The Reinforcements Gone

May 17, 1941, 4:00 AM.

Loran crouched behind the broken wall, looking at the city before him.

Three days ago, when he looked at Tobruk through his binoculars, it was just a besieged fortress, gray concrete fortifications, yellow sandbag bunkers, and ruins with occasional plumes of smoke rising from them. But now, standing at its heart, he truly understood what a siege meant.

The city is dead.

This is not a metaphor. It is a real, complete death.

Not a single civilian could be seen on the streets. Those who once lived here—Italian colonists, Arab merchants, Greek fishermen—had all fled. Only soldiers and corpses remained.

Corpses were everywhere.

When Loran sneaked into the Italian-controlled area, he passed through a commercial street that had been bombed. The street was lined with three-story stone buildings, once shops and cafes. Now, only half of the walls remained, the windows gaping open like skull eye sockets.

A dozen or so corpses lay scattered across the street, dressed in Australian army uniforms, their faces tanned black by the sun, flies crawling all over their wounds. No one collected the bodies, either because they lacked the strength or because German artillery could fall at any moment. No one dared to pick them up, leaving them to rot.

As he walked past the bodies, an Australian soldier whispered, "That was last week. The Germans fired their 88mm guns. We wanted to bury them, but the Germans shell that street every day, and nobody dares to go."

Loran nodded.

He continued walking, his boots making a sound on the ground.

After passing through the commercial street, through a bombed-out square, through an olive grove crushed to powder by tank tracks, you finally arrive behind this broken wall.

Behind the broken wall was a church. To be precise, it was the ruins of a church. The spire was gone, the bell tower was gone, leaving only a stone wall about half a person's height, and inside the wall, countless wounded soldiers.

A field hospital of the Australian 9th Division.

Loran stared at the wounded soldiers for a long time.

They lay inside the stone walls, without beds or stretchers, only door panels and tattered rags dug out of the ruins. Some lay, some sat, some leaned against the walls. Some were missing arms, some were missing legs, some had their faces wrapped in bandages, only one eye showing. That eye stared blankly at the sky, motionless.

But what stopped Loran in his tracks was not the horrific state of the wounded soldiers. It was the sounds they made.

Those groaning sounds.

He turned his head to look curiously.

It came from a corner. Very soft, very suppressed, like someone biting something with their teeth, desperately trying to suppress the sound, but it still squeezed out from deep in their throat. A muffled, whimpering sound, like the wind blowing through an empty house, or like a dog howling in the night.

Loran followed the sound.

A wounded soldier lay in the corner, covered by a tattered military uniform. His right leg was missing below the knee, wrapped in a blood-soaked strip of cloth. The cloth was blackened, and yellow liquid seeped from the edges, dripping onto the ground and pooling into a small puddle. The stench could be smelled from several steps away, like something rotting from within.

The wounded soldier was trembling.

It wasn't the shivering from cold, it was the shivering from pain. His whole body was shaking, and with each shiver, he made a whimpering sound. His face was deathly pale, as white as paper, and his forehead was covered in sweat, which streamed into his eyes, but he didn't have the strength to wipe it away. His eyes were half-open, his eyeballs darting around in their sockets, as if he were looking at something.

A nurse sat nearby. A young woman, wearing an apron stained brown with blood, her hair disheveled and pulled back, her face etched with exhaustion. She clutched a tattered cloth in her hand, unsure where to put it, looking lost and helpless. She simply sat there, watching the wounded soldier, watching him tremble, listening to his groans.

Lorraine walked over to her and squatted down.

"What's wrong with him?"

The nurse looked up. Her eyes were red.

"The wound is infected," she said, her voice hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against stone. "The amputation was done three days ago. There was no anesthesia, so they had to use a saw to cut it open. He passed out while they were sawing, and when he woke up, he started in pain. The pain was unbearable, and it's been hurting ever since."

Loran stared at the leg. The strips of cloth wrapped around the stump were soaked through, yellow liquid seeping out, and the stench of decay grew stronger.

"Did you give him any medication?"

The nurse shook her head.

