Integration

On May 9, 1941, eighty kilometers south of Wadi Rum, the provisional headquarters of the Free French North African Forces.

Loran stood in the tent, looking at the map on the wall covered with red and blue pencil marks, his fingers clenched into a fist.

Leclerc stood beside him, looking even worse. His lips were cracked and bleeding, and his eyes were bloodshot.

The intelligence brought back by the scouts last night was spread out on the table. A hand-drawn map marked the locations of two points: one, forty kilometers north of Sirte, inside a cave; and the other, beneath a civilian oil depot in the port of Brega.

"Two-thirds of the reserves," Leclerc's voice was hoarse like sandpaper, "enough for him for a month."

Loran stared at the two dots, remaining silent for a long time.

"How many troops do we have left?" Loran asked.

Leclerc gave a wry smile: "One hundred and eighty. The rest can't move."

One hundred and eighty men. Their objective was to attack two heavily fortified German supply depots, cut off Rommel's oil supply, and prevent the southward advance of 80,000 troops.

impossible.

Loran walked to the map, surveying the situation across North Africa. From Tripoli to Tobruk, from Tobruk to Alexandria, from Alexandria to Cairo. Three hundred German tanks and eighty thousand soldiers were waiting menacingly for their last bit of fuel.

And what were the British doing?

They were bombed on Crete. Their fleet was sunk in the Mediterranean by German Luftwaffe Stukas. Their 40,000 defenders were struggling in the mountains, waiting for reinforcements who might never arrive.

Wavell had 75,000 men: Australians, New Zealanders, Indians, and British. But these troops were scattered throughout Egypt; some had just returned from Greece and were incomplete formations, while others were still undergoing training and lacked proper equipment. Fewer than 20,000 were combat-ready.

Once Rommel gets his hands on that batch of oil, he'll be like a wild beast unleashed.

Three days later. At most a week later. His tanks will cross Tobruk, rush towards Alexandria, towards the Suez Canal, towards the lifeline of the entire Middle East.

Lorraine turned around and looked at Leclerc.

"We can't win," he said, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible.

Leclerc was stunned.

"What did you say?"

"I said, we can't win," Loran repeated. "One hundred and eighty men, attacking two supply depots. Even if one is destroyed, Rommel has the other. Even if both are destroyed, he still has a third of his reserves. Enough for him to reach Alexandria."

He looked into Leclerc's eyes.

"Rommel is not Italian. He won't stop just because his supply lines are cut. He will keep fighting, to the last drop of fuel. He knows what we're doing, he knows the British have no reinforcements, and he also knows Crete won't last two weeks. He just needs to take a gamble."

Leclerc remained silent for a long time.

"So what do we do?" Leclerc asked, "Wait to die?"

Loran shook his head.

He walked to the map, gazing at the entire battlefield of the Middle East. From North Africa to Greece, from Crete to Syria, from Iraq to the Persian Gulf. Red arrows pointed to the lands about to fall.

"Send a telegram to Cairo," he said.

Leclerc picked up his pen.

"It is said that reconnaissance has confirmed that Rommel has hidden enough oil reserves in Sirte and the port of Brega to last the entire army for a month. After Sidi Suleiman was bombed, his main force still has the ability to move south. The fighting on Crete is fierce and it is expected to fall within two weeks. At that time, the German army will gain air superiority in the eastern Mediterranean and can reinforce North Africa at any time."

He paused.

"The British forces in North Africa are currently insufficient to meet Rommel's full-scale attack. The Free French forces in North Africa have only 180 men left, and their ammunition is running out, making them unable to continue harassing the enemy. If a large-scale reinforcement cannot be obtained within two weeks, Tobruk will surely fall, Alexandria will surely fall, and the Suez Canal will surely fall. The entire Middle East's oil lifeline will fall into the hands of the Germans."

He looked at Leclerc.

"Conclusion: The North African campaign has reached a critical juncture. Immediately evacuate all retrievable troops from Crete and transfer them to Egypt. Immediately dispatch at least two armored divisions from the British mainland, via the Cape of Good Hope, to reinforce North Africa. Immediately order troops stationed in Iraq to strengthen their defenses to prevent German encirclement from the Syrian front. Otherwise…"

He paused for a moment.

"Otherwise, we're doomed to lose."

The tent was deathly silent.

Leclerc's hand trembled as he held the pen.

