An Unexpected Joy

2:00 AM, May 17, 1941. North African desert.

Three armored vehicles were traveling eastward in the moonlight.

The first vehicle was a Humber reconnaissance car, open-top, four-wheeled, its body covered in a layer of grayish-yellow dust. A Browning machine gun was mounted on the roof, its barrel gleaming dimly in the moonlight. The driver gripped the steering wheel tightly, his eyes fixed on the faint tire tracks ahead. In the passenger seat sat Brigadier General Campbell, forty-seven years old, acting commander of the British 7th Armoured Division. His uniform collar was open, revealing a section of his tanned neck, and his visors were pushed up to his forehead, revealing a white mark left by the strap.

Behind them was a second armored vehicle, the same Humber, the same gray-yellow. Colonel Leclerc sat in the back seat, his back against the cold steel plate. His legs were bent, his knees pressing against the seat in front of him, but he didn't move. It had been six hours since they left Wadi Rum, and his legs were long since numb.

The third vehicle was a modified truck, its cargo bed crammed with explosives and shells. Brigadier General Moshead sat in the passenger seat, clutching a crumpled map. His eyes were fixed on the winding contour lines, his mind rehearsing the route over and over. The straight-line distance from the assembly point to the port of Brega was two hundred kilometers, but they had to take a detour, avoiding German patrols and the open areas repeatedly monitored by reconnaissance planes. The actual distance was at least three hundred kilometers. Three hundred kilometers, six hours—they had to get there before dawn.

No one spoke.

The convoy drove in silence. The roar of the engines was swallowed up by the desert, as was the sound of the tires crushing gravel.

Campbell spoke softly. "Leclerc."

From the car behind, Leclerc leaned out. "Brigadier General."

Have you ever walked this road?

"I've been there. When I came from Chad, I took the southern route. Brega port is in the north; I've never been there."

Campbell nodded. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and put it in his mouth.

"The 15th Panzer Division's fuel depot," Campbell frowned. "The Germans built it in a depression five kilometers east of the port of Brega. It's surrounded by sand dunes on three sides and the sea on the other. The garrison is a company of over two hundred men, equipped with six 20mm anti-aircraft guns and two heavy machine guns. There are no tanks, no armored vehicles, but there is a motorized patrol that circles the depression every two hours."

He swallowed hard.

"The oil tanks are buried underground, there are twelve in total, each with a capacity of two hundred tons. On the surface, there are only the oil inlets and outlets and ventilation pipes. The explosives must be inserted through the ventilation pipes or poured in through the flange joints of the oil inlets and outlets. Otherwise, they won't collapse when blown up."

Leclerc listened. He had seen this intelligence before; back in Wadi Rum, Lorraine had spread out a map drawn by scouts on the ground, pointing out each point to him. Twelve oil tanks, six anti-aircraft guns, patrols every two hours. He remembered every word, recited every number by heart. But now, hearing them from Campbell's mouth, those numbers suddenly felt incredibly heavy. Twelve oil tanks, two thousand four hundred tons of fuel—enough for Rommel to fight for a month. A month—enough for the British to lose the entire Middle East.

"The patrol route," Leclerc said, "is drawn by Lorraine. Starting from the camp, it's a clockwise circle around the depression, taking forty minutes. Two patrols, one clockwise and one counterclockwise, meet at the southeast corner every two hours. The meeting time lasts about ten minutes, after which each continues its patrol."

Campbell nodded. "Southeast corner. That's the only entrance to the depression. There's a gap between the dunes, just big enough for a car to pass through. When the patrols meet up, that gap is empty. Ten minutes."

He took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth and twirled it between his fingers.

"Ten minutes, is that enough time for us to break in?"

Leclerc thought for a moment. "Not enough. The depression is 400 meters wide, and it's at least 300 meters from the entrance to the furthest oil tank. It would take tanks two minutes to rush in, and infantry three minutes to run there. It would take five minutes to blow up one oil tank. To blow up all twelve oil tanks would take at least an hour."

"One hour," Campbell repeated.

"An hour," Leclerc said. "The patrol will catch up in ten minutes. The anti-aircraft guns will be firing within two minutes. German reinforcements, coming from the port city of Brega, will arrive in twenty minutes at most."

Campbell fell silent. He stared into the darkness ahead, his fingers still twirling the cigarette. After a long while, he put the cigarette back in his mouth.