"No. We're out of all medicine. We ran out of morphine three days ago. We ran out of sulfonamides five days ago. We're even out of aspirin. We can only wash the wound with saline solution and bandage it with strips of cloth that have been boiled in hot water. But it hurts him even more when we wash it with saline solution. It hurts so much that he can't even scream."

Loran fell silent.

The wounded soldier suddenly opened his eyes and stared at him.

There was no light, no hope, only pure pain in his eyes. A pain that cut to the bone, to the very nerve endings, to every vein in his body that seemed to spasm. His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something, but no sound came out. Only a whimpering sound escaped his throat, like the dying gasps of a wild beast.

The nurse leaned closer and put her ear to his mouth.

"What did he want to say?" Lorraine asked.

After listening for a while, the nurse straightened up and whispered.

He said to let him die.

Loran did not speak.

The wounded soldier's eyes were still fixed on him. Those eyes were asking, pleading, begging. Kill me. Let me die, stop the pain.

Lorraine stood up.

He walked past the wounded soldiers, looking at them one by one.

A wounded soldier lay on a door panel, his abdomen wrapped in bandages. It was a shrapnel wound; shrapnel had pierced his stomach, tearing through his intestines. There was no medicine, no surgery; he could only wait to die. He was awake, his eyes wide open, staring at the sky above. His mouth was half-open, emitting a very soft, continuous sound from his throat. Not a groan, but a whimper. Like a baby's whimper, one after another, without stopping. He didn't even have the strength to cry out in pain; he could only use those whimpers to tell others that he was still alive, still in pain, still suffering.

Another wounded soldier leaned against the wall, both his legs gone. He was more lucid than the others, terrifyingly lucid. He kept his head down, staring at his empty trouser legs, motionless. But as Loran approached, he noticed his shoulders trembling. A slight tremor, a persistent tremor. He bit his lip until it bled, blood dripping down his chin. He was afraid to scream, afraid to cry out, afraid to groan like the others. So he bit his lip, bit his tongue, suppressing the pain with pain.

Another soldier came over, a young man with burns all over his face. A German flamethrower sprayed from the other end of the trench; he couldn't dodge in time and was licked by the flames. Half his face was gone, his ear was gone, his hair was burned off, revealing reddish-brown flesh covered in yellow blisters, some of which had burst and were oozing fluid. He lay there, motionless, but his body would twitch occasionally. Each twitch was accompanied by a short groan, an "ah," then he would hold it in, then twitch again, another "ah." It was like being electrocuted repeatedly.

Loran walked past the wounded soldiers, listening to their voices.

The sounds of groans, moans, gasps, and the grinding of teeth clenched together mingled together, swirling above the hospital ruins.

The nurse followed him, talking as she went.

"New wounded soldiers are brought in every day," she said softly. "The Germans shell the city every day, an average of one shell every ten minutes. When the shells fall, people are wounded. They're brought here; those who can be saved are saved, those who can't are left to die. The dead are taken out and buried. The living are in constant pain."

She pointed to a person covered with a white sheet in the corner.

"He was brought in yesterday. His abdomen was cut open by shrapnel, and his intestines were spilling out. We put them back in and stitched them up, but we didn't have any medicine, and the wound got infected. He started having a fever this morning and died this afternoon. Before he died, he kept calling out for his mother for three hours."

Loran remained silent, his pale blue eyes fixed on the wounded man.

A wounded soldier suddenly shouted.

He was an Australian man in his thirties, missing an arm and a leg. His screams were shrill, like a pig being slaughtered, startling everyone in the ruins. He lay there, his body arched, convulsing, crying out in pain, pain, pain so bad, "Help me, give me a shot, please give me a shot!"

Several wounded soldiers who could still move crawled over and held him down. They pressed down on his shoulders and his remaining leg to prevent him from moving. The wounded soldier struggled, shouting and yelling, his voice growing louder and louder.

The nurse ran over and squatted down next to him.

"Don't shout," she said hastily. "Don't shout. If you shout, the German artillery will hear you and start firing this way again."

The wounded soldier wouldn't listen. He was still shouting, still yelling, still struggling. It hurt. It hurt so much. He couldn't take it anymore. He wanted to die. Let him die.

