The Key to the Eastern Mediterranean

Two hundred and thirty men surged toward the supply depot like a tidal wave. There were no shouts of battle, only the muffled, rapid footsteps on the sand. The left and right flanks simultaneously encircled them, while the machine guns from the front kept the defenders inside the walls from raising their heads.

The Germans only reacted when Loran rushed to the front row of trucks. Someone burst from the tent, shirtless, gun in hand, and was taken down before he could even aim. Someone was shouting in German, but the words were incomprehensible. The sirens blared, piercing and screeching, tearing through the night.

Björg, clutching the explosive charge, charged toward the oil tanks. His leg was injured, causing him to limp, but he was still fast. Bullets were chasing him, hitting the ground and kicking up a trail of sand. He didn't stop; he kept running.

Twenty meters. Fifteen meters. Ten meters.

He threw the explosive charge into the gap between the two oil tanks and ran away.

Lorraine saw him running towards her from behind a truck. His face was covered in sweat, and there was a strange light in his eyes, as if they were burning.

"It's blown up!" Björn shouted.

They kept running. They ran over the wall, over the sandbag defenses, and into the desert. Behind them, explosions rang out. Not just one, but a series. Flames from the exploding oil tanks shot skyward, illuminating half the sky. Trucks were overturned by the blast wave, and the sounds of ammunition detonating were like thunder, one after another.

Loran lay on the ground and looked back.

The entire supply depot was ablaze. Flames rose dozens of meters high, illuminating the desert as if it were daytime. The gray-haired German soldiers scattered in the firelight, some still burning.

The battle lasted eighteen minutes.

Björg lay down next to Lorraine, panting heavily.

"It's done," he said.

Loran didn't speak. He counted the people running out of the supply depot. Nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-one. Not everyone.

Leclerc came running from directly in front, his face covered in dust and with a bloody gash on his face from a stray bullet.

"Seven dead," he said, his voice hoarse. "Thirteen wounded."

Loran nodded.

"withdraw."

Two hundred and ten people disappeared in the desert.

At 5:30 a.m., they returned to the camp. Loran counted the number of people, arranged for the treatment of the wounded, set up a perimeter, and then sat on a rock, watching the eastern horizon gradually lighten.

Leclerc came over and sat down next to him.

"Two hundred tons of oil," Leclerc said. "Rommel must be cursing right now."

Loran did not speak.

Leclerc pulled a cigarette from his pocket and handed it to him. Lorraine took it, lit it, and took a deep drag. He hadn't smoked in a long time. The smoke made him cough, but he didn't stop and continued smoking.

"Did you used to smoke?" Leclerc asked.

"I won't smoke," Loran said.

Leclerc glanced at him but didn't ask any more questions.

In the distance, a communications soldier ran over, holding a telegram he had just received.

"Major, from Cairo."

Loran took the telegram and glanced at it. The telegram was short, only a few lines long. After reading it, he remained silent for a long time.

Leclerc leaned closer: "What's wrong?"

Lorraine handed him the telegram.

Leclerc's expression changed after reading it.

"Crete?" he said. "The Germans want to attack Crete?"

Loran nodded.

Leclerc was silent for a few seconds. Then he looked up at Lorraine.

Where is Crete?

Loran squatted on the sand and sketched a map with his finger. The Mediterranean Sea, the southern tip of Greece, the western side of Türkiye, and the northern side of Egypt. He drew a dot in the middle.

"Here," he said.

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

"Crete is the southern gateway to the Aegean Sea," Loran said. "All shipping routes in the Eastern Mediterranean, from mainland Greece to North Africa, from Turkey to Italy, pass by it."

He drew several lines on the map with his finger.

"To the north lies mainland Greece. The German army has just captured Athens. To the east are Cyprus and Syria. To the south, 300 kilometers away, are the British bases in Egypt, Alexandria and the Suez Canal."

He paused, then looked up at Leclerc.

"If you compare the eastern Mediterranean to a bottle, Crete is the cork."

Leclerc frowned.

"Is it that important?"

"It's more important than you think," Lorraine said. "The British have 300,000 troops in Egypt, and all their supplies are by sea. Ships from Gibraltar travel through the Mediterranean, passing Malta first, then south of Crete, before finally reaching Alexandria."

His fingers tapped on the location of Crete.

"If the Germans take Crete, they can build an airbase on the island. The Ju 87 Stuka can fly over Alexandria in three hours from Crete. The British fleet will have nowhere to hide, and their supply ships will be bombed and sunk outside the harbor."

Leclerc remained silent.

Loran continued, "It's not just Egypt. East of Crete is Cyprus. East of Cyprus is Syria. East of Syria is Iraq. What does Iraq have? Oil."

He looked into Leclerc's eyes.

