covering every inch of the beach. A frontal assault would only wear down our armored divisions there."

He turned to look at von Waldenfels.

"Do you know why we absolutely must take Tobruk?"

Von Waldenfels thought for a moment: "Because it is a deep-water port, our supply lines are already too long."

"More than that," Rommel said, pointing to the map. "It's over a thousand kilometers from Tripoli to here. Half of the gasoline each truck brings is consumed on the road. We can't continue eastward without taking Tobruk. And the British are amassing troops in Egypt. Wavell has brought two Indian divisions from East Africa and an armored brigade from the British mainland. In another month, we'll be facing an enemy twice our size."

He paused.

"Therefore, Tobruk must be taken. But not by force, but by siege. Siege them until they run out of food, water, and ammunition, and they will surrender on their own."

Von Waldenfels nodded, but there was still doubt on his face.

"But General, a siege takes time. And while we're besieging the city, that guerrilla force has been causing trouble from behind. The day before yesterday, another oil depot was blown up."

A slight smile appeared on Rommel's lips.

"I know," he said, "so I'm preparing a gift for them."

April 15, 4 kilometers southeast of Derna.

In Lorraine's camp, Bernard was discussing the target of their next raid with several squad leaders. The map was marked with seven or eight points, all German supply depots recently discovered by scouts.

"This one." Bernard's finger landed on a spot. "Fifty kilometers south of Derna, the ammunition depot of the German 15th Panzer Division. Intelligence says three thousand rounds of ammunition have just arrived, and there's only one platoon guarding it."

Loran walked over and looked at that spot.

"Has the reconnaissance confirmed it?"

"It's confirmed. Three days ago, the scouts saw the trucks carrying it in."

Loran was silent for a few seconds. He felt that something was wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"It's going too smoothly," he said. "Rommel isn't the kind of opponent you can easily find weaknesses against."

Bernard grinned.

"Maybe he was just having too much success and forgot he had people backing him up. Germans, you know, are proud."

Loran looked at him without saying a word.

That night, Bernard set off with twenty men.

Loran stood at the cave entrance, watching their figures disappear into the night. The desert wind blew, whipping up fine sand that stung his face. He stood there for a long time, until the last ray of moonlight was obscured by clouds.

At two o'clock in the morning, Loran was awakened by a series of hurried footsteps.

He was a scout, his face covered in dust and his eyes bloodshot.

"Major," his voice trembled, "Lieutenant Bernard...something has happened."

Lorraine suddenly stood up.

"explain."

The scout swallowed hard and recounted what had happened, haltingly:

When Bernard's men reached the perimeter of the ammunition depot, they discovered that the guards were not forty men, but an entire battalion—three hundred men, equipped with heavy machine guns and mortars, who had been laid in ambush beforehand. As soon as the battle began, Bernard ordered a retreat, but the German firepower was too intense, and they were trapped in a depression.

"I saw Lieutenant Bernard get hit," the scout said, "and fall to the ground. Then..."

Loran clenched his fist.

"And then what?"

The scout lowered his head.

"Then they rushed up and took him away. Alive."

Four hours later, in Derna, a German field hospital.

When Bernard opened his eyes, he found himself strapped to an iron bed. The bullet wound in his right leg had been bandaged, but blood was still seeping out. A stark white light shone overhead, and the air was thick with the stench of blood.

The door opened. A German military doctor in a white coat walked in and gave him an injection. A few minutes later, the pain in his wound subsided, but his mind began to feel foggy.

Then came the interrogation.

The first to enter was a bespectacled SS officer who spoke fluent French and had a mild demeanor. He offered Bernard a cigarette and asked for his name, unit, and commander.

Bernard did not speak.

The officer smiled and left.

The second person to enter was a burly man in a gray uniform with scars on his face. He didn't speak, but simply stood by and watched. Another man in a white coat came in and injected Bernard with something.

The drug took effect quickly. Bernard's mind began to fog up, and his words became uncontrollable.

"What's your name?"

"Pierre Bernard..."

"Who is your commander?"

"Lorraine... Marc Lorraine..."

"Where is your camp?"

"Eighty kilometers south of... Wadi... Wadi Rum..."

How many people are left?