The nurse looked up at Loran.

Loran walked over.

He crouched down beside the wounded soldier, looking into his eyes. Those eyes were unfocused with pain, pupils dilated, eyeballs darting around in their sockets. His face was contorted, features squeezed together, his lips bitten raw, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Loran reached out and pressed his shoulder.

"Look at me," he said.

The wounded soldier looked at him. The pain in his eyes hadn't lessened, but at least there was a focus, a place to look.

"What's your name?"

"James... James."

"James, listen to me. In two days, we're going to break out. There are 23,000 men waiting to pick us up. Two days from now, at 8 PM, we'll charge out together. Can you still fire a gun?"

James looked at him, something flashing in his eyes. Perhaps it was hope, or perhaps it was just a hallucination born of pain.

"I...I don't have hands anymore."

"Then don't use your hands," Lorraine said. "You can still watch, you can still cheer. As long as you have a breath left, you can fight."

James did not say anything.

His body was still trembling and in pain, so much so that his whole body was convulsing.

The nurse looked at him, then at Lorraine, and her lips moved slightly.

Lorraine stood up.

He walked to the other side of the ruins. There sat a colonel, his face covered in stubble, his eyes bloodshot. He sat on an overturned wooden crate, a cigarette clutched in his hand, unlit. He saw Loran approaching and stood up.

"Are you Loran?" the colonel asked.

Loran nodded.

The colonel's name was Reinhardt, and he was the battalion commander of the 2nd Battalion of the Australian 9th Division. The division commander had lost half of his body to artillery fire, and now Reinhardt was in full command.

He had a scar on his face that ran from his forehead to his chin; the scar hadn't fully healed, and blood was still seeping from the edges. But he ignored the scar, only looking at Loran, at the person who had come in from outside.

"Did you really come in from the outside?" he asked.

"real."

How many people are outside?

"Twenty-three thousand men. The 2nd Brigade of the Australian 9th Division, the 4th Brigade of New Zealand, remnants of the British 7th Armoured Division, and Free French. Two days later, at eight o'clock in the evening, south of the city. We'll launch a joint attack."

Reinhardt stared at him.

Then he smiled. A man who had already died once was suddenly told he could live again, and he smiled with relief.

"Two days," he murmured. "Two days. We can definitely hold on."

He turned around and shouted in the direction of the wounded soldiers.

"Howard!"

A military officer in his thirties ran out from behind the ruins.

"battalion commander."

Reinhardt pointed at Lorraine.

"This is Major Lorraine. From Free France. He just came in from outside. He said there are 23,000 people waiting to rescue us. Two days later, at 8 PM, in the south of the city. We'll fight our way out together."

Howard froze, staring blankly at Loran.

Reinhardt continued, "From now on, you'll follow him. Give him whatever he needs. Show him whatever he wants to see. In two days, we'll break out with the people outside."

Howard saluted.

Lorraine followed Howard deeper into the ruins.

Tobruk was worse than he had imagined.

Howard led him through ruin after ruin. Once bustling streets were now nothing but rubble. Once beautiful villas were now just walls blown through and roofs collapsed. Once lively markets were now just charred shelves and goods scattered on the ground.

The goods were unwanted. The flour was soaked and moldy from the rain, covered in green mildew. The olive oil was spilled and hardened into dark brown clumps on the ground. Clothes were thrown on the roadside, stained with blood, and no one picked them up.

Howard pointed at the items and said, "Two weeks ago, people were still looting. Now nobody's looting anymore. It's useless anyway; you can't eat the flour, you can't drink the oil, and you can't wear the clothes. Only the water is useful, but the wells are all within the range of German artillery fire, so nobody goes there during the day."

They walked through the market and came to a residential area.

The house wasn't completely collapsed, but the walls were riddled with bullet holes. Howard pushed open a crooked door and went inside. Lorraine followed him in.

There were more than twenty soldiers lying inside. Some were lying on broken beds, some on the floor, and some leaning against the wall. They were all wearing tattered military uniforms and were skin and bones.

