The March

The convoy began to move.

Leading the way were two jeeps, each equipped with a machine gun, and three men in each vehicle. Their mission was to scout ahead, finding navigable dry riverbeds to avoid German patrols.

Leclerc sat in the third vehicle, next to the driver and a communications soldier named Masson. Masson was in his early twenties, with a youthful face, but he had already been in the desert for three months and knew how to use that old radio to maintain contact with the rear.

On the first day, we walked 200 kilometers.

In the afternoon, the sun blazed down on the metal seats, making them unbearably hot. Some people began to suffer from heatstroke, their faces turning pale and their lips purple. Leclerc ordered the car to stop, collect all the water, and divide it into half a cup for everyone.

A soldier came over and handed Leclerc a half-full glass of water.

Leclerc did not answer.

"I'm not thirsty," he said.

The soldier looked at his chapped lips, said nothing, and turned and left.

The next day, we walked 180 kilometers.

The road became increasingly difficult. The riverbed disappeared, replaced by rolling sand dunes. The jeeps would drive up, get stuck in the sand, be pushed out, and then get stuck again. Everyone had to get out and push the vehicle, then climb back in and continue.

In the afternoon, a truck overturned into a ditch. It was carrying ammunition and food, and eight men. Leclerc led his men over and dragged the men out from under the truck. Two died, and one was seriously wounded.

The seriously injured man was a veteran of the Foreign Legion named Clement, 53 years old, who had spent 20 years in Africa. His leg was crushed, the bleeding wouldn't stop, and his face was as white as paper.

Clement looked at Leclerc and said, "Colonel, leave me here."

Leclerc squatted down next to him and looked at him.

"You will die."

Clement smiled. It was a strange smile, the kind of smile that only someone who had finally found relief would have on his aged face.

"Colonel, I've lived for fifty-three years. I've fought wars, killed people, drunk the strongest liquor, and slept with the most beautiful women. That's enough."

Leclerc was silent for a few seconds. Then he stood up and said to Masson, "Give him a shot of morphine. Leave him a canister of water. Give him the gun."

Ma Song was stunned.

"Colonel..."

"Give it to him."

Ma Song did as instructed.

The convoy continued on. Leclerc sat in the car, not looking back.

On the third day, I walked 170 kilometers.

In the morning, they encountered an Italian patrol. Two armored vehicles and about twenty men. The Italians also saw them, stopped, and hesitated whether to rush over.

Leclerc didn't give them time to hesitate.

"Hit," he said.

More than twenty jeeps accelerated simultaneously, rushing towards the patrol. Machine guns roared in, bullets raining down on the armored vehicles. The Italians were stunned; two armored vehicles turned tail and fled, while the rest jumped out and lay prone on the ground, too afraid to move.

The battle lasted fifteen minutes. Seven Italian soldiers were killed, nine were captured, and two were lightly wounded on their side.

Leclerc stood in front of the group of prisoners, looking at the trembling men. He suddenly remembered something: three months earlier, he had stood in front of a group of Italian prisoners in the same way, and heard Lorraine say, "They're not Germans, they're cowards."

Now the Germans have arrived.

"Tie them up and leave them here," Leclerc said. "The Italians will find them before dark."

The convoy continued on its way.

On the fourth day, we walked 160 kilometers.

Water supplies were running low. Each person's daily ration was reduced from half a cup to a quarter cup. Lips cracked more severely, tongues swelled, and speaking became difficult. Some people began to hallucinate, pointing to distant sand dunes and saying they saw an oasis, only to be restrained by those around them.

In the afternoon, Masson received a telegram. The signal was intermittent, but he recognized the words: "Loran... besieged... location... south of Wadi Rum... urgent reinforcements..."

Leclerc snatched the telegram and read it three times.

South of Wadi Rum. That's where they're going. Two hundred kilometers to go.

"Full speed ahead," he said.

The driver looked at him, wanting to say something, but remained silent. What did full speed ahead mean? It meant more people would die. Rollovers, heatstroke, dehydration, being discovered by the enemy. But Loran was waiting for them.

The convoy began to accelerate.

On the fifth day, we walked 180 kilometers.