"One hundred...seventy-two...that can move..."

Bernard didn't know how long he had been talking. The words flowed from his mouth like water, and he tried desperately to stop, but his body wouldn't obey him. When he finally came to his senses, the bespectacled SS officer was standing in front of him with a satisfied smile on his face.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Bernard," the officer said. "You've helped us a lot."

Bernard stared at him, his eyes bloodshot.

"You...you said...you said you'd let me go..."

The officer smiled. It was a very gentle smile, like a teacher praising an obedient student.

"Did I say that? Maybe I did. But unfortunately, Lieutenant, we don't have a habit of leaving survivors."

He turned and walked toward the door. At the door, he paused, then looked back at Bernard.

"Oh, by the way, I have something to tell you. The intelligence about that ammunition depot was deliberately leaked by us. We knew you were coming; we waited three days." He paused. "You're a brave soldier, Lieutenant Bernard. It's a pity you chose the wrong side."

The door closed.

Ten minutes later, a soldier walked in and pressed a pistol against Bernard's temple.

"I'm sorry, you can't go back to Paris for a drink."

April 16, Loran's camp, 4 kilometers south of Wadi Rum.

A local herder ran into the camp and handed Loran a blood-stained strip of cloth. The cloth had a line written on it in German and French:

"Your friend has confessed. Camp location: 80 kilometers south of Wadi Rum. Number of personnel: 172. Thank you for saving us reconnaissance time. —African Army Command"

Loran stared at the words, her hands trembling slightly.

Bernard confessed.

He didn't blame him. No one could withstand that kind of interrogation. But his confession meant everyone would die.

"Assemble," he said, his voice hoarse. "Evacuate immediately."

One hundred and seventy-two people started packing their things, but it was too late.

The roar of airplanes could be heard in the distance. Three Stuka dive bombers appeared on the horizon, heading towards the camp.

"Scatter!" Loran shouted.

The bombs fell. The explosions were deafening, sand and gravel flew everywhere, and smoke filled the air. Loran lay on the ground, feeling the whole world shake.

The bombing lasted for ten minutes. Then the Stuka flew away, leaving behind a devastated camp.

Loran climbed out of the sand and counted the number of people. Twenty-seven were dead, thirty-one were seriously wounded, and countless others were slightly wounded.

He stood amidst the corpses, gazing at the distant, grayish-yellow desert. The sun was setting, painting the dunes a vibrant orange-red, just like the evening Bernard had last set out.

"Major," a soldier approached and handed him a telegram that had just been received, "forwarded from Cairo, from General de Gaulle."

Loran took it and glanced at it.

"The Free French 2nd Brigade has departed from Brazzaville and is expected to arrive in Cairo in five days. Commander Colonel Leclerc will lead reinforcements to North Africa. Your unit must hold out until reinforcements arrive."

Five days.

Loran looked up at the blood-stained sky.

Five days.

Of the 172 men, 112 are still combat-ready. Ammunition is down to one-third. Water supply is only enough for three days.

Rommel already knew their location. The pursuers could arrive at any moment.

He folded the telegram and put it in his pocket.

"Let's go," he said. "Let's go somewhere else."

More than a hundred people began to move deeper into the desert. Behind them, the ruins of the camp were still burning, black smoke rising hundreds of meters into the air, like a giant finger pointing in the direction they had left.

By the end of April 1941, the entire Middle East battlefield had fallen into a delicate balance.

The siege of Tobruk continues, with the Australians holding out hard and Rommel attacking impatiently.

On the Iraqi front, hundreds of flight school cadets at the Habaniyah base are preparing to fight off an Iraqi offensive. Their aircraft are old-fashioned biplane trainers, and only three of their instructors have combat experience, but they have not surrendered.

In Syria, Free French forces are assembling. They are going to fight their own compatriots, the French who are loyal to the Vichy government.

Deep in the vast desert, 112 people are struggling to move forward.

Lorraine walked at the front, a compass in his hand. His lips were chapped, his eyes were sunken, and he didn't stop walking.

Behind him, a soldier asked softly, "Major, where are we going?"

Before Loran could answer, several tanks appeared in his line of sight, speeding toward them.

Once the cannon fires, this group of men will either be killed or maimed.