"If the Germans take Crete, their next step will be Cyprus, Syria, and Iraq. By then, all the oil in the Middle East will be in their hands. Our tanks and British warships will all be grounded."

Leclerc stood up and paced back and forth a few steps.

Who is on the island now?

Loran thought for a moment. He remembered the numbers in the history book.

"British. New Zealanders. Australians. Greeks. Together, they number about forty thousand."

"Forty thousand?" Leclerc paused, then asked, "How are the Germans going to fight?"

"Use paratroopers," Loran said. "A massive airborne assault."

Leclerc stopped and turned to look at him.

"Paratroopers? The kind that come down from the sky?"

“Yes,” Loran said. “The Germans have used it in Norway, in the Netherlands, and in Belgium. But they’ve never used it on this scale. This time, they’re going to deploy at least five thousand men at once, with reinforcements to follow.”

Leclerc remained silent for a long time.

"Five thousand men will descend from the sky," he said slowly. "Can we hold them off?"

Lorraine did not answer immediately.

He recalled the accounts in history books. The Battle of Crete ended in a Pyrrhic victory for the Germans. The Allies suffered heavy casualties and were forced to retreat by sea. But the Germans also paid a heavy price, with thousands of paratroopers killed in action, and Hitler never dared to launch another large-scale airborne operation.

"We can't hold out," he said, "but many Germans will die too."

Leclerc looked at him.

Who will win this battle?

Loran thought for a moment.

"There are no winners," he said. "The Germans took Crete, but they wiped out their elite paratroopers. The British lost Crete, but they saved Egypt."

He stood up and looked at the boundless desert in the distance.

"The key is time."

Leclerc walked over to him.

"When?"

"It took the Germans time to attack Crete. It also took the British time to tie down the Germans on Crete," Loran said. "We also took time to tie down Rommel in North Africa."

He looked at Leclerc.

"Rommel's fuel has been depleted. He will stop in Tobruk to await new supplies. This stop will last at least a month. In that month, the British can transfer troops from Egypt to reinforce Crete. In that month, the German paratroopers will bleed dry on Crete."

......

As the key to the Mediterranean Sea.

Viewed from above, it resembles a giant stone ship, stretching across the eastern Mediterranean, bisecting the Aegean and Libyan Seas. It stretches 260 kilometers east to west, and at its narrowest point, it's only 12 kilometers wide. Mountains run through the entire island, with the highest peak reaching 2,400 meters. The shortest distance from the southernmost tip of mainland Greece to the northern coast of Crete is less than 100 kilometers. From the southern coast of Crete to the African continent, it's a 300-kilometer sea route.

This location determined its fate in the war.

In the 5th century BC, the Athenians repelled the Persian fleet here. In the 13th century AD, the Venetians built the most fortified fortress in the Mediterranean here. In 1941, the Germans set their sights on it. Not for its history, but for its oil.

Churchill once drew a circle on a map: whoever controls Crete controls the eastern Mediterranean. The British army of 300,000 in Egypt required 10,000 tons of supplies every day. Food, ammunition, fuel, and medicine were all transported by sea. The fleet departed from Gibraltar, sailed through the Mediterranean, passed Malta, then south of Crete, before finally reaching Alexandria.

If the Germans took Crete, they could deploy Stuka bombers to the island's airfields. A Ju-87 could take off from Crete, fly over Alexandria in three hours, and with a single dive, send a 10,000-ton cargo ship to the bottom of the sea.

But that's not all. Four hundred kilometers east of Crete lies Cyprus. Two hundred kilometers east of Cyprus is the Syrian port of Latakia. Further east of Syria are the Kirkuk oil fields of Iraq. Every drop of oil the British transported from the Persian Gulf had to pass through this shipping route.

Therefore, when the German General Staff finalized Operation Mercury in April 1941, no one doubted its strategic value. Five thousand paratroopers would descend from the sky, followed by ten thousand mountain infantrymen transported by sea, with the objective of capturing Crete in five days.

Rommel was in a command vehicle 30 kilometers outside Tobruk when he received the briefing on Operation Mercury from Berlin.

It was the early morning of May 6, 1941. Outside the car, it was pitch black, with only the occasional searchlight from the Tobruk fortress streaking across the night sky in the distance. He read the telegram three times, placed it on his lap, and remained silent for a long time.

Sitting opposite him was Major General von Waldenfels, commander of the 5th Light Panzer Division, who was studying a map in the dim light of the vehicle. He sensed Rommel's silence and looked up.

"General?"

Rommel did not answer immediately. He closed his eyes, leaned back in the seat, as if calculating something.

"How many more days can our fuel last?" he asked.

Von Waldenfels paused for a moment, then opened his notebook.

"After the Sidi Suleiman supply depot was bombed the day before yesterday, fuel reserves have been reduced to only one-third of the original plan. At the current rate of consumption, the entire division's tanks can only be maneuverable for a maximum of eight days."