"Are you sure you want to write it this way?" he asked.

Loran nodded.

"Sure."

After writing the last word, Leclerc handed the telegram to the communications officer.

The two stood inside the tent, listening to the crackling static from the old radio.

"Do you think they'll listen?" Leclerc asked.

Loran looked out the window at the dark horizon.

"I don't know," he said, "but I have to tell you."

In the distance, the desert wind picked up again. The swirling sand lashed against the tents, crackling and sputtering. The sound was like countless hands knocking on a door, like countless spirits asking, "Are you still alive?"

He looked at the map, at the red arrows, and at the land about to be swallowed by war.

"Leclerc," he said.

Leclerc looked at him.

"If we lose here," Loran said, "the whole Middle East is gone. Without oil, the British can't fight. If they can't fight, the Germans will win."

He paused.

"So we can't afford to lose."

Leclerc did not speak.

He simply walked over to the table and looked at the map.

3:00 AM, May 10, 1941, Cairo.

General Archibald Wavell sat behind his desk, holding the telegram from Wadi Rum, and read it for a full ten minutes.

His chief of staff stood beside him, not daring to utter a sound.

Outside the window, Cairo's nightlife was just beginning. Indistinct music drifted from cafes, and occasionally a drunkard would stroll by, singing songs with incomprehensible lyrics. Unbeknownst to anyone, three hundred kilometers east of the city in the desert, a French major had just issued a desperate plea for help.

Wavell put down the telegram and rubbed his eyes.

He was fifty-eight years old. He had fought for twenty-seven years since joining the army in 1914. He had witnessed far too many moments of despair, so many that he thought he had become numb.

But this telegram sent a chill down his spine.

Rommel has hidden oil reserves. Enough for a month. Crete cannot be held. Egypt cannot be held. The Middle East's oil reserves cannot be held.

If the Germans had gotten their hands on Middle Eastern oil, the war would have been over.

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the moonlight shone on the Nile, giving it a silvery glow. Several three-masted sailing ships were on the river, and the boatmen were sleeping. Everything was so peaceful and serene.

"Send a telegram to London," Wavell said, without turning around.

The chief of staff picked up a pen.

"Content: The North African campaign has reached a critical juncture. We request the immediate evacuation of all releasable troops from Crete to Egypt. We request the immediate dispatch of at least two armored divisions from the British mainland, via the Cape of Good Hope, to aid North Africa. We request the immediate order for troops stationed in Iraq to strengthen their defenses to prevent German encirclement from the Syrian front. Otherwise..."

He paused for a moment.

"Otherwise, we're doomed to lose."

The chief of staff was stunned.

"General, this..."

"Send it as is," Wavell interrupted him.

The chief of staff has left.

Wavell stood by the window, gazing at the quietly flowing Nile. Like the Somme in 1916, where soldiers struggled in the mud, men who would never return.

Twenty-five years have passed.

History is always strikingly similar.

May 11, 1941, 10:00 AM, London: Emergency meeting of the wartime cabinet.

Churchill stood before the enormous map, holding two telegrams. One was from Wavell, and the other from the French major named Lorrain. He read both telegrams no less than ten times, memorizing every word.

There were a dozen or so people sitting in the room. Foreign Minister Eden, Army Minister Majestic, Imperial Chief of Staff General Diehl, and several advisors hastily summoned from various departments. No one spoke; only the crackling of the firewood in the fireplace filled the air.

Churchill turned around.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice lower than usual, "we face a choice."

He pointed to Crete on the map with his pointer.

"Here, 40,000 men are being besieged by German paratroopers. They can't hold out for long. Two weeks at most."

The teaching position was moved to North Africa.

"Here, Rommel's 80,000-strong army is preparing to march south. They have hidden oil reserves. They could break through Tobruk at any moment, rush towards Alexandria, and then towards the Suez Canal."

The coaching position was eventually moved to the oil-producing region of the Middle East.

"This is our only hope. Without the oil here, our fleet will be grounded, our planes will be grounded, and our tanks will become piles of scrap metal. Without the oil here, we can't continue fighting."

He put down his pointer and looked at everyone present.

"So we have to choose between two battlefields: Crete or North Africa?"

The room was deathly silent.

Aiden was the first to speak. His voice was soft, but everyone could hear him clearly.

"Prime Minister, do you mean... to abandon Crete?"

Churchill looked at him.