A soldier lay curled up on the ground. His stomach was ripped open by shrapnel, plugged with a rag, but blood was still seeping out. His face was deathly pale, his forehead was covered in sweat, his lips were cracked, and his eyes were half-closed. He kept groaning, groaning, groaning, like a wounded wild animal, too weak to cry out, only able to use those continuous sounds to tell others that he was still alive.

Howard said, "This is the second company. Three weeks ago there were 120 men. Now there are 23 left, and 8 of them can stand up."

Loran walked over to the soldier and squatted down.

The soldier opened his eyes and looked at him.

"Does it hurt?" Lorraine asked.

The soldier nodded. His lips moved slightly, making a very soft sound.

"It hurts, it hurts so much! My stomach feels like it's on fire, and it's been burning for three days."

Loran stared at the wound. The rag was soaked in blood, with yellow liquid seeping from the edges. A sign of severe infection; without medicine, death was inevitable.

"What's your name?"

"Thompson, Private First Class."

"Thompson, listen to me. We're going to break out in two days. There are 23,000 people waiting to pick us up outside. Can you hold out until then?"

Thomson looked at him and swallowed.

"Two days? I can manage."

His voice was interrupted by a sharp pain. His body arched, curling up even tighter, his hands pressed tightly against his stomach, his nails digging into his flesh. He gritted his teeth, trying not to scream, but the pain was too great, too great, so great that his teeth couldn't hold it in, so great that the sound still squeezed out from between his teeth, a whimpering sound, like the wind blowing through an empty house.

Howard crouched down beside him and whispered, "He's been like this for three days now. He can't sleep at night because of the pain, and he can't sleep during the day either. He can only groan, groan, and keep groaning. We've tried to persuade him to stop groaning and save his energy, but he can't help it. The pain is unbearable."

Lorraine stood up.

They left the house and continued walking.

After taking a few steps, Loran heard a scream.

The scream came from the nearby ruins, sharp and mournful, like something being torn apart alive. Loran turned and ran in that direction.

Behind the ruins, a wounded soldier lay in a pile of rags. His leg was still there, but there was a fist-sized hole in his thigh, pierced by a bullet. The flesh around the hole had turned black and purple, oozing pus. Two soldiers squatted beside him, one holding his shoulder, the other cutting away at the rotting flesh with a knife.

There was no anesthetic.

The wounded soldier was screaming. His face was contorted, his features scrunched up, and tears and snot streamed down his face. He struggled desperately, trying to break free of the hands holding him down, but the two men held him tightly, preventing him from moving. The knife was cutting into his leg, and with each cut, he screamed, his voice hoarse from the effort.

Loran walked over.

The soldier cutting the flesh looked up and glanced at him. He was a young soldier, his face covered in sweat, his hands trembling. The knife in his hand was stained with pus and blood, the blade was dull, and he could only saw it bit by bit.

"His wound is rotting," the young soldier said, his voice trembling. "If it's not cut off, it'll rot down to the bone, and we won't be able to save his whole leg."

The wounded soldier was still screaming. "It hurts, it hurts so much! Don't cut me, let him die, let him die!"

This will only make the cuts shorter and shorter, a complete waste of effort.

The final outcome was nothing more than being left on the street, while colleagues covered their ears and closed their eyes in anguish.

It's just a matter of time.

Loran crouched down and looked into the wounded soldier's eyes.

"What's your name?"

The wounded soldier looked at him, his eyes filled with tears, pain, and pleading.

"Jones, Private Jones."

"Jones, listen to me. We're going to break out in two days. There are 23,000 men waiting to pick us up. Let them cut away the rotten flesh now, and in two days you'll still be able to stand up. You'll still be able to fire a gun. You'll still be able to charge out with us."

Jones looked at him, her lips trembling.

"I,"

Another wave of excruciating pain struck. He screamed, his voice shrill like a pig being slaughtered. But the scream was short, and he held it back before it was finished. He gritted his teeth, his cheeks bulging, his jaw grinding loudly.

