Disruption

Reinhardt's finger was on the trigger, the muzzle pressed against Loran's forehead.

The only flame in the basement flickered and hissed.

Loran didn't flinch; he didn't even blink, staring intently at Reinhardt.

"Shoot," Loran said, his voice flat. "Kill me, and then your three thousand men will continue to die. Wait for Rommel to get the fuel from Brega port to the front, fill his tanks with fuel, and then blast your last line of defense to smithereens with his 88mm guns. Three days later, the Germans will rush in, drag your wounded soldiers out of the rubble one by one, and stab them to death with bayonets. If you want that, shoot now."

Reinhardt's hands were shaking.

He was filled with rage, almost blinded by hatred.

"You lied to me," Reinhardt howled. "You told me to tell my soldiers there were 23,000 men outside, giving them hope. Do you know what hope is? It's something more terrifying than death. Without hope, they just wait to die. With hope, they start to want to live. Now you're telling me that hope is fake? How am I supposed to tell them that?"

"You don't need to tell them," Loran said calmly. "You just need to let them fight."

Reinhardt was stunned.

"What?"

"Let them fight," Loran repeated. "Let them believe that there really are people outside, that they can really break out in two days. They go to the battlefield with hope, with hope that they can kill ten more German soldiers, hold out for an extra hour, and then try to make Rommel believe that we really have 23,000 men."

Loran unconsciously took a step forward, causing Reinhardt to timidly retreat.

"Do you know what Rommel is doing right now? He's waiting. He's waiting for us to make a move. He's sent reconnaissance planes, patrols, spies, trying to find out exactly how many of us we have. He knows we have people outside the city, but he doesn't know how many. He's guessing 20,000, 10,000, 5,000. He's guessing and guessing, but he just doesn't dare to move."

"Why doesn't he dare to move? Because he's afraid. He's afraid we really have 23,000 men, that his southern defenses will be breached, and that Tobruk will be relieved. He's afraid of losing. And what we need to do is keep him afraid."

Reinhardt stared at him.

"Two days later, at eight o'clock in the evening," Loran continued, "your men will rush out from the east. Not a real charge, but a feint. Attack for a while, then retreat, attack for a while, then retreat. Let the Germans think you're testing their lines. Let Rommel think you're waiting for your main force to arrive. Make him move his reserves to the east, then to the south. And then..."

"When he transferred all the reserves, Port-e-Brega was caught off guard, because whichever unit was transferred would give us an opportunity."

"Brega Port. Your tanks," Reinhardt muttered to himself.

Loran nodded.

"Yes. Forty-seven tanks will arrive outside the port of Brega by midnight tonight. They will disguise themselves as German transport convoys and infiltrate the city. Then, before dawn, they will blow up all the fuel depots. Blow them all up."

"If Rommel's fuel depots explode, his tanks will be grounded. His 80,000 men will be immobilized. His men will start to starve and wait to die. At that point, your men won't need to be used as bait anymore. At that point, we can really launch an attack."

"Rommel is a lion, but even a hungry lion will fall in the desert. Without fuel, he can only be slaughtered by us."

"Commander, fight with me one last time," Loran pleaded slowly, taking a deep breath.

......

On May 17, 1941, at 7 p.m., 300 kilometers east of Port-e-Brega, deep in the desert.

Brigadier General Campbell squatted on the edge of the riverbed, clutching a telegram in his hand. The telegram had been forwarded from Cairo at four o'clock that afternoon; it was drafted by Lorraine and signed and approved by Wavell.

Leclerc squatted to his left, and Brigadier General Moshead squatted to his right, the three of them forming a circle with a hand-drawn map spread out in the middle. Three points were marked on the map in red: Tobruk, Port Regga, and their current location.

A moment of silence fell, and then Campbell spoke, his voice very low.

"I will repeat Loran's order once more. Listen carefully."

He held the telegram close to his eyes and, by the faint moonlight, read it aloud, word by word:

"First, Campbell's unit must reach the outskirts of Brega port before dawn on the 18th. Objective: Destroy all fuel reserves of the 15th Armored Division. After destruction, withdraw immediately and do not linger. If blocked, disperse and break out. There are three withdrawal routes, marked on the attached map."

He looked up at Moshead and Leclerc.