In the morning, another vehicle overturned. This time it was a jeep, which plunged down a sand dune and into a ditch. Of the four people in the vehicle, two died instantly, one was seriously injured, and one sustained minor injuries.

Leclerc lifted the seriously injured man into the car and continued on his way.

At noon, the seriously injured one died.

At 3 PM, the reconnaissance vehicle relayed a message: "German tanks spotted ahead. Three Panzer IVs. They are attacking an unidentified unit."

Leclerc's heart skipped a beat.

"distance?"

Five kilometers.

"Full speed ahead."

Twenty-odd jeeps began to speed away. Engines roared, vehicles jolted, and dust billowed hundreds of meters high behind them. Leclerc stood on one of the jeeps, one hand gripping the handrail, the other holding binoculars, staring intently ahead.

On the horizon, smoke rose.

Then came flashes of light. Then came the sound of explosions. Then came the rattling of machine guns.

Leclerc saw the tanks. Gray, square, firing at a sand dune. Behind the dune, people were running, firing, and falling.

He saw those people. They were wearing tattered military uniforms, their faces pale and emaciated, but they were still running, still shooting, still fighting.

The people of Lorraine.

"Charge in!" Leclerc shouted. "Attack their flanks!"

Twenty-odd jeeps, like a pack of crazed beasts, crashed into the battlefield. Machine guns opened fire, bullets clattering against the tanks, unable to penetrate, but enough to distract the Germans inside.

The German infantry were pinned down, lying prone on the ground, too afraid to raise their heads. Three tanks began to turn, their turrets swishing, trying to engage the jeeps. But the jeeps were too fast and too agile, circling the tanks on the sand, kicking up clouds of dust.

Leclerc ignored the tanks. He told the driver to drive directly behind the dunes, jump out, and run towards the men who were firing.

He saw Lorraine.

Loran stood in the middle of a group of people, shouting something. He was much thinner than the last time I saw him; his face was covered in dust, his eyes were sunken, his cheekbones were prominent, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. But he was still standing, still shouting, still directing the men to fire.

Leclerc ran over and stood in front of him.

"Lorraine," he said, his voice hoarse like sandpaper, "De Gaulle sent me to reinforce you."

Loran looked at him, unable to utter a single word.

Leclerc grinned. It was a strange smile, the kind that comes from someone who has walked too far in the desert and finally sees water.

"Eight hundred kilometers," Leclerc said. "We started from Chad and traveled eight hundred kilometers, for five days and five nights, without stopping."

He glanced back at the soldiers who were fighting. They were just like him—thin, dark-skinned, with bloodshot eyes—but not one of them stopped.

"Seventeen died on the road." He turned back to look at Lorraine. "The jeeps overturned into the ditch, some died of heatstroke, and two were killed by the Italian patrol. But the rest are here."

Loran's throat moved.

He wanted to say thank you, but couldn't. He wanted to say you came at the perfect time, but couldn't say it either. He could only stand there, looking at the short man, at the soldiers fighting, at the tattered French flag fluttering in the smoke.

In the distance, a German tank, its tracks blown off, lay motionless. Two other tanks began to retreat, firing as they went. Infantry followed, their grey figures disappearing into the smoke.

The battle is over.

Leclerc looked at the battlefield, at the burning tanks, at the cheering soldiers. He suddenly felt very tired. Eight hundred kilometers, five days and five nights, seventeen men. They did it.

"Loran," he said.

Lorraine looked at him.

Leclerc pointed behind him. A jeep was driving up, the door opened, and a man jumped out, limping toward them.

The man was wearing a tattered German uniform and his face was covered in wounds, but he walked steadily.

"I brought you someone," Leclerc said. "He says he knows you."

Loran stared at the person, stunned.

The person walked up to him and stopped.

"Lorraine," he said, his voice hoarse but calm, "I'm not dead."

The setting sun painted the entire desert a dark red. In the distance, German tanks were still burning, black smoke rising hundreds of meters into the sky. Jeeps were parked on the battlefield; soldiers jumped out, embracing and patting each other on the shoulder. Some knelt on the ground, burying their heads in the sand, their shoulders shaking violently.