"We have to fry them even if we can't finish them all."

Moshead's voice came from the back seat. His voice was deep, with a heavy Australian accent. "We have to bomb it all, even if we can't finish? What are we going in for then? To die?"

Campbell didn't turn around. "Moshead, how much explosives were in your truck?"

"Four tons. Enough to send half of the port of Brega into the sky."

"How many oil tanks could that be blasted?"

Moshead paused for a moment. He had done the calculations. He had done them back in Wadi Rum. Four tons of explosives, distributed among twelve oil tanks, would only yield a little over 300 kilograms per tank. 300 kilograms, inserted through the ventilation duct, would be enough to blow up one tank. But to collapse the underground concrete structure, at least 500 kilograms would be needed. 300 kilograms would only destroy the inlet and outlet, rendering that tank temporarily unusable. Once the German engineers arrived, they could repair it in two days.

"It won't collapse," he said in a low voice. "It can only damage it."

Campbell nodded. He'd known all along. From the moment Lorraine spread the map on the ground, he knew. Forty-seven tanks, four tons of explosives, twelve hundred men. Not enough to destroy two thousand four hundred tons of fuel. Far from enough. But he came anyway. Not because he was confident, but because he had no other choice.

"Moshead," he said.

"exist."

"Your explosives aren't for blowing up oil tanks."

Moshead paused for a moment. He looked at the back of Campbell's head, waiting for him to continue.

"If the oil tanks can't be blown up, then blow up the roads, blow up all the roads that can lead into the depression. Blow up the entrance and the sand dunes, and fill in the gap. By the time the German engineers dig the road, we will have blown up all the oil tanks that can be blown up."

"By then, even if Rommel had oil, he wouldn't be able to get it out. The roads were blocked, and the trucks couldn't get in. He could only wait. Wait for the Germans to send engineers from the rear, and for the Italians to transport explosives from Tripoli. In those three days he was waiting, Free France would be able to take over North Africa."

Moshead lowered his head.

"I'll handle the road-blasting."

"Leclerc," Campbell said again.

"exist."

"Your tank, go around to the north. There's a sand ridge to the north of the depression, higher than the surrounding dunes. Climb up, set up the gun, and wait. When the German patrols catch up and their reinforcements arrive, start returning fire with the anti-aircraft guns. Then fire!"

Leclerc did not speak.

As the tanks climb the sand ridges, their speed decreases to its minimum, but the roar of their engines carries far across the desert. German patrols will hear it, anti-aircraft guns will hear it, and the entire port of Brega will know someone is coming. Then shells will rain down from all directions. His tanks will be disabled one by one, and soldiers will fall one after another. But someone has to climb up. Only from a high vantage point can they see the entire depression, suppress German fire, and allow the trucks from Moshead to rush in.

"What time?" he asked.

Campbell glanced at his watch. It was 2:47 a.m.

"Four o'clock. Before dawn. Loran said that four o'clock is when people are most sleepy. After the patrols meet up, they will find a sheltered spot to smoke. The anti-aircraft gunners will doze off against their gun mounts. The officers will sleep in their tents. At four o'clock, they are at their most relaxed."

As the eastern horizon grew brighter, a cold wind blew into the car.

"Moshead," he said.

"exist."

"If you manage to get back alive this time, what's the first thing you want to do?"

Moshead paused for a moment.

"Drink a real cup of coffee, not that fake kind made with acorns. Sit in a coffee shop, bask in the sun, and watch people walk by on the street. Don't think about anything, don't do anything."

"And you, Brigadier General?"

Campbell shook his head.

"Me?" he said. "I just want to go back to Norfolk, England, to see my 7th Armored Division, the Desert Rats, and see how many men are left."

Campbell glanced at his watch. 3:40.

"Get ready," he said.

"Full speed ahead," he said again.

All three vehicles accelerated simultaneously. The roar of their engines exploded across the desert, kicking up clouds of sand and dust.

Everyone knows the importance of this large-scale operation, and no one dares to take it lightly.

They are all on high alert.

Then, an explosion occurred.

The sound came from the front, in the direction of Port-de-Brega.

Campbell suddenly looked up.