"Second, the Moshead and Putrick units will coordinate with Campbell's unit in a feint attack. The specific division of labor is as follows: the Moshead unit will be responsible for the west of the city, and the Putrick unit will be responsible for the south. The firing time is 4:00 AM on the 18th. Objective: To attract the attention of the defenders and cover Campbell's unit's entry into the city. They must withdraw before dawn and must not engage in any prolonged fighting."

He paused, then read the last paragraph.

"Third, the garrison in Tobruk numbers approximately three thousand, of whom less than a thousand are combat personnel; the rest are seriously wounded and support staff. Loran himself infiltrated the city in the early hours of the 17th and will jointly command the breakout with Battalion Commander Reinhardt. Breakout time: 8:00 PM on the 19th. Direction: South of the city. Objective: To tie down Rommel's main force for at least twelve hours, buying time for Campbell's troops to evacuate. Loran judges that the Tobruk garrison has virtually no chance of survival. He demands that all units complete their assigned tasks without wavering due to the situation in the Tobruk direction."

That's all.

The three looked at each other in bewilderment.

Moshead stared at the telegram, the scars on his face appearing particularly grotesque in the moonlight.

"Almost no chance of survival." He repeated these words, a look of confusion in his eyes. "Three thousand people, almost none of them survived. Loran himself was among them."

Campbell did not answer.

Leclerc lowered his head, staring at the sand beneath his feet. This eccentric fellow countryman, who had brought him so many incredible moments, was now about to sacrifice himself on the front lines, and he felt a pang of regret and sorrow.

Moshead frowned as he looked at Campbell.

"Do you know what this means?"

Campbell looked at him.

"explain."

"The men of Tobruk are not bait," Moshead said. "They are sacrifices. They want Rommel to believe that the main British force is in the south of the city. They want Rommel to move his reserves there. They are willing to trade their lives for our chance to bomb the oil depot."

"Three thousand people. Three thousand lives. Just so we can fry a few cans of oil?"

"A few cans of oil? Do you think it's as simple as a few cans of oil? If that fuel were ours, aside from casualties, could our troops sustain combat for a year?"

Campbell remained serious.

"Moshead, do you know what will happen after Rommel's 80,000 men stormed into Egypt?"

Moshead did not speak.

"Alexandria, the Suez Canal, Cairo, all the oil in the Middle East will fall into German hands. At that time, we will have no more wars to fight. The whole of Africa will become a huge siege, Britain will be invaded and devoured, France will be exhausted, the free Western world will be ruled by the empire, and Hitler's clutches will plunge our people into misery."

Campbell pressed for an answer.

"Was it worth sacrificing three thousand lives for Hitler's defeat?"

Moshead sighed.

"I know," he said, his voice almost inaudible. "I know. I'm just wondering, how old is that Loran? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven? How does he have the mind and the guts to make such a decision?"

Moshead recalled the serious expression on Loran's face when he found him after the tent meeting ended.

He was even thinking about spies; wasn't it a pity that such a person died? He suddenly felt that his military rank was somewhat unworthy of his position.

Campbell was helpless, while Leclerc was deep in thought.

Campbell stood up, walked to the edge of the riverbed, and stared northward.

The port of Brega was just over there, 200 kilometers away. German oil depots, garrison troops, anti-aircraft guns. Forty-seven tanks and 1,200 infantrymen were going to bomb it in a surprise attack.

"Lorraine has one more order," Campbell said, turning around.

The two people were looking at him.

"What orders?" Moshead asked.

"If Rommel doesn't withdraw after we've bombed the oil depots, if he still wants to continue fighting, if he has oil reserves hidden elsewhere," Loran said, "we'll retreat to the desert south of Tobruk and wait for him."

Moshead was stunned.

"Wait for him? Wait for whom?"

Campbell looked at him.

"Wait until he comes out of the city alive."

The riverbed was quiet for a few seconds.

Leclerc stood up and walked over to Campbell.

"General, what does Loran mean?"

“What he means,” Campbell interrupted him, “is that the war isn’t over yet. Tobruk is lost, the oil depots have exploded, Rommel has stopped—that’s just the first phase. The second phase is a relentless pursuit. It’s about ensuring he never leaves the desert.”

"Should we retreat when the enemy advances, or attack when the enemy retreats?"

Leclerc recalled a profound remark Lorraine had made, a remark that had kept him pondering for a long time, and in the end, he had come to understand something else entirely.

