King of North Africa

At 2:00 AM on May 16, 1941, the German Afrika Korps headquarters was located 30 kilometers outside Tobruk.

The lights in the command vehicle were still on.

Rommel had been standing before that enormous map for two full hours. Behind him stood three staff officers, none of whom dared to utter a sound. The light of the kerosene lamp cast his shadow on the map, on the city that had been besieged for half a month.

Tobruk. Three Italian divisions besieged it for six months without success. The German 5th Light Panzer Division besieged it for half a month, but still failed to capture it.

But Rommel wasn't looking at Tobruk at that moment.

He was looking beyond Tobruk.

The map was marked with a dozen or so red and blue markers. These were all the reconnaissance reports sent back from the front lines over the past three days. He had personally reviewed each report and drawn the markers himself. Now, these markers lay scattered across the map like a shuffled chessboard.

Not right.

Something's not right.

Rommel's finger moved slowly across the map, starting south of Tobruk, then west, east, and north. His lips were pressed into a line, his brow furrowed, and in his grey-blue eyes was something only a frontline commander could understand.

The instinctive alertness of wild animals when they smell danger.

"The report from three days ago," he suddenly spoke, his voice low, "What did the Italian patrol discover in the south of the city?"

One of the staff officers immediately opened the notebook.

"At dawn on May 13, a patrol of the Ariete Division discovered suspicious footprints about 15 kilometers south of the city, indicating at least 20 people moving southeast. The patrol pursued the footprints for 5 kilometers before they disappeared into a dry riverbed."

Rommel nodded.

"And the next day?"

"On the night of May 14, an Italian outpost 5 kilometers south of the city reported hearing engine sounds. The sounds lasted for about ten minutes and then disappeared. At dawn, they sent a patrol to investigate and found new tire tracks on the sand, indicating at least four vehicles."

Rommel's lips twitched slightly. It was an almost imperceptible movement, but the staff behind him knew it was a sign that the general was beginning to calculate.

"Yesterday's report."

"On the afternoon of May 15, our reconnaissance plane spotted a plume of smoke about 5 kilometers south of the city. We strongly suspected it was smoke from a picnic. When the reconnaissance plane swooped down to investigate, no shots were fired on the ground, and no one ran. The smoke dissipated quickly."

Rommel's finger stopped at a point on the map.

Thirty kilometers south of the city.

He closed his eyes and went through all the information in his mind. The footprints of twenty people, the tire tracks of four vehicles, a suspicious wisp of smoke. Within three days, in the same direction, the distance was getting closer and closer.

"What about the west side?" he asked.

Another staff officer stepped forward.

"On May 14, the 15th Armored Division's supply depot was attacked. Three points were attacked simultaneously. The enemy had tanks, at least thirty of them. They withdrew after less than twenty minutes. Our losses were four trucks and two tanker trucks."

Rommel did not open his eyes.

"East?"

"On the night of May 15th, the forward positions of the 5th Light Armored Division were subjected to a probing attack. The enemy infantry, estimated to be around a battalion, fired for half an hour and then withdrew. Our positions were not lost, but..."

The staff officer hesitated for a moment.

"But what?"

"But the soldiers didn't sleep all night," the staff officer said. "The enemy kept changing the location of their shots, as if they were testing our firing positions. After dawn, we sent people to check and found that they had dug more than a dozen trenches, some of which were less than two hundred meters from the position."

Rommel opened his eyes.

He looked at the map, at the three directions outside Tobruk: south, west, and east. Within three days, activity had appeared simultaneously in all three directions.

His gaze swept across the map, from the Italian defense zone in the south to the supply lines in the west, and then to the main German positions in the east. The markings, like threads, slowly wove a net into his mind.

Not right.

Rommel frowned.

This wasn't ordinary reinforcement. If the British wanted to relieve Tobruk, they wouldn't have attacked like this. They would have concentrated their forces and launched a fierce attack from one direction, instead of harassing three directions simultaneously. Dispersing forces is a cardinal sin in warfare, and Wavell wasn't a fool; he wouldn't make such a basic mistake.

So, what are they trying to do?

Rommel's gaze lingered on that point in the south of the city. The Italian defenses—the most likely direction for the British to break through, but also the least likely direction to launch their main attack. Everyone knew the Italians were unreliable, and everyone would want to attack from there. The British wouldn't be foolish enough to attack in a way that everyone could predict.

unless……

Rommel narrowed his eyes.

Unless they don't want to fight.

He turned abruptly and walked to another map. It was a general map of the entire North African campaign, stretching three thousand kilometers from Tripoli to Alexandria. His gaze followed the long supply line, from Brega to Sirte, from Sirte to Tripoli, and back again, all the way to the outskirts of Tobruk.

Supply line.