A massive fireball rose on the eastern horizon. Its orange-red color was particularly striking in the dawn light. As it ascended, it dispersed, transforming into a black mushroom cloud. Then came a second, and a third. Explosions followed, like thunder, one after another, shaking the steel panels of the car body.

Campbell stared at the fireball, speechless with shock.

That's not their explosives. They haven't arrived yet. That's not part of their plan. They haven't made a move.

Who is that?

Leclerc leaned out of the back seat, looking at the eastern sky. The firelight reflected on his face, revealing the complex expression in his eyes.

"Someone made the first move," he said.

Moshead jumped out of the truck and stood on the sand, watching the spreading mushroom cloud. "It's the oil depot," he said in a low voice, almost to himself. "The oil depot exploded?"

Campbell didn't speak. He stood there, looking at the eastern sky, at the thick smoke that was turning black.

Three vehicles stood in the desert, engines still running, headlights still on. The morning sun surged in from the east, illuminating the soldiers' bewildered, confused faces, unsure whether to advance or retreat.

Leclerc was the first to speak. "Is it Lorraine?"

Campbell shook his head. He didn't know. Lorraine was in Tobruk, surrounded by 80,000 German troops. He wasn't here, and he couldn't possibly be here.

Who is that?

"Let's go," Campbell said, "let's go take a look."

The three vehicles restarted and headed towards the port of Brega. The dawn grew brighter, illuminating the thick plume of smoke clearly. The smoke was rising from the low-lying area, where the oil tanks were buried.

Thirty minutes later, they arrived.

The depression was still burning. All twelve oil tanks were destroyed. Some had their lids blown off, flames leaping from the ground and melting the sand. Others had collapsed entirely, becoming large craters filled with black, burning oil. The German barracks were flattened, the anti-aircraft guns were shattered, and the patrol motorcycles were overturned by the blast wave and burned to a pile of metal frames. Corpses were everywhere on the ground; some wore German uniforms, some wore work clothes, and some were charred beyond recognition.

Campbell stood at the edge of the depression, watching all of this.

Leclerc stood beside him, watching. Moshead stood on the other side, watching as well.

The three people stood there, looking at the still-burning ruins, and none of them spoke.

After a long silence, Leclerc finally spoke. "Who did it?"

Campbell shook his head. He bent down and picked something up from the ground. It was a shrapnel fragment, still hot, its edges curled, with a serial number engraved on it. He turned the fragment over and looked at the back. There was a line of very small writing there, blackened by smoke, but he could still make it out.

French.

Free France.

Leclerc leaned closer and glanced at them. His expression changed. "These aren't our men. Our troops are in Wadi Rum, to the south. This place is four hundred kilometers from Wadi Rum."

Campbell nodded. He straightened up, looking at the still-burning ruins. Twelve oil tanks, two thousand four hundred tons of fuel, all gone. Rommel's tanks were about to break down, and his eighty thousand men were going to go hungry. The situation in North Africa had changed overnight.

"It's Loran," he said.

Leclerc was stunned. "Lorraine is in Tobruk."

“I know,” Campbell said, “but he had a backup plan. From the beginning, he never intended for us to blow it up.”

He looked into Leclerc's eyes.

"We weren't the ones who bombed the oil depot. It was the Free French intelligence network in Porto Regga. They were the ones who did it. We were just backup. If the intelligence network failed, we'd go in. If it succeeded, we were there to provide backup."

Leclerc remained silent for a long time. He recalled Lorraine's words in Wadi Rum: "You just fight, I'll take care of the rest." So this was his plan. The Free French intelligence network in North Africa, those lurking in the Vichy army, right under the Germans' noses, those who could be shot at any moment. They were the real blade.

Campbell turned and looked at the still-burning oil tanks. His face was expressionless, but there was a light in his eyes. It was the light that comes when someone has walked in darkness for too long and finally sees the exit.

"Send a telegram to Cairo," he said. "Mission accomplished. The oil depots at Brega have been destroyed. Rommel will be forced to retreat across the board."

The person who blew up the oil depot was René de Ramorini.

Fifty-two years old, a former Foreign Legion colonel, now serving as the administrative head of the Vichy French port authority in the port of Brega.

He had spent thirty years in Africa, and his face was covered with deep wrinkles.

Three nights ago, he received a telegram. It was forwarded from Algiers, originating in London. It contained only one line: "Early morning of the 17th, Port Regga. Receive."