The idea of ​​preserving oneself while eliminating the enemy, the enemy being stronger than oneself, and asymmetrical battlefields surprised Loran greatly, who said things like, "You really are Leclerc," and "You've even learned this little bit."

Campbell looked at him in surprise, then pondered for a moment, his eyes suddenly brightening.

"right."

He looked at Leclerc.

"Lorraine said that if he were still alive, he would bring the people who could come out of the city and come around from the south to join us. At that time, he wouldn't be commanding alone. We would be together."

"At that time, it will take a long time for Rommel's oil to be transported from Germany to Africa, enough for us to wear them down."

Leclerc caught the key words and paused for a moment.

"Together?"

"Yes. Together," Campbell said. "You, me, Moshead, Putrick, and him. Five men, commanding 23,000 men, fighting Rommel's remnants. Fighting them until they run out of oil, food, and ammunition, then withdrawing from Tobruk and rolling back to Germany."

"This was his plan. From the very beginning, he never intended for the people of Tobruk to die in vain."

Moshead walked over and stood beside them.

"Are you telling the truth?"

Campbell nodded.

"The last line of the telegram was handwritten. It was written by Loran. He said, 'Tell the brothers, the people in the city will not have died in vain. I will bring them out and fight this battle with you.'"

Moshead became worried.

"How did he get out? Three thousand men were surrounding the city, and Rommel's eighty thousand were blocking the outside. How did he get out?"

Campbell shook his head.

"I don't know," he said, "but since he said so, I believe him."

"Also, how's the transport vehicle preparation going?"

Leclerc was responsible for gathering passing vehicles to take away the fuel from the port of Brega.

"We have only collected information on about forty transport vehicles so far. We have searched all the vehicles in the surrounding areas, but there are no more."

"It's alright," Campbell stroked his beard, his eyes growing brighter. "Take as much as you can, and burn the rest. Let the entire port of Brega bloom in the desert!"

After being beaten by the Germans for so long, we finally got to hold our heads high in one game!

"Next, check the soldiers' equipment. This operation must be carried out flawlessly!"

Campbell left the riverbed, and Leclerc, who also had a habit of inspecting military equipment, followed Campbell toward the camp.

The moonlight was faint, shining on the crooked tanks like it was shining on a group of resting wild beasts. But upon closer inspection, the tanks were covered in scars.

Campbell crouched beside a Matilda tank, holding a blackout flashlight and shining it on the tank's side armor. Under the beam of light, the crack that ran from the turret to the rear of the vehicle was clearly visible.

"It was hit last week outside Tobruk," Campbell explained. "An 88mm gun, one shot and it was through."

Leclerc squatted down beside him, staring at the crack. At its widest point, a finger could fit inside, and the steel plate at the edge was rolled up, as if something had torn it open from the inside out.

"Are we still capable of fighting?"

Campbell nodded.

"Yes. But it can't take another hit. If it takes another hit, the car will be completely totaled."

He walked up to another tank. It was a Crusader cruiser tank, lighter and faster than the Matilda, but with thin armor. Campbell shone his flashlight on the side of the turret; there were several fist-sized dents, from machine gun fire.

"The Crusader, theoretically, has a speed of 40 kilometers per hour, but in reality, it's lucky if it can reach 30. The engine is too delicate; it needs repairs after just two days in the desert. The thickest part of its armor is 30 millimeters, which can be penetrated by a German Panzer IV tank from 500 meters away."

He patted the cannon barrel.

"A 2-pounder cannon won't hit the front of the Panzer IV. You'd have to go around to the side and hit the tracks and engine compartment. But the Crusader has a large turning radius, so you can't get around it."

Leclerc looked embarrassed.

Campbell continued forward, the beam of his flashlight sweeping across tank after tank. Matilda, Crusaders, and several older A9s and A10s.

"Forty-seven in total," Campbell said. "Forty-seven are for transport, and thirty-nine are for combat. The remaining eight can only be used as mobile artillery platforms; they can't move fast, they're difficult to turn, and in a real battle, they're just iron coffins."

He walked up to the last tank and stopped. It was a Matilda, looking a bit newer than the previous ones, with only a few shallow scratches on the armor. The words "Avenger" were painted in white on the side of the turret.

"This is the car I'm riding in," Campbell said. "The best car in the whole division. The engine was just replaced, the gun barrel is new, and it still has six armor-piercing rounds."