Three days ago, the 15th Armored Division's supply depot was attacked. Three points were hit simultaneously, and the enemy had tanks. Forty-seven tanks, Campbell's Desert Rats. The British didn't target his main force, but rather his supply lines.

They wanted to cut off his supplies.

A cold smile appeared on Rommel's lips.

Well thought out.

They attacked supply lines from the west, launched a feint attack on the main positions from the east, and sent men to infiltrate the city from the south. What were the British trying to do? Did they want the city's defenders to know that reinforcements had arrived? Did they want them to prepare to charge out together? Did they want them to coordinate with those outside the city to surround them?

Rommel's gaze swept rapidly across the map. From the route of infiltration in the south of the city, to the feint attack positions in the east, to the supply lines in the west, and then to the Australian brigade inside the city that had been besieged for half a month. He examined every point, calculated every time, and deduced every possibility.

Then he closed his eyes.

Thirty seconds later, he opened his eyes and looked at the three staff officers in front of him.

"Relay my orders."

The three staff officers stood at attention simultaneously.

"First, starting tonight, the Ariete Division will double its nightly patrol density. Focus on monitoring the area 15 to 20 kilometers south of the city. Report any suspicious activity immediately; no unauthorized attacks are permitted."

"Secondly, the 5th Light Armored Division's eastern front units shall cease fire starting tomorrow night. If the enemy fires, let them fire. If the enemy digs trenches, let them dig. Do not return fire a single shot."

"Third, the entire supply line of the 15th Armored Division will be reinforced with enhanced security. All transport convoys must be escorted by at least two armored vehicles. No driving is permitted at night."

One of the staff officers quickly took notes.

Rommel walked to the window, lifted the curtain, and looked out at the dark desert. The moonlight was faint, shining on the dunes like a thin layer of frost.

"There's one more thing," he said, without turning around.

The staff officers waited.

"Starting tomorrow, reconnaissance aircraft will be dispatched to inspect the oil depots in the port of Brega three times a day: once in the morning, once at noon, and once in the afternoon. Any abnormalities must be reported immediately."

One of the staff officers was taken aback.

"General, Brega is our rear, 400 kilometers from the front. The British can't possibly reach there."

Rommel turned around and looked at him.

"The British can't possibly get there." He repeated the sentence, his voice flat, as flat as if he were commenting on the weather. "Do you know that three days ago, when Sidi Suleiman's oil depot was bombed, the German officers thought the same thing?"

The staff officer's face turned pale.

Rommel didn't look at him again. He walked back to the map and stared at the point called Port-e-Brega.

"That Frenchman," he murmured, "Marc Lorrain. What's he thinking?"

Rommel snorted coldly.

The room fell silent. Only the flickering flame of the kerosene lamp cast Rommel's shadow on the map, on the city about to be engulfed by war.

On May 16, 1941, at 4 p.m., 400 kilometers southeast of Port Brega, south of Wadi Rum.

Loran lay prone behind a rock, binoculars pressed against his eyes. Two kilometers away, the Italian outpost was clearly visible: a mud-brick house, a watchtower, and several trucks parked nearby. A sentry smoked on the tower, the cigarette glowing and dimming.

He observed for a full three hours.

The outpost has a platoon of soldiers, about thirty men. Two sentries stand guard in the watchtower, changing shifts every four hours. There's a five-minute gap between shifts. Those five minutes are the most vulnerable time for the outpost.

He put down his binoculars and retreated behind the rocks.

There were three men lying nearby. One was Leclerc, another was a New Zealand scout sent by Putrick, and the third was an engineer on loan from the Australian 9th Division.

"How is it?" Leclerc asked in a low voice.

Loran shook his head.

"Too easy," he said.

Leclerc paused for a moment.

"Simple?"

“Yes. Simple,” Loran said. “The Italians may be cowardly, but they’re not stupid. They’ve been fighting in North Africa for six months and know how to keep watch. But this outpost only has two people on the watchtower, and there’s a five-minute gap when they change shifts. The trucks next to it are parked haphazardly, and the machine gun is mounted on the roof and nobody’s taking care of it.”

He looked intently at Leclerc.

"This doesn't seem like an Italian thing; it's more like a trap."

Leclerc remained silent.

The New Zealand scout spoke. His voice was soft and heavily accented.

"Major, you're right. But we have no choice."

Lorraine looked at him.

"What do you mean?"

"We have to get in tonight," the scout said. "The people in the city can only hold out for seven more days at most. If we don't get the message in tonight, they won't last three days."

Loran fell silent.

He looked at the outpost, the watchtower, and the listless Italian soldiers. A trap or not, it didn't matter. He had to go in.

"Let's go," he said.

On May 16, 1941, at 11 p.m., the German Afrika Korps headquarters was located 30 kilometers outside Tobruk.

Rommel did not sleep.