The soldiers continued cutting. The knife sawed at the rotting flesh, and with each cut, Jones's body convulsed, and he let out a muffled groan. It wasn't a scream, but a muffled groan, a sound desperately suppressed in his throat, as if someone were stuffing a fist into his mouth to prevent him from crying out.

Pus and blood flowed from the wound, soaking his leg and pooling on the ground.

Loran looked at the hand, at the knife, at the black, rotten flesh that had been cut off.

He stood up, covered his eyes, and turned to leave.

Loran didn't have the courage to watch any longer at such a hellish scene.

They walked for a long time.

He walked through ruin after ruin, through position after position. Loran saw everything in Tobruk.

He saw the defensive line known as the Slaughterhouse, the most important position in the east of the city, where the Germans had launched five attacks three weeks earlier, each of which had been repelled.

On the sandy ground in front of the position lay countless German corpses, some already blackened, others still rotting. Swarms of flies buzzed around, and the stench could be smelled from hundreds of meters away.

But closer still were the sounds of wounded soldiers on the battlefield.

A machine gunner lay at the bottom of the trench, a large chunk of flesh torn from his thigh by shrapnel. The wound had been bandaged, but blood was still seeping out. His face was deathly pale, his lips purple, and his body was trembling uncontrollably. His teeth chattered, and he kept muttering something. Loran leaned closer to listen and heard him mutter, "Cold, so cold, why is it so cold..." But it was May, a desert night, and the temperature was in the mid-twenties.

Excessive blood loss. Body temperature is dropping. The body is in shock.

Another wounded soldier lay beside him, shot in the chest. The bullet had entered through his chest and exited through his back, leaving two holes. He lay there, breathing lightly and shallowly; with each breath, a little blood and foam would ooze from the wound in his chest, and blood would spurt from his mouth. His eyes were half-open, staring at the night sky above, blinking occasionally. He didn't speak, didn't groan, didn't shout. He just lay there, breathing, waiting.

Lorraine asked him, "Does it hurt?"

He blinked and his lips moved.

"It doesn't hurt anymore, Major," he said softly, smiling. "It hurt a moment ago, but it doesn't hurt now."

Loran knew what this meant. When a person reaches their limit of pain, their body will automatically cut off the pain receptors. At that moment, the pain will stop. But at that moment, the person is also not far from death.

He continued walking.

At another position, he saw a soldier crouching in a trench, his back against the wall, his hands covering his head. His body was trembling, his shoulders were shaking, his head was shaking, his whole body was shaking. Loran went over and knelt down beside him.

The soldier looked up. His face was covered in tears, a mixture of tears and snot, obscuring his entire face. His eyes were red and swollen, and his lips were bitten raw, with a thick layer of scabs forming on them.

"I can't take it anymore," he said, his voice hoarse. "My brother died yesterday. A shell hit, and half of me was gone. I dug him out of the ground, and he was still breathing. He gasped for breath for ten minutes before dying. For ten minutes, he just stared at me, just stared at me, without saying a word..."

He started to cry. Not a quiet cry, but a howl like a wild beast, the kind of cry that had been held back for a long time and could no longer be contained.

When Loran returned to a ruin to rest, he was trembling all over as he looked up at the starry sky.

"God, save the world."

......

Nine o'clock the next morning.

Loran stood atop the highest point of the church ruins, gazing southwards. The sun was high in the sky, its rays blinding, causing the rubble on the ruins to reflect a glaring white light.

Reinhardt climbed up from under the rubble and stood beside him.

"When will your men arrive?" Reinhardt asked, his voice hoarse, carrying the weariness of a sleepless night.

Lorraine did not answer immediately.

Reinhardt looked at him and waited. A long time passed, but Loran still didn't speak.

An extremely strong sense of unease welled up in his mind.

"Major?" Reinhardt called out again.

Loran turned around, his eyes calm.

"Reinhardt," Loran said, "I have a question for you."

"What's the problem?"

"How much longer can your soldiers hold out?"

Reinhardt was taken aback. He hadn't expected Loran to ask that.

"Yesterday you asked me, and I said we could hold out for another week," he said. "Today I'm telling you again, at most five days. After five days, without water, without food, without ammunition, we'll be finished without the Germans even firing."