"I didn't say anything," he said. "I was just stating the facts."

General Deere stood up and walked to the map.

"Prime Minister, from a purely military perspective, Crete is indeed indefensible. Our troops on the island have no tanks, no air cover, and no control of the sea. Although the German paratroopers suffered heavy casualties, they were ultimately able to take the island."

He paused.

"But North Africa is different. North Africa is a place we must hold. If we lose North Africa, we lose the whole Middle East. If we lose the whole Middle East, we lose the war."

Churchill nodded.

"So what's your suggestion?"

Dill looked at him.

"Withdraw from Crete. Withdraw all evacuable troops to Egypt. At the same time, immediately dispatch at least two armored divisions from the mainland to aid North Africa via the Cape of Good Hope."

Churchill remained silent for a few seconds.

"Two armored divisions," he repeated. "Do we have them?"

No one answered.

Churchill walked to the window, his back to everyone.

"The new world has not yet arrived. But the old world is on its last legs. Crete is going to be lost, North Africa is going to be lost, the Middle East is going to be lost. In a few months, Hitler's flag will be planted on the pyramids."

His gaze swept across every face.

"So, I've decided..."

On May 12, 1941, eighty kilometers south of Wadi Rum.

Loran stood outside the tent, watching the dawn light gradually brighten the sky.

Three days have passed. No response from Cairo. No response from London. Nothing at all.

Leclerc walked over to him.

"Maybe they didn't receive it," Leclerc said.

Loran shook his head.

"I received it," he said. "They just don't know what to do."

In the distance, a communications soldier ran over, waving a piece of paper in his hand.

"Major! Telegram! From Cairo!"

Loran took the telegram and glanced at it.

His hands began to tremble.

The telegram was long, densely packed with text. But the most crucial sentences were only a few:

"With the approval of the wartime cabinet, Major Mark Lorrain is hereby appointed Commander of the Joint Task Force in North Africa, under the unified command of the Free French North African Forces, the British Desert Special Service, the 2nd Brigade of the Australian 9th Division, the 4th Brigade of New Zealand, and all other forces in Egypt. The total strength is approximately 23,000 men. Mission: To hold off Rommel's main force along the Tobruk line and buy time until reinforcements from the homeland arrive."

Below that is a line of handwritten text, in Wavell's handwriting:

"You asked for two weeks, I'll give you that. Twenty thousand men, here you go. Win this battle."

Loran stood there, staring at the few lines of text, motionless.

Leclerc leaned over for a look, was stunned, and then instantly overjoyed.

"Twenty thousand people?" he murmured. "Twenty-three thousand?"

Loran nodded.

He folded the telegram, put it in his pocket, and turned to walk into the tent.

"Map," he said.

Leclerc spread out the map.

Loran stared at the map for a long time. The location of Tobruk, the possible German attack routes, the current British deployment, the position of the Free French forces—he calculated rapidly in his mind.

"Return the telegram to General Wavell," he finally said.

Leclerc picked up his pen.

"Say: Appointment accepted. Troops are assembling. Immediately transfer the 2nd Brigade of the Australian 9th Division and the 4th Brigade of New Zealand to the south of Tobruk to establish a defensive line. Immediately transfer the remnants of the British 7th Armoured Division to Sidi Rezeg as a mobile reserve. Immediately transport all available anti-tank guns, mines, and ammunition to the front."

On May 14, 1941, forty kilometers south of Tobruk, the provisional headquarters of the Free French North African Forces.

Lorraine stood atop a sand dune, watching the troops assembling. Australians were digging trenches, New Zealanders were setting up machine gun positions, and the British were deploying anti-tank guns. One hundred and eighty Free French veterans were assigned to various units as tactical advisors and liaison officers.

Twenty-three thousand men. Fewer than fifty tanks. Zero aircraft. Air superiority was in the hands of the Germans.

Loran walked down the sand dune and into the makeshift command tent.

The tent was packed with people. Brigadier General Moshead, commander of the 2nd Brigade of the Australian 9th Division; Brigadier General Putrick, commander of the New Zealand 4th Brigade; Brigadier General Campbell, commander of the remnants of the British 7th Armoured Division; and a dozen or so staff officers and liaison officers.

Almost everyone present was a general, and they all waited for him to speak.

On the battlefield, all that matters is obeying orders; command authority is given to those who are capable, regardless of rank. Generals understand this better than ordinary soldiers.