He had been working for twenty hours straight.

He is waiting.

Waiting for what? He didn't know himself. But he knew something was about to happen.

The staff officer came in and handed over a telegram.

"General, Division Ariet reports. At least ten suspicious individuals have been spotted seventeen kilometers south of the city, moving towards our defense zone. A patrol is tracking them. Requesting instructions."

Rommel took the telegram and glanced at it.

Seventeen kilometers south of the city. Ten people. Moving towards the defense zone.

"Tell Ariete not to disturb them. Let them pass."

The staff officer was stunned.

"General, let them pass? They're the enemy!"

Rommel looked at him, a flash of extreme displeasure in his eyes.

"I know they're the enemy," he said, "but I need to know what they're up to. Capturing a few soldiers and getting a few statements from them won't do. I need to know their plans, how they intend to fight, and what that guy named Loran is plotting."

The staff officer understood.

"Yes, General."

Rommel turned around and looked at the map on the wall. He pointed to the south of the city and fell into deep thought.

At 1:00 AM on May 17, 1941, in Tobruk.

Loran crouched behind a broken wall, panting heavily.

They crossed the Italian defenses. It was easier than expected. The sentries did indeed have a five-minute gap during the changing of the guard, the patrols did indeed slack off at night, and the security lines did indeed have gaps. But Loran knew it wasn't that the Italians were incompetent; someone was letting them in.

Someone was watching them from behind.

Now, he stood amidst the ruins of Tobruk, surrounded by Australian soldiers who hadn't eaten for three days. A colonel stood before him, his face covered in stubble, his eyes bloodshot.

"Are you Loran?" the colonel asked.

Loran nodded.

The colonel looked at him for a long time. Then he reached out and took Lorraine's hand. The hand was thin, all bone, but very strong.

"The men from the 9th Division said you were outside. We thought it was a false report from the Germans."

Loran shook his head.

"It's not fake news," he said. "Twenty-three thousand people. Three days from now, eight o'clock in the evening. South of the city. We'll launch a joint attack."

The colonel was stunned.

"Twenty-three thousand people?"

Loran nodded.

The colonel was silent for a few seconds. Then he smiled. It was a very strange smile, the kind of smile one would have on his extremely tired face, like the smile of someone who has walked too long in the desert and finally sees water.

"Okay," he said, "I'll wait."

At 3:00 AM on May 17, 1941, the German Afrika Korps headquarters.

Rommel stood motionless in front of the map.

A new report has just arrived. Ariette's patrol lost track of their target. The ten men vanished into the city ruins and were never found again.

He stared at the south side of Tobruk on the map, at the area surrounded by Italians.

Ten people. They sneaked into the city.

Why ten people? Why exactly ten, no more and no less? If it's just to deliver a message, one person would be enough. Ten people seem more like they're going in and then coming out.

What's the point of coming out again?

Rommel's gaze shifted eastward, landing on the area east of the city controlled by the main German positions. For five days, every night, British soldiers had sneaked up to the front lines, firing, digging trenches, and harassing his soldiers.

A feint attack. Lorraine wanted him to deploy a large force in the east, making him think the British were going to attack from the east.

His gaze shifted westward, landing on the long supply line. Three days earlier, the 15th Armored Division's supply depot had been attacked. Three points were hit simultaneously; the enemy had tanks.

Cut off supplies. Loran wanted to break his tanks and starve his soldiers.

His gaze finally moved south, landing on the Italian defenses. Those Italian soldiers were lazy, cowardly, and unreliable. If the British attacked from here, they would surely flee. Once the defenses were breached, the people in the city could rush out.

Main attack. Loran wanted him to think that the main attack was in the south, so he had him set up defenses in the south and moved his reserves there.

Rommel closed his eyes.

He mentally reviewed all the information. A feint attack from the east, cutting off supplies from the west, the main attack from the south, and coordinated attacks from within and outside the city. A perfect plan. There were people in every direction, movement in every direction, and everything seemed real.

But there is a problem.

If he were Loran, he wouldn't play like that.

Loran had only 23,000 men, half of whom were remnants evacuated from Crete. He had fewer than 50 tanks and zero aircraft; air superiority was in German hands. The Germans held an overwhelming advantage.

Such a person will not disperse troops.

He will concentrate.

Rommel suddenly opened his eyes.

He stared at the map, at the three directions outside Tobruk, for a long time. Then he smiled. It was a cold smile, like moonlight on a winter night, devoid of warmth.

"I understand," he said softly.

The staff officers looked at each other in bewilderment.

Rommel turned around and looked at them.

"What is Loran trying to do? Not to help us out, but to mobilize us."

He walked to the map and pointed to the east of the city.

"Here, a feint attack. Make me think he's going to break through from the east, so I can bring my reserves over."