Rommel nodded. Eight days. After eight days, his tank would be out of commission.

"How many British people are there on Crete?" he asked again.

Von Waldenfels couldn't answer that question. The intelligence data was still being verified.

Rommel knew it himself. Three days earlier, Berlin had sent a more detailed intelligence report on Operation Mercury. The British had about 40,000 troops on Crete, a mix of New Zealanders, Australians, and Greeks, plus a 5,000-strong British Home Army force. They had no tanks, no fighter planes, and no dive bombers. They only had rifles, machine guns, and a few old anti-aircraft guns.

This was a battle destined to be lost. The British couldn't hold Crete. But they could buy time. Five days, seven days, ten days. The longer they held Crete, the less time Rommel had in North Africa.

"Send a reply to Berlin," Rommel suddenly opened his eyes. "Say that I agree to fully cooperate with Operation Mercury. But the North African front needs more fuel. At least a month's worth must be delivered within eight days. Otherwise, I cannot guarantee that Tobruk can be taken before the rainy season."

Von Waldenfels wrote down the order, but doubt still lingered on his face.

"General, after Sidi Suleiman was bombed, our supply lines..." He paused, carefully choosing his words, "are very insecure. That French partisan group is still active."

Rommel looked at him. There was something chilling in those grey-blue eyes. Not anger, not murderous intent, but a cold, all-seeing gaze.

"You think the French blew up our oil?" he asked.

Von Waldenfels was stunned.

"Isn't that right?"

Rommel shook his head.

"The French? A bunch of remnants who escaped from Stoney? They managed to cross 300 kilometers of desert, pinpoint our supply depot, blow up 200 tons of oil, and then escape unscathed?"

He paused.

"This was orchestrated by British intelligence. Wavell was in charge. And it was that Frenchman named Lorrain who was carrying it out."

von Waldenfels fell silent.

Rommel stood up and walked to the car window. It was pitch black outside, but he knew that in that direction, deep in the desert, a group of people were waiting for him.

"The bombing of Sidi Suleiman was not an accident," he said calmly. "The British wanted to force me to stop. They needed time on Crete. They wanted me to wait here until they had fortified Crete's defenses before turning their attention to me."

He turned around and looked at von Waldenfels.

"So they blew up my oil. Two hundred tons. Enough for me to make it halfway to Alexandria."

Von Waldenfels waited for him to continue.

Rommel walked back to his seat and sat down again.

"But they don't know one thing."

He took a piece of paper from his briefcase and placed it on the table. It was a hand-drawn map with the locations of several points marked.

"The oil in Sidi Suleiman is only one-third of our reserves. The other two-thirds are in two other places. One is in a cave forty kilometers north of Sirte, and the other is under a civilian oil depot in the port of Brega."

He looked at von Waldenfels.

"What the French bombed was only on the surface. What truly allows us to continue fighting is underground."

Von Waldenfels stared at the map, speechless for a moment.

Rommel stood up.

"So, General, we don't need to wait," he said. "In three days, I will launch a general offensive against Tobruk. Using the oil hidden underground."

"But General, what about Crete..."

"Crete will be fought for. Paratroopers will jump. The British will hold it to the death," Rommel interrupted him, "but that's their war, not ours."

He walked to the door of the command vehicle, lifted the curtain, and looked at the sleeping troops outside.

"Our war is here. Tobruk, Alexandria, Cairo, the Suez Canal," he said. "If I can take Egypt within a month, the loss of Crete will be irrelevant. The British fleet will lose its supply base, and their ships will be sunk in the Mediterranean by our air force. By then, the 40,000 men on Crete will simply be another group of prisoners of war."

He turned around and looked at von Waldenfels.

"Tell all divisions to prepare. In three days, I want to see the German flag flying over the walls of Tobruk."

May 8, 1941, outside Tobruk.

Rommel's armored forces began to assemble. The 5th Light Panzer Division, part of the 15th Panzer Division, and the Italian Ariete Panzer Division, totaling more than 300 tanks, were lined up in three rows, their guns pointed at the fortress that the Italians had built exceptionally well.

Rommel stood beside a Panzer IV tank, peering through binoculars at the walls of Tobruk. People were moving about on the walls—Australians, wearing shorts and shirtless, cleaning their guns in the blazing sun. They knew he was going to fire, but they didn't run.

A staff officer ran over and handed over a telegram.

"General, urgent telegram from Berlin. Operation Mercury is scheduled to begin on May 20th. The Führer requires you to capture Tobruk by May 25th to allow air support for Crete."

Rommel glanced at the telegram and nodded.

"Tell the Führer that I will be standing in the Governor's Palace in Tobruk to send him a telegram before May 25th."