Leclerc leaned against the Jeep, watching it all. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took a deep drag. The cigarette was cheap, making him cough, but he didn't stop and kept smoking.

Ma Song walked over and handed him a pot of water.

Leclerc took it and took a sip. The water was lukewarm and had a rusty taste, but he felt it was the best water he had ever drunk in his life.

"Colonel," Masson said, "we've arrived."

Leclerc nodded.

"Now begin the counterattack against the Germans."

The reinforcements brought by Leclerc rested for less than twelve hours.

Lorraine didn't give them any more time. Rommel wouldn't wait; German reconnaissance planes flew overhead every day, they knew there was a French force there, and they would soon send in a clearing squad. It was either continue hiding or launch a preemptive strike.

He chose the latter.

"How many of us are combat-ready?" Loran asked.

Leclerc glanced at the statistics Masson handed him: "One hundred and seventy-three. Adding the rest of you, that makes a total of two hundred and thirty."

"ammunition?"

"Two units per person on average. Enough explosives to blow up twenty cars."

"water?"

"Three days."

Loran nodded. He squatted down on the sand and drew a simple map with his finger. Several dotted lines extending south from Wadi Rum marked the supply lines of the German 15th Panzer Division. Rommel's main force was on the outskirts of Tobruk, and his fuel, ammunition, and food all had to be transported through this line.

"Here," Loran pointed to a point on the map, "Sidi Suleiman. Yesterday, the scouts came back and reported that the Germans have built a forward supply depot there. They've stockpiled at least two hundred tons of fuel, and a company of garrison troops and a convoy of forty trucks are going in and out every day."

Leclerc squatted down next to him, looking at that spot.

"Two hundred tons of oil. Enough for Rommel to use for half a month."

“Yes.” Loran looked up and met his eyes. “If we blow this place up, Rommel will have to stop in Tobruk.”

"Two hundred tons of fuel, a company of defenders," Leclerc repeated. "How do we fight them?"

Loran didn't answer immediately. He turned his head and looked at the soldiers resting in the distance. Two hundred and thirty men, belonging to two different units, had just met in the desert less than a day ago, and were about to carry out a joint attack mission. Coordination was the biggest problem.

"Split into three groups," Loran said. "Your men will draw the enemy's attention from the front. My men will flank from both sides. Engage and retreat immediately; no lingering. Changing shift at 3:00 AM. Fifteen minutes."

Leclerc stared at the map, silent for a few seconds. Then he stood up.

"When are we leaving?"

"Now."

Sidi Suleiman is 60 kilometers north of Wadi Rum. Two hundred and thirty men, divided into three teams, crossed the desert in the dark. There were no vehicles; they would be too noisy and easily spotted. They walked, each carrying their own gun and ammunition, as well as two explosive charges.

Lorraine walked at the back of the first team, responsible for the left flank. Björn followed beside him, his leg still wrapped in bandages, but he was walking with a less noticeable limp.

"Why did you come?" Loran asked.

Björg grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the moonlight: "What are you going to do if you're not coming? Lying around in the camp waiting for news?"

At 2:40 a.m., all three groups of people had entered their designated positions.

Loran lay prone behind a rock, peering through binoculars at the German supply depot 800 meters ahead. It was Italian-built, fortified by the Germans after they took over. A wall of sandbags encircled the depot, with a watchtower at each of the four corners. Inside, at least forty trucks were parked, neatly arranged in three rows. Oil tanks were piled on the east side of the camp, three huge cylinders, gleaming dimly in the moonlight.

The sentry on the watchtower was smoking, the cigarette glowing and dimming. Inside the wall, there were people moving about—a patrol of four, looking rather lazy.

"Change of shift in five minutes," a soldier whispered to the side. He was one of Leclerc's men, named Gaspard, a former sergeant in the Foreign Legion who had spent ten years in Africa and had more desert experience than anyone else.

Lorraine glanced at her watch. 2:45.

He opened his pocket watch and watched the second hand tick by tick.

2:48. The sentry on the watchtower stubbed out his cigarette and began to climb down. The patrol inside the wall disappeared behind the tents.

2:50.

Gunfire erupted from directly ahead, followed by flashes of light. Leclerc's main force began its attack.