The finger moved to the west of the city.

"Here, attack the supply line. Make me think he's going to cut off my supplies, so I'll focus my attention on the transport convoy."

The finger finally moved to the south of the city.

"Here, send someone to contact the city. Make me think he's planning a coordinated attack from the south, so I can concentrate my forces in the south."

He looked at his staff officers.

"Three things, three directions. Each one seems real. But if I disperse my forces in three directions, with only half my troops in each direction, he will win."

The staff officers fell silent.

A staff officer mustered his courage and asked, "General, what exactly is his main attack direction?"

Rommel looked at him.

"There is no main direction to attack."

The staff officer was stunned.

"No?"

"No," Rommel said. "His main focus is time."

He pointed to the location of Port-Réaga on the map.

"He's waiting. Waiting for me to disperse my forces, waiting for me to focus my attention outside Tobruk, waiting for me to move my reserves around. Then he'll hold his troops still and wait for his tanks to destroy my fuel depots."

He looked at his staff officers.

"I kept thinking, why would he attack the supply line in the west? The supply line is so long, even if he destroyed a few supply depots, I could still hold out for another month. Then I realized, he attacked the supply line not to cut off my fuel supply, but to make me pay attention to the supply line."

"He made me think he was going to attack my convoy, so I sent my armored vehicles to escort it. Then, while my armored vehicles were scattered along the supply lines, his tanks could squeeze through those gaps and reach the port of Brega."

The staff officers' expressions changed.

Brega port. The 15th Armored Division's main fuel depot. If that place is bombed, the entire army will be grounded.

This is a vicious scheme. On the surface, it is attacking Tobruk, but in reality, it is attacking the entire North African battlefield.

"Do you understand now?" Rommel's voice suddenly rang out.

No one speaks.

"Lorraine," he murmured, "a clever scheme. He used 23,000 men to play a grand game against me. A feint attack from the east, harassment from the west, infiltration from the south, and waiting in the city. Every move seemed real, every move was designed to distract me. Once I was distracted, his tanks could take advantage of the situation and destroy my fuel depots."

He paused, then said coldly.

"If the oil depot explodes, I'll have to stop. Once I stop, his 23,000 men can concentrate in the south of the city and rush out with the people inside. At that time, my three divisions will be caught in the middle, attacked from both sides."

The staff officers broke out in a cold sweat upon hearing this.

Rommel turned around and looked at them.

"But there's one thing he miscalculated."

The staff officers waited for him to continue.

Rommel walked to the map and pointed to the location of the port of Brega.

"He thought I didn't know where his fuel depot was. He thought his tanks could sneak in. But he didn't know that I had been sending reconnaissance planes to the port of Brega for five days. Three days ago, after the 15th Armored Division's supply depot was attacked, I knew what he was up to."

He looked at his staff officers.

"Relay my orders."

The three staff officers stood at attention simultaneously, their eyes shining with admiration.

"First, the 15th Armored Division will dispatch two tank companies to the port of Brega overnight. Upon arrival, they must remain hidden and await orders, and are not to be exposed."

"Second, the 5th Light Armored Division's eastern front units, starting tomorrow night, will intensify their counterattack. If the enemy fires, bombard them with artillery. If the enemy digs trenches, crush them with tanks. Let them think we're going to fight them head-on."

"Third, the Ariet Division will maintain the status quo, but the changing of the guard at all outposts will be changed to every two hours. That five-minute gap is gone."

He paused.

"Also, have those ten people from the south of the city entered the city?"

The staff officer looked embarrassed.

"General, we apologize, but we have not received your orders and dare not act on our own."

Rommel nodded.

"Well done, let them tell the people in town."

The staff officer didn't understand.

Rommel walked back to the map and looked at the point in Tobruk.

"Three days later, at 8 PM, in the south of the city. Make the Australians in the city think someone is coming to pick them up. They'll rush out. And then..."

His finger drew a line on the map, and his eyes suddenly turned cold.

"Then, my three divisions were waiting for them in the south of the city."

The staff officers finally understood.

Rommel did not fall for the trap. He turned the tables on Rommel.

"Lorraine thought he was trying to divert my forces. Actually, I was the one diverting his," Rommel said. "He wanted to disperse my troops, so I let him. He wanted to attack my oil depots, so I let him. He wanted the people in the city to rush out, so I let them. And then, when they were all out..."

He paused.

"Eat it in one bite."

"And the port of Brega will remain completely unharmed."

The room was deathly silent.

Rommel stood before the map, the light of the kerosene lamp casting his shadow on the city about to be engulfed by war.

There was no smile on his face, only a deep weariness and the calm that only a true hunter possesses.

"Get all divisions ready," he said. "Three days from now, at eight o'clock in the evening. I want that Frenchman to know who's in charge in North Africa."