Loran nodded.

"Five days," he repeated.

Reinhardt's feeling grew stronger. The man who had told them there were reinforcements outside was now standing there, but there was no sign in his eyes that any reinforcements were coming.

On the contrary, his eyes were calm, like someone who already knew the ending.

"Major," Reinhardt's voice suddenly softened, and he swallowed hard. "Is there really someone outside?"

Lorraine looked at him.

silence.

A very long silence followed.

Then Loran said, "Reinhardt, come with me."

They descended from the ruins, crossed the clearing where the wounded soldiers lay, and entered a half-collapsed basement. The basement was dark, with only a kerosene lamp hanging on the wall, its dim light illuminating their faces.

Loran took the map out of his pocket and spread it on the table.

"Reinhardt," he said, "what I'm about to tell you is something you may not want to hear, but you have to."

Reinhardt stared at him, his heart racing, his eyes narrowing fiercely.

“There are indeed people outside,” Lorraine said, “but not the kind I told you before.”

Reinhardt was stunned for a moment.

"What do you mean?"

Loran pointed to the map.

"Look. Outside Tobruk, Rommel has three divisions. One to the east, one to the west, and one to the south. In total, they have 80,000 men and 300 tanks."

His finger moved across the map.

"But our people are not in the south of the city."

Reinhardt frowned.

"Not in the south of the city? Then where is it?"

Loran's finger moved westward, sliding until it reached a small dot on the edge of the map marking the port of Brega.

"Here. Four hundred kilometers away."

Reinhardt stared at that spot, momentarily stunned.

"Brega Port? That's behind German lines. What are your men doing there?"

Loran looked up and met his eyes.

"Blow up the fuel depot. The entire fuel reserve of the German 15th Panzer Division is there. Enough fuel for Rommel to run for a month. Blow it up, and Rommel is finished."

Reinhardt nodded, but the confusion on his face deepened.

"What about the south of the city? When will the people from the south of the city arrive?"

Loran remained silent for a few seconds, her eyes filled with guilt.

"There's no one in the south of the city," he said with difficulty.

Reinhardt slammed his hand on the table and stood up straight.

"What?"

"There's no one south of the city," Loran repeated. "Combined forces from all three directions, less than a battalion. A little over a thousand men. They'll fight, they'll fire, they'll make the Germans think the main force is attacking. But that's a feint. It's not real."

Reinhardt's face turned pale.

"Then tell me there are 23,000 people outside!" Reinhardt's voice began to tremble. "Are you lying to me?"

"Yes."

"You said you'd rescue us, but you were just lying to me?"

"Yes."

"Where are your people? Are they all just sitting around doing nothing?!"

Reinhardt was furious!

This is utterly absurd; they're playing with lives.

Lorraine pointed to the port of Brega.

"There. Four hundred kilometers away. They'll reach the outskirts of Brega port early this morning and launch their attack before dawn."

Reinhardt stared at that spot.

Then he suddenly laughed. It was a very strange laugh, on his face split in two by scars, like the laugh of someone who had died once and finally understood why he died.

"I understand," he said. "I understand, I finally understand."

He looked at Loran.

"We're not going to launch an attack. We're going to make Rommel think we are. We're going to make Rommel move his troops to the south of the city and wait to ambush us. Then, when he moves his troops here, your men can take advantage of the situation and blow up his oil depots."

He paused.

"We are the bait."

Reinhardt stared at him for a long time.

"Isn't that right?!"

Loran nodded.

"right."

The basement was eerily quiet. Only the flickering flame of the kerosene lamp emitted a soft hissing sound.

Reinhardt leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling, motionless. After a long while, he spoke.

"A battalion," he said, his voice hoarse. "A battalion from all three directions combined. More than a thousand people."

Loran did not speak.

Do you know how many of us are left?

"More than three thousand."

"The three thousand disabled men had to be made to appear as twenty-three thousand. Rommel had to be convinced that his southern flank was under attack. His eighty thousand men had to believe that the British had gone mad and were trying to break through from there."

Reinhardt turned his head and looked at Loran.

"Do you know how many people will die?"